Hero thought about the way she herself had scrutinized the paintings in the Long Gallery at Northcott Abbey, searching for some elusive trace of resemblance between Sebastian and those centuries of long-dead Seatons. “Emma was an artist, accustomed to analyzing her subjects’ facial features. Perhaps that’s why she drew Archie—because she was looking for a likeness between him and herself, and she eliminated him when she didn’t find it.”
“It’s possible. Or perhaps she crossed him off her list when she discovered the old Squire was as fair as his son.”
“Was he?”
“I don’t know. But Atwater is sandy haired.”
Hero lifted her gaze to the ruins of the old medieval watchtower on the hilltop above them. “Sybil’s mother doesn’t believe her daughter killed herself—she says the girl was proud of the baby she was carrying. Although of course that could have changed very quickly if the baby’s father rejected her, which is quite likely if he was a gentleman.”
“Was he?”
“Her mother thought so.”
“What about the other girl?”
“Hannah Grant? If she was with child, her mother didn’t know about it. But they never did a postmortem, so she might have been.” Hero stared out over the scattered gravestones, more sparse on this, the north side of the church. The north was traditionally considered unlucky, so people didn’t like to be buried there. “You think the same man could have killed all three young women? Sybil and Hannah because they were carrying his child, and Emma because she was his child?”
Devlin squinted against the westering sun. “If he did, then our list of possible suspects has just been reduced to two: the Reverend Underwood and Major Weston.”
She looked at him in surprise. “What makes you say that?”
“Atwater is fair-haired; Seaton and Rawlins are dead; and I can’t see anyone else in the village caring how many chance children he begets—or being educated enough to come up with an appropriate Shakespearean quote. Thanks to the old schoolmaster Archie’s father brought in, a fair number of the villagers are literate. But I doubt any of them are devotees of Elizabethan plays.”
Hero said, “Not only is Atwater fair, but according to Anne Moss, he’s been desperately in love with Lady Seaton ever since he came here as steward. And when I think about the way he looked at her at dinner, I believe it.”
“Which brings us back to Weston and Underwood.”
She told him then about the discovery of the vicar’s copy of Hamlet. “Underwood claims someone must have taken the book from his library.”
“You believe him?”
“I don’t know. Sybil’s mother told me the vicar has always had an eye for pretty girls. Which is interesting because the vicar himself used the exact same phrase—pretty girls—when we were talking about Reuben Dickie. Seems Reuben has a nasty habit of peeking though the windows of cottages with attractive young women. He’s not supposed to go out after dark, but as we know, he does.”
“Interesting. Have you told Archie?”
She shook her head. “He’s gone off to Ludlow in search of Emma Chandler’s solicitors.”
The bell in the church tower began to peal, slowly counting out the hour as Devlin rose to his feet. “I think I need to have a little chat with Reuben Dickie. He knows damned well where he found that book.”
Hero rose with him. “What I don’t understand is, why would he lie?”
“I suspect the answer to that depends on where he actually found it.”
Chapter 40
The village pump house was empty, the green deserted except for a couple of fat, waddling ducks that quacked at Sebastian as he stood for a moment beside the weathered old building. Then he went to knock at the last of that line of half-timbered, thatched cottages overlooking the broad expanse of turf.
The door was opened by a slight, aging woman with a deeply lined face and white hair so thin it showed the pink scalp beneath. At the sight of Sebastian, she sucked in a startled breath and bobbed an awkward curtsy. The room behind her was small and low ceilinged, with dark, heavy beams and a vast, old-fashioned stone hearth from which rose the pleasant aroma of stewing mutton and onions.
“Mrs. Dickie?” said Sebastian with a smile as he politely doffed his hat. “Sorry for disturbing you, but I’m looking for your son Reuben.”
“Reuben?” She clutched the edge of the door with gnarled, arthritic hands. “What’s he done?”
“Nothing. I simply had some questions I wished to ask him.”
“He’s usually at the—” She broke off, her eyes narrowing as she gazed beyond him, to the pump house. “Oh.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where he might have gone?”
Her gaze met his, then slid away. “He likes to wander, ye know. Always goin’ off, he is. But he should be back by dinnertime. He does like his dinner, our Reuben. Ye want I should tell him yer lookin’ for him, my lord?”
“That would be helpful. Thank you.”
She bobbed another curtsy. But her face was tight, her eyes pinched with a fear that was both furtive and telling.