Nell was in the large riding ring when I pulled into Anscombe Manor’s parking area. She was dressed more formally than she had been when I’d last seen her, in a midnight-blue velvet riding coat, spotless white breeches, and highly polished black riding boots, presumably because she was demonstrating dressage techniques to a half dozen children who, like the twins, took riding lessons before school hours.
The children sat on the fence, silent and motionless, absorbed in the demonstration, while Nell and her chestnut mare, Rosie, performed the intricate ballet, flowing effortlessly from one difficult movement to the next. Although Nell’s gleaming crown of golden curls was hidden beneath her riding helmet, she rode regally nonetheless, with perfect posture, perfect balance, and in perfect harmony with her horse.
The children weren’t the only ones observing Nell’s performance. The new stable hands had positioned themselves at various vantage points around the stables, and though they each held a
204 Nancy Atherton
shovel, a broom, or a pitchfork, they weren’t actually doing any work. I couldn’t blame them. I doubted that any male with a pulse would look away when Nell Harris was in the ring.
Kit, of course, was the exception. He must have known what Nell was doing, but he’d elected to wait for me in the courtyard, which afforded him no view of the riding ring whatsoever. I wasn’t sure whether it was Nell he wanted to avoid seeing or the drooling young stable hands, but I suspected it was a little of both.
He, too, had dressed for the fine weather, in a faded denim shirt and blue jeans, but I was sure that he’d also put a sweater and his rain jacket in his day pack. Ham, Nell’s black Labrador retriever, lay in a pool of sunlight near the wooden bench. The old dog thumped his tail when he saw me, but he was clearly much too comfortable to rise and greet me, so I squatted beside him to scratch his graying ears and say hello.
“Ready?” Kit said, glancing at his watch.
“I’m ready,” I said, straightening. “Lead on.”
I’d almost forgotten what it was like to climb Emma’s Hill on a nice day. I was so pleased that it wasn’t raining, blowing, hailing, or snowing on us that I didn’t complain about the rapid pace Kit set.
He moved like a man possessed. His violet eyes were burning with a fire I’d never seen in them before, and his mouth was set in a thin, determined line. He didn’t waste time explaining the day’s mission to me or responding to my rapturous comments on the weather, and he took the shortest route to Aldercot Hall.
The shortest route also happened to be the one least visible from Charlotte DuCaral’s music room. After coming down Emma’s Hill, we skirted the southern edge of the dense grove of trees, passed behind the stately yews that bordered the family cemetery, and approached the kitchen stairs screened by a row of plane trees.
Henrietta’s florid face lit up when she saw Kit standing on her doorstep. She opened her mouth to say heaven-knows-what, but Kit cut her off before a single outrageous syllable left her lips.
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“You’re not going to play silly buggers with me today, Henrietta,” he said in a clipped, no-nonsense tone of voice. “I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer them. Understood?”
Henrietta’s green eyes narrowed, and I braced myself to catch Kit’s head, because I was sure she was going to knock it off his neck.
Instead she folded her mighty arms across her bosom and regarded him levelly.
“Right, then, ducky,” she said. “What do you want to know?”
“A gamekeeper once worked for Maurice and Madeline DuCaral,”
said Kit. “Is he still alive?”
“’Course he is,” said Henrietta. “His name is Rory Tanner, and he lives not a mile away, in the cottage the DuCarals gave him when he retired.”
“Where is Mr. Tanner’s cottage?” Kit asked.
“In the woods north of here,” she said, hitching a thumb over her shoulder to indicate the direction. “If you follow the lane beyond the gates, you’ll see the path on your right. It’s got bracken growing all along it, and bluebells in the spring.”
“If we go to Mr. Tanner’s cottage now,” said Kit, “will he be there?”
“Oh, yes,” said Henrietta. “Old Rory doesn’t get out much anymore. Are you going to see him after you fi nish up with me?”
“Yes,” said Kit.
“In that case”—Henrietta held up a hand—“wait here. I’ve got something for you.”
As soon as she turned her back on us and went into the kitchen, Kit began to drum his fingers on his leg and glance anxiously over his shoulder, like a man about to miss his boarding call.
“What’s your hurry?” I murmured. “Leo’s not going anywhere.
You made sure of that when you stole his keys.”
“I don’t know what it is, Lori,” he said, “but something’s telling me that we have to hurry.”
Henrietta returned in less than ten minutes, carrying two zip-206 Nancy Atherton pered, insulated bags the size of shopping bags, which she handed to Kit.
“Rory’s meals,” she explained. “I tucked in a little something for the two of you as well.”
“Thank you, Henrietta,” Kit threw over his shoulder as he dashed up the kitchen stairs.