“Well.” She stepped back. “Looks empty.”
“Yes. That’s what happens when a property changes hands. I’d assume the main house is empty, too.”
It was, mostly, and she badly wanted to tell Gus what she’d found. Annie wanted to tell him about the revolver, the manuscript pages, and the books stacked inside a broken bed. And she wanted to ask what happened to the rest of it.
“When did Mrs. Spencer sell it?” Annie asked. “The house?”
“Well, she didn’t,” he told her. “Mrs. Spencer died in the late seventies. The family auctioned off most of her things the year after. They raised a tidy sum. I recall such goodies as a Chaucer manuscript, a 1526 Erasmus, and a book of sexually explicit drawings by D. H. Lawrence.”
“Lady Chatterley’s Lover, indeed.”
“The drawings fetched more than the Chaucer. Damned shame, because I wanted to get my hands on them but lacked the requisite funds.”
“You ol’ perv,” Annie said and rolled her eyes. “So who bought the home?”
“A trust owns the building, according to public records. No one’s done anything with it, as you can see.”
“Her family didn’t want it?” she asked.
“S’pose not. Most of them were here, during the auction, to inspect the home and its contents. She had quite a few nieces and nephews.”
“Like Edith Junior?”
“She was her niece, yes, but Edith predeceased Mrs. Spencer. Edith Junior had three daughters herself,” Gus said. “All of them wealthy as the devil. They probably preferred the money over an old dump of an estate.”
Annie nodded, then shivered. The dried-sweat chill was starting to set in.
“So the intruder?” she said, gesturing toward the barn. “Was it Tom? Escaped from his cell? Arms out like zombies? Shackles clanging?”
“Not exactly. But this barn is how the intruder penetrated the property.” Gus jiggled the doorknob. “You see, someone left the back door unlocked. As a result, Pru’s new compatriot turned this very knob and walked right on through.”
Twenty-two
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
DECEMBER 1972
“What are you doing?” Pru yelled as she clambered across the wintered gardens. “Hey! You there! I see you!”
The figure disappeared.
“Might as well show yourself! Get back here!”
But the man had vanished. Like a ghost.
Pru stopped at the goose pond, its surface just starting to crackle and freeze. Where did he go? Behind a tree? Inside the barn? How did he even get onto the property in the first place? The boy hooligans had been trying for years, to no success.
“Hello?” Pru called out meekly.
She glanced down at her feet and the shabby, crummy slippers that covered them. Above the shoes, her legs were bare and speckled with fleabites. Farther up was the ratty gray nightgown last laundered on some other continent. Pru looked out across the orchard to the old house. The place was making her mad.
She turned to go.
Then: another rustle. Louder. Heavy-footed.
“I know you’re there!” she called. Maybe she wasn’t crazy after all. Or not in that particular way. “We have guns!”
Pru scrambled toward the noise, tripping over branches and stones.
“I’m not screwing around here,” she said. Then mumbled, “As evidenced by the seriousness of my attire.”
The right words, as it happened. The would-be sneak thief couldn’t resist. He stepped out into the sunshine.
“There’s nothing wrong with your attire. Comfort first, I always say. The name’s Seton.”
He extended a hand.
Pru jumped and promptly backslid down an embankment toward the pond. She grabbed on to a tree branch to save herself from submersion, not to mention death by hypothermia. The pond was partially frozen and, worse, infested with goose excrement.
“Need some help there, miss?”
“How did you get through the gate?” Pru asked, huffing as she hoisted herself back up to safety.
“A little chicken wire never held me back,” the man said.
“You broke through the wire?”
“Sure.”
Truth was, he’d come through Tom’s mythical barn. The girl seemed pleasant enough but the man had seen something in the building. Maybe even something big. So he preferred to keep the information to himself. For now.
“Chicken wire’s like an old chum,” he added. “Mum used it around my cot to keep me inside.”
“Seriously?” Pru’s eyes went wide.
“Nah.” The man laughed. “Not that I can recall. But it does sound like something she might do. Anyhow. Like I said, the name’s Seton. Win Seton.”
He extended his hand again as Pru studied his face.
This Win Seton was on the youngish side, though definitely older than Pru. He was tall, his blond hair thick and cropped tightly to his head in a manner that surprised. Pru had grown accustomed to the shaggy mops at Berkeley. Even Charlie’s hair hung to his shoulders before he buzzed it off for the army.