“What is it?” a harsh voice called from the chamber, and into the doorway stepped Reverend Arnold. He glared at Duncan a moment, motioned the boy away, then his eyes softened. “I have been remiss in not explaining the facilities to you, Mr. McCallum.” The vicar quickly led him out of the library, then slowed as they reached the dining room. Outside, through the window, Duncan saw the youth hand the dispatch case to a thin, rough-looking man in a soiled leather shirt and a ragged fur cap, who hung the strap around his neck. The man’s weathered, unshaven face bore several deep scars. The quick strides he took toward the horse tied at the gate were those of a wildcat. He reminded Duncan of the raw, feral men who inhabited the remotest parts of the Highlands.
“The arrows,” Duncan said. “Did you discover who shot them?”
“A prank, no doubt. American children are notoriously unruly,” the vicar replied hastily, though the uncertainty in his voice recalled for Duncan the panic that had seized the vicar when the first shaft had been fired. “I expect an early draft of your report,” he abruptly added. “Lord Ramsey will require a full record. Your scientific details will please him. I have already written to him, summarizing how your science points to Lister, but no doubt you will want the opportunity to impress him directly with your skills of deduction.”
“I said nothing about Lister.”
“You proved that Evering died the night before he was discovered, when Lister was one of those unaccounted for. You proved that Evering was struck in the skull with a hard object. I discovered that Lister had offered to repair Woolford’s broken chest, obviously a pretense to gain access to the carpenter’s stores. You showed us how Evering had glass in his knee. Lister was seen hurrying from Evering’s cabin in the small hours last night, trying to remove evidence. You already demonstrated that the one who finished the ritual at the compass had Highland roots. Do you forget that Lister stood in the hold while you examined Evering? He heard everything.”
“Remove evidence? What evidence?”
“The glass on Evering’s knee. Lister had a cloth of the same shards when he was stopped last night. Surely the glass shows Evering died in his cabin. Who but the murderer would want to remove the shards? And consuming the slip of paper when we caught him-not the act of an innocent man.”
Duncan closed his eyes a moment. Lister had gone back for the glass, after Duncan had asked for a cloth to gather it in. And the paper would have been the slip in Evering’s hand indicating a meeting with Duncan. Lister had eaten it to protect Duncan.
“I have every confidence that you will understand the situation after reflection. Let us meet tonight. Shall we say, in the library after the children retire? I shall bring the Old Testament.” The vicar stepped toward the end of the long table. “There,” he said in a louder voice, pointing to the kitchen. “You will find a room off the kitchen that we use for instruction. It is well lit and takes warmth from the kitchen fires. The large desk there is at your disposal, with writing implements and paper. Lord Ramsey has been so kind as to leave an atlas and other books there. The materials brought by Evering will be at your disposal. You are not permitted off the grounds, but you have free access to the kitchen, and on Sunday you will be invited to-”
Arnold’s words were cut off by a peal of laughter. A boy of perhaps eight years and a girl who seemed about two years younger, both with light brown, curly hair, entered the room, a small spaniel romping at their feet. They did not see Arnold until they were halfway across the room. They halted abruptly, all joy draining from their eyes, and gazed nervously at the tall, stern figure in black. Arnold opened his mouth and seemed about to reprimand them, but then reconsidered as the children darted behind the skirts of a young woman who appeared with a vase of flowers.
She could be no more than eighteen, Duncan thought as he studied her, but there was something in her graceful countenance that spoke of sadness and wisdom far beyond her years. Her long brown hair, streaked with auburn, hung loose over the shoulders of her simple, hunter green dress. Her eyes, though quiet and intelligent, were remarkably shrunken, as if she had long been deprived of sleep. She wore no jewelry except a simple gold cross above the square bodice of her dress. Her unadorned face flushed with color as she looked into Duncan’s eyes, and he struggled with the notion that he had seen her somewhere before. She was the third, the one Crispin had been scared to speak of.
“I had intended to make introductions at tea,” Reverend Arnold said with a sigh, then stepped between Duncan and the newcomers, gesturing for the boy and girl to step forward. “Master Jonathan Ramsey, Miss Virginia Ramsey,” he said with a quick motion to each of the small children. “And our Sarah,” he concluded in a voice gone oddly still. “You may greet your new tutor, Mr. McCallum.”
Sarah seemed to look for cues from her younger siblings, as if she did not understand what to say, then mouthed the words that Jonathan and Virginia spoke. “Good afternoon, Mr. McCallum. Welcome to our house.” Jonathan gave a small, stiff bow; Virginia, a deep curtsy. Sarah, flushing again, made an awkward motion somewhere between a bow and a curtsy, the vase still in her hands.
Sarah seemed unwilling to look back into Duncan’s eyes. She silently retreated around the table, walking along the far side, and stepped into the library alone to place the vase in front of the portrait of the woman, removing the old flowers. As Duncan watched from a distance, her left hand began trembling, and she quickly clamped her right around it.
Something new had entered the pastor’s eyes, a sudden skittish-ness. As Duncan watched, Arnold pulled his own gaze from Sarah back to the children, who had not moved. His eyes flared and he stepped to Jonathan, prying something out of the boy’s fingers. A long, narrow blade-a letter opener, held like a sword. Arnold dropped the blade into his own pocket and glared at the boy. Duncan watched in surprise as the boy braved the vicar’s steely gaze for a moment before looking toward the floor.
“We must offer new prayers tonight,” the boy said in a bold voice.
The comment seemed to unsettle Arnold. “Prayers for whom, son?”
“The one with the laughing eyes who carved me a beaver out of a stick,” Jonathan said in an earnest tone. “He’s gone to see Old Crooked Face at the crooked tree.”
Arnold seemed to stop breathing for a moment. When he spoke his voice was hoarse. “Of course we shall pray.” Duncan did not miss the alarmed glance he threw toward Sarah. “Meanwhile, should you not take your new tutor to his classroom?”
Jonathan, with an odd expression of triumph, took Duncan’s hand and led him away. As they entered the kitchen, Duncan looked back to see Arnold hurrying out the front door, hat and coat in hand.
The boy scampered away after leading Duncan to the chamber Arnold had described, a cheerful, sunlit room with a large walnut desk and three small tables arranged in front of it, each bearing a slate but also sheets of precious paper, pewter inkwells, pencil leads, and quills. Duncan idly leafed through the expensive atlas on the desk, gazing at the vast, unmarked lands west of the American coast, then saw the open crate in the corner, its contents partially unpacked onto an adjacent bench.
Duncan quickly sorted through the items, more desperate than ever for a clue to Evering’s murderer. A dozen thin books, primers for teaching young readers. An alphabet chart pressed inside a wood frame under a transparent layer of horn-a hornbook. Jars of pigment sealed with wax. Five identical wooden boxes, each crafted with small compartments inside, one containing minerals, another dried leaves, the others lenses, shells, and empty bird eggs. Large, rolled maps tied with yarn. Duncan’s eyes drifted around the room as he realized the crate would have been packed before Evering had left England. His gaze came to rest on a chair by the door, holding a small, worn trunk.