I searched on the side of the path directly opposite, as I might have searched for signs of an enemy’s camp during the war. My search was rewarded-I discovered a spot with a good view of the path, where sticks and leaves had been crushed. It was a place near a fallen log where fragments of brown shell told me that someone had eaten walnuts while they waited for the sound of an approaching rider, a place where someone’s boots had made marks in the soft, damp earth.
I spent a little time also in studying the tree which had supposedly caused Lucien’s injury, and the place where the branch had broken off. I rode my horse slowly down the path, halting in front of the tree, which allowed me an even better view of the point of breakage.
Back at the Abbey, I again examined the branch. I spoke to Bogsley and two other servants before I went to my room and changed out of my riding clothes-which had become somewhat soiled during my explorations. I cleaned up in time to join Charles for breakfast. By then, most of the family was in the breakfast room. Lady Bane-wearing a purple turban-declared that the previous evening’s disturbance had quite ruined her appetite.
I thought Charles might make some remark about this, as her plate was quite full, but he seemed lost in his own thoughts, not even responding to her lecture about young children never being allowed to dine with their elders at Bane House. At one point, he looked up and smiled and winked at me, just as his father might have done. But before I could respond with more than an answering smile, my attention was drawn back to Lady Bane, who asked why I was smiling, and if I thought fires in the middle of the night were amusing.
“Mother!” William said desperately, “Your breakfast grows cold. Do try to eat something.”
She ignored him. She had other complaints to make, and ended her lengthy list of criticisms by saying, “We are leaving immediately after breakfast, Edward, and I cannot tell you what a relief it will be!”
“I’m sure it defies description,” I said.
She eyed me in an unfriendly manner, but was distracted when William said, “I am staying-if it will not be an imposition, Edward?”
“Staying!” Lady Bane thundered. “Why?”
“To better acquaint myself with my cousin,” he said.
“Edward is not your cousin!”
“I meant Cousin Charles,” William said, then added, “And Edward, too, of course.”
Henry, who entered the room at just that moment, said, “An excellent notion, William! I believe I will join you.”
William seemed displeased, but said nothing. There was no opportunity for him to speak. Lady Bane found their plans extremely objectionable. The matter was decided when Fanny said, “I’ll leave with you, Mother.”
It was decided because Lady Bane, ever contrary, said, “No, I’ll not have it said that I was backward in any attention due to my family. We’ll all stay.”
Into the awkward silence which met this decision came Charles’s voice. “I wish to discuss a private matter with Uncle Edward,” he said, then frowning, added, “If you will excuse us, please?”
He stood, then took my hand, and led me to the library. He closed the doors, then said, “All right, Papa!”
“Excellent, youngster!” Lucien said. “My son, as you can see, Edward, is a stout-hearted fellow.”
“I’ve known that for some time now,” I said.
“He whispered to me during breakfast!” Charles said gleefully. “He was with me while you were out riding this morning.”
“And Fibbens?”
“I believe he has recovered from his initial shock,” my brother said. “I’ve asked him to break it gently to Bogsley.”
“’Zooks, Lucien! Is this wise?”
“I’d prefer they knew, rather than to come across me, er-accidentally. Fibbens will be here shortly to take Charles through one of the passages to the servants’ quarters. Charles will be my ambassador.”
“That means I’m going to tell them I’m not scared of Papa, so then they won’t be either. I’m helping.”
“Yes,” I said, “you are.”
As soon as Fibbens-amazingly at home with members of the spirit world, it seemed to me-had led Charles from the room, I told Lucien what I had learned. He listened thoughtfully.
“I took another look at the branch this morning,” I said. “I realized that the bloodstains were on a section of the branch that you could not have struck with your head while riding. The bloodstains were on a part of the branch that was too close to the trunk of the tree-close to where it broke off from the trunk.”
“A part of the branch much thicker, I suppose, than the section I would have struck if I had ridden into it.”
“Yes. The Banes undoubtedly heard the story of their father’s encounter with ruffians many times. And of the persons currently staying or working at the Abbey, only the Banes and their personal servants would not know that Charles prefers his chambers to be darkened.”
“It could be one of the Banes’s servants, I suppose,” Lucien said, and I did not miss the note of hopefulness in his voice.
“No servant would gain from your death, Lucien. I do not like the idea of scandal in the family any more than you do, but Charles is very young, and by the time he is in society, this will be long forgotten.”
Lucien gave a bitter laugh. “Murder is unlikely to pass so quickly from even the haut ton’s collection of shallow minds. But for now, our first thoughts must be for Charles’s safety.”
“Yes.”
“So it is a Bane,” he said. “I do not believe it was Lady Bane-she would have made sure her wig was on.”
I laughed. “Nor can I picture her waiting patiently in the woods, or wearing Hessians.”
“All well and good. But now what?”
“I’m not certain which of the three ‘thatchgallows,’ as you once called them, it is.”
“Surely not Fanny?”
“I would have ruled her out, until you told me of the boots. She was wearing a pair of them last night-and William and Henry were each already wearing their own. She’s strong. And remember how she used to spy on us?”
“Yes. But what would she have to gain?”
“I don’t know. Does she bear you any grudge?”
“Nothing to signify.” He couldnt exactly blush, but he was obviously embarrassed.
I raised a brow. “She had a tendre for you?”
“She believed we ought to marry. It was certainly not out of affection-it was a stupid idea placed in her head by her pushing mama. Aunt Sophia also tried to persuade my father that I should marry Fanny, but he was opposed-said he had seen at least three bad results of a marriage of first cousins. Alfred Bane was their first cousin, you will remember. Aunt Sophia was quite insulted, and nothing was said for years, but shortly after he died-let us say I told them I would respect my father’s wishes on the matter. When I became a widower, I almost thought Fanny would raise the subject again, but I think the notion of being stepmama to Charles put an end to her pursuit. Now-let’s look at Henry and William, then. William’s coat reeked of smoke.”
“According to Fibbens, William did attempt to help put out the fire. But since he was not trained in one of your drills, he was more a nuisance than a help, and Bogsley-in his inimitable Bogsley way, persuaded him to leave before he caused harm. Still-how did he find out about the fire so much sooner than the others?”
“And Henry?”
“Supposedly drunk.”
“Supposedly?”
“Oh, several bottles of your finest port are missing.”
“Charles’s port! But you sound as if you doubt he drank them.”
“I’m not sure. I find myself wondering where the empty bottles are, and why, at breakfast this morning, he did not appear to be suffering any ill-effects of such a binge.”
“A veteran drinker might be able to manage both the bottles and the morning.”