A single arch of dark, old red brick, the pack bridge was a relic of an earlier age, when England’s roads were so abysmal that most goods were hauled across country not in wagons or by canals, but on pack animals. Its track was narrow and seldom used now, but not entirely abandoned.
Sebastian stood on the grassy bank of the River Teme, the tip of his riding crop tapping against his high-topped boots. The sun was beginning to sink in the sky, the air heavy with the scent of the mint that grew in the dark, damp shadows of the bridge.
It was an out-of-the-way, deserted place for a young woman to visit alone, even in broad daylight. What the hell had possessed Emma to come here early on the morning of the day she was fated to die?
He climbed back up the bank to where he had left his rented hack, his gaze narrowing as he turned again to study the track that crossed the bridge and disappeared into the wasteland on the opposite bank. A marshy, uncultivated stretch of bracken and scrub, it extended as far as he could see. But somewhere to the south, he knew, lay the estuary of the River Severn and Bristol Channel and, beyond that, the North Atlantic Ocean.
And France.
Maplethorpe’s caretaker-gardener, Silas Madden, was weeding a bed at the far end of the water garden when Sebastian turned into the old hall’s once grand, formal drive.
Sebastian continued on around the ruined, blackened walls of the burned house to where the stable block and carriage house still stood. He dismounted, his gaze on the wagon ruts he’d noticed that first day, dry and crumbling now in the heat of the afternoon. From the distance came a man’s shout.
Sebastian ignored him.
A long, narrow structure built of the same red brick as the burned hall, the carriage house was quite large, with a row of six arched double doors. Each door sported a well-oiled and surprisingly heavy hasp and padlock, although most of the locks hung open.
Ain’t nothin’ there now, Reuben had said.
Sebastian thrust open the first set of doors, the afternoon sun throwing his shadow before him across the beaten-earth floor. It was a cavernous space, once home to traveling carriages, tilburies, whiskies, and dogcarts, but empty now except for a pile of discarded sacking, some cracked old harness hanging on a wall, and several bales of hay that looked very new indeed. A number of incongruous but undeniable scents lingered in the dusty air—pungent aromas left by recent stores of tobacco, wine, and brandy.
A noise from the near door brought Sebastian’s head around. His gaze met Silas’s.
“Tell Weston I want to see him,” said Sebastian. “Here. Now.”
Chapter 44
Major Eugene Weston arrived in less than ten minutes.
By then Sebastian was seated on a stone bench in the lea of one of the garden’s high yew hedges. The major came striding up the track through the spinney, arms swinging, face red from a combination of physical exertion and righteous indignation. He drew up abruptly at the sight of Sebastian.
“I say,” blustered Weston, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “It’s not exactly the done thing, now, is it? Poking about without anybody’s leave? Sending a man messages by his servants? How would you like it if—”
“In my experience,” said Sebastian, crossing his arms at his chest and leaning back in his seat, “smuggling gangs have a nasty habit of turning lethal when they find themselves in danger of being exposed. Is that what happened? Did Emma Chandler accidently stumble into your little operation here? Is that why you killed her?”
“Kill her? Me? What a preposterous notion. And as for smuggling . . .” Weston gave a tinny laugh. “This isn’t exactly Cornwall or Kent.”
“True. Which makes it so much easier to maneuver, doesn’t it? Far more comfortable to land your goods near Newport or Chepstow without all those annoying revenue officers sticking their noses into everything. Part of each cargo is probably sent directly to Hereford and Worcestershire, while from here you can supply all of Shropshire and a good section of the hills of eastern Wales, as well.”
Weston gave Sebastian a wooden stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sebastian heaved a pained sigh, his gaze on the major’s flushed, sweaty face. “You basically have two options: You can tell me what I need to know, or you can answer some decidedly awkward questions posed by His Majesty’s revenue men.”
Weston spread his arms wide and smiled. “There is nothing here for anyone to find.”
“Not now. But that can be fixed.”
The smile slid off the major’s face. “What does that mean?”