Hero began turning the pages of the book.
He said, “How long do you think one of these sketches would take?”
“If they were detailed renderings, she could have spent days on one. But they’re not. They’re just quick, loose impressions. And if she did six similar sketches of the Grange—plus a portrait of Squire Rawlins—in one morning, then surely she didn’t spend an hour and a half on each of these last two drawings.” Hero raised her gaze to his. “What are you suggesting, Devlin?”
“One of three things: Either she went someplace else after she left the priory but before she climbed over that stile at five o’clock—”
“Someplace like Northcott Abbey, you mean? A second visit no one has told us about?”
He nodded. “Either that, or the miller’s wife was wrong about when she saw Emma climb over the stile.”
“I was under the impression Alice Gibbs was quite certain about the time.”
“She was. And we all simply accepted her testimony without question. But she could have been wrong. It’s even conceivable that for some reason I can’t begin to imagine, she’s lying.”
Hero untied the ribbon of her hat and pulled it off. “You said there’s a third possibility.”
His gaze met hers. “The third possibility is that the miller’s wife didn’t see Emma that afternoon at all, because Emma never left the priory alive. In other words, she died there.”
Alice Gibbs was hoeing a row of beets when Sebastian turned his curricle into the short lane that led to the neat stone cottage beside the mill. She straightened slowly, one hand self-consciously smoothing her skirts as she watched him hop down from the carriage’s high seat.
“Milord,” she said, bobbing a curtsy. “If it’s Miller Gibbs you’re looking for, I’m afraid he’s gone off to see the smith about getting a shaft fixed.”
“Actually,” said Sebastian, “you’re the one I came to see, Mrs. Gibbs. I wanted to ask about the evening you saw Emma Chandler—or Chance, as she called herself. I understand you were out in your garden?”
“Yes, milord. Pickin’ some radishes, I was, when Mr. Flanagan stopped by to talk about our Henry.” The miller’s wife beamed with maternal pride. “Doin’ ever so well with his studies, is our Henry.”
“That must make you very pleased.”
Her smile widened. “It does, yes, ever so much, milord. Never learnt to read or write meself, you see. So I can’t tell you what it means to me, seeing my boy catchin’ on so quick.”
Sebastian turned to glance up the narrow, leafy lane toward the coach road, a distance of some two to three hundred feet away. He himself could have identified someone at many times that distance. But then, his vision was uncommonly acute.
“You must have very good eyesight,” he said.
Alice Gibbs laughed, her face rosy and full cheeked. “Me? Och, no, milord. Anybody in town can tell you I wouldn’t recognize me own husband if I was on one side of the church and he was on the other. I wouldn’t have known it was Mrs. Chance at all if Mr. Flanagan hadn’t told me.”
“Oh?” said Sebastian, still smiling pleasantly. “What did he say?”
She thought about it a moment. “I reckon he said somethin’ like, ‘There goes that widow what’s been drawing all the old buildings hereabouts. She must’ve been sketching the priory.’ And I said, ‘She picked a lovely day for it,’ and we talked a bit about the nice spell of weather we’d been having.”
“And then what?”
If she found the question odd, she didn’t show it. “Well, he’d just been tellin’ me how he had a meetin’ at half past five, so then he said he’d best be hurrying along.”
It was a detail Sebastian had heard before, but he hadn’t paid any attention to it. Now it struck him as blindingly significant, as if Flanagan had gone out of his way to make certain the miller’s wife remembered the time.
She was still smiling broadly, eager to be of assistance and proud of her ability to tell him what he wanted to know. He said, “The village is lucky to have Mr. Flanagan.”
“Och, aren’t we just. He’s ever such a kind, scholarly man.”
“Exactly how long has he been here?”
“Well, let’s see. . . . Must be more’n two years now. He come right after poor old Mr. Coombs passed away.”
“Mr. Coombs was the previous schoolmaster?”
“He was, yes, milord.”
“And he died two summers ago?”
“More like that February or March, it was.”
In other words, thought Sebastian, just months after Lucien Bonaparte was sent to Shropshire. Aloud, he said, “How did he die?”
“Something hit his stomach, it did.”
Sebastian found himself wondering if what hit the unfortunate Mr. Coombs’s stomach had been poison. Someone had obviously been making Ayleswick-on-Teme an extraordinarily unhealthy place to live for quite some time now.
He bowed his head and touched his hand to his hat. “Thank you for your assistance, Mrs. Gibbs. You’ve been most helpful.”