Page 45

T he only sounds that broke the stillness in Mrs. Hunt’s cozy front parlor were the ticking of the old, wooden clock on the mantel and the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Athena struggled to sit patiently as Mrs. Hunt fidgeted in the chair across from her. At last, the woman spoke.

“A few weeks before Albert and I were to wed, we were in the pub one night and talking about the stolen money.” Mrs. Hunt blinked rapidly.

“Someone must have overheard. Soon after, I got a note from someone threatening to tell the parish constable. Unless I met him at midnight on the riverbank, by the bridge.”

The same place where Sally Osborn had been found dead—and where she had presumably met her killer. “Did you meet him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No. He wore a mask.”

“Otherwise, what did he look like? Was he tall or short? Thin or fat? What color hair did he have?”

“He was of medium height, I’d say, with broad shoulders, and he had blond hair.”

Blond hair. It was a perfect description of Mr. Carson—if he had killed Harold Sinclair out of revenge for his friend George Osborn.

It was also a perfect description of Edward Ackroyd.

And Athena realized suddenly, of Mr. Neville Sinclair.

Something else occurred to Athena. Margaret Quince was also a blonde. “Is there any chance it could have been a woman disguised as a man?”

Mrs. Hunt paused. “I suppose. I remember he spoke very low and seemed to be disguising his voice. He—or she—said all I had to do to buy their silence was to say I had found rat poison in Miss Vernon’s bedroom.

” Mrs. Hunt’s lips quivered. “What choice did I have? Theft is a hanging offense, Miss Taylor.”

“It doesn’t excuse telling such a horrific lie, does it?”

A tear formed in Mrs. Hunt’s eye, and she dashed it away. “Be careful whom you judge, Miss Taylor. I pray you are never put in the position I was. You can’t know what decision you might make in such a circumstance.”

I can , Athena thought . I would never lie to save my own skin, if it caused an innocent person to die.

Quietly, she said, “I see that you have a good heart, Mrs. Hunt. And I believe your conscience has been troubling you for a long time. Please. Won’t you come forward?

Tell your story to the authorities and unburden yourself. ”

“I cannot!” Mrs. Hunt cried. “I’m a married woman with six young children!

What would happen to them if I were to speak of this?

I’d be sent to prison and hanged!” Mrs. Hunt stood, her eyes flashing.

“If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll deny it.

This conversation is over. Goodbye, Miss Taylor. ”

Athena left the house, deeply frustrated. At last, she was in possession of the truth, but she had no power to use it.

*

The following afternoon, Mr. Chapman found Athena in a quiet corridor at Thorndale Manor and informed her with chagrin that his inquiries about the runaway carriage had proven unsuccessful.

“I visited every inn within a ten-mile radius,” he said, keeping his voice low. “They all hire out a great many post chaises and horses. As I had no way to name or describe the person we are looking for, I didn’t get very far. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Athena matched his discreet tone to ensure that they would not be overheard. “I appreciate your efforts. I suppose it was too much to hope that you could learn anything by that means.” She gave him a brief overview of her visit to York Prison and her talk with Mrs. Hunt.

His brow furrowed. “It sounds as though Miss Vernon might indeed have been innocent. But if Mrs. Hunt won’t come forward, her admission is useless.”

“I know. And yet it was helpful. Her blackmailer was a person of medium height with blond hair. Edward Ackroyd, Neville Sinclair, and Mr. Carson are all blond and of medium height. So is Margaret Quince. But Mr. Vernon repudiated every one of them. I’ve been thinking it over and I agree that if Edward Ackroyd had murdered Harold Sinclair, even if he didn’t return to sea when he claimed, he would never have blackmailed Ethel Leighton into framing the woman he loved.

And you said yourself, it couldn’t have been Neville Sinclair.

Which only leaves Mr. Carson and Miss Quince.

” She sighed. “Mr. Vernon wants me to give up my search.”

“You should listen to him.”

“I cannot.”

Mr. Chapman placed his hat on his head. “So be it. But I still worry about you. If whoever killed Harold Sinclair is still out there, he—or she—won’t want you looking into it. I fear you are putting yourself in danger, Miss Taylor, with every step you take.” With a deep frown, he strode away.

Athena watched him go, unmoved by his warning. It was a risk she felt compelled to take.

*

“What a glorious adventure Lydia is having on the high seas,” Mrs. Hillman said, looking up with a smile from the wooly scarf she was knitting.

Athena had just read several chapters aloud from The Wind Pirate in the comfort of the drawing room at Darkmoor Park. “I have long dreamt of visiting foreign places,” she admitted. “But I have never even left England. Have you done much traveling, Mrs. Hillman?”

“I have done my share. My husband and I used to tour all over. After he passed away, I kept it up. I have wonderful memories of holidays in the capitals of Europe and by the seaside.”

“Did it ever get lonely, traveling by yourself?”

“It did at first. But when you travel, you meet so many people. A couple of years ago, I made some dear friends while staying at a seaside inn in West Sussex. We still write to each other. I’ve been meaning to invite them to visit me someday and host a house party—a reunion of sorts.”

“How lovey that sounds. You should do it.”

“Perhaps I shall. We all love music, so I could engage a singer or musician to perform here.” Mrs. Hillman gave a happy sigh. “Speaking of which. Are your pupils excited about the upcoming concert?”

“They can speak of almost nothing else.” A celebrated soprano from Edinburgh was due to perform in the village hall the following night.

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Hillman, for providing the tickets. You have already been so generous. The books arrived yesterday, and they have made such a difference. And I cannot tell you how excited Selena and I and the girls are to be attending tomorrow’s performance. ”

“I’m glad. I have given all the servants the night off and purchased tickets for them as well.”

“How kind of you.”

“This is a special event, and I can afford it.” Mrs. Hillman glanced down at her work basket. “Oh, bother. I’ve run out of yarn.” She gestured towards the bell pull on the wall. “Miss Taylor, please ring for the maid. I’ll have her fetch a few more skeins.”

“I’d be happy to fetch them for you, ma’am,” Athena offered, rising.

“Oh? Thank you. They’re in my work basket in my bedroom, up on the second floor—at the north end of the north hall, the one with a blue-and-gold coverlet on the bed. Take the servants’ stairs; it’s the most expeditious route.”

“I’m on my way.” Athena exited through a door at the far end of the room, which she had seen many a servant use in the past.

The narrow, winding staircase was gently lit by a small window at every landing.

As Athena ascended, she heard the sound of footsteps heading down from above.

She had just reached the small, second-floor landing when a gentleman rounded a turn in the stairs and came to an abrupt halt in front of her.

“Miss Taylor!” Mr. Vernon froze, and his cheeks colored slightly.

“Mr. Vernon.” Athena’s heart began to thud. She told herself it was due to surprise, not to the fact that he was standing barely two feet away from her.

Except for a brief hello at church, she had neither seen nor spoken to Mr. Vernon in over a week, since their conversation in the conservatory at Thorndale Manor. When he had taken her hands in his and implored her to give up her quest.

When she had responded to his touch like a candlewick to a flame.

The same exact response she was feeling now.

“What brings you to Darkmoor Park?” He rubbed his jaw, as if attempting to make sense of the moment. “Oh, that’s right. You read to Mrs. Hillman on Wednesday afternoons?”

“I do.” To Athena’s dismay, the words came out sounding rather breathless.

“What are you doing on the servants’ stairs?”

“I… I’m fetching something for Mrs. Hillman from… from her bedchamber.” Why was she stammering? Quickly she added, “What about you?”

He hesitated. “I… I was told by Mrs. Hillman that… that one of the servants had heard mice in the attic. I went up to check.”

Why was he stammering as well?

“And are there mice?”

“I found no evidence of any. But I shall lay traps just in case.”

Athena sensed that he wasn’t being entirely truthful. Which was odd. She didn’t think of Mr. Vernon as a secretive man.

Athena wondered suddenly, did his unease come from a very different source?

Could it have anything to do with the same sensations she was feeling—a tightening of the lungs and a rapidly beating heart?

All due to the fact that they were standing in such close proximity to each other in a small, confined space?

Athena found herself staring at his lips.

The memory of the kiss they had shared pervaded her mind.

A kiss she had told him must never be repeated.

Now she regretted saying those words. Because despite all the promises she had made to herself, she longed for the feel of his lips on hers again.

Even though she knew that if she kissed him again, she would never want to stop.

She swallowed hard, trying to remember what they’d been talking about. Oh, yes. Mice.

“How nice of you. To help the mice.”

“‘Help the mice’?” he repeated. His voice was teasing.

Flustered, she replied quickly, “To help with the mice, I mean.”

His lips were twitching, as if holding back a smile. Lips that she still couldn’t take her eyes off of.