“So do I.” Sebastian went to stare out the window at the lane leading up the hill to the ancient church, where a yellow-wheeled whiskey stood beside the lych-gate, the reins of its glossy bay held by one of the village lads. “Of course, it’s always possible that Leopold Seaton really did fall off his horse and crack open his own head, and I should be looking into Liv Weston and her pitchfork-wielding gardener instead.”
Hero came to stand beside him, her gaze, like his, on the elegant woman now weaving her way through the churchyard’s scattered tombstones. “If you are right, how can you possibly prove it?”
“I don’t know.” He turned away from the window and reached for his hat and gloves. “Whoever is doing this has in all likelihood killed at least six people. And I have absolutely nothing but supposition to go on.”
Sebastian found Lady Seaton in the same place he’d come upon her son that morning: at Emma Chandler’s graveside.
She wore a demure light blue carriage dress with a round straw hat, her golden curls clustered poignantly about the pale, delicate features of her face. She held her hands nestled one inside the other and pressed against the gown’s high waistband, and she had her head bowed. But her eyes were open and she appeared more lost in thought than engaged in prayer.
At the sound of Sebastian’s footfalls, she raised her head to look at him. She did not smile. A sheaf of purple heather and spiny yellow gorse rested against the new grave’s bare dirt; it was a strange offering, but he did not need to ask to know that she had brought it. She stared at him for a long moment, and he knew again the sense that this was a woman who kept all genuine thoughts and emotions carefully hidden from public scrutiny.
She said, “Crispin told me of his conversation with you this morning.”
Sebastian stood on the far side of the grave, his hat dangling in one hand. “Did he tell you he was in love with Emma Chandler?”
She nodded. “He confessed that to me days ago.”
Confessed. The word choice struck him as significant.
She said, “Georgina had spoken to me several times of her friend at school, so I recognized her name, once it became known.”
“She’d told you of Crispin’s interest in Emma?”
“No.” She smiled faintly as she said it, drawing out the long vowel sound. “That she kept to herself. But then, Georgina and her brother have always been close. He asked her to keep it quiet, and she did.”
Lady Seaton fell silent again, her gaze dropping to the raw earth between them. “I wish she had told me why she was here. I might have been able to help her.”
Sebastian found his imagination boggling at the thought of Emma confiding to this elegant, cool gentlewoman her suspicions that Lady Seaton’s dead husband might have been guilty of rape. He said, “You met Lady Emily Turnstall?”
“I did, yes. But only briefly.”
“How much do you remember of that long-ago September?”
“Little, I’m afraid. I was increasing at the time and most dreadfully unwell. But . . .” Her voice trailed off, her nostrils flaring on a suddenly indrawn breath. “Surely you’re not suggesting that’s why she was killed?”
“I think it very likely, yes.”
She ran her hands up and down her arms as if she were cold, although the evening was still golden warm. “And the others—Reuben Dickie and that man from London? What have they to do with a house party twenty-two years in the past?”
“Probably nothing. But they may have seen something the night Emma was killed, something that could betray her killer’s identity.” He hesitated, then said, “It’s possible the same person was also responsible for the deaths of Sybil Moss and Hannah Grant.”
Her gaze flew to his, her pretty mouth going slack with surprise. He caught an unexpected flicker of what looked very much like fear lurking in her startlingly blue eyes. Then she lowered her thick lashes and looked away again. “But Sybil and Hannah committed suicide.”
“I think not.”
She gave a little shake of her head. “Those women died years ago. How can you possibly think there’s any connection between their deaths and what happened to Emma Chandler?”
“Because someone in Ayleswick obviously likes to solve his problems with murder.” Or her problems, thought Sebastian. “Did you never consider it?”
“That the two girls hadn’t killed themselves?” She hesitated. “There was talk at the time. But I never credited it for an instant. What a troublesome thought.”
He said, “I understand you invited Emma to Northcott on Saturday.”
“I did, yes.” She looked both puzzled and vaguely suspicious. “Why?”
“I was wondering how you met her.”
“We were introduced by Agnes Underwood when I stopped by the vicarage Friday afternoon. She mentioned Emma was interested in sketching the historic buildings in the area, and I suggested she visit Northcott Abbey.”
“Did she ask about your late husband?”
A faint frown puckered her pretty forehead. “She may have. I don’t recall now exactly what we spoke of.” She gathered her skirts. “And now you must excuse me, my lord. I don’t like to leave Devon—my horse—waiting too long.”
He watched her walk away, her head held high, her features comfortably settled into a look of gentle goodwill she’d been practicing since childhood.