Love's Tangle by Isabelle Goddard

conducted in the greatest of secrecy.”
    “Even if that were true, the letter itself proves nothing,” he said flatly. “I’m sorry, Nell, but as evidence it is as tenuous as the locket.”
    She bowed her head. He was right, of course. She had stopped thinking sensibly; she was tired, so tired she could hardly keep herself upright. Her eyelids drooped, her body slackened and she’d almost toppled to the floor when she felt strong, steady arms around her. It felt good, safe almost. She must be mad. She was in the most dangerous of places and with a most dangerous man. His face was very close and she could feel the warmth of his skin next to hers. She had only to stretch out her hand and she could run her fingers down the strong cheekbones until she reached a mouth which was full and warm and inviting. What was she thinking? She moved rapidly back from him and in doing so, caught the slightest glimpse of a knowing smile.
    But when he spoke, his voice gave nothing away. “You are weary and you must work tomorrow. Go to bed. I will check what documents are left and if, as I suspect, I find nothing, you must accept you have been mistaken.”
    She began to get to her feet and in her fatigue knocked against a stash of old hunting rifles that had been propped against the cellar wall. They fell to the floor with a metallic clang. She stood immobile waiting for the reverberations to cease, terrified the noise was loud enough to bring others to the scene. If so, how could she ever explain this night time rendezvous? No one would believe such a far-fetched story as she had to tell. But nothing stirred above and she slowly allowed her breath to escape. The guns had dislodged an old hunting bag, dusty brown leather but of evident good quality with tooled flaps and solid brass buckles and clasp.
    “These weapons should have been got rid of years ago,” Gabriel complained. “By now they must be positively unsafe.”
    “Whose were they?” She was asking out of courtesy, too dispirited really to wish to know.
    “They belonged to Charles. Hunting was a passion with him.”
    “And the bag?”
    “His too. This stuff must have been here for years.”
    “From when he was a young man?”
    “Probably. The guns are very old fashioned. He would have replaced them with something a good deal smarter. He never spared money on hunting equipment.”
    She picked up the bag and several old shotgun shells fell to the floor. “He doesn’t seem to have been very careful. Look at this ammunition he’s left lying around.”
    “It is almost certainly corrupted.” Gabriel had risen to his feet and was gathering together the scattered shotguns.
    “This one certainly is.” She had picked up a battered shell and shook it. A grey cloud of ash poured forth, interspersed with slivers of white which looked almost like paper. She looked again. It was paper! These were fragments of burnt paper! She picked up another of the spent shells and shook it fiercely. The same result.
    “These empty cartridges—someone has attempted to destroy papers and then hide the evidence inside,” she said excitedly.
    “Not just attempted. They pretty much succeeded.” Gabriel’s foot traced a swirl in the fallen ash.
    “It must have been Charles.”
    “And what if it were? What possible use can a heap of ash be?”
    “I don’t know,” she said a trifle mournfully, “except to show he had something to hide and was paranoid about secrecy. Otherwise he would have burnt the papers in a grate and left the ashes there.”
    She picked up the last shell. A larger sliver of white appeared at its edge and intrigued, she picked at it with her fingernail. Slowly she maneuvered her find from inside the shell case and then unwound the spiral of paper that emerged. It was the smallest fragment of a page, its edges a curled brown, but some of the ink marks had survived and were just about decipherable.
    She grabbed what was left of both candles and peered at the writing which