“I doubt it. M’father was always ranting and raving about the parish rates. He wouldn’t have paid to hold an inquest if it hadn’t been required.”
“I gather the inquest’s verdict was death by misadventure?”
Archie nodded. “Seaton’s horse—a sweet-tempered white mare named Cleo—was declared a deodand. Liv Irving bought her. Rode her for years.”
Under English common law, chattel found to have been involved in a death was known as a deodand and had to be forfeited, whether it was a horse, a cart, a boat, or tree. All deodands passed to the Crown and were usually sold, although owners could pay a fine equal to their value to keep their property. It was less common now than it had once been. But Sebastian wouldn’t be surprised if Archie had had to pay to keep his father’s hunter, Black Jack. For some reason, Lady Seaton had evidently not chosen to do so.
Archie’s face had taken on a flat, empty look, as if his thoughts were suddenly far, far away.
“What is it?” asked Sebastian, watching him.
Archie swallowed. “If you’re right—and I’m afraid you may very well be—then that’s three murders my father missed: Sybil, Hannah, and Lord Seaton. Three!”
Sebastian was tempted to say, There may have been more. But he kept that possibility to himself.
“My God,” said Archie, his voice rough. “Poor Hannah Grant was buried at the crossroads with a stake through her heart!”
“Whoever is doing this is clever—clever, and devious enough to make most of his murders look like suicides or accidents. Under the circumstances, your father’s mistake was easy to make.”
Archie shook his head, his eyes narrowed and hard. “I want to find him. Whoever’s doing this, I want to find him, and hang him.”
Sebastian remained silent. He’d told Archie his suspicion that Leopold Seaton’s death might be linked to the other murders. But he’d yet to divulge the rest of his thinking. It was all still speculation, too unproven.
He shifted his gaze to the crenelated sandstone gatehouse that guarded the entrance to Northcott Abbey’s long, stately drive. The big house itself was out of sight, hidden by the heavy late-summer canopy of the plantings that dotted the estate’s rolling, expansive park. And he found himself thinking about the family that had lived here, carefully hiding their religious faith generation after generation, on down through the centuries. What did that sort of pervasive, inescapable fear do to people? he wondered. What would it be like, living endlessly with that level of distrust and suspicion and duplicity? All while gazing down on the crumbling ruins of the priory from which your wealth had been seized?
He said, “Was Lady Seaton a Catholic before she married?”
Archie looked puzzled but answered readily enough. “She was, yes. I understand she’s related to the Nevilles and Howards.” Both were famous Catholic families who had managed to maintain their wealth and power despite their religion. “Why?”
Sebastian shook his head. “Just wondering.”
Archie gathered his reins, then hesitated. “Have you ever not caught a killer?”
“Not one I wanted to catch.”
“But . . . what if we never figure out who’s doing this?”
“Then I suspect he’ll eventually kill again,” said Sebastian, and saw the color drain from the young Squire’s face.
Chapter 51
Hero was writing up some of her interview notes at the table in the private parlor when a timid knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” she called, expecting Mary Beth, the chambermaid.
The door opened to reveal a slight, white-haired old woman, her heavily lined face swollen and twisted with grief. “Beggin’ yer ladyship’s pardon fer disturbing ye,” said the woman, wringing her hands nervously before her. “McBroom, he told me to take meself off, so I nipped up the back stairs when he weren’t lookin’.”
Hero paused with her quill still in her hand. “May I help you?”
The woman bobbed an awkward curtsy. “I’m Becka—Becka Dickie. Reuben’s mother.”
Hero rose to go to her. “I am so sorry for what happened to your son. Please, come in and sit down.”
The Widow Dickie’s eyes widened. “Thank you kindly, milady, but it wouldn’t be proper for me to sit, it wouldn’t.”
“Nonsense. I insist.”
It took some work, but the old woman finally allowed herself to be coaxed to a seat beside the empty hearth while Hero gave the bell a sharp tug and ordered a tray with tea and toast.
“Did you have something you wished to tell Lord Devlin?” she asked, settling opposite the woman. “I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment.”
The Widow Dickie shook her head. “It was ye I was wantin’ to see.” She hesitated, then pushed on. “It’s about me Reuben. He wasn’t supposed to go out after dark, you see. The old Squire, he said he’d clap Reuben in the stocks every day for a week if the poor boy ever so much as stuck his nose out at night again. But Reuben, he never was real good at doin’ what he was told.”