Page 33 of The Lover’s Eye

“Why are you coming to me with this?” Giles’s voice was sharp, his palm clasped against his forehead. He was pacing the library, indifferent to how rude his conduct must appear to his guest.

“I’m sorry for havin’ to do it, Lord Trevelyan,” said the little man standing by the door, his hat in his hands. “But the coroner needs men for his jurors.”

Giles stopped and looked at Mr. Heppel, a country squire who owned a substantial portion of land adjoining Giles’s own. He was also in the volunteer position of local magistrate. “Can’t you ask Pemberton? Or Bellows?”

“They’ve already agreed.”

Giles ran a hand over his face, feeling the prickle of stubble on his cheek. This could not be happening. Especially not now, on his wedding day, when he should be upstairs with Isobel, beginning a new life with the only woman he wanted.

“Mr. Heppel, I got married today. There could not be worse timing in all the world.”

Mr. Heppel had not celebrated his fortieth year, but had a head so hairless it shone in the dull light.

He did not seem shocked by the announcement, but instead offered an apologetic smile.

“I offer my sincerest congratulations, Lord Trevelyan, truly I do. I promise I’ll do my best to get the business settled quickly, and see to it that you’re returned to the new Lady Trevelyan. ”

Right, Giles thought. Nothing will make me want to bed my wife like viewing someone’s remains. He still was not convinced they belonged to Aurelia; it seemed a hasty conclusion to jump to.

With a low growl of frustration, Giles went into the entry hall where a footman fetched his coat, hat, and gloves.

He was never more irritable to be a nobleman, to be duty bound to aid in an inquest. But he knew it would only appear worse if he refused.

Refusal would make it seem as though he was still devoted to Aurelia, as if his affections were not loyal to Isobel.

Or worse: it could make him appear guilty of the darkest, quietest accusations people leveled behind his back.

“If you need a moment to explain matters to your bride, I can wait here,” Mr. Heppel offered brightly.

Giles scowled at him before turning to Finch. The butler was lingering in the entryway with glassy eyes, clinging to any escaping morsels of information about the discovery of a body.

“Finch,” Giles commanded, hardly knowing the words he spoke. “Have someone inform my wife I won’t be up tonight.”

The old man bowed in obedience and disappeared down the shadowy corridor.

“Where are we off to?” Giles asked, skipping down the steps to the waiting gig below.

“Ceto’s Hole.”

Giles was thankful his back had been to the man. He’d have been ashamed for anyone to see the shock and anguish that contorted his face. As he climbed into the gig and Mr. Heppel collected the ribbons, Giles looked up at the imposing face of Cambo House.

He could not see Isobel’s windows from here, could not determine if she watched him depart or kept a light on in waiting. He felt a clenching ache in his chest, a soft feeling amid his mounting frustration. What must she think?

When Heppel’s gig found the coastline, the jagged cliffs appeared like the ends of the earth. Night made the sea an elusive being. A floating cloud obscured the moon and prevented all the milky reflections that usually made the scene pleasing to Giles.

The pair jumped down from the gig, which they had left a good distance from the treacherous hole. Heppel was detaching his oil lamp from the small vehicle when they became aware of more hooves bounding toward them, the thundering beats carried forth by violent sea winds.

It was Pemberton and Bellows, the third man recruited as juror to the inquest, and close behind them the coroner arrived with two little boys. Mr. Heppel must have seen Giles’s confusion by the light of his lamp. “They’s the ones who found her,” he said.

Pemberton leapt down and strode over in the work of a few long, masculine strides. “If these children are telling tales, they’ll have hell to pay!”

The little boys, unfamiliar to Giles, came staggering up, one of the coroner’s large hands at each of their backs. They couldn’t have been above ten years of age, and their eyes were red and swollen.

“We aren’t lyin’ sir, promise!” one said, his bottom lip struggling to not bow into a pout.

“Well, you make a bold claim telling who it is you’ve found,” Pemberton said unflinchingly. “Bold of you to be playing around that blasted hole, too.”

The coroner’s voice was leashed and smooth by comparison. “It will be best if we go on,” he said, “before the tide comes in.”

The party made their way up the coastline in a jagged assembly of gas light, the coroner allowing the boys who made the discovery to lead the way. Ceto’s Hole appeared before them suddenly in the blackness, as if from thin air.

“Woah,” the coroner said smoothly, halting himself and the boys by their collars. Everyone else paused behind. “Is this the place, boys? This is where you found her?”

“Yes,” they said in tremulous unison.

“It’s her, I know it,” one boy continued, “I won’t forget her pretty hair, and she wears that necklace with the eye.”

Giles’s breath stuck in his windpipe. Devil take me . They must be telling the truth.

The coroner, an agile man of middle age, directed the children to stay a safe distance back. He took light steps toward the gaping sinkhole, deliberate in choosing where to place his weight, and came to the edge.

The opening in the earth’s crust was like an evil, yawning mouth; a sheer drop-off with ragged borders of sea moss and rock, giving way to the shingle beach below. At this closeness, Giles realized with a sick feeling the hole was large enough to accommodate a small cottage.

“I cannot see,” the coroner called back. “It’s too deep. Is there some other way—”

A tumble of rock and dirt cascaded out from under one of his feet, breaking away and crashing below. Giles leapt forward to seize the man by the arm, towing him back to the group.

Everyone stood frozen for a moment, listening to the clink of residual pebbles skipping off rocks until they settled in the depths below.

“Are you all right?” Giles asked.

“Yes,” the coroner said, his voice wavering slightly. “Thank you.”

“What about your boathouse, Pemberton?” Bellows asked.

“What about it?”

“Could we reach the sinkhole if we started there and walked the beach?”

Giles shook his head. “It’s too far. The coast changes too much.”

“Even if it didn’t, we don’t have time for that,” Pemberton said, looking out at the sea, which was growing more illuminated by a thinning cloud. “Winds like this will bring the tide in fast.”

“It’s probably those same winds that brought her in,” Bellows remarked dryly.

Pemberton was asked to guide the way. He led the group safely out of range of Ceto’s Hole and advanced them further up the coastline, until the cliffs softened and came further inland.

The party picked their way down to the shingle beach, scaling ridges of water-hewn limestone and issuing all manner of threats for the boys to wait above.

Rocks rippled beneath Giles’s feet, their uneven texture palpable even through the thick soles of his boots.

The men followed Pemberton around the snaking, unpredictable curve of cliff; everyone gone quiet, doubtless thinking about the unpleasant task ahead.

The rocks turned large and slick, scattered with pebbles and blooms of moss—a perfect breeding ground of hazards.

When they reached the outermost protrusion of cliff, they became privy to a low, cavernous opening, too low to see beneath from standing height.

It was clear that where they stood became the seabed at high tide.

Sand squished beneath their feet, making unpleasant squelching sounds, and the stagnant scent of fermented seaweed assailed Giles’s nostrils.

At least, he hoped that was what he was smelling.

“We don’t have long,” Pemberton said, looking at the encroaching sea. Then to the coroner, “Make it fast, man.”

The shallow arch necessitated the men lowering to their hands and knees to crawl in.

The coroner crouched first, staring inside.

The cloud moved off the moon then, revealing the sea, the cliffs—the interior of that wretched hole—in pearlescent light.

The seasoned professional grimaced at what he saw.

“I shall go first, then send each of you in one at a time to surmise your findings,” he said, then disappeared beneath the arch.

It wasn’t long before the coroner reemerged, his mouth compressed to a tight line. His trousers were soaked with saltwater, and he rubbed soiled palms down them in vain. “Lord Trevelyan,” he said, motioning toward the entrance.

Giles gave a terse nod and someone handed him their lamp. The metal handle was warm in his hands, a contrast to the frigid damp that penetrated his trousers the instant he lowered to the ground. He started making his way beneath the fragile limestone arch at once. He refused to show hesitation.

The unpleasant scent grew stronger as he progressed, taking on a sharp, acrid odor.

He forced himself to breathe through his mouth.

The rocky ground was sharp beneath his hands and knees, causing him to wince in pain on more than one occasion.

He felt the scrape of rock against his back in spots, the meager opening shrinking and broadening without predictability.

If someone told me this was the entrance to Hades, I’d believe them.

The imagined pressure of rock vanished above him, and the night wind cooled and dampened his face once more. His eyes were still trained on the ground beneath him, but he could sense a second presence. Gathering his strength, Giles stood.