Magnus Fowler loudly cleared his throat. “Now. Once again we see laid here before us a victim of homicide. Again, felo-de-se must be ruled out, and, one supposes, justifiable homicide. Nevertheless, that still leaves manslaughter and homicide by misadventure, as well as murder, so one cannot say with certainty that this act was committed by one lacking the fear of God before his eyes or being moved and seduced by the instigation of the devil.” He glared at the foreman and snapped, “Verdict?”
The jury quickly returned a verdict of homicide by shooting, by party or parties unknown. Magnus Fowler flipped open his pocket watch and frowned down at it. “I will, of course, sign warrants to the effect that inquisitions have been held this day in view of the bodies now lying dead in your parish, so that they may be lawfully buried.” He snapped his watch closed and looked up. “But the open nature of these findings is disturbing. And for a village of this size to experience not one but two inexplicable homicides in as many days is as outrageous as it is intolerable.” He rose to his feet and nodded toward the still frantically writing clerk. “The jurors and all witnesses must sign before they are allowed to leave. And you, innkeeper”—he glanced at Martin McBroom—“I’ll have dinner served in your best private parlor. Immediately.”
Then he swept through the door without another glance at the pallid man who lay dead in the center of the room.
“Insufferable bastard,” grumbled Archie later, after the coroner had disappeared into the Blue Boar’s parlor. He roughened his voice and rolled his “r’s” in a credible imitation of Magnus Fowler’s Shropshire accent. “‘For a village of this size to experrrrience not one but two inexplicable homicides in as many days is as outrrrrageous as it is intolerrrrrable.’ What the blazes does he think I should be doing that I’m not?”
“He hasn’t the slightest idea,” said Sebastian, although the reassurance did nothing to ease the young man’s scowl.
They were standing in the lane outside the inn. The sky above was a clear blue, the noonday sun drenching the village in a white heat. A fair number of the villagers and even some jurors were still milling about, talking and laughing loudly, so that it was a moment before they became aware of the sounds of an altercation coming from the direction of the churchyard, the Reverend’s soothing tones alternating with a younger man’s voice, obviously cultured but ragged now with emotion.
“For God’s sake, Reverend. You must let me see her! Please tell me it isn’t her. Oh, God; Emma, Emma . . .”
“Who is that?” asked Sebastian.
“Good heavens,” said Archie, his features going slack as he turned to stare up the hill. “It’s Crispin Seaton.”
Chapter 27
The Reverend Benedict Underwood had stopped Lord Seaton at the church porch by planting himself in the archway, his arms outstretched and his jaw set with determination.
“You can’t go in there, my lord,” the Reverend was saying as Sebastian and Archie came up. “Mrs. Underwood is supervising Margaret in the preparation of the body for burial. Wouldn’t be proper for you to see the lady in such a state.”
Lord Seaton raised both hands to clutch the sides of his head, elbows splayed. “But don’t you understand? I must know if it’s her!” A handsome young man in his early twenties, he had a tumble of golden curls and large, deep blue eyes in an open, earnest face. A splendid chestnut grazed nearby, reins trailing across the grass, as if the young lord had ridden into the churchyard and dismounted only at the church steps.
“My lord,” said Underwood. “Please.”
“Who do you think she might be?” asked Sebastian.
At the sound of a stranger’s voice, Crispin whirled around, his cheeks flaming with color, his eyes wild. “Who’re you?”
“Devlin.” Sebastian studied the younger man’s haggard face. “You knew Emma Chance?”
Crispin shook his head. “I don’t think her name is actually Chance.”
“Who do you think she is?”
The young lord swallowed hard, the belligerence and angry fire seeming to drain out of him. “Miss Emma Chandler.”
“How old is this Miss Chandler?” Archie asked his childhood friend.
“Twenty-one.”
“Can she draw?” asked Sebastian.
Crispin sucked in a shuddering breath. “Like a Renaissance master.”
Sebastian turned to the Reverend, who had dropped his arms to his sides and was now standing in the porch, looking from one man to the next. “Ask your good wife to have Margaret cover Emma Chance’s body with a sheet. I think Lord Seaton needs to see her.”
She lay in a small room at the base of the ancient west tower. A branch of candles flickered near her head, for the tower’s walls were thick, its lancet windows small and high.
Crispin Seaton drew up just inside the low arched door to the room. Sebastian heard him draw a quick, rasping breath, saw his head shake from side to side in instinctive, hopeless denial. “No!” he screamed, his voice raw with anguish. “Oh, God, no.”
Sebastian caught him as he crumpled.
“Her name was Emma Chandler,” said the young Lord Seaton in a hushed, strangled voice. “Not Chance. Chandler.”