“A little scared if I had to swear by it. She kept urging me to go faster and paid me an extra sovereign to do it.” He looked down. “I’m sorry I took it now. I told her that in the rain going faster would only risk the horses, but she didn’t care, she was so keen to leave. I went as fast as I could with having a care for the beasts, but she hadn’t a care for them at all.”

  “Hm,” Henry murmured.

  “You want to know what I think?” Colin asked.

  “What?” Henry and Lizzie asked, then looked at each other. Lizzie looked a bit sheepish, and Henry glanced at Colin.

  Colin said, “I think she was going to meet a lover. She might have been going to take a coach up north to Gretna Green. I know she’s got family in London, but she for sure wasn’t going to see them.” He scratched his leg. “These girls can’t make up their minds. I mean, no one goes to Gretna Green for any other reason. She was going to get married. Maybe her parents didn’t like the man.”

  “It’s possible.” Henry thanked Colin and left him to the tender administrations of Lizzie.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Constable Dyngley called the next day at the sociable hour. As he entered the blue sitting room, Poppy rose, leaning on her cane. Her aunt stood beside her. “Hello, Constable. Please, do sit down.”

  Constable Dyngley sat in a hard-backed chair across from them as the ladies resumed their seats. “You have a very comfortable room, Mrs. Greene.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How is your foot?” he asked Poppy.

  “Mending, thank you. It doesn’t hurt anymore, it just itches.”

  Her aunt rose and said, “I need to speak to Betsey. Do excuse me a moment.” She quit the room.

  Constable Dyngley cleared his throat and rummaged in his coat. He fished out a small reticule and held it up for her to see. “I wonder, do you recognize this?”

  “It’s a bit small for you, Constable…” she started to jest. “Wait. That’s Mary’s. Where did you find it?”

  “In the carriage. It was inside, next to her maid’s body.” He looked at her. “This places her at the scene.”

  Poppy nodded. “Then she was there. It was her in the carriage with Margaret. But you didn’t find her, so where did she go?”

  “I confess, that is what I was hoping to figure out when I came here. Perhaps you might look at these items? They might give us an idea of where she went.”

  “What about any stray marks, or footprints? Something to show she left the carriage?”

  “None that I could see. It rained that night, and we found the scene a little while later. Any footprints she left were likely destroyed by myself and the village men trying to upright the carriage.”

  “What else did you find? Is that it?”

  He passed her the lady’s reticule. It felt odd, holding something that was Mary’s.

  He said, “There were two valises of women’s clothes, a hatbox, and this lady’s bag. Look inside.”

  She held it gently in her palm but felt wrong doing so. The bag was Mary’s. She had no right to look inside. To do so would be an invasion of Mary’s privacy or worse, to accept that Mary was likely dead. Either was too much for her.

  An uneasy feeling crawled up her spine. “No. Take it back.” She held it out to him.

  “What? Why won’t you open it?”

  “This is hers. I don’t want to betray her trust, it feels wrong.”

  “But inside are items which may help me find her! Won’t you look?”

  “No.”

  He took the bag back angrily. “I should have known. This is ridiculous. They are objects, Poppy, nothing more.”

  “They are more than that. They are her personal things, Mary’s things. A lady’s reticule has all her private things. I would no sooner look in her reticule than I would look in your saddlebags, or in your bedroom.” Her cheeks turned pink.

  He smiled at that. “Shall I tell you what is in there?”

  She looked away, blushing furiously. “I have no desire to know.”

  He grinned. “I shall tell you. There is a particular reason I wished for you to see them. Inside that bag is a lady’s sachet, some coins, a handkerchief, and this.”

  He rummaged inside the small bag and held up a miniature.

  Poppy stared at it. The tiny portrait was handsome, framed in gold. But the picture that looked cheerfully back at her was not of a doting mother, sister or a cherished pet. It was of a young man. What struck her most of all was that it was not Tom.

  “What is it? You see something. You know who it is, don’t you?”

  “No, I do not.”

  His look was sharp. “But you know something. Tell me, Poppy, I can tell. What you know might help in my search for Mary.”

  She frowned at him. “In her letters to me recently, Mary had mentioned someone.” She paused. “A man whom she thought she was going to marry.”

  Constable Dyngley shot to his feet. “What? You knew of this the entire time and said nothing? Why did you not tell me?”

  “It is not my secret to tell. She had sworn me to secrecy and on my honor, I will not betray her.”

  “You owe no honor to a dead woman.”

  She rose and wobbled on her cane. “We do not know she is dead. You said so yourself. Thanks to you, the whole town knows it.”

  “What you keep secret might kill her.”

  “Or it might be keeping her alive,” she shot back.

  He glared at her. “I cannot believe this. If I didn’t know better I would say you were deliberately hiding this from me. I ought to bring you in for questioning.”

  “What?” she stared at him. “You wouldn’t have known half you do about this matter without my help. If things had been left up to you, Margaret would be in the ground and we’d be mourning poor Mary!”

  He scowled and crossed the space, fast. There were no more than a few inches between them. “Tell me what you know, now.” His voice was hard.

  She glared at him. Never mind the fact that there was scarce a foot of air between them, they both had a point to prove.

  “You are trying my patience, Miss Morton.”

  “I am not forcing you to stay. If you are so unhappy, leave.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.” He stepped back and bid her a short bow. “Good day, Miss Morton.”

  “Constable.” Her tone was severe.

  He left, and fumed for the better part of an hour.

  The moment he quit the house, her aunt sailed back into the room. “Well? Have you good news?”

  “Aunt?”

  “Has he proposed?”

  “No, Aunt. He has no regard for me in that way.”

  Her aunt became discouraged. “Oh.” She crossed to sit beside Poppy and picked up her knitting. “Shame. Why did he leave in such a hurry?”

  Poppy opened her mouth to speak when her aunt said, “Never mind him. We are engaged this Saturday to dine with Lady Cameron.”

  “How lovely.”

  “Yes. And your uncle has written to her and told her of your accident, so she is sending a carriage for us. That is kindness itself.”

  “That is very generous of her,” Poppy said.

  Saturday came, and true to her word, Lady Cameron sent around her carriage to fetch the trio. Dressed in her Sunday best, Poppy peered into her looking glass one more time. Today she wore a light green dress with white stripes, with a little cross necklace. Donning her bonnet, gloves, and serviceable light blue walking coat, she joined her aunt and uncle at the entrance of the house. Her aunt looked very smart, in a reserved dark blue dress and dark bonnet, while her uncle looked equally smart in a black clerical outfit.

  Armed with her walking stick, the carriage brought them through the village, through town and out again, through rolling green hills covered with bluebells. As the carriage pulled to the entrance of the grounds, her aunt said, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Low hanging trees perfumed the air with the heady scent of purple blossoms, and heavy rosebushes weighed down with branches thick with budding roses. Manicured lawns greeted them as the pair of horses trotted down the gravel path.

  The carriage pulled up before a white stately building, with high columns and many windows overlooking the view. They climbed out and were greeted by footmen bedecked in livery, who led them inside. There was a quiet hush as the trio entered the foyer of the grand building. No matter how many times Poppy had dined at Blackgate Park, she was always struck by the quiet grandeur of the place.

  The floor they stood on was intersecting squares of black and white checked marble, and a large staircase faced them. The head footman, a large fellow with a pristine white powdered wig, commanded their attention and said quietly, “If you will follow me.”

  He led the way, the heels of his shoes striking the smooth floor as the trio hurried to keep up. They passed through the foyer into an adjoining sitting room, which made Poppy start.

  There, beside her uncle’s patroness, sat Neville Conn.

  He looked at peace with his surroundings which said much of his character. He looked very much at home as he sat on a sea-green silk chaise lounge, with dark forest green walls and deep green curtains behind him, bedecked with gold rope. On the walls hung large family portraits, including a fetching one of the Lady Cameron as a young woman.

  Lady Cameron, an older woman with many strands of grey and silver in her hair sat in a strong high-backed chair, at the head of two fragile-looking sofas. As the trio entered, she said, “You are very welcome, Mr. Greene. And Mrs. Greene, Miss Morton, do sit down.”

  They sat, her uncle and aunt taking seats on the sofa to her ladyship’s right, leaving Poppy to perch on the end. Neville lounged on a sofa to Lady Cameron’s left. His eyes briefly flitted to Poppy but just as quickly dismissed her as being of no interest. Not for the first time, Poppy wished she had more charms than just her mind. She desperately wished to be deemed pretty, just once.

  Lady Cameron began talking to her uncle, and after a short time inquired after Poppy. “Miss Morton, I am told that you have injured your foot and I can see the truth of it. What happened?”

  Poppy blushed, wary of being the center of attention. “I was walking in the road ma’am, and not paying attention to where I was walking.”

  “Ah. That is easy enough to do. My companion Miss Sugg broke her little toe a few months ago doing that very thing. Isn’t that so, Ann?”

  An older woman nodded, stepping forward to take a seat beside Neville. She wore her hair under a demure mobcap and was dressed in a fine slate grey silk dress. She looked very dull, and Poppy surmised that unless she married someday, that was likely to be her future as well, for what prospects did she have?

  Her aunt drew her attention by saying, “And I see your nephew is staying with you.”

  Neville sat up and looked at her. “Yes. I am down these three months to visit my aunt.”

  “What a caring nephew you are,” Aunt Rachel declared. “That is very handsome behavior.”

  “Yes, he is devoted to me,” Lady Cameron agreed, “And just lately returned from Cambridge. But you did say there was a bit of trouble there before you left.”

  Neville stood and crossed the room to a glass decanter to fill up his wine glass. “Yes.”

  Uncle Reginald frowned. Poppy knew this conversation’s direction was not to his liking.

  “What trouble?” Aunt Rachel asked. “Nothing too bad, I hope.” She earned herself a look from her husband and dutifully ignored it.

  Lady Cameron was equally oblivious to the clergyman’s reaction. “Oh, nothing to concern us. Some cad seduced a dean’s daughter and got her with child. The poor girl was disowned by her family and thrown out, poor thing.”

  “How horrible,” Aunt Rachel said.

  “Yes. But worse, the girl threw herself in the river. Drowned her and her unborn child.” Lady Cameron’s face briefly flirted with regret. “But never mind, Neville was clever to remove himself from such unpleasantness.”

  Neville returned and sat down again. He looked bored.

  “Did they ever learn who the man was?” Aunt Rachel asked.

  “No. Although, Neville, you did say you thought it might have been one of your fellow students.”

  Neville said nothing and drank. His face was already red with drink, and his smart waistcoat sagged against his plump frame. He raised a pair of piggish eyes toward Poppy and drank more.

  Lady Cameron said, “Never mind, what is that when there are happier things to talk about. I have heard reports that your niece is recently acquitted of murder, is that right?”

  Poppy started. She dropped her walking stick. “Oh!” She reached for it and returned it to its proper place, leaning against her leg.

  The movement did not escape Lady Cameron.

  Uncle Reginald colored. “Yes, it was a case of mistaken identity. Everyone knows Poppy is perfectly harmless. To think her capable of a crime is preposterous.”

  “Indeed. And is it true that a girl of your acquaintance has died?”

  Neville choked. He spilled his wine down his front, staining the waistcoat. He sputtered and coughed, while Lady Cameron’s companion tried vainly to dab at his waistcoat with her handkerchief.

  “Get off!” he said, slapping her hands away. She sat primly, affronted. A second later she held out her handkerchief, which was accepted.

  “Excuse me.” Poppy rose, leaning on her walking stick. She curtseyed to those there and made her way out to use the privy.

  As she left, her aunt said, “The poor girl. She was quite shocked to find that her friend had died. It was her closest friend.”

  “Ah, yes. A carriage accident, I heard.”

  Poppy tapped her way out of the room, then pondered. The place was so big, where would Neville be staying?

  She mounted the stairs and started walking, taking care to move quietly. Family rooms would be on the next floor, along with guest rooms. Servants’ quarters would be at the very top, with both genders separated. She entered one room, and then another. She worked her way methodically down the corridor until she found what was clearly a man’s room, or rather, one lately occupied by a man. Stained shirts, discarded cravats, and dirty trousers lay discarded across the place, and more than one wine glass lay overturned on the floor.

  Unless Lady Cameron was entertaining gentleman callers, this had to be Neville’s room. Poppy went inside and began searching through the pockets of his coat and in his wallet which lay on a writing desk. There were a few banknotes and coins, then a little note, folded away. She pulled it forth and recognized Mary’s handwriting immediately. But what did she mean to discuss with Neville?

  It read:

  Meet me at the dance. I have a matter of great import to discuss with you. If you don’t come, your aunt will learn of your relations—

  “What are you doing?” a man said behind her.

  Poppy whirled around. Neville stood in the doorway. She’d been caught.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I said, what are you doing? You’re that clergyman’s niece, aren’t you?” Neville stalked into the room, his face flushed with drink. “You’re a plain one. Come looking for me?”

  Poppy frowned. “No, I got lost. This house is so big.”

  “You mean for me to believe you got lost and so found your way to my room? Tell me, what are you actually doing here?” he came closer and she could smell the wine on him from across the room.

  “I lost my way. Tell me, where is the privy?”

  He sneered. “Don’t lie. I know why you’re here. A young woman lost in my room? And a clergyman’s niece, too, I should say. What are they teaching young girls these days?” he leered, and his eyes traveled up the length of her body. When they reached her face, however, she saw the disappointment in his gaze.

  He drank more and belched. His waistcoat was stained and his eyes looked bleary. “Come here.”

  “N-no,” Poppy said, backing up. She stepped back into his writing desk and banged her calf. “Ow!” she said.

  Neville grinned. “I can teach you a thing or two, Miss Morton.” He came closer, tossing his now empty wine glass away. It shattered against the wall and rained glass on the floor.

  She gasped.

  His smile grew and he closed the distance between them.

  Had it been Tom or the constable, she wouldn’t have minded, but this was too much. “Keep your distance,” she warned.

  He did no such thing, and she raised the point of her walking stick, right between his legs. It thwacked him on the genitals and he jumped. “Ah!”

  “Stay back!” She pulled her walking stick free and edged around him, but he was having none of it.

  “You’ll pay for that,” he said, reaching for her.

  “Ahem,” a voice said.

  He froze.

  The voice belonged to a young maidservant, who said, “Master Conn, do you be needing something?”

  “Get out.” He snarled.

  “Miss Morton, your uncle is asking for you.”

  “Oh yes, I lost my way. If you could please show me back…” she limped toward the door and gratefully left Neville’s room.

  “Right away, Miss.” The servant shot a glance at Neville’s hunched-over form and sniffed.

  “Miss Morton,” he said.

  Poppy turned around. He shot her a nasty smile. “I look forward to our next conversation.”

  His words made her blood run cold, and she followed the servant back downstairs, moving more swiftly than her foot would have liked.

  Limping quickly after the servant, Poppy endeavored to control her emotions and look calm. But her hand trembled and she dropped the walking stick. The maid handed it to her and said, “You need not fear any word from me, Miss. He’s wild, that one. You’d best stay away from him.”

  “I will.” A moment passed, then she asked, “Do you know Mr. Conn well?”

  “Well enough, and more than I’d like,” the girl quipped.

  Poppy smiled. She could well believe it. “I think he knew my friend Mary.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. My friend was killed in an accident a few weeks ago.”

 

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