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It seemed a harsh assessment for a daughter who had just lost her life.

The man must be in the throes of shock , Athena thought.

She had heard that the widower had lost his right arm and fractured his hip in an accident some years ago and could no longer work.

She knew as well that Miss Osborn, a barmaid at the village pub, was the main support of the family, but Sally’s earnings as a housemaid had helped as well.

Bridget Osborn coughed and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her plaid, cotton dress. “Oh, Miss Taylor! My only sister and now she’s gone.”

“I can’t believe it.” Athena’s heart went out to the young woman and her father.

“I woke up to find she hadn’t slept in her bed, so I came looking for her. And to come upon her like that, face down in the river, after her acting so strange last night! It’s a sight I’ll never get over as long as I live.”

Athena wanted to ask what Miss Osborn meant. In what way had Sally been acting strange last night? But before she could voice the question, two men in rough clothing came marching down the path, carrying an old door between them.

“Bring that over here!” boomed Mr. Sinclair. He directed the men’s efforts to lay the door on the ground and lift Sally’s body upon it. “All right, then,” Sinclair announced when the action was completed, “bring her back to Osborn’s house, and be quick about it.”

The onlookers made a sad-looking procession as they followed the two men and their unfortunate cargo up the curving path that led to the bridge, leaving Athena alone on the embankment with Mr. Sinclair and the vicar.

Mr. Vernon had taken his horse to the river’s edge to drink from the flowing waters.

“It’s all about asking questions and writing down what you observe,” Mr. Sinclair was saying to Mr. Johnson. Athena headed in their direction.

“And forming a conclusion based on the facts,” the vicar commented.

“Yes, of course.” Mr. Sinclair tugged on his bushy, blond mustache. “I’ll show you my report when it’s completed. I dare say a few more times and you can handle this on your own, Mr. Johnson.”

“Very good, sir.”

Athena held out her gloved hand to the vicar. “I’m so sad about Sally Osborn.”

“As are we all, Miss Taylor.” Mr. Johnson’s eyes were sad as he shook her hand. “Do you know Mr. Sinclair?”

“We have never met.”

The vicar gestured to the gentleman beside him. “Mr. Sinclair, this is Miss Taylor of Thorndale Manor. Miss Taylor: Neville Sinclair, our parish constable and the newly appointed magistrate for County York.”

“Sir.” Athena curtseyed. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“And yours.” Sinclair greeted her with a firm handshake. To the vicar, he said, “We’re done here, Johnson, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir. Good morning, Miss Taylor.” The vicar doffed his hat and bowed before striding away.

“Mr. Sinclair, can you tell me what happened?” Athena asked. “How is it that Sally Osborn came to be drowned?”

“It will all be in my report.” He headed for his steed, who was tethered to a tree across the way.

“A report I will never see,” Athena replied, matching him stride for side. “Please, sir, I was Sally Osborn’s employer. I feel a responsibility to her. I should be grateful if you would share your views as to what occurred.”

He paused, a sigh escaping his mouth. “You were her employer, you said?” He studied her. “That’s right, Johnson said you’re the new resident of Thorndale Manor?”

“I’m the owner of Thorndale Manor,” Athena corrected him. “My sister and I run the Darkmoor Bridge School for Girls.”

“Ah, yes. I heard about that. Did I also hear that you haven’t been able to drum up more than a handful of pupils?”

Athena’s face grew warm. Was it common knowledge that they’d had trouble attracting pupils to their school? “We have only just opened, sir. I’m sure we will have a full complement of students soon.”

“If that’s your aim, Miss Taylor, I’m sorry to say, you chose the wrong house.

But perhaps you weren’t aware of its history when you moved in?

” He darted a contemptuous look at Mr. Vernon, who was leading his horse back up from the riverbank.

“Did you know that that man’s sister murdered my brother, Harold? ”

Athena was briefly stunned into silence. The two men exchanged a look of such deep, unspoken animosity, it seemed to vibrate through the air. Vernon swiftly mounted his steed and trotted away.

“I have heard the story,” Athena said, watching Mr. Vernon ride off. But she admitted silently, she’d been so focused on the identity of the criminal, Miss Caroline Vernon, she’d forgotten that the murder victim had been named Harold Sinclair. This man’s brother.

“Good luck with that school of yours, Miss Taylor. You’ll need it.”

Athena’s hackles went up. “We don’t need luck. We shall make our way with hard work and devotion to our pupils’ welfare. And, sir, you have still not answered my question. What happened here?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?

The path is damp from last night’s rain.

Sally Osborn was on her way to work when she slipped and hit her head on one of those rocks.

She was knocked unconscious and fell into the water, where she drowned.

As I said, it will all be in my report.” With that, he headed off towards his waiting horse.

On her way home, Athena reflected on all she’d learned. She couldn’t argue with Mr. Sinclair’s reasoning. It did indeed appear as though Sally had met with a terrible accident that morning.

And yet, once again, that strange sense came over her, as if something about Sally’s body hadn’t been right. Had Mr. Sinclair missed something?

If so, what?

*

“I’m so sorry this has happened, girls.” Athena surveyed the grave faces of the five pupils seated around her and Selena.

Thorndale Manor’s drawing room was painted a restful shade of blue with white trimmings.

A fire blazed in the marble fireplace. The elegant furnishings—two sofas and four wingback chairs upholstered in flowered tapestry fabric, a polished sideboard with carved legs, and several mahogany tables of varying heights and sizes—had come with the house at the time of sale, as had most of the furniture on the property.

The shadows on many walls, however, spoke of paintings that had been removed, and the built-in shelves in this room—which she deduced must have also served as the library—were bare, making her wonder what tomes used to reside there.

It was the social hour after dinner, a time when students gathered to read, chat, and do needlework. No one had taken out their books or projects tonight, however. The girls had sat in absorbed silence, listening as Athena had explained what had happened to Sally.

“I regret to say that I did not know Sally Osborn well,” Athena continued. “We only met five months ago, when Miss Selena and I came to live here. But I was impressed by her good manners, and her devotion to her work and family. We will all miss her.”

For a long moment, the stillness in the room was only punctuated by sniffles from two of the girls. Then a voice cried out.

“I was there!” Miss Jones thrust her shoulders back as she watched the other girls’ reactions. “I saw her body.”

“We know,” declared Janet Weaver, a prim, thin-faced girl, who at age twelve was the oldest and tallest student at the school. “You’ve only told us about a thousand times.”

“Miss Jones,” Selena admonished gently from her position on a wingback chair. “What happened to Sally is very unfortunate and sad. I am sure it was an upsetting thing to witness. Let us show our respect for the deceased.”

With downcast eyes, Miss Jones shrank back onto the sofa.

“Sally was nice,” remarked ten-year-old Phoebe Gilbert, wiping her damp eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief.

“She made our beds for us, when we said we didn’t want to,” added Cecelia Gilbert, Phoebe’s nine-year-old sister, dabbing her own eyes.

The Gilbert sisters were attired in matching white frocks with crimson piping and sashes, and their brown plaits were tied at the ends with red ribbons.

“Will we have to make our own beds now?” Miss Cecelia’s pale forehead furrowed.

“I should think so,” Athena replied firmly.

Miss Gilbert and Miss Cecelia crossed their arms over their chests and exclaimed in unison, “Oh, bother!”

“How selfish you are, to complain about making your beds,” Miss Weaver criticized. “Sally just drowned in a tragic accident.”

“It wasn’t an accident.”

All eyes turned to Lucy Russell, who had made this statement.

“What do you mean, Miss Russell?” Athena asked.

Miss Russell replied in a strong, clear voice. “I mean that Sally didn’t slip and fall into the river. She was murdered.”