‘He was asking about the murdered boy,’ he says reluctantly.
‘Thomas Hardcastle?’
‘No, sir, the other one.’
‘What other one?’
‘Keith Parker, the stable boy.’
‘What stable boy? What are you talking about, man?’
‘Nobody remembers him, sir, not important enough,’ he says, gritting his teeth. ‘One of mine, he was. Lovely boy, about fourteen. Went missing a week or so before Master Thomas died. Couple of peelers came up to take a look in the forest, but they couldn’t find his body, so they said he ran away. I tell you, sir, he never did. Loved his mam, loved his job. He wouldn’t have done it. I said as much at the time, but nobody listened.’
‘Did they ever find him?’
‘No, sir, never did.’
‘And that’s what you told Cunningham?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Is that all you told him?’
His eyes shift left and right.
‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ I say.
‘No, sir.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Miller,’ I say coldly, my hackles rising. Dance hates people who try to deceive him, considering it a suggestion of gullibility, of stupidity. To even attempt it, liars must believe themselves to be cleverer than the person they’re lying to, an assumption he finds grotesquely insulting.
‘I’m not lying, sir,’ protests the poor stablemaster, a vein bulging on his forehead.
‘You are! Tell me what you know!’ I demand.
‘I can’t.’
‘You will, or I’ll ruin you, Mr Miller,’ I say, giving my host free rein. ‘I’ll take everything you have, every stitch of clothing and every penny you’ve squirrelled away.’
Dance’s words pour out of my mouth, each one dripping with poison. This is how he runs his law practice, bludgeoning his opponents with threats and intimidation. In his own way, Dance may be just as vile as Derby.
‘I’ll dig up every—’
‘The story’s a lie,’ Miller blurts out.
His face is ashen, his eyes haunted.
‘What does that mean? Out with it!’ I say.
‘They say Charlie Carver killed Master Thomas, sir.’
‘What of it?’
‘Well, he couldn’t have, sir. Charlie and me were friendly like. Charlie had an argument with Lord Hardcastle that morning, been fired he had, so he decided to take severance.’
‘Severance?’
‘A few bottles of brandy, sir, right out of Lord Hardcastle’s study. Just walked in and took them.’
‘So he stole a few bottles of brandy,’ I say. ‘How does that prove his innocence?’
‘He came to fetch me after I sent Miss Evelyn out riding on her pony. Wanted a last drink with a friend, he said. Couldn’t say no, could I? We drank those bottles between us, me and Charlie, but around half an hour before the murder, he said I had to leave.’
‘Leave, why?’
‘He said somebody was coming to see him.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know, sir, he never said. He just—’
He falters, feeling along the edge of the answer for the crack he’s certain he’s about to fall through.
‘What?’ I demand.
The poor fool’s wringing his hands together, rucking up the rug with the ball of his left foot.
‘He said everything was arranged, sir, said they were going to help him get a good position somewhere else. I thought maybe...’
‘Yes.’
‘The way he was talking, sir... I thought...’
‘Spit it out for God’s sake, Miller.’
‘Lady Hardcastle, sir,’ he says, meeting my gaze for the first time. ‘I thought maybe he was meeting Lady Helena Hardcastle. They’d always been friendly like.’
My hand drops from his shoulder.
‘But you didn’t see her arrive?’
‘I...’
‘You didn’t leave, did you?’ I say, catching the guilt on his face. ‘You wanted to see who was coming, so you hid somewhere nearby.’
‘For a minute, sir, just to see, to make sure he was all right.’
‘Why didn’t you tell anybody this?’ I say, frowning at him.
‘I was told not to, sir.’
‘By whom?’
He looks up at me, chewing the silence into a desperate plea.
‘By whom, dammit?’ I persist.
‘Well, Lady Hardcastle, sir. That’s what made me... well, she wouldn’t have let Charlie kill her son, would she? And if he had, she wouldn’t have told me to keep it quiet. Doesn’t make no sense, does it? He has to be innocent.’
‘And you kept this secret all these years?’
‘I was afraid, sir. Terrible afraid, sir.’
‘Of Helena Hardcastle?’
‘Of the knife, sir. The one used to kill Thomas. They found it in Carver’s cabin, hidden under the floorboards. That’s what did for him in the end, sir.’
‘Why would you be afraid of the knife, Miller?’
‘Because it was mine, sir. Horseshoe knife, it was. Went missing from my cottage a couple of days before the murder. That and a nice blanket right off my bed. I thought they might, well, blame me, sir. Like I was in on it with Carver, sir.’
The next few minutes pass in a blur, my thoughts far afield. I’m vaguely aware of promising to keep Miller’s secrets, just as I’m vaguely aware of leaving the cottage, the rain soaking me as I head back towards the house.
Michael Hardcastle told me somebody had been with Charlie Carver the morning of Thomas’s death, somebody Stanwin had clipped with a shotgun before they escaped. Could that person have been Lady Hardcastle? If so, her injuries would have needed tending quietly.
Doctor Dickie?
The Hardcastles were hosting a party the weekend Thomas was murdered, and by Evelyn’s account the same guests were invited back for this ball. Dickie’s in the house today, so it’s likely he was here nineteen years ago.
He won’t talk, he’s loyal as a dog.
‘He’s in the drug-peddling business with Bell,’ I say, remembering the marked-up Bible I found in his room when I was Derby. ‘That will be enough leverage to force the truth from him.’