“So, you are the men Bishop Parnell has picked to properly plan Lady Dulgath’s murder.” Fawkes grinned and winked at them.
Royce wasn’t certain if the man was a fool or a genius. He displayed signs of both. Neither made him comfortable, but over the course of his life he’d been at ease with only four people. None of them was a well-dressed noble with a loud voice who winked. No one ever winked at Royce. The fact that this man, with his black goatee and expressive hands, did so was a curiosity worthy of further scrutiny.
“It’s all right,” Fawkes told them, spreading his hands out and fanning his fingers. “I’m privy to what’s going on. Brilliant, really, like that adage about fighting fire with fire. And from what I’ve heard, you two know how to handle yourselves in heated situations.” He moved in closer. Lowering his voice, he added, “Rumors say a rather high-profile noble was assassinated up north. I suspect you know a little about that.”
“Rumors can’t be trusted,” Royce told him.
“No, of course not.” Fawkes glanced toward the front gate. “Still, I doubt our good sheriff knows about that incident or realizes he may owe me his life. As I recall, that dead noble was a high constable. Knox should be more careful. One doesn’t buy poison and handle it without gloves. A fine and dangerous instrument deserves respect. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Absolutely.” Royce nodded. “And now that you mention it, I do seem to recall something about that rumor. Happened in Medford, didn’t it?”
“Why, yes, I believe that was the place.”
“I can see why you were concerned about the sheriff, but just so we understand each other…the man killed wasn’t just a high constable; he was also the king’s cousin.”
Lord Fawkes escorted them inside Castle Dulgath’s stables, which were situated beyond the cleft wall and down the road where the land flattened out enough to be safe for horses. Made to appear like a fancy cottage, the stables had twelve-paned windows and an interlocking-brick floor. The place was cleaner than Wayward Street—even cleaner than The Rose and the Thorn despite Gwen’s hard work. The building didn’t smell like a stable. There wasn’t a trace of manure nor a glimpse of straw. Chandeliers hung from a high ceiling, and the doorways benefited from decorative molding. Horses lounged in stained oak stalls with black-painted metal gates. Each wore a tailored blanket, and in front of every bay sat a large, beautifully crafted trunk.
“Nice barn,” Hadrian remarked, looking up at the tongue-and-groove ceiling.
“Adequate,” Fawkes said with a bulging lower lip and a curt dip of his head. “Dulgath doesn’t have the resources, talent, or inclination to indulge in serious equestrian endeavors. I realize you meant it as a jest, Hadrian, but in Maranon, this is hardly impressive.”
Lord Fawkes strolled along the long row of gates and stopped outside the stall where a horse stood cloaked in a beige warming coat. Large, black eyes spotted Fawkes, and a white head poked out through the opening in the bars designed specifically for that purpose. The lord cooed, made kissing sounds, and scrubbed the horse’s neck. “This is Immaculate—she’s mine.” Fawkes opened a small pouch on his belt and palmed out a sugar cube. The horse snatched up the treat, smacking her lips with a loud, hollow thumping clap of appreciation.
“Why are we here?” Royce asked.
Annoyance flashed across Fawkes’s face but was instantly stripped and replaced by a warm smile. “Not a fan of horses?”
“I like riding more than walking, but I prefer women for the friendlier stuff.”
“Ha! Well said. Still, a good horse can be a blessing from Novron.” He patted Immaculate’s neck fondly. “No one understands our love, do they?” he whispered loud enough for them to hear, then turned away with a grin.
Fawkes moved to the next stall, which housed an entirely black horse, this one with a snow-white velvet blanket. The horses were so perfect, so uniform in color; Royce wouldn’t have put it past these pretentious people to dye the animals. Even the horse’s hooves were pitch black. Fawkes reached down and flung open the chest. Inside, a saddle rested on a stand beside a folded blanket, a bridle, and a lead. The saddle was two-toned, tooled leather with an embroidered suede seat and shiny brass fittings. It had the fixed head and lower leaping head of a sidesaddle, which accounted for its plush luxury, although Royce imagined Lord Fawkes’s saddle to be just as ostentatious.
“This is Derby, Lady Dulgath’s mare. And this”—he lifted the sidesaddle—“is Her Ladyship’s as well.” He held it up to them.
“It’s very nice,” Hadrian said.
Fawkes chuckled. “Look at the cinch.”
Royce tilted his head to peer at the fabric band that dangled down. Unlike the dual D-rings he and Hadrian tied leather straps to, this one had a set of buckles hidden under the saddle flap. Made of wool, this girth band was bright white.
“Again, very pretty,” Hadrian said.
“It’s new,” Royce noted.
The lord grinned. “Good eye.”
Fawkes dropped the saddle, closed the chest, then walked to the far wall, where an open barrel stood. Reaching inside, he withdrew a near-identical girth strap. This one was sweat-stained and lacked the fluff of the other.
Royce took it from Fawkes and examined the edges—crisp and clean up to a point and then ragged where the wool banding had torn. Hadrian looked at him expectantly. “Someone cut it a little more than halfway through. The rest tore while riding.”
Fawkes nodded. “Lady Dulgath was shifting from a three-beat canter to a four-beat gallop when it happened. She took a nasty spill. Thankfully, she wasn’t jumping at the time, although she was setting up to do so. The strap broke during her practice ride for the Dulgath Steeplechase of Roses.”
Fawkes retrieved the strap from Royce and dropped it back in the barrel.
“So that’s two,” Hadrian said. “How did they try to kill her the third time?”
“Poison,” Royce replied.
Hadrian and Fawkes looked at him in surprise.
“How did you know?” Fawkes asked.
“I didn’t, until just now, but it seemed likely, given the azaleas in the courtyard.”
“Those pink flowers are poisonous?” Fawkes said as if Royce had shattered a childhood trust. “They’re so beautiful.”
“And toxic. When I was with the Diamond, a common practice was to send a bouquet of azaleas in a black vase as a warning to other guilds that might be encroaching.”
“We should have those torn out immediately!”
“Don’t bother. They don’t pose any real danger to anyone but dogs or maybe children. There are a lot of poisonous flowers—chrysanthemum, lily of the valley, hydrangea, foxglove, wisteria. Eat any of them and you’ll get sick but probably won’t die. To do someone in, you want hemlock—eight leaves will kill you. Monkshood is excellent because it absorbs through the skin and leaves no trace. Belladonna is also nice; just one leaf or ten little berries will do the job. Old Bell is a favorite of female murderers because they always have it on hand. Rubbing the leaves on their cheeks makes them rosy. Later, you can brew tea with the same leaves and rid yourself of a troublesome husband. The best choice, of course, is arsenic, but finding some is nearly impossible, and making the extract is difficult.”
“Then why did you think she’d been poisoned?” Fawkes asked.
“Because you aren’t dealing with a professional. Dropping a block of stone and cutting a saddle strap is pathetic, lazy work. I don’t even think the killer is a novice. What you’re dealing with is a first-time idiot. A lot of people have heard azaleas are poisonous. So if you’re a moron, but looking for a means to bury someone, those pretty blossoms would be hard to resist. I’m guessing the countess was sick recently?”
Fawkes nodded. “We were enjoying breakfast, and she complained about a burning in her mouth. She was eating a pastry at the time, then she drooled a bit and vomited. Disgusting.”