“He mentioned it,” Darius said, taking his guest’s hand briefly. “And my swim can wait. Val said you’re serving as magistrate?”
“I have that honor.” They stabled Sir Dewey’s horse and were shortly up the ladder. “So from whence fell your stones?”
Darius showed him around then obliged further inquiries by giving Sir Dewey a tour of the house.
“Francis would be pleased,” Sir Dewey remarked as they reached the kitchen. The counters were being redesigned to accommodate a huge cookstove that sat squat and black in the middle of the room. Glass fronts had already been installed on the upper cabinets, and a new pump graced one end of a long, glazed porcelain sink.
“You knew the late baron?”
“In little more than passing,” Sir Dewey said, running a hand over the smooth surface of the sink. “He’d approve of the restoration of the place and would never have let it get to this state, much less let the farms be mismanaged.”
“Val will set it to rights.” Darius watched as Sir Dewey frowned at the tile floors. They might be replaced once the heavier work was done. For now, sawdust, wood shavings, and the occasional screw or nail littered the floor.
“Are your crews in the habit of working in bare feet?” Sir Dewey asked, squatting by a door leading to the cellars.
“Assuredly not. One rusty nail in the foot and a man’s life might be over.”
“Then you’d better have a look at this,” Sir Dewey muttered. “It’s not good. Not good at all.”
Sir Dewey Fanning presented himself at Candlewick just as Abby Belmont was preparing to preside over tea with her guests. Ellen had disappeared abovestairs, leaving Val with such a sense of untethered restlessness he was almost grateful for Sir Dewey’s arrival.
Until he heard the man explain that he and Darius had found two bonfires laid in Val’s manor house, one in the attics, one in the basement, both surrounded by the dusty imprints of small bare feet, and both with a can of lamp oil tidily stowed nearby.
“So what do you make of it?” St. Just asked the magistrate. “Is somebody recruiting children to do this mischief, or are we dealing with children wandering the property in addition to arsonists and would-be murderers?”
“Hard to say,” Sir Dewey replied. “Belmont, any insights?”
“God above.” Axel ran a hand over his hair. “My only suggestion is that we adjourn to the library and switch to something besides tea. It seems to me the situation is complicated with neither motive nor suspect very clear.”
“The motive,” Val reflected when Axel had put a drink in his hand, “seems to be to discourage me from my project, at least.”
“If not to discourage you all the way to the Pearly Gates,” St. Just groused.
“Probably not quite.” Val took a considering sip of his drink. “As Sir Dewey has pointed out, the fires were laid but not set. The slates that fell from the roof didn’t hit a single person, and the likelihood they’d actually strike me wasn’t great.”
“Could children have loosened those tiles?” Axel asked.
Sir Dewey nodded. “Half-grown boys could easily with the right tools. They could have piled up those scraps of lumber, sneaked about of a night or a Sunday afternoon, and because they frequent your pond, Mr. Windham, nobody would think a thing about it did they see a pack of boys heading up your lane or across your fields.”
“I can’t help but wonder”—Val’s gaze met his brother’s—“if whoever doesn’t want me to proceed also discouraged Ellen FitzEngle from maintaining the place.”
St. Just scowled at his drink. “Interesting point. Why don’t we just get the lady down here and ask her a few very direct questions?”
“Because she’s a suspect,” Sir Dewey said, his voice damnably gentle while his blue eyes pinned Val with piercing clarity. “Isn’t she?”
“Ellen?” Val blew out a breath, trying to balance his heart’s leanings with the facts. “In my opinion, no. She has neither this kind of meanness in her, nor would she hurt others.”
“But using your head?” Axel prompted when no one else spoke up. “What does logic tell you?”
“Logic?” Val pursed his lips, studied his drink, and looked anywhere but at his brother.
St. Just spoke up in the ensuing silence. “Logic says she has a life estate on the property that she neither disclosed nor took care of. Logic says she’s hiding something; logic says if she hasn’t taken an interest in the house so far, what does she care if it burns to the ground or if renovations stop well before they’re completed?”
“That doesn’t tell us her motive,” Sir Dewey pointed out. “It tells us questioning her directly would likely be of little use.”
“So question her indirectly,” St. Just shot back. “Snoop about, get the solicitors talking, and circle around behind her fortifications; exonerate her or see her charged.”
“It seems to me,” Val said, “we’ve convicted the lady of serious crimes without identifying either her motive or her opportunity. She’s been with Day and Phil for most of each day except for when she’s been with me here. She might have stolen about in the dead of night and piled up all that wood, but it’s far-fetched to assume so. It’s equally far-fetched to think she’d collude with the local boys, when she neither trusts nor likes the ones from the village.”
“Good points,” St. Just agreed—which was something. “But somebody means you or your property harm, Val, and she stands to gain if you vacate the premises.”
Val rose and put his empty glass on the sideboard. “She stands to gain more by letting me toil away for months and sink a fortune into that house. By law, she can then waltz in and enjoy all the fruits of my efforts until the day she dies, and I can neither charge her rent nor evict her. The worst I could do is move in with her.”
“This is true.” The idea that Val could spike his brother’s formidable guns was some relief, but St. Just wasn’t finished. “I don’t like it—having somebody to suspect is much easier—but you’re right. Ellen FitzEngle’s interests are not served by torching the house.”
“And we’re forgetting something else.” Val turned to face the other three. “Ellen is the one who is most clearly entitled to live in that house and collect the rents on the tenant farms. I have other places to live, other sources of income, but she likely does not. It could very well be that whoever is up to no good could care less about me; rather, it’s Ellen’s interest they seek to harm.”
Axel eyed the decanter narrowly. “Complicated, indeed.”
“And more complicated still.” Val sighed as he headed for the door. “What do I tell the lady, if anything? And when?”
He left, and silence spread behind him among the other three men.
“Emmie’s confinement waits for no husband,” St. Just said. “Val needs reinforcements, and Westhaven can’t leave his post.”
“I agree,” Axel said, “but Val won’t like it. He won’t like questions about his property or his affairs.”
“I don’t like bonfires laid in my brother’s very house,” St. Just countered. “Send off a few notes and see what reinforcements are available.”
Ellen had dodged tea, pleading fatigue, but she hadn’t been able to lie on her big, fluffy bed and drift away. She was tired, of course—she’d slept little and badly lately—but she was troubled too, and there, sitting so handsome and calm in the breezy shade of the trees, was the cause of her troubles.
No, she remonstrated herself, Valentine Windham had not caused her troubles, though he was certainly catalyzing them, and she needed to clear the air with him. He might be angry—he would certainly cease his attentions to her—but that was better than this growing deception between them. She changed direction and met his gaze, approaching his perch with as much resolve as the roiling in her stomach would allow.