Seeing no sign of the stablemaster or Lady Hardcastle, I sacrifice my deportment completely, splattering mud up my back as I break into a worried trot.
The trail soon veers away from the paddock and into the forest, that sense of being watched only growing as I move further away from the stables. Brambles snatch at my clothes as I push through, until finally I hear the murmur of approaching voices and the lapping of water against the shore. Relief overwhelms me, and I realise I’ve been holding my breath this entire time. We’re face to face in two steps, though it’s not Lady Hardcastle I find accompanying the stablemaster, but rather Cunningham, Ravencourt’s valet. He’s wearing a thick coat and the long purple scarf he’ll struggle to tug loose when he interrupts Ravencourt speaking with Daniel.
The banker must be asleep in the library. Their alarm at bumping into me suggests they were discussing far more than mere gossip.
It’s Cunningham who recovers first, smiling amiably.
‘Mr Dance, what a pleasant surprise,’ he says. ‘What brings you out on this foul morning?’
‘I was looking for Helena Hardcastle,’ I say, glancing from Cunningham to the stablemaster. ‘I was under the impression she was taking a walk with Mr Miller here.’
‘No, sir,’ says Miller, kneading his cap between his hands. ‘Supposed to be meeting at my cottage, sir. I’m on my way there now.’
‘We three find ourselves in the same boat then,’ says Cunningham. ‘I was also hoping to catch her. Perhaps we can go along together. My business shouldn’t take very long, but I’ll be happy to stand in line, as it were.’
‘And what is your business?’ I ask, as we begin walking back towards the stables. ‘It was my understanding you met with Lady Hardcastle before breakfast.’
The directness of my question momentarily unsettles his good cheer, a flash of annoyance passing across his face.
‘A few matters for Lord Hardcastle,’ he says. ‘You know how these things are. One mess soon leads to another.’
‘But you have seen the lady of the house today?’ I say.
‘Indeed, first thing.’
‘How did she seem?’
He shrugs, frowning at me. ‘I couldn’t say. Our talk was very brief. May I ask where these questions are leading, Mr Dance? I rather feel like I’m facing you in court.’
‘Nobody else has seen Lady Hardcastle today. That strikes me as strange.’
‘Perhaps she’s wary of being pestered with questions,’ he says, flaring.
We arrive at the stablemaster’s cottage in an irritated mood, Mr Miller writhing in discomfort as he invites us inside. It’s as neat and orderly as the last time I was here, although much too small for three men and their secrets.
I take the chair by the table, while Cunningham inspects the bookcase, and the stablemaster frets, doing his best to tidy an already tidy cottage.
We wait for ten minutes, but Lady Hardcastle never arrives.
It’s Cunningham who breaks the silence.
‘Well, it seems the lady has other plans,’ he says, checking his watch. ‘I’d better get off, I’m expected in the library. Good morning to you, Mr Dance, Mr Miller,’ he says, inclining his head before opening the door and departing.
Miller looks up at me nervously.
‘What about you, Mr Dance?’ he says. ‘Will you be waiting longer?’
I ignore this, and join him by the fireplace.
‘What were you speaking with Cunningham about?’ I ask.
He stares at the window, as though his answers are coming by messenger. I snap my fingers in front of his face, drawing his watery eyes towards me.
‘At this moment, I’m simply curious, Mr Miller,’ I say in a low voice dripping with unpleasant possibilities. ‘In a minute or so, I’ll be annoyed. Tell me what you were speaking about.’
‘He wanted somebody to show him around,’ he says, jutting out his lower lip, revealing the pink flesh within. ‘Wanted to see the lake, he did.’
Whatever Miller’s skills in this world, lying is not one of them. His elderly face is a mass of wrinkles and overhanging flesh, more than enough material for his emotions to build a stage from. Every frown is a tragedy, every smile a farce. A lie, sitting as it does somewhere between both, is enough to collapse the entire performance.
Placing my hand on his shoulder, I lower my face to his, watching as his eyes flee mine.
‘Charles Cunningham grew up on this estate, Mr Miller, as well you know. He has no need of a tour guide. Now, what were you discussing?’
He shakes his head. ‘I promised—’
‘I can make promises too, Miller, but you won’t enjoy mine.’
My fingers press into his collarbone, tight enough to make him wince.
‘He was asking about the murdered boy,’ he says reluctantly.
‘Thomas Hardcastle?’
‘No, sir, the other one.’
‘What other one?’
‘Keith Parker, the stable boy.’
‘What stable boy? What are you talking about, man?’
‘Nobody remembers him, sir, not important enough,’ he says, gritting his teeth. ‘One of mine, he was. Lovely boy, about fourteen. Went missing a week or so before Master Thomas died. Couple of peelers came up to take a look in the forest, but they couldn’t find his body, so they said he ran away. I tell you, sir, he never did. Loved his mam, loved his job. He wouldn’t have done it. I said as much at the time, but nobody listened.’
‘Did they ever find him?’
‘No, sir, never did.’
‘And that’s what you told Cunningham?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Is that all you told him?’
His eyes shift left and right.
‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ I say.
‘No, sir.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Miller,’ I say coldly, my hackles rising. Dance hates people who try to deceive him, considering it a suggestion of gullibility, of stupidity. To even attempt it, liars must believe themselves to be cleverer than the person they’re lying to, an assumption he finds grotesquely insulting.
‘I’m not lying, sir,’ protests the poor stablemaster, a vein bulging on his forehead.
‘You are! Tell me what you know!’ I demand.
‘I can’t.’
‘You will, or I’ll ruin you, Mr Miller,’ I say, giving my host free rein. ‘I’ll take everything you have, every stitch of clothing and every penny you’ve squirrelled away.’
Dance’s words pour out of my mouth, each one dripping with poison. This is how he runs his law practice, bludgeoning his opponents with threats and intimidation. In his own way, Dance may be just as vile as Derby.
‘I’ll dig up every—’
‘The story’s a lie,’ Miller blurts out.
His face is ashen, his eyes haunted.
‘What does that mean? Out with it!’ I say.
‘They say Charlie Carver killed Master Thomas, sir.’
‘What of it?’
‘Well, he couldn’t have, sir. Charlie and me were friendly like. Charlie had an argument with Lord Hardcastle that morning, been fired he had, so he decided to take severance.’
‘Severance?’
‘A few bottles of brandy, sir, right out of Lord Hardcastle’s study. Just walked in and took them.’
‘So he stole a few bottles of brandy,’ I say. ‘How does that prove his innocence?’
‘He came to fetch me after I sent Miss Evelyn out riding on her pony. Wanted a last drink with a friend, he said. Couldn’t say no, could I? We drank those bottles between us, me and Charlie, but around half an hour before the murder, he said I had to leave.’
‘Leave, why?’
‘He said somebody was coming to see him.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know, sir, he never said. He just—’
He falters, feeling along the edge of the answer for the crack he’s certain he’s about to fall through.
‘What?’ I demand.
The poor fool’s wringing his hands together, rucking up the rug with the ball of his left foot.
‘He said everything was arranged, sir, said they were going to help him get a good position somewhere else. I thought maybe...’
‘Yes.’
‘The way he was talking, sir... I thought...’
‘Spit it out for God’s sake, Miller.’
‘Lady Hardcastle, sir,’ he says, meeting my gaze for the first time. ‘I thought maybe he was meeting Lady Helena Hardcastle. They’d always been friendly like.’
My hand drops from his shoulder.
‘But you didn’t see her arrive?’