* * *
James could hear it before he saw it—a desperate cry for help, a piercing scream.
He jumped from his desk and looked out into the courtyard. But from where he stood, all was still.
Had he imagined it?
But then he heard it again. This time there could be no mistake. He snatched his coat and punched his arms through the sleeves as he hurried down the corridor and out into the misty morning.
Running footsteps echoed from around the south entrance, and as he made his way in that direction, Miss Hale burst through the gate, her cloak billowing out behind her, her face ashen and her movements unconstrained.
Once she spotted him, she ran to him and grabbed his arms. “Hurry! You must hurry. It’s Mr. Longham. I think he’s dead!”
James started, sure he must have heard incorrectly. “What?”
Her hand slid down his arm and she gripped his hand tight. “In the garden. Please, he’s not moving. We mustn’t waste time!”
Before he knew it, she’d led him out into the courtyard. She dropped his hand, and he followed her hasty steps, unsure of where they were going until they were at the edge of the walled garden, where a break in it gave way to the main road.
Then he saw it, and his own frosty breath caught.
The foot. The leg. Then the man.
And he knew in an instant.
This man was dead.
He put his arm back to protect her from the sight and to make her keep her distance. “Tell the groom and send someone for Shepard. Go!”
The padded sound of her feet running the opposite direction faded into the morning stillness. Despite the cold, perspiration beaded on his forehead as he knelt next to the man and pushed his shoulders. He checked for a pulse, knowing full well he would not find one. Dried blood darkened Longham’s face. James was no expert, but it appeared he had been dead for some time.
But why? Why here? How?
Unsure of what exactly to do, he rolled the man over, searching, hoping he was mistaken and that he would get some sign of life. But he’d evidently taken a blow to his head.
James glanced around for any sign of a struggle. Had he fallen? Been struck? If so, why here at the garden’s edge?
Just to the side of him lay a satchel. It was the same one Longham had the first day he arrived at Briarton Park. His arrival that day had been suspicious too. The will. Peter Clark’s anger. Milton’s suggestion of the rumors. All the anger and speculation and possible scenarios regarding this entire situation struck James, and now a man was dead.
Suddenly things had taken a very dark turn, and whether he liked it or not, he was a part of it.
Chapter 29
Briarton Park had always been a quiet, sleepy place. That had been its allure—what had drawn him here. But now a death darkened the landscape. Not just an attack, but a seemingly violent demise that shook the entire household to the core.
James shuddered at the thought of what this man had endured. At what Miss Hale experienced upon finding him. At the possibility that one of his children or Rachel could have discovered the body.
The loss. The horrific, needless loss.
James stood at the edge of the fence watching the activity as it unfolded. Mr. Shepard and two constables had arrived shortly after being summoned, and the coroner shortly thereafter. A dozen or so men had joined to assist in the investigation—more people than had been on the property at one time since they’d arrived.
“What do you make of it?” James called out as Shepard approached him.
“’Twas no accident, I’ve a firm mind on that.” Once Shepard reached James he turned, arms folded across his chest, to watch the scene. “Did you see that head wound?”
The horrific sight was burned into his memory, and he doubted he’d ever forget it. “Yes, I saw.”
“Come on, let’s let the coroner finish his investigation and we’ll go back to the house.”
James fell into step next to his guest as they headed toward Briarton. “Are you and the coroner in agreement that it was murder then?”
Shepard gave his head a hard shake. “No mere fall would cause that. It appeared he had two blows. One on top of his head, which likely came from someone higher than him, like on horseback or in a carriage. Then the other that seemed like he struck the stone wall. That was probably the one that killed him.” He retrieved the snuffbox from his pocket. “You said your governess discovered the body? The same woman we met the morning of Riddy’s attack?”
“Aye.”
“Hmm. I just heard about Longham and her visit with Peter Clark yesterday. Shady business, all of this.”
James grimaced. This situation was growing stickier and more complicated by the minute. “Do you suspect a connection?”
“Hard to tell. Normally I’d start by asking myself why anyone would want to kill a man like Longham. Aged. Generally well liked. He’s an unlikely target.”
The assaults on the millers ran through James’s mind. “Do you think it was a random attack? Or maybe the men who’ve been targeting the mills?”
“Not sure. All that will be brought to light, though, surely. About that conversation your governess had with Clark, you don’t happen to know what that was about, do you?”
“Something about Robert Clark’s will.” James was careful not to divulge information that was not his to tell.
“I figured as much. Rumors travel wide, but I needn’t tell you that. I’d like to speak with her.”
James had not seen Miss Hale since she’d run away from him back toward the house. But he could not stop the magistrate from doing his business. “Be my guest.”
James led Shepard through the corridor, where they encountered a maid, and he requested that she fetch Miss Hale and bring her to the great hall, and then he led the magistrate there.
A cheery fire blazed in the grate, its light warming and brightening the space during the otherwise dismal day. They waited in silence until dainty footsteps could be heard on the landing, and then she slowly descended the great staircase.
James could tell straightaway that she’d been crying. The redness of her eyes made them appear more vibrant, and her dark gown emphasized the pallor of her cheeks. Her chestnut hair was loosely bound at the base of her neck, but long strands escaped, untethered and untamed.
“Miss Hale, this is Mr. Shepard, the magistrate,” James said. “He wanted to talk with you about what you saw this morning.”
* * *
Cassandra’s head thudded with the day’s painful realities, and now this man—this stranger—was going to ask her questions. Her throat felt raw and dry, as if lined with wool. How would she ever be able to speak?
She recognized Mr. Shepard from her very first visit to Briarton. He was a giant man, with a barrel chest and broad face. He stood several inches taller than Mr. Warrington, with a mass of dark auburn hair and thick side-whiskers of a slightly lighter shade. His eyes were small and intense, and Cassandra resisted the urge to shrink away from them.
She tightened her shawl around her shoulders to ward off the shiver that seemed to not want to leave her body before finding her voice. “Of course. Mr. Shepard, what would you like to know?”
“You discovered Mr. Longham’s body.” His question was more of a statement.