“I thought the same,” said Sebastian, beginning to turn the pages.
The first sketches were general scenes of the village, most done in pencil or charcoal, with a few more detailed studies in watercolors. There was the green with its timeworn pump house and a couple of fat ducks waddling across the grass. Then came pictures of the gently curving high street and the row of picturesque, half-timbered cottages that lined the green. And it occurred to Sebastian that it was possible to follow the passage of Emma’s days at Ayleswick, simply by noting the order of her pictures.
On Saturday morning, at the same time she’d drawn Archie’s portrait, she’d also sketched some half dozen views of the Grange’s ancient, ivy-draped tower and quiet moat. Invited to Northcott Abbey that afternoon by Lady Seaton, Emma had drawn the graceful old house from several angles, as well as the Greek temple overlooking the park’s ornamental lake and the famous Long Gallery.
“Ah,” said Hero, staring at Emma’s exquisite rendering of the long, narrow room’s soaring windows and elaborately plastered ceiling. “She must have asked Lady Seaton to show her the family portraits. Clever.”
Simon started fussing from his rug near the cold hearth, and Sebastian went to pick up the boy, swinging him high. “Is there a portrait of Leopold Seaton in the Long Gallery?”
“There is, yes. Lady Seaton pointed it out to me. He was a startlingly handsome man.”
“As is Crispin.”
“Yes. But I didn’t see much of a resemblance between father and son. The father was dark haired.”
“Which explains why Emma didn’t cross his name off her list,” said Sebastian, coming to stand beside Hero again as she turned the next page.
They found themselves staring at the ruins of Maplethorpe Hall. Emma had drawn the house at eerie angles, so that the blackened walls seemed to loom over the viewer in a way that made it appear oppressive, almost threatening.
“Must have been strange for her, visiting the burned-out husk of the house that had played such a pivotal role in her mother’s life,” said Hero. “I wonder if she knew before she came here that the hall had burned.”
“She may have heard about it from Crispin or his sisters. They must surely have spoken to her of their village long before she realized her own connection to Ayleswick.”
Hero looked over at him. “I hadn’t thought of that. Most of the names in her mother’s letter were probably already familiar to her.”
Emma had drawn some half dozen sketches of the burned old hall before moving on to the crossroads, where she captured the melancholy of the nearly abandoned hamlet and the bedraggled thatch and leaning chimneys of the Ship. Then came a haunting image of the gibbet, its blackened arm stark against a glaring sky.
“Do you think she did all these drawings to support her story of being on a sketching expedition?” said Hero. “Or was she simply intent on recording her father’s village?”
“Could have been both.”
Hero flipped the page to reveal an unexpectedly pastoral scene with cows grazing on the side of a long, grassy mound set against a background of old oaks.
“What the devil is that?” asked Sebastian as Simon began to fuss again.
Hero reached out to take the baby. “Mr. McBroom was telling me there’s an ancient barrow several miles to the east of here, on the way to Ludlow. This must be it.”
Sebastian studied the low, earthen mound, noting now the weathered stones thrusting up from the grass at one rounded end. “So when did Emma go there? And why?” He turned the page to find himself staring at a beautifully detailed watercolor of the pack bridge, its single brick arch silhouetted against a rising sun. “Huh. This was obviously painted on Monday morning. So she must have walked out to the barrow on Sunday evening. Why would she do that?”
He looked up, his gaze meeting Hero’s. But she simply shook her head.
After the watercolor of the bridge came several drawings of Ayleswick’s squat Norman church, then a sketch of a majestic rose window rising empty and solemn against a cloudless sky.
“The priory,” said Hero.
There were two more drawings of the ruins. In one, a scruffy mongrel Sebastian recognized as the Seatons’ dog, Barney, trotted nose-down along the remnants of the cloister. The other was a striking view of the ruins of the chapter house.
The next page was blank.
“Well, hell,” said Sebastian.
Hero shifted Simon’s weight to her hip. “Let me see the sketch of the barrow again.”