Page 24

Marjory turned slowly, her eyes reflecting a deep, unspoken grief. “I… I’ve been avoiding that subject,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “The thought of laying him to rest feels so final, like sealing away the last hope of understanding.”

Bridget reached out, resting a reassuring hand on Marjory’s arm. “Perhaps, honoring his memory properly, we’d be preserving the dignity he deserves. It allows us to share our grief, make it easier to bear if only for a short while.”

Marjory’s gaze dropped for a moment before meeting Bridget’s steady eyes. “You’re right, of course. I only wish I were stronger in facing it all.” A faint, rueful smile touched her lips, and she added, “And yet, I suppose we must begin. For his sake as well as our own.”

Bridget offered a gentle nod. “Then I’ll help you every step of the way.”

*

The following day, the sky remained a dull, oppressive gray, as if the heavens themselves mourned with those gathered near the Alastair family gravesite.

Though it was June, a brisk coastal breeze swept through the churchyard, rustling the black mourning veils and carrying with it the scent of damp earth.

The air held a lingering chill, one that clung to the skin despite the season.

Mark Alastair had been laid to rest in his finest, dressed as a man of his standing deserved. His coffin, adorned with a simple yet elegant engraving of the family crest, rested beneath a solemn canopy of yew trees, their branches swaying gently in the morning wind.

Bridget stood toward the back, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders. She had not expected to feel cold, but grief had a way of seeping into the bones.

The clergyman’s voice droned on, steady and practiced, his words meant to comfort the living, though little could ease their grief.

Marjory stood beside the grave, poised yet fragile, her black mourning gown a stark contrast against the pale stone markers of those who had come before. The loss was a suffocating stillness that settled between them.

Even the household staff, many of whom had served Alastair for years, stood among the gentry, their faces drawn and solemn. The stable boys had been permitted to linger at the edges of the gathering, caps in hand, their usual restlessness subdued. They, too, had lost a man they respected.

Marjory had not wept before the others. She carried herself with the quiet dignity expected of a woman of her station, her back straight, her chin lifted.

But Bridget saw the tremor in her shoulders, the way her fingers twisted and untwisted the handkerchief she clutched.

The grief was there, beneath the carefully controlled exterior, simmering just below the surface.

Grenville stood to Bridget’s right, his expression unreadable, hands clasped firmly before him.

Barrington, just beyond, kept his gaze fixed on the grave, his usual air of command tempered by unspoken respect.

Even Blackwood, so often a man of practiced charm, stood in rigid silence, his gloved hands flexing slightly at his sides.

When the final prayers were spoken, and the first shovel of earth fell upon the coffin, a finality settled over them all. One by one, the mourners turned to depart, their murmured condolences barely breaking the still air.

Yet Marjory did not move.

Bridget hesitated, watching as the others drifted back toward the manor, their voices low, their steps slow. But Marjory lingered, her gaze fixed upon the fresh mound of earth.

Bridget stepped forward, quietly, carefully, until she stood beside her friend. For a long moment, Marjory said nothing. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, “He hated being cold.”

The words were so soft Bridget almost thought she imagined them.

Marjory exhaled a slow, unsteady breath, her grip on the handkerchief tightening. “Even in the dead of summer, he’d complain of a chill.” Her lips pressed together, as if willing herself not to say more, not to let grief pull her under.

Bridget reached out, her gloved fingers gently brushing Marjory’s forearm in quiet support.

Marjory swallowed hard. “They took him from me.” The words trembled on the air, raw, pained. “And I cannot even weep.”

Bridget’s heart clenched. “You are not alone,” she murmured.

Marjory turned her face away, blinking fiercely against the sting of unshed tears. Her grief was a cruel thing, and the expectations placed upon a grieving widow even crueler.

Bridget would stay with her. For as long as Marjory needed. She let out a slow breath, forcing her hands to remain at her sides. This was not her loss to grieve, but she understood it. More than that, she understood the need for closure. And she would make certain Marjory had it.

Marjory’s gaze remained fixed on the headstone as her fingers brushed over the folds of her gown, a slight frown crossing her face.

“He kept notes on everything, you know. Every deal, every meeting. Even things I told him in confidence.” Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“But he never trusted a single place to hold them. He’d jot things down on scraps of paper.

He used to slip them into books or tuck them away where no one would think to look.

I always teased him about it, how he couldn’t let a single thought slip away unnoticed.

He didn’t stop until he couldn’t find what he was looking for. ”

“Did he keep his notes somewhere specific?” Bridget asked.

Marjory blinked, her gaze distant. “Yes. There was a book, a battered old volume with a cracked spine. It wasn’t valuable, at least not to anyone but him.

He used it to store things, slipped pages inside, pressed between the covers.

He wouldn’t go anywhere without it.” Her brow furrowed.

“I thought I’d find the book in his desk, but it wasn’t there. ”

“What did he write on the papers? Things about his day?” Bridget pressed.

When Marjory looked at her, she noticed she swallowed hard. “He wasn’t writing about himself. He was writing names.” Marjory’s eyes grew heavy, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I’m simply too tired to think right now,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Seeing the strain etched on her friend’s face, Bridget gently reached for Marjory’s arm. “Come with me. Let’s get you back to the house so you can rest.” Reluctantly, Marjory allowed herself to be led away, her footsteps slow as the reality of the day hit her.

Once Marjory was safely tucked away in the quiet of her private room, Bridget took a deep breath. She needed to speak with Grenville immediately.

But before she could take another step, raised voices drifted from the drawing room.

Frowning, she followed the sound, stopping just outside the threshold as Judge Scofield stood at the center of the room. Everyone was there, including the staff.

The air was thick with subdued conversation and clinking glassware, the guests attempting to return to some semblance of normalcy after the burial. The tension remained, but there was an unspoken expectation that the worst had passed.

“I will not keep you long. But there are matters that must be addressed.”

The murmurs stilled.

Barrington’s gaze swept the room, landing on each guest in turn. When he spoke again, his voice was clear and authoritative.

“Dr. Manning has confirmed what was previously surmised. He determined that Lord Alastair’s death was no accident.”

The reaction was immediate. Several guests stiffened, and others exchanged nervous glances. Lady Worthington inhaled sharply. Lord Davenport’s brows knit together in concern. Even Blackwood’s grip on his glass tightened, his expression unreadable.

“Make no mistake, this was a crime. And until the person responsible is identified, this house remains under investigation.” He paused. “For that reason, no one may leave Alastair Court until further notice.”

The room erupted. Protests burst forth in overlapping waves, voices rising in disbelief, outrage, and fear. Chairs scraped against the floor. The refined calm of the drawing room dissolved into a cacophony of objections.

Lord Davenport exhaled sharply. “Surely that is unnecessary?”

Barrington’s gaze did not waver. “So is murder, Lord Davenport.”

A tense silence followed. Barrington let it settle before delivering the next blow.

“To ensure order is maintained,” Barrington continued.

“Judge Scofield has gone to Bamburgh Castle to make arrangements for the militia. Until he returns, your full cooperation is expected. The magistrate’s office will oversee proceedings here, and I strongly advise against interfering with this investigation. ”

Lady Worthington visibly blanched. “The militia?” she repeated, her voice strained.

“You mean to bring soldiers into a house of nobility?” Lady Carlisle muttered.

Barrington’s expression hardened. “A man was murdered. I will not risk another.”

Another pause. Some of the guests looked away, others stared at Scofield in open discomfort.

Only one man seemed wholly unbothered by the declaration.

Lord Blackwood tilted his head, his voice laced with mild curiosity.

“I assume, Barrington, that you are overseeing things in Scofield’s absence.”

The question hung in the air, drawing every gaze to Barrington.

Instead of answering directly, Barrington let the question remain unanswered.

“I expect this house to conduct itself accordingly,” he said instead.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Blackwood’s gaze flickered toward Barrington, suspicion sparking in his eyes. He let out a quiet exhale, a smirk just ghosting his lips.

“Convenient,” he murmured, barely loud enough for those nearest to hear.

“Until Scofield returns, I suggest you all make yourselves comfortable.”

With that, Barrington turned and left the room, leaving behind an even more unsettled household.

As the guests began to murmur among themselves, Barrington’s words settled over them like a shroud. No one moved to leave the house, but there was an unspoken restlessness, a lingering unease that made them hesitant to remain where they stood.

Bridget knew this was her opportunity. While others remained distracted, she quietly made her way from the drawing room, slipping through the dimly lit corridor toward the library.

She found Grenville standing by a window, his face set in a determined expression.

Approaching him, she spoke in a hushed yet firm tone, “Captain, we must act quickly. The scraps, Alastair wasn’t merely writing notes. He was leaving us clues. If what Barrington told us about the Order is true, they will stop at nothing to keep their secrets hidden.”

He turned at the sound of her voice, the tightness around his eyes easing slightly. “We’ve come too far to falter now.”

He met her gaze. “I understand. We’ll leave no stone unturned.”

Bridget nodded once, but her mind was already racing. There wouldn’t be another chance like this. If they didn’t find Alastair’s notes soon, the truth might vanish along with whoever wanted it buried.