S ebastian left for Tenbury early the next morning, after having stopped the night at an old, half-timbered inn on the edge of Little Stretton. The day had dawned cool and misty, with heavy white clouds that hugged the tops of the trees and obscured the upper heights of the Long Mynd. He made the drive in easy stages, resting his horses along the way.
A middling-sized, ancient market town surrounded by orchards of apples, damson plums, and pears, Tenbury lay on the southern banks of the River Teme where the counties of Worcestershire, Herefordshire, and Shropshire all came together. In the spring, when the fruit trees bloomed, the town could be lovely, with clouds of colorful, piercingly sweet petals that billowed through the narrow old streets. But on this wet, dismal morning, Tenbury seemed brooding, somber.
Miss Rowena LaMont’s Academy for Young Ladies lay on a quiet street of stern, gray stone houses with steeply pitched slate roofs, its garden hidden by a high wall topped with spikes.
“Ain’t the most cheery-lookin’ place, is it?” said Tom.
Sebastian stared up at that bleak, silent facade and found himself remembering twelve-year-old Emma’s drawing of the school engulfed in hellish flames. “Perhaps it looks better in the sunshine,” he said, and handed the boy the reins.
Miss Rowena LaMont proved to be as prim and forbidding-looking as her house. A tall, thin woman somewhere in her late fifties, she had unusually pronounced cheekbones and a small, tight mouth. Her dark blue gown was both fashionable and finely made, but cut high at the neck, its severity relieved only by a thin band of good lace at the collar.
She received him in a comfortable parlor as elegant as her gown. Around them, the house was quiet, with most of the students presumably home for the summer holidays.
“Lord Devlin,” she said, sinking into a curtsy. “How do you do? Please sit down and tell me how I may help you.”
He knew by the avaricious gleam in her eyes that she thought him the parent of a prospective student. He took the comfortable seat she indicated and said bluntly, “I’m here because I’m hoping you can answer some questions about Miss Emma Chandler.”
Avarice receded behind a frozen facade of bristly caution. “Emma? I’m sorry to disappoint you, my lord, but Miss Chandler is no longer a student at the academy.”
“I know. You have heard, I assume, that she was murdered earlier this week in Shropshire?”
The headmistress’s expression never altered. “I read about it in this morning’s papers, yes. I gather there was some initial confusion as to her proper identity.”
“It must have come as a sad shock to you.”
Miss Rowena LaMont obviously had any shock she may have experienced well under control, and Sebastian found himself doubting she’d felt even the slightest twinge of sadness. She regarded him steadily. “Surely you aren’t suggesting her death is in any way connected to her time at the academy?”
He gave her a reassuring smile. “Of course not. But the local magistrate has asked for my assistance in the investigation, and we were hoping you might be able to tell us more about her. At the moment, the circumstances surrounding her death remain a complete mystery.”
Miss LaMont pursed her lips and plucked at her high collar with a nervous thumb and forefinger. “I’m sorry, but surely you can appreciate my position? The privacy of our students—both present and past—must always be respected.”
“I understand,” said Sebastian with a smile, rising to his feet. “I had assumed you would prefer to speak with me. But I see now I should have had Bow Street send one of their Runners to interview you. My apologies for—”
“Wait!” Miss Rowena’s eyes widened in alarm. The last thing the mistress of a school for young ladies wanted was for it to be known that her premises had been visited by Bow Street Runners. “Please, my lord, do sit down.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Now, what would you like to know?”
Sebastian settled back into his seat. “How long was Miss Chandler a student here?”
“Fourteen years. She came to us at the age of seven.”
The thought of Emma spending two-thirds of her short life in these bleak, cold surroundings struck him as profoundly sad and troubling. But all he said was, “Tell me about her.”
Miss LaMont gave a tight little smile. “What is it the Jesuits say? ‘Give me a child to the age of seven, and I will give you the man’—or, in this case, the woman? I’m afraid Emma’s character was essentially formed by the time she came to us.”
“Where had she lived, before?”
“Some farm family. Foster parents, of course. But she should have been removed from them much, much sooner. She was a wild thing when she arrived, with the manners and speech of a country bumpkin. Needless to say, we took care of that in short order, although I’m afraid she never quite fit in with the other students.”
“Why not?”
“Why? Because of who she was, of course.”
Which she was never allowed to forget, he thought. Aloud, he said, “So who was she?”
Miss LaMont lowered her voice, as if what she was about to say was too shocking to be expressed aloud. “A natural child.”
“Of whom?”
“As to that, I fear I cannot say.”