“Major?” said Sebastian with a bow.
“Yes, yes.” The major bowed low and flashed a wide smile that displayed even white teeth. “I was just on my way into the village to see you. Heard you’re helping young Rawlins. He’s a promising lad, but there’s no denying this sort of thing is beyond his capabilities. Far, far beyond.”
The major was smaller than Sebastian had expected, the top of his head barely reaching Sebastian’s chin, and of a narrow frame, with most of his weight tending to settle about his middle.
“Rawlins was clever enough to suspect that Emma Chance hadn’t committed suicide,” said Sebastian.
“Yes, well . . .” Weston brought up one hand to cover an unconvincing cough and glanced significantly toward the house. “What say we take a turn about the garden, eh? I’m afraid Mrs. Weston’s a bit overset by all this.”
“Of course.”
They turned their steps down an allée of cordoned pear and apple trees, the green fruit just beginning to swell toward ripeness. “Why did you want to see me?” asked Sebastian.
Weston looked startled. “I beg your pardon?”
“You said you were on your way into the village to see me.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Just seemed the thing to do, what? Let you know that if you need anything, you’ve only to ask. Only too happy to be of service.”
“You met Mrs. Chance, I understand?”
“Oh, yes, several times.”
“Why?”
“You mean, why did I meet her? She was interested in Maplethorpe Hall. Wanted to sketch what’s left of it and very appropriately approached me to ask permission. Naturally I said yes.”
“When was this?”
“That she spoke to me?” Weston frowned, his eyes narrowing against the brightness of the sun. “Let’s see. . . . It must have been Sunday. Yes, it was—after church services. So definitely Sunday.”
“And did she sketch the house?”
“She did. That very afternoon. I know because I saw her there.”
“Sunday afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Did you speak with her then?”
“Yes, of course. Seemed only polite, eh?” Weston’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips, his hazel green eyes crinkling with a smile that might once have been charming but now came off as faintly lecherous.
“What did you talk about?”
“Oh, this and that. She wanted to know more about the house—the way it used to be. She expressed interest in the Irvings’ tradition of hosting extravagant entertainments, and I recall telling her about one grand hunting party we had in the autumn of 1791, at the beginning of partridge season. As it happens, I had particularly good luck that year. Bagged more than anyone nearly every time we went out.”
“Did she ask about anything else?”
“Not so’s I recall, no.”
Weston stared out over the carefully tended borders, a faint smile of remembrance still warming his plump face. He was the kind of man who could remember with clarity everything he himself had said and done, but little else, for his focus was always firmly planted on himself.
“When did Maplethorpe Hall burn?”
Weston sucked on his back molars as if the answer required a moment’s thought. “Must be ten—no, fifteen years ago now. Caught fire in the middle of the night. Mrs. Weston and I barely escaped the flames with our lives. Afraid m’wife’s father was not so fortunate. He was bedridden, you see, and there was no getting to him in time.”
Sebastian glanced back at the brick Dower House with its tall, white-painted windows and neat green shutters. The house was both charming and spacious, yet nothing, surely, to compare to the hall. So why hadn’t Maplethorpe been rebuilt? Why had a man obviously as ambitious and as enamored of wealth and all its trappings as Weston retreated to life on such a reduced scale?
“We talked about rebuilding,” said Weston, as if following the train of Sebastian’s thoughts. “But somehow we never got around to it. In the end, we realized this place suits us fine. We were never blessed with children, you see.” He smiled sadly when he said it, and Sebastian had the feeling it was an explanation he trotted out often: endearingly self-deprecating, faintly tragic, and patently false.
“I’m sorry.”
Weston shrugged. “My wife keeps busy with the gardens, both here and at the ruins of the old house. It’s her passion.” He wafted one hand in an expansive arc that took in the exquisite borders backed by towering dark yew hedges. “This is all her work.”
“It’s lovely. She has a real talent.”
Again, the self-deprecating smile—although this time it hid a venomous barb directed at his wife. “So I’m told. I’m afraid it’s all just shrubs and flowers to me.”
“When was the last time you saw Emma Chance?”
The abrupt change in topic appeared to disconcert him. “Why—that afternoon. Sunday.”
“Did you know she drew your portrait?”