But of course Devlin could see quite clearly what—or, rather, who—it was. “Just Reuben Dickie,” he said.
The door of the corner cottage on the far side of the green opened, spilling golden light into the lane. A man walked from the cottage to the pump house; a large man with a bullet-like head and thickly muscled arms and thighs. They watched him converse with Reuben for a moment. Then the two turned and entered the cottage together.
“Reuben’s brother, Jeb, must be home,” said Devlin. “Last I heard he was hauling a load of timber to Wales.”
The cottage door closed against the night. Hero said, “It looks as if he takes good care of his brother.”
“Or at least he tries.”
Hero glanced at Devlin. “What does that mean?”
But Devlin simply shook his head.
She studied the tightly held features of his handsome, moonlit face. “I thought you didn’t suspect Reuben.”
“I don’t. He’s not smart enough to try to make a murder look like suicide, and however clever brother Jeb may be, I doubt he’s much of a Shakespearean scholar.”
“But you still don’t like him.”
He smiled. “Let’s just say I don’t think he’s as harmless as he’d like to appear.”
Hero stared up the hill to where the squat, bulky tower of the church showed dark against a starry sky. “It seems so peaceful here. Idyllic. But it’s not, is it?”
“It has a dark history. But then, what place does not?” He nodded to the now-deserted green below. “I was sitting here thinking about all the generations of men and women who’ve walked these same lanes, who plowed the same fields century after century and listened to the same church bells toll the hours of their lives, and then buried their dead in the same churchyard.”
“Is it significant, do you think, that neither Emma Chance nor Hannibal Pierce was from the village?”
“It could be.” He turned to face her. “I think I’d like to take a look at the ruins of the old priory tomorrow.”
“Because Emma Chance was there the day she died?”
“Partially. But also because it’s such an integral part of the history of this village. And I can’t shake the idea that knowing the past is the key to understanding what is happening here, now.”
Chapter 24
Thursday, 5 August
What was left of the ancient Benedictine priory of St. Hilary lay beside a sparkling, swift-flowing stream at the base of a gentle slope. Once home to dozens of choir monks and lay brothers and surrounded by closely cultivated fields and well-tended orchards, the ruined sandstone walls now rose from a swath of green meadow kept cropped close by a sizeable flock of sheep.
“It’s beautiful,” said Hero, pausing beside Sebastian at the edge of the meadow to gaze at the shattered cluster of monastic buildings. They had approached the site by way of the footpath that led from the coach road along the stream, coming upon it suddenly when they rounded a bend and broke through a thin copse of oak and ash. A melancholy silence hung over the site, broken only by the purling of the water and the bleating of a lamb and the sigh of a warm breeze through row after row of empty window openings. “What I wouldn’t give to have seen it before Good Ole King Henry got his greedy hands on it.”
“You mean, back when it was still crawling with smelly monks who delighted in burning witches and heretics and thought women the spawn of Satan?”
She laughed. “Yes. Then.”
Watched by half a dozen or so interested ewes, they crossed the meadow toward the ruins, the morning sun drenching the timeworn walls with a rich golden light. Most of the scattered outbuildings—the gatehouse and infirmary, guesthouses and mill—had long ago been reduced to unrecognizable piles of weed-choked rubble. But nearly the entire west end of the church with its three processional doorways and huge rose window was still intact, along with large stretches of the main mass of monastic buildings.
While Hero poked around the outside the complex, Sebastian went to stand in the church’s ruined central portal. The roof was long gone, leaving the once elegant interior open to the blue, cloudless sky. A row of weathered columns marched along the south side of the nave, separating it from the aisle, and tall pointed arches still marked the crossing. He drew in a long, slow breath and felt the haunting, melancholy beauty of the place call to something deep within him.
“I’d like to have seen Emma Chance’s drawings of this place,” he said when Hero came to stand beside him. “I’d think an artist could easily spend days here.”
“Is this the last thing she drew, do you think?” Hero asked, her gaze on the weathered carvings of saints and sinners that decorated the deep portal.