Page 36 of A Gentleman in Possession of Secrets (The Lord Julian Mysteries #10)
Chapter Fifteen
Hamden Parva was indeed another little world, much as the Dales and the Lake District, side by side, were very different terrains.
The surrounds of Hamden Parva had a wildness to them, a primitive quality.
The land tended to neither the majestic hardwoods of a mature home wood, nor the open expanse of moorland.
Game would thrive handily in such an environment.
Scrubby trees, overgrown meadows, bramble thickets, and freshets all blended into a wilderness that had apparently been undisturbed for centuries.
An occasional oak or maple had gained height over its neighbors, while yews of ancient vintage occupied higher slopes.
“The whole place feels neglected,” I said as we rode into what passed for the village green after some three hours of scouting the vicinity. “Too quiet.”
“No cattle bawling or horses whinnying,” Carstairs replied. “Nobody practicing the organ or remonstrating with a wayward youth for all the neighbors to hear.”
No ring of a blacksmith’s hammer. No hound making his rounds along the single lane passing between the few houses that comprised the hamlet.
“If I were fanciful,” I said, swinging down from my horse, “I’d say the place feels as if it were under an enchantment.”
The buildings around us were in good repair—the thatched roofs tidy, the chimneys straight.
Gates hung straight as well, as did shutters.
And yet, an oak blackened by lightning poked up through the wilderness to the west of the green.
Why hadn’t that eyesore been taken down decades ago?
No living thing stirred anywhere, not so much as a sparrow.
We’d reached the time of year when birds were nesting, and yet, no winged creatures searched for food or patrolled the skies.
“No flowers,” Carstairs said, dismounting by swinging his leg over the horse’s crest. “It’s the highest of high seasons for flowers. Not a rosebush or hydrangea to be seen.”
“This village,” I said, “puts me in mind of Spain, and not in a good way.” How many times had I ridden into the same sort of emptiness where signs of habitation ought to be?
No chickens scratching in the street. No equines dozing at hitching racks.
Nothing in plain view that could be killed or plundered.
“Times are hard. How long do we wait for Dorset and Dutch?”
The sun was low enough to be obscured by the scraggly trees. I consulted my timepiece. “We’re about a quarter hour early.”
“One feels an urge to turn homeward.”
“We’re safe enough. Even if the countryside is full of bandits and poachers, the rule is mutual avoidance in a place like this.
Neutral territory is integral to the pursuit of the criminal professions.
” Also to the dubious profession of spying.
Many a time, my French and Spanish counterparts and I had sought refuge in the same cantina.
We acknowledged one another with reciprocal displays of indifference and went upon our respective ways.
Honor might not thrive among thieves, but among spies, a certain understanding could be relied upon. Ours was not a violent pursuit in the normal course, and we shared a certain exasperated impatience with the blunt instruments more usually employed to wage war.
“They’re here,” Carstairs said, slipping off his horse’s bridle and loosening the girth.
I did likewise, and both beasts took to cropping what grass was available on the expanse that passed for the village green.
“A talking raven would be of a piece with this place.” Carstairs drew off his hat, swiped his sleeve across his forehead, and ran a hand through creased locks. “Or an old woman muttering curses.”
“Do you feel a poem coming on?” For a gamekeeper who spent much of his time in the forest, he was quite fanciful.
“If I could pen a good Gothic tale or two, my fortunes would definitely improve. Alas, I am not that talented.”
“Have you tried?”
Rather than answer, he greeted Dutch and Dorset, a dusty and oddly subdued pair.
“No sign a’nothin’,” Dutch said. “Place gives me the collywobbles in me pandenoodles. Like something’s creepin’ up behind me, but I turn, and nothin’s there.”
“Nothing left in your flask, you mean,” Dorset muttered. “You saw them prints too.”
“Man gets parched this time of year,” Dutch said. “We did see a few more of the dog’s pawprints, milord, and also the big horse. Coming this direction. Can’t say when.”
“You can say when. Were the prints out in the open or under some sort of overhanging bough?”
“In the open. Sun-baked.”
“And fairly deep, I’d wager.”
Dorset squinted at me. “How’d you know that?”
Dutch spoke for me. “A’cause of the rain, dimwit. The prints were made in soft earth, after the rain, but not terreckly after. Right?”
“Correct. That tells us whoever rides the big horse is still in the immediate surrounds.” We also knew that party to be shrewd enough to avoid the open lanes and well-traveled paths closer to Hamden Parva. I’d been keeping a watch for familiar hoofprints and pawprints and seen none.
“I’m ready for supper,” Dorset said, patting his flat belly. “Tramping the countryside is for young soldiers and old vagabonds. Puts an appetite on a fella.”
“Take my horse,” Carstairs said. “I’ll stretch my legs, if Dutch can bear me company.”
“Dutch can take my horse,” I said. “I’m of the same mind. Too much time in the saddle.” I had no idea if Dutch was capable of riding, but the captain’s horse, fatigued by the day’s labors, would amble in the direction of home willingly enough, particularly if his stablemate was at his side.
“Obliged,” Dutch said. “Dorset, let’s be off. We don’t want the captain to worry.”
They caught the horses and were trotting west in short order.
“You will take the bridle path?” Carstairs asked.
“I thought I would. Low light is surprisingly helpful in the search for tracks.” Low light, or light at an angle.
“And you would rather travel alone, I take it.” Not a question, suggesting Carstairs might be in need of solitude.
“Alone or in company, suit yourself.”
He glanced around at the oddly quiet village. “I’ll take the lane. See you at the captain’s, and I’ll make sure there’s some supper for you.”
“Mine is the shorter path.”
“But you will study it and ponder and double back and ponder some more.”
Tracking was best done at a deliberate pace, and besides, I wanted to take a look at the captain’s fishing cottage, an errand best taken care of without Carstairs’s company.
“I propose to meet you and the captain at the inn after supper,” I said. “The ladies will have a report, and I might as well.”
Wishful thinking on my part.
“Then I’ll see you at the inn. If you’re not accounted for within two hours, we’ll add you to the list of those missing in action.” He touched a finger to his hat brim and sauntered off.
I crossed the green and found the bridle path, though I doubted I’d see anything worth note along the trail. Dutch had confirmed our suspicions—the fellow on the big horse was traveling between Hamden Parva and Pleasant View, the hound accompanying him.
I wanted the time to think and thus set a leisurely pace for headquarters. Hamden Parva had put me in mind of Dabney Witherspoon. She, too, had the quality of being arrested in time, bleak, and haunted.
She did not dwell on her grief so much as it dwelled upon her. And yet, I had been attracted to her, perhaps because of that quality of desolation. She had not been attracted to me. I and my rubbishing manly humors were safe to speculate in her direction with no risk of reciprocity.
My perusal of the fishing cottage yielded no insights.
The space was a tidy three-room affair on the lowest floor.
A sitting room-cum-study enjoyed a pleasant view over the trout pond.
At the back, a kitchen did double service as a dining room.
A bedroom also looked out over the pond.
Steps to a garret above revealed plain sleeping quarters, perhaps for staff.
The place felt unused. No lingering scent of the captain’s pipe.
No recent correspondence left to dry on the desk blotter.
The desk itself was serviceable, with wax jack, pen tray, and ink all to hand and a fresh supply of paper in the tray.
An abacus sat atop some sheets of foolscap on which figures were penciled in a tidy hand.
A stack of pamphlets sat to one side—one advocating the crossbreeding of meat and dairy cows, another railing against a government that oppressed the poor on behalf of the rich, a third extolling direct applications of honey to heal wounds.
The captain was an eclectic reader even in absentia. The room was otherwise unremarkable. Two wing chairs by the hearth, a sideboard sporting dusty decanters, a worn floral Axminster carpet on a polished oak floor. Pleasant enough, but lacking the touches that made a space comfortable and personal.
No final letter from Hannah that the captain had overlooked. No kidnappers hiding in plain sight.
Another wasted effort.
I was on Pleasant View land and once again occupied with my own concerns when it occurred to me that if Dabney Witherspoon could have her Andrew returned to her, even without any hope of marital intimacies, she would take the bargain gladly and consider it a miracle of generosity on the part of Providence.
I was still ruminating on that insight as I reached the coaching inn. When Hyperia greeted me, I kissed her on the cheek, despite the captain, Lady Ophelia, and Carstairs looking on.
The ladies confirmed that the Dolans ran a tidy, prosperous establishment and that inquiries directed to Mrs. Dolan regarding dog bones and strangers met with platitudes and shrugs.
“Not surprising, I suppose.” I finished my last bite of mashed potatoes. “Silence can be purchased. If the Dolans have no idea Miss Hannah has gone missing, they have no reason to suspect that Sylvester Downing is anything but a young swell hiding from creditors.”