“Death is not a diversion. Murder is not a pastime. It’s serious. Be serious, Constable.”

  His expression hardened. “You are right. But will you not help me? That was my reason in coming here.”

  She shook her head. “You have heard all that people are saying. They think I killed her. That I’m a murderer.”

  His nod was bland as he gazed down at the grass. He might as well have been purchasing a new pair of shoes, for all he seemed to care.

  It irked her. “Do you have any idea of what that does to my reputation? And not just me, but my family, in the eyes of our friends and neighbors? My friend Tom? He was closest to Mary and me. What will he think?”

  “I am sure your charms will convince any suitors to overcome what they might hear about you. Besides, a bit of intrigue might add to your appeal,” he joked.

  She stood and wiped her hands clean with her apron. “If you think that I care about suitors at a time like this, then you are mistaken. Good day, Constable, and good luck with your inquiries. I am going inside to mourn my friend.”

  She stamped back into the house and shut the door. She never wanted to see him again. That odious, ignorant, handsome man.

  Chapter Four

  It came as a surprise when Betsey presented the constable the following afternoon. Since Mary’s demise, they had received no visitors, a slight Aunt Rachel was sure was proof of their neighbors’ ill-will toward them. No more mention was made at dinner of their housing a murderer, but Poppy felt guilty that her aunt no longer visited their neighbors or had any exciting tales to tell from the village.

  At the proper visiting hour, Constable Dyngley was ushered into the blue sitting room, bowed, and said, “Good day, Mrs. Greene, Miss Morton.”

  Poppy bowed her head in greeting but refused to divert her attention from her needlework, never mind that suddenly she couldn’t recall what she was working on.

  “Miss Morton, I wondered if I might trouble you to join me outside for some air. It is very pleasant out,” he said.

  Poppy raised her eyes from her needlework. Her breath caught, and for a split second, the world shrank to just the two of them. Then reality reared its ugly head. To walk out with a man unaccompanied would invite comment, damaging to one, if not both, of them. She did not know how many more rumors her reputation could withstand.

  Her aunt said, “I should be glad of some fresh air, and so will Poppy. We will both join you.”

  Once the ladies were dressed for walking, meaning their hair was artfully arranged, tucked safely under bonnets, and pelisses covered their arms and chests, Poppy joined the constable outside. Her aunt followed at a discreet pace.

  They walked in silence, their boots patting down the earthen road leading away from the parsonage. After a time Aunt Rachel said, “Go ahead, Poppy, I cannot walk so fast as you, but I can see you fine from here.”

  They walked a little farther before the constable spoke. “I fear I have given you the wrong impression, Miss Morton.”

  “Oh?”

  “That of me being an amusing…man. I came to you yesterday in earnest. I do wish for your help.”

  “Even though it is unbecoming in a woman?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “A woman exercising her mind is not unbecoming. Not in my estimation.”

  “Then you will not mind if I give my opinion?”

  “Only if you do not take offense if I tell you when you are wrong.”

  She turned her head.

  He said, “I could use your help. Mary would have haunts, places she would go. People she might meet or ask for shelter. Someone might know some details of her whereabouts, but I am not a villager, and you know everyone. Will you help me?”

  She appraised him. “What benefit can I expect from this? You may think me mercenary, but my reputation might be damaged.”

  “Not from walking with a constable, it won’t. And believe me, I have no designs on you,” he said confidently.

  “Oh, that I do believe.” Her laugh was bitter.

  He looked at her.

  She said, “I will try my best to help.”

  “Capital. The first thing I need you to do is view the body.”

  She balked. “What, me? See Mary?”

  “Yes. If you think you are up to it?”

  She looked at the ground. “I am, but I must get my uncle’s permission.”

  They sought the permission of her uncle and were refused.

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “My Poppy, look at a dead body? What is the meaning of this? Do you wish to shock my niece?”

  “No, Mr. Greene, not at all. But she may notice things altered about Mary’s person that I would not recognize, or that a person less known to Mary wouldn’t know. There may be essential information that only Poppy can tell us.”

  Her uncle fixed her with an arch look. “Well, go on, girl, tell him what you know.”

  “I do not know what he wants to hear.”

  Constable Dyngley shook his head. “It is more complicated than that, Mr. Greene.”

  “Poppycock, I don’t believe it. A girl is dead, what more is there to say?”

  “There is more to it, sir. The girl is dead, yes. But we don’t know yet how or why she died. I think as the girl’s close friend, Miss Morton’s insight may be of assistance to my inquiries.”

  “But she is just a girl. This is no work for a young woman. Besides, I thought it was just an accident. The girl’s carriage overturned and she died. It is tragic, but not unheard of. What more is there to say?”

  Poppy interjected. “Her name is Mary. Please, you both calling her the girl makes it seem like somebody else, when she was my best friend. Call her Mary. She would not want to be forgotten.”

  Constable Dyngley cleared his throat. “Mary sustained injuries that are inconsistent with a carriage accident.”

  “What do you mean, inconsistent? How many victims of carriage accidents have you seen?” her uncle demanded.

  “Five.”

  “Oh.” He hadn’t expected an answer.

  “Please, Uncle,” Poppy interjected, “Let me go see her. I want to help.”

  “You do? But Poppy, you don’t know what you are saying. It will no longer be your friend. Her soul has departed for Heaven. It will be a body, and time taking its toll can leave a horrible sight.” His voice was grave. “No, Poppy. I forbid it.”

  “I want to see her, to say goodbye.” She frowned at him.

  “You can say goodbye at her funeral.”

  “With everyone staring and acting like I killed her?”

  He stopped at that. She had him, or so she’d thought.

  “No. I know she was your friend, but I cannot condone this. I will not allow you to subject yourself to a sight unfit for a young lady.” He turned to the constable. “And you, Constable, I am disappointed in you for putting such outlandish ideas in my niece’s head. I would like you to leave. Poppy, go to your room.”

  “But Uncle…”

  “Now.” He snapped.

  Poppy obeyed like the good girl she was. As she left, the constable’s quiet apology to her uncle hit her ears, which she mentally damned as a foolish exercise. When it came to other Christians, her uncle was forgiving, but not in her case.

  She hurried back down the stairs and slipped out the front door, to see Constable Dyngley was approaching his horse. He turned, saw her, and hesitated.

  She crossed the grass in a heartbeat. “Constable.”

  “Miss Morton.”

  “Please forgive my uncle… he thinks me a child at times.” She held a hand beneath his mare’s nose, letting it sniff her hand. Its breath warmed her palm.

  “Rightly so. I should not have asked such a thing of you. It was improper.”

  “No, please, the mistake was mine. I should never have agreed to such a preposterous suggestion when you were only trying to be kind.”

  “Do you really wish to see it? The body, I mean.” His dark eyes fixed on hers.

  She swallowed. “Yes. Are you certain she died of other means than by the accident?”

  “I am.”

  “Then I want to see her.”

  “Even though your uncle has forbidden it?”

  “Yes.”

  He surveyed her. “That is not very ladylike.”

  She looked at him askance. “First you ask for my help and now you insult me?”

  “No. It’s just…you’re one of the more inquisitive young women I have ever met.”

  “Thank you,” she said warily. “When is Mary’s funeral?”

  “I do not know. When we are finished with her.” He adjusted the reins. “Have you done any night riding, Miss Morton?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because if you truly wish to see Mary’s body, it will have to be at night. No one can see you, least of all your uncle. If I were to call on you, would you come? Would you risk disobeying your uncle to go out at night with a strange man to view your dead friend’s body?”

  “Are you trying to dissuade me?”

  “No, only making clear what is at stake. I’ll come for you late this evening. Your bedroom window is…”

  She breathed in with excitement. “There.” She pointed up to the first floor, to a window beside a large tree branch.

  “Till then, Miss Morton.” He paused, “I would not think less of you if you change your mind. We both know it is not a proper thing I ask.”

  She assured him, “I will be there.”

  “I thought you might say that.” He touched his charcoal gray hat and rode off.

  She had a nervous temperament all evening. Her aunt and uncle thought her distraught over Mary’s death. And she was, but she felt more excited at the chance of seeing Mary’s body, and of riding in the night with that dark-haired constable.

  He was handsome, to be sure. But none of that.

  He was not interested in her, he had made that clear. He only wished her help with his inquiry. And much as she did not wish to admit it, he was right. What he’d asked of her was improper, but it was also a diversion from her daily life, which now seemed nothing more than social visits, luncheons, and dinners, attending church, and sitting, practicing accomplishments that gained the approval of the parish but not of any handsome eligible young men.

  Was life meant to be spent doing nothing? She did not think so.

  This was important, it was a quest. Would she do it, or would she change her mind at the last minute? And as if to destroy all hope of her thinking of other things, Mary’s death was to be the dinner conversation that evening.

  “What I cannot figure out is why no one thinks it was a crazed maniac that did it, or that it was just an accident. These things do happen,” her aunt said over her green watercress soup.

  “It’s because of the fight the girls had.” Her uncle eyed Poppy. “No disrespect to you, my girl, but people remember that, and don’t stop to consider the impossibility of you hurting anyone.”

  “Hear, hear,” Aunt Rachel said.

  “It was poor judgment to argue with her in the way you did, in such a public place,” her uncle added. “What was it about, that made you attack her so fiercely? We will have to replace that glass.”

  Poppy stared at her bowl of soup.

  “Yes, tell us. Did she say something to annoy you?” Aunt Rachel asked, “I wouldn’t put it past that girl.”

  Poppy looked at her relatives. “I am sorry for having embarrassed you, and for the cost. But I do not feel able to discuss it.”

  Her uncle shrugged. “Don’t worry, Poppy. As if you could hurt anyone. You cry when we see a dead animal on the road.”

  It was true. She did feel for the small feral creatures that sometimes fell afoul of carriage wheels. Rabbits, voles, squirrels. Foxes hunted by men of quality, she hated it. She looked at her uncle as he slurped his soup. She was soft-hearted, he meant. That much she knew.

  Her aunt commented, “You would never see Poppy doing a thing like that.”

  Poppy offered a wan smile in return. Like they said, she was a good, sweet, innocent young woman. So why was she bristling inside like an angry cat?

  They finished dinner and sat by the fire. As her uncle read aloud Fordyce’s Sermons, Poppy did her mending, but felt so nervous she couldn’t stand it and retired to bed early. As she walked away from the room she overheard Aunt Rachel say, “The poor girl. It’s getting to her, this death. She hardly touched her soup.”

  Poppy went upstairs to her room and surprisingly did feel tired. She just sat on her bed for a moment, when—

  Tap.

  She opened an eye.

  Tap. Tap.

  “Constable!” she said, muffled into her pillow. She sat up, fully dressed, and tumbled off her bed, walked into the writing table and banged her knee, then opened the window. It creaked in the quiet night, letting cool air into the room. She shivered.

  There stood a dark figure outside, down below. “Miss Morton?”

  “Constable?”

  “Yes.” He hissed. “Were you asleep?”

  “No…well, yes. But only a little.”

  “I should have expected it. Do you still wish to come?”

  “Yes!” Her stomach was a knot of excitement and fear.

  But there was no time for that, as she pulled on her boots quietly as she could. She climbed out onto the large tree branch that reached beside the house. As she edged along the branch, she lost her balance and began to fall.

  She crashed on top of the constable, her elbow digging into his side.

  “Bloody hell!” he cursed.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” She rolled off him, landing on wet grass.

  He sat up. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “No, no, I’m fine.”

  “Good.” He helped her stand and grunted, “You’re wearing light clothes.”

  She eyed her white muslin dress. “Yes… So?”

  “You’ll stand out like a beacon.” He began undoing the ties of his cloak.

  “What are you doing?”

  He looked at her. “I should think that would be obvious, Miss Morton. You need to be discreet if we are to travel. It will at least serve to cover your dress.”

  He pulled the cloak off his shoulders, revealing a trim dark waistcoat and dark shirt. Before she could blink, he wrapped the cloak around her and drew the ties around her neck. At his touch, a little thrill ran through her. His fingers, so deftly pulling the drawstrings against her skin, felt intimate somehow.

  She swallowed and tried not to betray any emotion. She looked away as he attended to her, trying to think of him as no more than an attentive uncle or aunt.

  Definitely not a handsome young man she was meeting in secret.

  They approached his horse, a brown mare standing quietly to the side of the large tree. The constable untied the reins and put both hands on Poppy’s waist.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her eyes wild.

  “Trust me.” He lifted her lightly up onto the saddle, then climbed on behind her. She balked at this, then laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I hadn’t realized how we would travel. I suppose a carriage is out of the question.”

  He snorted. “Not unless you want everyone to know where we are headed.” He secured his arms around her waist, holding the reins. She felt snug and secure. Was it wrong that she felt alive at his touch?

  She tensed. She could smell him, in the folds of the cloak. Tobacco, horse, and something else. Some manly odor that was not unpleasant.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Uh…”

  He nudged the side of his mare with his heels and they were off, first at a trot, then once they had cleared the neighborhood, at a gallop. Poppy gripped the horse’s mane and held on for dear life.

  The horse carried them through the night, its hooves striking a steady pattern against the hard-packed dirt road. It moved as swiftly as the wind. As they rode along, Poppy gradually overcame her fear and enjoyed the sensation of flight. She felt alive in the night air, the wind pulling tendrils of her hair free to dance wildly along her neck, and excitement dazzled her senses. She could feel the mare’s powerful muscles move and tense beneath them. Danger lurked in the night, but she felt safe with the constable’s arms around her. So why did she feel disappointed when they stopped?

  “Are you not scared?” he murmured in her ear.

  “No,” she said, angling her head to hear easier. “Why, should I be?”

  “Most ladies would be, I think. They are not all as bold riders as you.”

  Her mouth tugged into a smile at the compliment.

  He pulled the horse up short, on the outskirts of the town, and gradually slowed to a walk, approaching a squat, dark stone building. A flickering torch hung outside the entrance.

  “Where are we?” Poppy asked.

  He slowed the mare and stopped a few feet from the door. He dismounted and after a moment reached for her waist, lifting her down. His hands were warm, and another thrill ran through her at his touch.

  His gaze caught hers, his expression serious. “I would not have asked you here if I did not think you were up to the task. But, this is a place only those who must seek out.”

  A tremor passed through her. It dawned on her how exposed they were, out in the woods by an abandoned building in the middle of the night. She had never been out so late before. She drew the cloak closer around her for comfort.

  Constable Dyngley tied the horse’s reins to a tree. “You are sure you wish to go on? I can take you back now if you are frightened.”

  “I am fine.”

  “Very well.” He led her to the building and knocked on the aged wooden door, a quiet rap rap.

  The door creaked opened, and a tall man greeted them, the candle in his left hand playing shadows along his face. He stood thin like a reed and had thick bushy eyebrows, a few whiskers on his chin, and an easy smile. “Hello.”

  “Mr. Crabbe,” the constable said.

  “Constable.” He nodded in greeting. “Who’s this?” he spied Poppy. “A visitor, at this hour?”

  “It’s the girl I told you about. Mr. Crabbe, may I introduce Miss Poppy Morton, of Hertfordshire.”

 

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