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Athena looked at the elderly woman with renewed interest. “Do you happen to remember a hanging that took place nine years ago? A woman by the name of Caroline Vernon?”

The old woman pursed her lips and seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. “I should do. Not nearly so many women are hanged as men. Nine year ago, ye say? That would be 1841? What was her name again?”

“Caroline Vernon. She was accused of murdering the man to whom she’d been betrothed.”

The woman’s bushy, white brows quirked upwards, and she bobbed her head. “Aye, now I remember the one ye’re speaking of. She were a lady, weren’t she? Not the usual common filth?”

“She was a gentlewoman, yes.” Athena’s heart pattered rapidly. This woman had actually been here the day that Caroline Vernon had died. Athena wondered suddenly if Mr. Vernon had witnessed the hanging. How dreadful that must have been. “What can you remember about that day?”

“I’d say a good five thousand people turned out for that one.

They’d put up posters all over York. ’Tis not often ye get to see a woman prisoner take the short drop, much less a woman of her class.

Skinny, pale young thing, as I recall. Might have used to be pretty, but who could tell with that shaved head and sickly complexion?

She held her head high, though, when they marched her up to the platform, I remember that.

But…” The old woman scratched her chest and let go a sigh.

“The people who come to see a hanging are wicked, miss. They booed and shouted at her and cheered when the thing were over.”

“How horrible.” Tears pricked at Athena’s eyes. “She was innocent, you know. She didn’t commit the murder of which she’d been convicted.”

The woman snickered. “That’s what they all say, dearie. Most of them what get hanged here deserve what’s coming to them.”

Athena’s heart felt as though it had begun to bleed. Incapable of further speech, she managed a small “Thank you” and, after giving the woman several more coins from her bag, she walked away.

At the railway station, Athena—her stomach too tightly wound to eat—gave the apple to a hungry-looking young lad selling newspapers. During the train ride to Darkmoor Bridge, she barely noticed the passing landscape, so deep was she in unhappy contemplation about all that she had seen and heard.

Miss Vernon , Athena vowed silently as she wiped away tears, I swear I will find out who did this to you. I will avenge your death.

And I hope it will help you to rest in peace.

*

Athena’s dreams that night were haunted by what she’d seen and heard at York. She found herself walking the endless halls of a prison, past cells housing starved, bald, wailing women prisoners who shoved their thin arms through the bars and pleaded with Athena to get them out.

The dream’s tortuous route reached the end of a hall.

Athena stopped short at the sight of the prisoner who stared out at her from behind the bars.

She was rail thin, her head had been shaved, and her features were hollow—but Caroline Vernon’s cornflower-blue eyes were recognizable, as vivid as those in the portrait Athena had seen, yet now haunted with fear and misery.

“Find Ethel Leighton!” Miss Vernon whispered. “Find her and free me!”

“Ethel Leighton?” Athena repeated.

“She lied on the witness stand. I don’t know why. Perhaps someone told her to do it. Promise me that you will find her!”

“I will, I promise!” Athena replied before awakening with a gasp.

Their new maid, Laura, a sweet, quiet woman in her mid-twenties whose dark-brown hair was neatly pinned up beneath her white cap, was opening the curtains. Athena lay in bed, crumpling the edge of her coverlet with dismay.

“What’s wrong?” Selena was at the basin, washing her face.

“I had an awful dream.” Athena told her sister about it and sighed.

“If only I could make good on that promise. If only I could find Ethel Leighton and learn why she lied. Did she have a motive to kill Harold Sinclair? Was she blackmailed? Either way, if I could get her to admit to her part in this, it would help disprove Caroline Vernon’s guilt. ”

“But to find her, we need to know her married name and uncover some clue as to where she lives now,” Selena said as she dried her face.

“I’ve asked so many people about it,” Athena replied. “Nobody has been able to help.”

“Pardon me, Miss Taylor.” Laura glanced up tentatively from the hearth, where she was laying a new fire. “Did you say you’re looking for an Ethel Leighton?”

“We are. She briefly worked here nine years ago.”

Laura rose and wiped her hands on her apron, her eyes directed at the floor as she spoke. “There is a groundskeeper at Woodcroft House named Mr. Leighton. He used to let me play on the grounds as a girl.”

Athena sat up abruptly. “Is this man any relation to Ethel Leighton?”

“I don’t know.”

Athena pulled back her covers and stood, newfound hope pouring through her veins. “Thank you, Laura.”

As soon as her classes were finished that morning, Athena hurried to Woodcroft House, where she found the groundskeeper, Mr. Leighton, a sturdy, weathered-looking man, weeding the hedgerows.

Athena explained her errand. He nodded and informed her that Ethel was his cousin.

“I haven’t seen her in many a year, miss. But we exchange letters now and then. Her married name is Hunt. She lives at Goose Down Cottage in Duxley-on-Green.”

Athena was almost too excited to speak. “Thank you, sir.”

Athena discovered that Duxley-on-Green was a small village just twenty-five miles distant, and accessible by the train to York. She wanted to call on Ethel Hunt without delay.

“What will you say?” Selena asked, when Athena had described her plans. “If she’s truly guilty—if she stole money from the Vernons and lied on the witness stand—I doubt she’ll be willing to share her misdeeds with you.”

“I have to try.” It was a long way to travel, however, without a guarantee of an audience.

Athena quickly wrote the woman a letter.

Thorndale Manor

Darkmoor Bridge, Yorkshire

Dear Mrs. Hunt,

Pray excuse my boldness in writing to you.

My name is Athena Taylor. I am the headmistress at the Darkmoor Bridge School for Girls.

I am acquainted with your cousin Mr. Albert Leighton, who speaks so very highly of you!

He said you were a valued member of the staff at Thorndale Manor some years ago.

I will be in your neighborhood this Sunday afternoon. I should so like to meet you! Would it be convenient for me to call on you then? Many thanks and I look forward to hearing from you.

Best regards,

Athena Taylor

A reply came swiftly. It was brief and to the point.

Goose Down Cottage

Duxley-on-Green, Yorkshire

Dear Miss Taylor,

I will be at home this Sunday afternoon. My time is short, as I have six children and a great many responsibilities, but I should be pleased to meet you.

Best wishes,

Mrs. Ethel Hunt

After church on Sunday, Athena took the train to the stop a few miles before York, and from there walked the two miles to Duxley-on-Green.

The village was small and quaint, and after asking directions, she found Goose Down Cottage, which stood on a side street in a row of tiny, identical, grey stone cottages.

The patch of grass in front needed mowing, and the black paint was peeling on the front door.

A frazzled-looking servant in a plain, grey dress and white apron showed Athena to the front parlor, a small room with fraying furniture, where a plump woman in a yellow gown paraded back and forth, bouncing a wailing infant in her arms. Five children who looked to range from ages two to eight darted noisily about or played on the floor at her feet.

“Miss Taylor to see you,” the serving woman announced. The children stopped carousing and crying and stared wide-eyed at Athena.

Athena smiled at the youngsters. “Hello. How are you all today?” The oldest two, a rosy-cheeked boy and girl, giggled.

The woman called out loudly, “Mary! Take the baby and all the children upstairs.” After the servant and children had left, the woman held out her hand. “I am Mrs. Hunt.”

Athena took the woman in, from her messy, brown hair to the spots on her yellow dress and matching slippers, wondering if, in addition to the other purported crimes of which Athena suspected her, could she be a killer as well? “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

They shook hands.

Mrs. Hunt gestured to an available chair. “Please have a seat.” As they both sat down, she added, “I admit I was surprised to hear from you, Miss Taylor. How do you know my cousin Albert?”

“I met him on the grounds of Woodcroft House,” Athena replied truthfully.

“We don’t correspond often. How is it that he came to speak of me?”

Athena now launched into her prepared story. “I’m writing a history of my house, Thorndale Manor. Just for my own personal records, you understand. Mr. Leighton said you were once on staff there and might be able to share some stories with me.”

Mrs. Hunt’s brown eyes grew wary. “I only worked at Thorndale Manor for a few months, and it was a long time ago.”

“Yes, nine years ago, I think he said?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you have any special memories of the place?”

Mrs. Hunt fidgeted with her hands in her lap. “Not really. I got married soon after. I just came and went.”

“A rather notorious incident occurred around that time.” Athena leaned forward in her chair. “I’m sure you know the story. Miss Caroline Vernon was convicted of murdering the man to whom she was engaged, Mr. Harold Sinclair.”

Mrs. Hunt paused as if in reflection. “Oh. Yes, I do recall.”

“What else do you remember of that time?”

“Nothing much. I was just a housemaid. I did my work, and I didn’t mix with the family.”