“Excuse me,” I said in a low voice when I reached them. “I do hate to interrupt, but I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
I glanced at Mrs. Busby and saw how she paled at the words. She knew better than most what a dreadful impact that phrase could have.
“I’m afraid Bertie Phipps is … dead. He fell from his horse, between Thornecrest and Bedford Priory.”
“Oh no,” Mrs. Busby breathed, her hand fluttering to her chest.
“Peter here was the one who found him. He can show you the way. My husband and the doctor are already there.” I was still speaking in a low voice, but I was fairly certain the women at the neighboring table had overheard, for there was already the sound of distressed whispers coming from behind me. It was not as though we could keep the matter a secret for long, of course, but arousing the sympathies of a crowd could be detrimental rather than useful.
To my relief, Inspector Wilson didn’t have much to say on the matter. He gave me a swift nod that told me he had understood and turned and followed Peter from the tent.
I felt so helpless as I watched them leave. I wondered if there was someone from Bertie’s family that I should notify, but I couldn’t think of anyone. As far as I knew, he was very much alone in the world.
Except, perhaps, Marena, or Lady Alma. I wondered if I should try to locate them.
“Are you all right, dear?”
I looked down to see Mrs. Busby watching me worriedly.
“Yes, quite all right,” I assured her. “It’s just so shocking.”
“Do sit down. You’re quite pale.”
“I … I was just thinking that someone ought to tell Lady Alma.”
“Yes, the vicar can do that in a moment. Please sit down. It won’t do for you to faint.”
I didn’t feel like I was going to faint, but I obeyed nevertheless, lowering myself into the seat beside her.
The vicar arrived at our table just then, no doubt having noticed the commotion, and I felt the sense of relief that comes with knowing someone else is going to take charge of the matter. One could always rely on a vicar in general and Mr. Busby in particular. Mrs. Busby explained to him in a low voice what had happened.
His face grew very grave. “I should find Marena.”
Mrs. Busby gasped. “Oh, yes. I didn’t think … Of course, you must find her and tell her before she hears it from someone else.”
We were, however, too late.
Marena appeared suddenly at our table, out of breath, her face white. “Is it true? It’s not true, is it? Someone told me that Bertie … that he was…”
I rose from my chair, hoping, selfishly, that someone would break the news to her before I needed to.
“Marena, dear,” Mrs. Busby began gently.
Marena shook her head. “No,” she said. “No. It’s not true. I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it!” Her voice rose with each word until she was nearly shouting.
It was the vicar, with his usual adeptness, that calmed her rising hysteria. He gently took her arms and spoke to her in a calm but firm voice. “He’s with the Lord now, Marena. No more harm can come to him.”
She shook her head again, ever so slightly, as though she were trying to make sense of words spoken to her in some language she didn’t speak.
And then she covered her face with her hands and began to cry.
Between the vicar and me, we managed to usher her into the chair I had vacated beside Mrs. Busby’s wheelchair. Mrs. Busby leaned toward the girl, collecting her in her arms as best she could, and held her as her body shook with sobs.
* * *
IT SEEMED AGES as I waited for Milo to return to the tent. I thought of taking the car back to Thornecrest to wait for him there, but somehow I didn’t want to leave the site of the festival just yet. Word had spread quickly about the tragedy, and there was a sense of sorrowful camaraderie in those who remained at the refreshment tent. We all seemed to be waiting to see what would happen next.
As there was nothing useful most of us could do, we sat drinking tea. I was certain my baby must be swimming in it by this point.
To my relief, Mr. and Mrs. Busby had escorted an ashen and dazed Marena back to the vicarage. She had taken the news of Bertie’s death much harder than I expected. Though she had made it clear to me that she no longer had romantic feelings for him, it was clear something had lingered there. Her grief had been difficult to witness.
At last Milo appeared at the edge of the tent. I rose quickly from my chair and hurried toward him.
His clothes were muddy, and there was a spot of blood on his trousers. Bertie’s blood, I assumed, though I hadn’t imagined there would be blood from a fall. I felt a little wave of dizziness at the sight of it, and I was immensely glad that I hadn’t gone to the site of the incident.
“Are you all right?” he asked, as though I was the one who had just spent over an hour at the site of a fatal accident.
“Of course. Are you?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
I looked into his eyes, trying to read something of what he felt there, but his gaze was veiled. This was not the first time Milo had dealt with death, but I thought there must be something a little harrowing in it, even for him.
Whatever he was feeling, he was clearly not in the mood to discuss it at present. Not that I blamed him; I felt numb and tired myself.
He seemed to sense this. “You look all in, darling. I’m terribly sorry I kept you waiting, but the doctor and Inspector Wilson have taken everything in hand. Come,” he said, taking my arm. “I’ll take you home.”
We left the tea tent behind and made our way through the festival grounds, which had begun to clear. Though many of the vendors were still open for business and several people milled about, there was a heaviness that seemed to hang over the proceedings. It seemed even the children had lost their enthusiasm, for the ones I spotted moved at a much more subdued pace than they had earlier in the day.
The sun had begun to descend in the sky, bathing everything in a warm, golden glow. The breeze had grown cooler, but the cheerful flags and banners still swayed lazily, and the scent of flowers filled the evening air. It seemed the loveliness of it all almost mocked the somberness of what had happened.
To think how happy we had all been this morning, how cheerful Bertie must have been as he readied himself for the race. He was so proud of his horse, Molly. Not only that, I was surprised that she had thrown him; she was the gentlest of the horses, even more docile than Paloma, who had always been known for her even temper.
Something must have happened. Perhaps she had seen a hare or a fox in the field and bolted. I could think of no other reason why she might have thrown her rider.
What was more, Bertie had told me that he knew how to fall. How dreadful it was that his words had been so quickly disproved.
“That poor boy,” I said aloud. “What a dreadful thing to happen.”
“Yes.”
I glanced at Milo, caught by something in his tone, but he wasn’t looking at me. He seemed preoccupied.
“Are you … sure you’re all right, Milo?” I asked again.
He looked at me then, offering a reassuring smile that chased all hint of the shadows from his eyes. “Yes, quite sure. Why?”