The Necklace Page 25

  “Oh, yes, of course. We always know what’s going on in our little village. Terrible thing, that. Heard you took the two girls to London, too. That was a blessing. Hate to have them be the ones to find their uncle injured. And you’re even luckier to have that Joshua at The Orchards. Heard he’s the one that found Archer and carried him home. Always did like that lad. Tried to hire him, once, you know.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes. Wanted a footman after the last one ran off with a village wench. Left for the Americas, they did. Managed to get Tom, Joshua’s brother, but not both lads.”

  There was a moment of companionable silence while the two men sipped their ale and nibbled a bit of cheddar and bread. Chilton relaxed in his chair and studied his host, but he couldn’t see any hint of tension in the man’s long face.

  “How did you happen to hear about the accident?” Chilton asked at last, fearing he was wasting his time. There had been no yellow curricle in the carriage house and no chestnut horse in the stables. It looked like a dead end. Whoever had turned down the lane must have gone past the squire’s house.

  “Mr. Allen, of course. He stopped here for his instructions since I’m the Magistrate.”

  “But how did Mr. Allen hear? Did Mr. Archer send word to the village?”

  “Why, after Mr. Archer returned home, Joshua went to fetch the doctor. And of course, that’s when he found poor Mr. Lyndel by the side of the road. So Joshua went to the village for both old Doctor Barker and Mr. Allen. The two then went to observe the body in situ before it was removed. The doctor went on to The Orchards to see to Archer. And when Mr. Allen returned, he came here and informed me of Archer’s terrible accident. And, of course, the murder.”

  “It must have been a shock.”

  “Oh, yes. Terrible shocking thing, murder. We’re a quiet, sleepy little village, Major. We’re not used to such things.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  The squire refilled their mugs and stared into the flames of the fire in front of them.

  “You don’t own a curricle, do you? I used to drive one in London,” Chilton asked finally, breaking the silence.

  “Miss it?” the squire asked with sympathy. “I don’t, sorry to say. Had a bang-up rig but the wheel’s broke.” He slapped his knee. “I say, what if I fix up the old chariot? Better than letting it rot in the carriage house for lack of interest. I’ll send it over tomorrow or the next day. You’re free to use it as long as you want.”

  Chilton laughed and took a sip of ale, trying not to appear too interested. “Thanks but I doubt old Buttercup would appreciate it.”

  “I’ll tell you what, then, I’ll send Eric over to The Orchards tomorrow with it if I can get that wheel replaced. The two of you can take a drive. I don’t mind saying we have some prime horseflesh.”

  “Thanks. I’d enjoy that.”

  “Feeling a bit restless, are you? Must be hard to settle down after your adventures.”

  To his surprise, he discovered he actually dreaded returning to London. There was something about the peaceful countryside that appealed to him although he was damned if he could say what it was.

  “Not really restless. I enjoy the country.”

  “But you enjoy Town more, I’ll wager. How about you bring the Archers over again for another evening when their uncle is better? Friday?”

  “I don’t know. Unfortunately, I’m getting ready to return to London, shortly. But I’ll give them your invitation.”

  The squire nodded and paused to take a few mouthfuls of the creamy, deep orange cheese.

  Chilton placed his empty tankard on the table between them and rose. “I’m afraid I need to get back. I hadn’t realized the time.” He glanced at the west window behind his host’s narrow back. The sun was a glowing red-orange ball balancing mere inches above dark trees lining the horizon. Long shadows stretched toward the house and he shivered, already feeling the air cooling.

  The squire rose companionably to usher him to the door.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot. You don’t happen to have Miss Archer’s pistol, do you? She mentioned you were going to fix it for her. If you didn’t get the chance, perhaps I could look at it. She might like to have it back after what happened.”

  The squire looked perplexed. “Why, I sent that to her yesterday.”

  “Really? No matter. I must have misunderstood, then.”

  “Yes, it only needed a bit of cleaning, that’s all.” He grinned and shook his head. “Females. No notion of weapons, or what it takes to maintain ‘em in working order. What was she doing with such a pea-shooter, anyway?”

  “She said it was her brother’s pistol.”

  “Ah, I see. Miss Archer was much attached to Andrew. Brave lad. Terrible thing when he died. I can see how she would be worried about getting it back, then. Sentimental value. Well, I sent it back, right enough.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Hope we will see you soon, Major Dacy.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. Either Oriana or the Squire was lying about the pistol. She told him that she didn’t have it, but the Squire said he sent it back. A quick study of the squire’s open, and slightly puzzled face convinced Chilton that he wasn’t lying. Or else he was very good at it.

  His discomfort grew when he remembered how Oriana had withdrawn into herself when the subject came up. His gut burned. For the first time, he felt afraid of uncovering the truth.

  The pistol had been found on the road. The murderer had flung it away after shooting Mr. Lyndel. The action spoke of haste and panic, which made it more likely that a woman had been involved. Or at least someone who wasn’t used to discharging a weapon at another human being. Whoever had shot Mr. Lyndel had flung the pistol down in terror before departing.

  There was also Helen’s sudden decision to defend her sister. Would she have sprung up and declared she had the necklace if she didn’t think Oriana was guilty? The two sisters were close and would defend each other, if they could. So Helen might know more than she admitted.

  He had to speak to her, as well.

  Unfortunately, whenever he tried to go over the events in logical, chronological sequence, the facts didn’t seem to come together properly. He laid them all out in his mind, the way he had done with puzzle pieces when he was younger, spreading them out on the table so he could see all of them at once.

  Mr. Lyndel and Red had been on their way to The Orchards. Their purpose was to retrieve the vowel and the five thousand pounds Archer owed. Chilton’s conscience twinged at that piece of the puzzle. He still hadn’t gotten Violet’s darn note and the time his father allotted him was running out.

  Tomorrow would be two weeks.

  He hoped the vowel wasn’t in Lyndel’s pocket and about to be buried with the man. Lord Chichester would never accept the news that the vowel was truly gone if Lyndel took it to Hell with him.

  He rubbed his thigh and refocused his wandering wits.

  So the two men had met up with Archer on the road. Archer obviously couldn’t pay them. Therefore, Lyndel told Red to beat him to death, hoping it would scare Oriana into marrying him. Chilton’s personal opinion of this action bordered on insane, jealous fury. Although his rage wasn’t unmixed with the fear that Oriana might have reacted badly in defense of her family.

  However, she had a good head on her shoulders. He didn’t think she would be easily intimidated or driven to murder.

  Unless she had been out walking with Hunter and had seen her uncle being beaten. She might have rushed to his defense. And she might have shot Mr. Lyndel in the ensuing confusion. Flustered, she could easily have thrown her weapon down on the road and hurried back to the house to get help.

  But there were a few problems with this reenactment. For example, no one mentioned Mr. Lyndel being mauled by Hunter. He—or Red—surely would have suffered a few bites from the huge dog if Hunter had seen his master attacked.

  And further, Chilton had not seen her on the road to the village. She had been wa
lking in the opposite direction when they met. She seemed somewhat breathless, but she didn’t appear anxious until Joshua pushed them toward the gig.

  Of course, it wasn’t impossible that Oriana, her uncle, and the dog had all three been out walking. They might have met up with the two men. And either Oriana or Archer shot Mr. Lyndel while Hunter sat and scratched at his fleas.

  In a pig’s eye.

  He would swear that Oriana had not passed him on the road from the village, although that was inconclusive. Apparently, Archer had managed to drag himself past Chilton and make it to the house before him. So there had to be another road. The area was a maze of small footpaths and shadowy, winding lanes.

  All he knew was that Archer returned to The Orchards well enough in advance to warn Joshua. And together they had made up that preposterous story about Helen, Chilton and Oriana’s trip to London.

  His mind churned over alternatives. He had a growing feeling he might already know the culprit if he sat down quietly and considered it. His gut tightened with the feeling of knowledge he simply didn’t recognize.

  Who drove a yellow curricle? Who had discharged the pearl-handled gun? And most importantly, had Oriana shot Mr. Lyndel to save her uncle and quite possibly herself?

  The answers floated mere millimeters from the tips of his fingers.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Forlorn Hope — A gamester’s last stake

  Oriana and Helen fussed over their bonnets in the hallway while they tried to decide whether to walk to the village or request their lumbering carriage.

  “I still think you should replace that perfectly dreadful green ribbon on your bonnet with the gold silk one from Mr. Hawkins. You’d be astonished how au courant you’d look,” Helen said.

  Oriana frowned. “Perhaps, but maybe we should concentrate on the items on our list before we go spending money we don’t have on fripperies we don’t need.”

  “But it’s so dowdy. And you have such lovely brown hair if you’d show it off a bit.” She plucked one dark curl out from under the brim of Oriana’s hat and fluffed the ringlet with her fingers.

  “Stop it, Helen.” She tried to push the lock back in place only to have Helen giggle and slap her hand.

  “You insist on acting like an elderly aunt. Even Aunt Victoria has more élan, and she’s seventeen years older than you!” Helen pulled another of Oriana’s curls loose. “Do let me fix your hair tonight. You’ll look so beautiful. And you’ll have Mr. Dacy begging you to marry him.”

  “I do not want to marry him, Helen. Be quiet.”

  “See! You see?” her sister teased. “Ever since you had that argument with him, you’ve been horrid to everyone. Why I’m surprised you haven’t slapped Uncle John and told him to stop lolling about in bed simply because he had the poor taste to be nearly murdered!”

  “Helen!” she replied, shocked. “I’d never do such a thing.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t you just? Why today at nuncheon you snapped at both Cook and me. You were in such a snit I swear the dogs were cowering in the stables for fear you’d come out and kick them.”

  Oriana flushed with embarrassment. Had she truly been that transparent? “I thought you didn’t like Mr. Dacy.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “Then why are you throwing me at his head?”

  “I’m only trying to keep you from making a dreadful mistake. Everyone errs, except you, perhaps. You’re perfect, but the rest of us, well—”

  “Helen, be sensible. I’m far from perfect, but at least I try to be honest, which is more than Mr. Dacy does. He cozied up to Uncle John simply to get his hands on some slip of paper—”

  “And got shot for his efforts,” Helen giggled unsympathetically. “As if you haven’t light-fingered a few items from uncle a time or two, yourself.”

  “The difference is, I’m not pretending to love uncle. I do love him.”

  “Well, if you can love Uncle John despite having to practically nursemaid him since you were seventeen, I can’t see why you have your nose in the air about Mr. Dacy. I believe he is friends with uncle. Good friends.”

  “Based upon what, Helen? You’ve no evidence of that.”

  “Perhaps not, but I believe it just the same.”

  “You didn’t see him standing over uncle when his arm was broken. What kind of friend would allow that? Even if he didn’t break it, he never made a move to stop it.” She sighed, feeling closer and closer to tears. “Just once I’d like to discover a truly honest man.”

  “Oh, Oriana, you simply don’t know what happened. Why are you so suspicious?”

  “Just wait until you’ve watched over Uncle John for a few months. Then ask me why I’m so suspicious.” She couldn’t explain her wretchedness. She put it down to her suspicions, though they were now merely half-hearted protests. Like Shakespeare’s lady who doth protest too much, she was aware she couldn’t really believe Chilton was the dishonest rascal she described to her sister.

  If anything, he seemed to be rashly foolish in making friends with her uncle and then the rest of the Archers. He simply didn’t have even a particle of common sense.

  Mr. Brown, holding open the door for them, let out a long, lugubrious breath and cast his eyes to the heavens while they dawdled. Noting it, Oriana dragged her sister outside.

  Suddenly, Mr. Eric Winkle appeared on the driveway, driving up in a dashing curricle. The sides were painted a brilliant yellow with rich gold trim that made her eyes ache.

  “Miss Archer and Miss Helen! Are you on your way out?” Mr. Winkle called, jumping down.

  “Yes. We’re walking to the village.”

  Mr. Winkle flicked a quick glance at their butler, Brown. He stood in the doorway, impassively holding the door open as if he intended to stay in that position until he retired.

  “I’m going back that way myself,” Mr. Winkle stuttered. “May I drive you ladies?”

  Oriana exchanged glances with her sister. “I—”

  “Certainly.” Helen smiled sunnily.

  Despite her uneasiness, Oriana allowed Mr. Winkle to hand her up to the seat. She let out a nervous puff of air when he turned the curricle around with a jolt.

  “Terrible thing that murder,” he remarked as they picked up speed on the rutted road leading to the village.

  “Yes,” Oriana said. “I hope they catch that man soon.”

  He shot a glance at her before making a clicking sound against his teeth. The chestnut picked up speed, trotting easily. “You think a man was responsible?”

  “Well, gentleman though he is, I can hardly see Uncle John standing still while a woman thrashed him.”

  “Oh, yes, I see.” An ugly red flush stained his cheeks as he apologized. “Sorry.”

  “I’m afraid what I knew of Mr. Lyndel wasn’t sufficient to make me regret his departure into the next world,” she replied pompously. The last thing she wanted to do was to talk about the murder all the way in to town. Or Mr. Lyndel.

  “You knew him?”

  She nodded, clasping her hands to keep from grabbing the reins away from Mr. Winkle. While he appeared to know how to handle the curricle and horse, his inattention was making the chestnut nervous. It kept shaking its head, flicking its ears and sidestepping as if testing the possibility of breaking free of the traces.

  “How did you happen to know such a man?” Mr. Winkle asked.

  “He came looking for Uncle John. I spoke to him for a few minutes before he left.”

  “I see.”

  “I certainly didn’t know him well enough to want to kill him.”

  “No. I suppose not.”

  She laughed. “Thank you for your rousing support of my innocence.”

  Mr. Winkle flashed a confused look at her and then grinned. “Well, it could have been a woman. Anyone can shoot a pistol.”

  “I suppose they can.”

  Silence descended and Mr. Winkle’s driving improved immeasurably until the village came into sight a few miles away.
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  “Where are you ladies going?”

  “Mr. Grant’s shop, if you please.” Helen adjusted her bonnet.

  “The jeweler’s?”

  “Yes. Oriana found the Peckham Necklace, isn’t that wonderful? But the clasp is broken. We’re going to have it repaired for the duchess’ birthday in April.”

  Oriana’s stomach churned. She didn’t know why she didn’t want Mr. Winkle to know about the Peckham Necklace, but she didn’t. Then, she glanced around. Her hands grew numb and icy as if covered with chilblains.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Mr. Winkle flicked the reins and turned the horse down a side lane. The road looked dark in the weak, late afternoon light. Huge oak trees leaned over the rutted path, blocking out the last rays of crimson sunlight.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Oriana. I know a shortcut.” Mr. Winkle smiled. “Everything is going to be just fine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Opportunity to Act

  “The ladies went where?” Chilton asked when he got back to The Orchards. He thrust his hands into his pockets to keep from seizing Brown by his starched collar and shaking him until his eyeballs rattled in their sockets.

  “To the village, sir. With the Winkle lad. In his curricle.”

  “Curricle?” He felt sick. “A yellow curricle pulled by a chestnut?” Suddenly the pieces of the puzzle aligned themselves on the table. All the crooked edges matched.

  Of course, there hadn’t been a yellow-paneled curricle in the squire’s stables. Eric Winkle was out driving it. And the squire had not seen fit to mention it. A lie by omission.

  “Yes, sir.” Brown adjusted his collar. “They went to have the necklace repaired.”

  “You let them leave alone with an emerald necklace? Two women, alone?”

  “They were hardly alone, sir,” Brown reminded him. “Mr. Winkle escorted them.”