“Then I shall examine her immediately.”
Arundell waved Nettles over and instructed the butler to escort the two men first to Steinhaueser’s room—to which Burton and his friends had taken the body last night—then to Isabel’s. When they’d gone, he held Burton by the arm and accompanied him into the library, where Swinburne, Monckton Milnes, and Levi were waiting. He said, “I have no idea what bedevils this house, and the fact that none of you has properly explained leads me to conclude that you aren’t in a position to do so—”
Burton made to speak but Arundell cut him short with a raised palm.
“No. Say nothing. I confess I have had my doubts about your character, Richard—and, to be frank, you are unlikely ever to win my wife’s approval—but I don’t for one moment believe you would allow my daughter’s death to remain a mystery to me were you not under some obligation. I will therefore fall in with whatever explanation Mr. Jolly presents. However, I request—no, I demand—one thing of you.”
“Sir?”
“If you plan to act against the fugitive—the man you say infected Isabel with a parasite, though I do not for one moment give credence to that statement—then I must be involved.”
Eliphas Levi interrupted, “Monsieur, we intend to act this very morning, but what we must do, it is très désagréable, and it go badly against your faith. It is better that you do not see.”
“I insist.”
Burton said, “We believe the man is hiding out in the old castle. We plan to confront him at noon.”
“Noon? Why noon? Why not now?”
“It must be at noon, or near enough. I cannot reveal why.”
Henry Arundell stared searchingly at the explorer. His brows furrowed, then he shrugged. “No matter. I shall pry no further. But I will come to the castle with you.”
“Very well.”
“Shall I send for police assistance?”
“No, sir. The police should not witness our actions.”
“Which will be?”
“An execution.”
“Great heavens, man! You can’t take the law into your own hands!”
“I have the king’s authority to do so.”
Henry Arundell took a deep breath and muttered, “This is an ungodly business.”
“Yes,” Burton replied. “That’s exactly what it is.”
An hour later, they moved to the smoking room where they were joined by Quilty, Jolly, and Uncle Renfric. The coroner reported that Isabel had died of heart failure. “The undertaker will visit later this morning to make arrangements,” he said. “He’s a good man. Miss Arundell will receive a first-class interment.”
Renfric added, “Until then, she’ll lie in our chapel. Henry, my boy, send those mechanical footmen of yours to my study. I’ll have them compose the cancellation letters.”
“Cancellation?” Arundell muttered. “Why, yes, of course. The party.”
“What of John Steinhaueser?” Burton asked.
Jolly answered, “As you said, Sir Richard, he was murdered, his neck broken. Should I arrange for him to be reunited with his family?”
“He has none.”
“Where, then, should he be laid to rest?”
“I don’t think he had a preference, sir.”
Quilty said, “May I suggest a small ceremony and burial at Saint John’s in Tisbury? Perhaps—late on Sunday afternoon?”
Burial. Styggins, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
“Very well. Thank you. Can I rely on you to organise it?”
“Of course.”
Uncle Renfric gave a grunt of satisfaction and ushered the priest and coroner away.
Henry Arundell said, “It’s a quarter-past ten.”
Eliphas Levi interlaced his fingers and cracked his knuckles. “Oui, we must begin. First, we visit your groundsman.”
“Tom Honesty? Why so?”
“Pour faire des préparations, monsieur. To make the preparations.”
Forty minutes later, outside the groundsman’s lodge, the five men stepped down from the Arundell’s steam landau, each dressed in heavy boots and overcoats, each with an umbrella in hand. The rain was falling with violence. It needled against them, battering their brollies, hissing on the ground with such intensity they had to raise their voices to be heard.
Before they could knock on the lodge’s door, a slim and pretty woman opened it.
“Mr. Arundell?” she said. “This is a surprise! Do you want to see Tom? Please, come in out of the rain. What dreadful weather!”
“Hello, Mrs. Honesty,” Henry Arundell said. “I apologise that we’ve descended upon you in such numbers.”
“Not at all, sir. Come in, all of you, come in.”
The men closed their umbrellas, left them leaning against the door-jamb, and squeezed into the lodge’s narrow, tastefully decorated entrance hall. As they did so, Tom Honesty emerged from a room at the far end, his shirtsleeves rolled impeccably up to his elbows.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Not really,” Swinburne muttered.
“Wet. Nasty day. Something the matter?”
“We require your assistance, Tom,” Arundell said.
“Certainly. In what respect?”
Arundell looked at Eliphas Levi, who said, “You have dry logs, Monsieur Honesty? For the fire?”
“Yes, but I delivered a barrow-load to the house yesterday. You’ve not run out already?”
“Non, non. It is not for firewood. We need you to cut two stakes for us.”
“Stakes?”
“Oui. About two feet long and three inches thick with one end pointed and sharp.”
“May I ask—?”
“It is better if you do not. Also, we require—how are the words?—un maillet lourd.”
“A heavy mallet,” Burton said.
“Oui. And an axe.”
A puzzled expression crossed the groundsman’s face. “Very well. Parlour. Fire. Dry yourselves. I shan’t be long.”
Honesty worked quickly and efficiently, completing his task in less than ten minutes. He rejoined them and handed the stakes and mallet to Levi, and the axe to Monckton Milnes.
“Tom,” Arundell said, “have you been to the old castle recently?”
“Checked it after last week’s storm. Not since.”
“We suspect a dangerous fugitive is hiding out in it. Might he be in the priest hole? Is it still accessible?”
“Priest hole!” Swinburne exclaimed. “My hat! We saw no such thing when we searched the place.”
“Many of the old Catholic homes and castles have a hidden priest hole, Mr. Swinburne,” Arundell said. “It would defeat the point of them if they were easily detected.”
“Where is it?” Burton asked.
“Beneath one of the vaults. There are two removable stone steps concealing the entrance, though for the life of me I can never remember which they are.”
“I’ll come with you. Show you,” Honesty said.
Burton opened his mouth to say no but suddenly felt an unaccountable trust in the groundsman, and before he even realised it, nodded his agreement.
“To the castle, then,” Arundell said.
They waited for Honesty to change into waterproofs then ventured back out into the downpour and into the landau. The groundsman climbed up to the driver’s box and sat next to Burton.
The rain made conversation impossible, crashing down like an Indian monsoon, obscuring the path ahead and causing the vehicle to skid across the waterlogged gravel. Burton grappled with the tiller, which shuddered and jerked in his hands, and was thankful when Honesty reached across and took a hold of it, too, adding his own strength to the explorer’s. Between them, they managed to navigate along the same path that Burton and Swinburne had twice traversed, passing over the bridge, alongside the woods, through Ark Farm, and up the mound to the ruins.
The men disembarked—each carrying a clockwork lantern—and squinted through the torrent at the grey, jagged walls, the tops of which were still black with ravens, all hunched together and motionless. Henry Arundell led them into the short entrance passage, where they stopped to shelter for a few minutes.