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“H ow did your reading with Mrs. Hillman go?” Athena asked from her seat by the drawing room hearth, when Selena returned to Thorndale Manor later that afternoon.

“Very well.” Selena warmed her hands by the fire.

“You are her favorite, you know.” Athena put down the papers she was grading. “Mrs. Hillman told me that you are ‘just the tonic she needs.’”

Selena laughed as she sat down across from Athena. “The feeling is mutual. But I’m dying to know! Did you speak to Edward Ackroyd?”

“I did.”

“What did he say? Do you think he did it?”

“One question at a time.” Athena gave her sister an overview of their conversation.

Selena frowned. “You make him sound very sympathetic.”

“He was. I felt sorry for him. I think he adored Miss Vernon and worried for her safety at the hands of that brute she was going to marry. Mr. Ackroyd admitted that he wanted to kill him.”

“But he wasn’t at the garden party?”

“That’s what he said . But he couldn’t look me in the eye.” Athena stood and paced before the hearth. “I think he lied. I think he was at that party.”

“Mama taught us to trust our gut. Diana said the same thing.”

“I need to check his alibi. Someone might remember seeing him at the party, or at the pub.”

“What can I do to help?”

“You are already helping by teaching our girls brilliantly and acting as my sounding board.”

“I’d like to do more.”

“I’ll let you know if I think of something. Meanwhile, I’m not going to sit and twiddle my thumbs. Mr. Ackroyd is a viable suspect, but there may be others. There’s one avenue I haven’t yet explored.”

“What’s that?”

“The maid who said she found rat poison in Caroline Vernon’s room.”

“That’s right! Ethel Leighton.”

“Mrs. Lloyd doesn’t know Ethel’s married name or where she lives now. I’m going to ask around in the village. I think I’ll start at the apothecary shop.”

“The apothecary? Why?”

“I want to buy a cough remedy for Miss Osborn. And while I’m there—Mr. Quince and his daughter have lived in Darkmoor Bridge forever. They might know something about Ethel Leighton.”

*

Quince’s Apothecary Shop, according to the gilded sign above the front door, had been established in 1784.

Athena entered to find the place crowded with customers.

Two walls were covered in rows of mahogany drawers and shelves that housed a seemingly endless number of bottles labeled with mysterious Latin names.

She spotted Neville Sinclair chatting with the vicar beside a table that advertised various items for sale, including spices, candles, salad oil, and tobacco.

Behind the counter, Mr. Quince, a gentleman of medium height with a florid face and bushy, silver sideburns, was mixing something with a mortar and pestle.

Miss Quince, an attractive blonde who was as tall and sturdily built as her father, was attending the first in a long line of customers. Athena joined the queue.

The bell on the shop door rang and Mr. Osborn hobbled in with his cane, his expression dour beneath his faded cap.

“Mr. Osborn, how do you do?” Athena greeted him cheerfully.

“Still this side of the grave.” He stopped behind her and didn’t return her smile.

“What brings you in today?” she inquired.

“I need something for the pain.” He rubbed his shoulder above the empty jacket sleeve that was pinned across his chest. “My arm might be gone, but it throbs like it’s still there. And my hip still troubles me something fierce.”

“I’m sorry. I hope Mr. Quince can help you. And I hope to pick up a remedy for Miss Osborn’s cough.”

“Don’t waste your money.” He scoffed. “The stuff he gave Bridget last time made her too sleepy to work.”

His lack of empathy took Athena aback. “But surely, you would rather have your daughter rest than work, if she is ill?”

“Bridget’s fine. I can’t have her lazing about the house. Not if we want to eat.”

“I see.” Recalling something Selena had said the day before, Athena redirected the conversation. “Sir. I believe you’ve lived in the neighborhood many years, isn’t that so?”

His eyes narrowed, as if surprised by this change of topic. “Since I was sixteen. Got a job here working on a building crew and never left. Why?”

“I am hoping you can answer a question for me, about local history.”

“I can try.”

“I’m interested in the fate of one of the former residents of my house—Miss Caroline Vernon.”

He glanced down quickly at his boots. It was a moment before he spoke. “She was a dark one.”

“Was she?”

“She killed Harold Sinclair.”

Athena struggled to keep her expression passive. “Perhaps so. After all, a witness at Miss Vernon’s trial, Ethel Leighton, claimed to have found rat poison in the young lady’s bedchamber.”

“So they said.”

“Did you know Ethel Leighton?”

“Never met her.”

Before Athena could respond, the woman in line before her turned around and said, “I remember Ethel.”

“You do?” Athena recognized the speaker as Mrs. Powell, the village seamstress. They had been introduced at church. A petite woman with a coronet of light-brown braids, Mrs. Powell was attired in a beautifully tailored grey frock that Athena guessed had been copied from a Parisian fashion plate.

“I made a wedding dress for Ethel.” Mrs. Powell scowled. “She skipped town to get married and never paid me for it.”

“Oh, no!” Athena bit her lip in sympathy.

“Put one over on you, did she, eh, Mrs. Powell?” Mr. Osborn let out a loud, scornful breath.

“Yes, and the fabric and lace trim for that gown cost me a great deal,” Mrs. Powell told him, still frowning.

“Doesn’t surprise me.” He shook his head. “People never seem to pay their debts these days.”

“Mrs. Powell,” Athena cut in, “do you know whom Ethel married? Or where she lives now?”

“I have no idea. If I did, I’d be the first to call on her and demand that money.”

Athena nodded, struggling to hide her disappointment. “May I ask you something else, ma’am? It may seem out of the blue, but it’s related to that same time period.”

“Yes?”

“Did you attend the garden party at Woodcroft House, the one where Harold Sinclair… met his unfortunate end?”

Mrs. Powell tilted her head, and her forehead puckered. “Yes, I believe I did.”

“Do you remember if Mr. Edward Ackroyd was at the party?”

“Mr. Edward Ackroyd? Oh! You mean that sailor who was in love with Caroline Vernon?” Mrs. Powell’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t recall. It was so long ago. Nearly everyone in the village was there, though.” She turned away just as the shop bell rang again.

Well, Athena thought, she had learned one useful thing from this conversation: Ethel Leighton had left town without paying for an expensive wedding dress—which substantiated both the notion that she’d left to get married, and her reputation as a thief.

Just then, Mr. Chapman strode in, his face lighting up when he saw Athena. “Miss Taylor! Good morning.” He took his place in line and lifted his hat to Mr. Osborn. “Sir.”

Osborn grunted in reply.

Athena gave Mr. Chapman a concerned smile. “I hope you aren’t here because you’re unwell?”

“Not at all. I’m here for Mrs. Hillman. She gets anxious at night and asked me to get her something to help her sleep.”

“I see.” Athena recalled how anxious the woman had gotten every time they’d spoken about Caroline Vernon. She was resolved to never bring up the subject with Mrs. Hillman again. “So. Are you all prepared for your music lesson this afternoon?”

“I am. I’ll see you promptly at four as usual.”

Mrs. Powell cut in. “Sir, did I hear correctly? Do you teach music?”

“I do.”

Athena introduced them. “Sir, allow me to present Mrs. Cora Powell, the talented seamstress who runs the millinery shop in the village? And ma’am, may I present Mr. Peter Chapman, an extraordinary musician who now teaches music, singing, and dancing at the Darkmoor Bridge School for Girls?”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Powell,” said Mr. Chapman with a bow.

Mrs. Powell returned the compliment with a curtsy, adding, “I wonder, Mr. Chapman, if you could teach my daughter to play? I have been looking for a pianoforte teacher.”

“I would be happy to stop by and discuss the matter, ma’am.” Mr. Chapman quickly went over the details with Mrs. Powell.

When their tête-à-tête had concluded, Mrs. Powell turned to Athena. “I’ve been meaning to ask, how is your school faring? Is it true that you only have five students?”

Athena wanted to scream with frustration but forced herself to smile. “Yes, ma’am, but we’re new. Enrollment will pick up in time.”

“It will, without a doubt,” insisted Mr. Chapman, coming to Athena’s rescue. “The Darkmoor Bridge School for Girls is, Mrs. Powell, one of the finest educational institutions in all of Yorkshire.”

Mrs. Powell’s brows rose, and her tone conveyed skepticism. “Is it?”

“Yes, ma’am. I am privileged to work there. If you are looking for a school for your daughter, you can do no better. Why, its teachers have such a sterling reputation that the venerable Mrs. Rose Hillman is a patron. She made a very generous endowment to the school.”

A keen look now lit Mrs. Powell’s eyes. “Did she, indeed?”

“Mrs. Hillman is so impressed with the talents of Miss Taylor and Miss Selena that she has employed them to give private readings to her at Darkmoor Park two afternoons a week. I believe Miss Taylor goes every Wednesday and Miss Selena every Sunday, isn’t that right?”

Athena, both embarrassed and flattered by his praise, admitted, “Yes. But really, I’m sure no one is interested in that.”

“I’m interested.” It was Miss Quince speaking now from behind the counter. “I’m glad to hear of anything that makes Mrs. Hillman happy. She is one of our best customers.”

Athena smiled at that. But her smile vanished a second later when the customer ahead of Mrs. Powell finished paying and turned around.

It was Edward Ackroyd.