“She testified at the inquest?”
“Certainly she did. There had to be an inquest, to determine how the man had died—whether it was murder. The man was torn to pieces. Many had the theory that Miss Frances’s dog was responsible, but Mrs. Forsyth swore on a Bible that no such animal existed. And it came out that no one had seen the dog with their own eyes; nor could they produce it.” He shrugged. His gaze on me was flat, and I realized he did not feel quite as friendly as he was pretending.
“It’s her that was the beast,” Mrs. Baines said. “It’s her that haunts the woods. That’s what the children say.”
“It’s an outlandish story,” I said, trying not to think of the girl I’d seen in the small parlor at Wych Elm House.
“It is that,” Mr. Baines agreed. “We also have stories of boggarts and wood sprites here, if you care to hear them. Myself, I am a logical man.”
I regarded him curiously. He spoke with such confidence, as if well versed in the topic of the Forsyths, his tone not hostile like his wife’s but more disdainful. “And what do you think?” I couldn’t help but ask.
Mr. Baines straightened from the doorjamb and took a step forward, uncrossing his arms. “Me? Oh, I think that Miss Frances Forsyth was mad,” he said. “There’s no doubt of that. The children who encountered her in the woods said that she wandered alone, talking to herself, pale and thin. Nothing sets people off like madness, does it? You can imagine any kind of tale.” He took another step forward, his eyes still on me. “And yes, despite her mother’s lies, I think Miss Frances had a dog. I think the dog killed that man—perhaps the man threatened his mistress somehow, or the dog was bad-tempered, as some dogs are. To avoid responsibility, Mrs. Forsyth did away with the dog, then lied about it. And it worked—because the man in the woods was nobody, and to such as the Forsyths, his death meant nothing. That’s what I think.”
I stood staring at him, unable to think of what to say.
Mr. Baines nodded toward my hand. “I also think you have another letter there that you did not give to my wife to post.”
“This?” I said. I blinked down at the letter in my hand. “I’m to take this to Mrs. Forsyth’s man of business. His name is Mr. David Wilde.”
The Baineses exchanged a look I could not read.
“Very well, then,” said Mr. Baines. “You’ll find his offices two streets over, in the white house with the green shutters. If your business is with him, then you’ve no more business here today.”
“What?” I said. “What is it?”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Manders,” Mr. Baines said, and though the words were kind, his tone was not. “You’ll see for yourself. I wish you good day.”
? ? ?
I wasn’t very keen to knock at the door of the white house with the green shutters, but I didn’t have much choice. Perhaps Mr. David Wilde was a crotchety old man, or perhaps he liked to abuse unsuspecting ladies’ companions. In either case, I was to deliver Dottie’s note to his hands only, so there was nothing for it. I knocked.
The door was answered by a man of about forty-five, with large gray eyes and premature silver in his hair. He wore a shirt and waistcoat, immaculate and expensive. It would be a challenge to tailor a shirt so well for such a man, I noticed, because his left arm was irregular, withered, the folded hand encased in a gray glove and hooked like a question mark. I blinked at it in surprise.
The man regarded me politely. “Yes?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I’m looking for Mr. David Wilde. I’m—I’m Mrs. Forsyth’s paid companion, Jo Manders.”
Recognition warmed his eyes, and I knew then that he was not a servant. “Ah,” he said. “I’m Mr. Wilde.”
I pulled the note from my pocket and held it out. “Then this is for you, Mr. Wilde.”
He reached for the envelope with his good hand, while I most determinedly did not look at the other one. “How thoughtful,” he said, but when he spoke, his eyes were on my face. “I was just about to have a cup of tea. Would you like to come in?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “There’s no need.”
“But there is,” Mr. David Wilde said with gentle persuasiveness. “I may need to send a reply.”
Of course. How could I forget I was Dottie’s paid letter-delivery girl? “Very well, then,” I conceded. “Thank you.”