“But what difference does it make if it was Flanagan or Alice Gibbs who saw Emma?”
“Because I don’t think the person they watched was actually Emma. According to Alice Gibbs, the figure she saw climbing over the stile was wearing a gray cloak. Now, it’s possible that at some point before Emma was killed, she went back to the Blue Boar and left the cloak in her room. But I doubt it. I think she was killed before five o’clock, and it was all just an elaborate ruse to disguise the actual time and place of her death.”
“But why? Why was it so important to cover up when and where she died?”
“It would be of vital importance if she was killed because she’d accidently stumbled upon a meeting between Lucien Bonaparte and someone delivering a message from France.”
Archie stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I wish I weren’t.”
A dark smear on the cobbles near the woodshed caught Sebastian’s attention, and he went to have a closer look.
“Is that blood?” asked Archie, watching him.
“It is. From the looks of things, I’d say Flanagan was killed here, then dragged into the barn out of sight—probably either late last night or early this morning.” The blood had long since dried. “Hopefully Higginbottom will be able to give us a better idea—that is, if he ever gets around to it.” The last they’d heard, the old doctor had yet to begin the postmortem on Reuben Dickie, despite the inquest scheduled for that Thursday. He said his cow was still sick.
Archie watched Sebastian push to his feet. “But how do you know Flanagan didn’t simply think he saw Emma and got it wrong. I mean, how do you know he was deliberately misleading Alice Gibbs?”
“Because he’s dead.”
“Oh.” Archie went to sit on the mounting block in the corner of the yard, his head in his hands. He sat there for a long time; then he dropped his hands and lifted his head to stare at Sebastian. “So who was in the gray cloak?”
“The killer,” said Sebastian. “And he’s just eliminated his accomplice.”
Sebastian had no doubt that whoever killed Flanagan was clever enough to have removed anything from the dead schoolmaster’s cottage that might implicate him. But they searched the cottage anyway. Even clever people make mistakes.
Slowly and methodically, they went through every drawer and cupboard, checked each room for loose floorboards or chimney bricks, inspected the undersides and backs of each piece of furniture. As they searched, Sebastian told Archie of the previous day’s encounter at Maplethorpe’s carriage house. “I gave Weston my word as a gentleman I wouldn’t report him to the authorities unless I had reason to believe his smuggling operation had something to do with Emma Chandler’s death. But now I do.”
Archie looked up from searching the contents of a pantry shelf. “You think Weston is the killer?”
“He could be, although I doubt it. In all likelihood he’s just a greedy bastard taking advantage of the war to run contraband. He probably has no idea the French have been using his smuggling line to pass messages back and forth between Napoléon and his brother.”
“Through Flanagan?”
“He arrived shortly after Bonaparte was sent to Shropshire, didn’t he? March of 1811?”
“He did, yes. But . . . why would Paris send someone to Ayleswick, then? I mean, yes, Lucien is here this summer, but two years ago he was in Ludlow. And after that he moved to his estate in Worcestershire.”
Sebastian shifted his search to the front room. “How often would Flanagan go out of town?”
“Fairly often,” admitted Archie, hunkering down to peer beneath the desk. “He has a cousin keeps a tavern near Warwick he used to—” He broke off when he realized what he was saying and muttered, “Bloody hell.”
After that, he worked in silence for some minutes, obviously turning the information over in his head. Then he said, “What I don’t understand is, if Flanagan was the one delivering the messages, then who’s the killer?”
Sebastian pushed a chest back into place. “I don’t know.”
“Lucien Bonaparte must know,” said Archie, standing in the center of the front room, his hands dangling loosely at his sides. “Damn that bloody French bastard all to hell. He not only knows who’s doing this; he was probably there when Emma was killed.”
“Perhaps. But I doubt it.” Sebastian went to scan the titles in the sagging old bookcase. “In all likelihood, Bonaparte only dealt with Flanagan. It’s probably another reason Flanagan was brought in—to help protect the identity of whatever agent was already in place. I wouldn’t be surprised if Napoléon is more than a bit suspicious of his brother’s loyalties.”
“You’re saying the French have someone else here in Ayleswick? My God. Who?”