Mary was perched on a wooden chair, sitting with some unease, not because of the hardness of the chair itself, but because Lady Hardwick was sitting opposite.

  She had arrived just a minute ago and had surveyed the room in silence before sitting down. Now, she was staring at Mary in a stern way. Mary didn’t see a trace of apology in her eyes. But then, she gave the stable hand an even more scathing gaze, before folding her arms, and looking questioningly at Constable Higgins.

  “It seems, from your urgent message to me just now, that we have had new evidence come to light,” the constable said to Sherwood, taking in the scene before walking forward and sitting heavily down in an armchair opposite Godfrey.

  “Yes, Constable,” Detective Sherwood replied, his voice polite. “A photograph on the back page of the newspaper provided a valuable clue, and I acted immediately to pursue it. There was no time to inform you because the fugitive was already on the run.”

  “I see,” Constable Higgins said, frowning as he opened his notebook and flipped the pages. “I heard you were on the case, of course. We generally prefer not to work with private investigators as they sometimes cause more problems than they solve.” He sighed heavily. “However, in this case, it is clear that your prompt actions have resulted in a timely capture of a guilty man.. So, on behalf of the local constabulary, you must accept my thanks.”

  He turned to Godfrey, looking relieved to have gotten that out of the way, and to now be able to focus on the investigation.

  “I believe you have confessed to the crime?” he said.

  Once again, Godfrey seemed unable to speak, breathing rapidly and looking as if he was about to faint from sheer stress.

  “I – I –” he stammered out.

  There was silence, broken by Lady Hardwick’s furious voice.

  "If you were the man who killed my husband, then you had better confess to the crime! Otherwise, there will certainly be consequences!" Her voice was like a whip, and it caused the fear-ridden groom to bite his lip hard.

  “Lady Hardwick is correct,” Constable Higgins said. “Murder is a very serious crime, but you don’t want to add to the charge sheet, son. Not when a compassionate magistrate might spare your life, if he sees you are cooperative.”

  Mary thought that was quite well put. Perhaps it was easier to see the constable in a good light now that he wasn't directing his words at her.

  “I – well, I can’t deny it, not with the evidence,” Godfrey said, in a shaking voice. “I handed that poisoned cup to Lord Hardwick before the race. He was on his horse at the time. I knew he’d drink it.”

  “And so he did. He drank the poisoned contents, and died most swiftly,” the constable agreed, jotting a quick note. “Now, tell me, when did you obtain this poison, and why did you decide to commit this crime?”

  "I – er, I got it from the woods." The pale-faced groom gestured vaguely toward the window. "From the woods."

  Higgins frowned. Mary could tell this was not what he had expected.

  “You’re not willing to say more than that?”

  "No," Godfrey said firmly. "Why should I say more? You don't need to know, and I – I don't want to think about it."

  “You’ll need to be more forthcoming during the questioning,” Higgins warned.

  Godfrey stared at him, letting out an impassioned sigh.

  “I don’t even remember! I was – I wasn’t in my right mind, or thinking straight. Why should I spill out all the details again? It makes my head hurt!”

  His hands were shaking violently, and his voice sounded so hoarse that Mary felt surprised he'd gotten the words out. He needed some water. That throat sounded parched. To her surprise, she found herself getting up and going to the drinks tray in the corner of the room.

  She poured half a glass of water, thinking that if she filled it any fuller, it would be a waste, because he’d just spill it on himself. Then, she carried it back to Godfrey and put it carefully in his hand.

  Sherwood let his arm go, so that Godfrey could raise the glass with both hands. It rattled against his teeth as he gulped thirstily.

  Constable Higgins was looking surprised by her kind gesture, and Lady Hardwick, clearly not in the mood to be kind to anyone, was looking daggers at all of them.

  “Thank you,” Gilbert said to Mary. She took the glass away, and Sherwood resumed his grip on the suspect’s arm.

  “You were talking about your planning of this crime.” Higgins’ voice was stern. “Where did you get the goblet from?”

  "I – I…" He stared at Lady Hardwick, wide-eyed.

  She spoke, sounding as if actual fire and brimstone was pouring from her mouth.

  “That is one of the antique goblets that my husband used to drink from after hunting. He sometimes used to leave them down at the stables. This groom must have stolen it!”

  Mary felt stunned by that information. She guessed that the familiarity of the goblet had been one of the reasons that Lord Hardwick had accepted the drink so unquestioningly.

  But Sherwood was looking, in puzzlement, from Lady Hardwick to Constable Higgins, and back again.

  “I don’t want to interfere,” he said in resonant tones. “But if you’re officially questioning a suspect, is it right that the victim’s wife is allowed to sit in on this? I mean, there may be – there may be disturbing facts that are disclosed. He might be refusing to talk because of her presence.”

  Lady Hardwick shot him a vicious look, as if highly displeased that he’d prevented her from listening as the killer was questioned.

  “In that case, what are you and Mary Adams doing here?” she retorted.

  Sherwood shrugged. “Point taken,” he said. “I think we’ve done what we need to, Miss Adams. Shall we all leave?”

  He stood up with a scrape of his chair and led the way out of the room. Mary followed, her aching legs causing her to limp to the door. And bringing up the rear, looking extremely reluctant, was Lady Hardwick. The last thing Mary heard from inside the room was the click of the handcuffs as the constable fastened them on his victim’s wrists.

  Once they were all out of the drawing room, and Sherwood had closed the door, Lady Hardwick swept past them with her chin in the air, heading for the library.

  Sherwood stared at Mary.

  “I think we have more to discuss,” he said quietly. “Is there any place in this hall where we can get a cup of tea?”

  Mary found her face relaxing into the ghost of a smile. Tea? At such an hour? This detective was definitely more of a kindred spirit than she’d realized.

  “There are a few rooms set aside for the servants, in the west wing,” she said, wondering if that would be the best option, or if it would be too far away. She didn’t want to miss Constable Higgins when he had finished his questioning.

  “That will be best?” Sherwood didn’t seem in the least bothered by going there. But Mary was reconsidering.

  “I think the main kitchen will be a better choice,” she admitted. “It’s closer, and they keep a tea set out for guests and family.”

  Quietly, she led the way through the dark, silent house, tracking the route from memory, remembering now that when she came, there hadn’t even been carpets on these floors. Lucas had installed all the luxuries, one by one, turning the home from a large, spacious shell into what it was today.

  “The tea set should be here. Just inside the kitchen,” she said. Sure enough, the nook was prepared. A few cups and saucers were set out, with a kettle, teapot and tea strainer. There was a milk jug in a small bowl of ice, sugar lumps and teaspoons, and a plate of biscuits – shortbread, ginger biscuits, and a couple of chocolate dipped butter biscuits.

  “Ah,” Sherwood said, and Mary had seldom heard more emotion in a single sound. “Tea! Can I pour some for you?”

  “You can. Thank you,” she said.

  There were three kitchen chairs nearby, and she sat gratefully down on one, while Sherwood prepared the tea.

  For a moment, the only sound was the trickle of water, and then the clink of teaspoons, as the tea was brewed and poured. Its fragrance filled the kitchen nook.

  “The chocolate biscuits are the best,” Sherwood said. “You take them. You deserve them after that chase down.”

  “No, no,” she said. “You have them.”

  “We share,” he said.

  He offered the plate to Mary, and she bit into one of the biscuits, enjoying the luscious, rich taste. Of all the biscuits, these were the ones that were rarest for servants. It felt like a treat to be sitting here and eating them. She just wished that she felt better about doing it.

  Godfrey’s miserable face loomed in her mind. He’d looked so traumatized. What had he been thinking, she wondered, as she bit into the biscuit thoughtfully. Why had he chosen to do what he did, knowing that the consequences would be so dire?

  She glanced at Sherwood, hoping that he’d be able to offer one of the upbeat comments that might put her in a better frame of mind. But to her surprise, he was also frowning.

  “You know, Mary,” he said, “there was something weird about that confession.”

  It was as if a tightly wound spring uncoiled inside her. They were both thinking the same? It wasn’t just her then?

  "I thought so, too," she agreed. "Something very strange. He was confessing – but he seemed terrified, and I didn't understand his logic for even committing the crime in the first place."

  “Poison is a very premeditated crime,” Sherwood said slowly. “It’s not a crime of passion. I’ve investigated quite a few of those in my time. I am asking myself – who had the means, motive and opportunity to commit such a stealthy, premeditated crime? Was it the stable hand, or was he just the messenger?”

  He reached for a shortbread biscuit and chewed on it thoughtfully while Mary took a swallow of tea.

  “But why would he have done it? Do you think someone promised him money, or what?”

  “It could be,” Sherwood said, “but we must not forget that earlier, in the woods, he mentioned a vulnerable mother, living in this very village, and a younger sister who is still at school.”

  Horrified realization now uncoiled in Mary. Had the killer threatened harm to his family if he didn’t take the blame? No wonder the poor groom had looked so anxious. He was desperately trying not to say anything that would incriminate the real killer – the person who’d poured out the poison and instructed him to take it to Lord Hardwick.

  “Do you think he knew what he was doing at the time? That the lord would die?” she asked, now feeling terrible for having misjudged the stable hand, despite the fact that she still had grit in her teeth from her struggle with him.

  “If I had been the perpetrator, I would have told him to take the cup with nothing more than good wishes, informing him to wear gloves so that he did not damage an expensive cup,” Sherwood said thoughtfully. “That is what I think played out.”

  “And then, when Lord Hardwick died, the stable hand was approached again by the killer…”

  “And the screws were put on,” Sherwood agreed.

  "But who could it be?" Mary felt thoroughly agitated. The situation was dire because using the groom as a messenger meant anyone could have done it. They didn't even have to be in direct contact with Lord Hardwick shortly before the race. All the people she'd ruled out so far could now be ruled right back in again. The list was growing longer with every frantic thought she had.

  Sherwood put down his empty cup.

  “We need to go and do some urgent research,” he said. “I don’t know if we can manage to save this poor sorry young lad, but we have to try.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Mary jumped to her feet, too.

  “How can we find out who the real killer is?” she asked Sherwood, her suspicions turning immediately to Lord Johns. That party he’d had, that massive debt that had been written off – she was now realizing that using the groom would have made it possible for him to have committed this crime after all.

  “Let’s go and have a look through the lord’s personal papers, and find out more about his debts, and his enemies,” the detective decided, squaring his jaw.

  Mary was about to say that she’d already done that, but she decided to wait. She hadn’t had a chance to look through everything. It could have been done much more thoroughly, and maybe, with two of them there, it would be.

  But this was going to be highly risky.

  “We shouldn’t even be on the case right now. Not when such a strong suspect is being questioned. Plus, Lord Hardwick’s study is right opposite the master bedroom,” she whispered. “And Lady Hardwick might have gone to bed by now, and is probably trying to sleep!”

  “We will have to be exceedingly quiet,” Sherwood said, clearly not thinking for a moment of abandoning the idea. Mary had to admire his tenacity. Or maybe it was more like recklessness? At any rate, this top detective was clearly leaving no stone unturned in his quest to find the real killer.

  "We will," she agreed. "What are we going to do if Lady Hardwick is in her bedroom and hears us?"

  Sherwood frowned for a moment, considering the question carefully.

  “We will have to think on our feet, in that case,” he admitted. “But the lady might not yet have retired. I think she will be elsewhere in the house, waiting for Godfrey’s questioning to be finished.”

  “Yes,” Mary said, her voice dropping to a whisper as they headed in the direction of the Hardwicks’ personal suite. “She seemed very intent on seeing somebody arrested.”

  However, as she and Sherwood walked quietly down the corridor, Mary couldn’t help thinking that this still meant she was a suspect after all.

  She might not yet be safe. What if the constable asked the groom if Mary had handed him that cup, and he agreed she had, in an effort to clear his name?

  Mary hoped he wouldn’t say such a thing.

  Justice needed to be done – true justice. The killer’s identity was being concealed, and it was probably being done by dire threats, as Sherwood had guessed. No loving son could risk a threat being made to a vulnerable mother and sister.

  “Here we are,” she muttered.

  The corridors had been very quiet. She hadn't heard any sounds coming from the guests' rooms, which were further up the passage. The main door to the suite was open, and beyond, Mary saw the bedroom door and the study door were both closed.

  She didn’t know if that meant Lady Hardwick had retired for the night, or whether she hadn’t been here at all, but at least they could hopefully get into the study unobserved.

  Mary lifted her hand and quietly turned the handle, unable to prevent her imagination from wildly believing that Lady Hardwick would be sitting at the desk and watching them with that angry expression.

  But the study was dark and quiet. Sherwood turned on the light and quickly closed the door, and together, they started to search.

  The problem was that as the search went by, minute by minute, Mary realized it wasn’t that there was nothing to find. It was rather that there was too much.

  “Here’s something,” Sherwood whispered. Half hidden under a pile of papers from the local hunts, notifying readers about upcoming meets, was a folder filled with letters of demand. And these were angry. Craning over his shoulder, she felt shocked as she took in the words.

  “We will be forced to take severe action…” read one. “You are bringing the Hardwick name into disrepute, sir!” blustered another. “It’s unacceptable that even with a large outstanding bill, your behavior can be so rude,” read a third.

  Mary left Sherwood to go through all of them and try to identify who the senders were. She turned back to the drawer she’d looked in before. Last time she’d searched, she’d been on the edge of her seat, fearful that Lady Hardwick would walk in at any moment.

  She was still fearful, but now she felt even more driven to find the real killer, and to save not only herself, but also the innocent man who would otherwise spend the night – and his life – in a prison cell.

  She took out the pile of papers and went through them, just as she had done before. Could she find anything different here? Was there something that she’d missed the first time around?

  It all seemed the same. Final demands, angry letters. Pleas for payment for amounts that were sometimes triflingly small, as if Lord Hardwick had deliberately disrespected all his creditors. Mary was starting to think that the lord’s behavior was not due to financial circumstances alone, but also due to a bloody-mindedness on his part when it came to paying bills.

  He simply didn’t want to. With an uneasy shiver, Mary guessed that the power he’d wielded over people by not paying them, had given him a strange sense of satisfaction. He’d enjoyed it.

  How awful that was! And how difficult it made their job.

  “Well, I’m getting a longer and longer list,” Sherwood admitted in a muttered voice. “I can’t see this being solved tomorrow. Perhaps by later this week, I will have had a chance to look into all these people.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mary said.

  As she rifled through the papers, she was realizing that something was different from last time. It wasn’t what was there. Everything incriminating was still there, and more.

  It was what was missing, that was suddenly ringing a bell in her mind.

  “I think –” she began, and Sherwood looked up instantly at the excitement in her tone. There wasn’t time to say more, though, because from all the way down the passage, the creak of an opening door sounded in the silence.

  It was followed by two sets of footfalls and a cry so anguished and despairing that it had Mary's spine prickling.

  “That means an official arrest is being made,” Sherwood said, leaping to his feet. “We need to go there and explain our findings urgently to the constable.” He glanced at her. “If you have an idea who the killer is – now will be the only time to share your theory.”

  And with that, he was hurrying out of the study, much less silently than he’d headed in. Rushing along behind him, Mary headed down the corridor to the small drawing room.

 

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