‘Last night, Mrs Gilpin remarked on the tomb, saying she always thought it strange, so either she is being disingenuous or it predates her husband’s installation to the living.’
‘That will be easy enough to find out once Mr Thwaite recovers consciousness. I had best go and see how he does and relieve Pitkin.’ She paused at the door and looked back. ‘This is exciting, don’t you think? I love a mystery.’
‘So do I.’ Theo smiled back at her enthusiasm. ‘And I enjoy having someone to share the chase with.’
Something inside her did a little flip. The same something that she was aware of when she was looking at him, when she fought not to reach out and touch him. Oh dear, and all he wants is to be the perfect gentleman and enjoy having a companion in this quest to solve a mystery. She told herself firmly that it was simply having someone to talk to, someone who did not dismiss her as a foolish female not worth bothering with, that felt so good.
When she entered the chamber Pitkin was sitting by the curate’s bedside, alert and, to her surprise, chatting away.
‘Has he recovered consciousness?’ She went to the other side of the bed and took the limp wrist in her fingers. The pulse was strong, but there was no response.
‘He did for a few minutes and he seemed to react when I spoke to him, so I thought that if I kept talking, it might stimulate him to wake.’
‘That was a good idea, Pitkin. I will take over now, thank you.’
The afternoon passed slowly into evening. A message arrived in the early afternoon from the Rectory, thanking Lord Northam for his kindness and offering to take Mr Thwaite in.
Theo wrote a polite note back to say that it was probably better if the curate was not disturbed and that he was no trouble to the household as he was still unconscious. ‘Either they have finally found some Christian charity in their souls,’ he remarked acidly, ‘Or they want to get their hands on him.’
‘Or they think it will make them look bad in the eyes of their neighbours if they do not offer, which I suspect is the most likely explanation,’ Laura suggested.
Theo nodded. ‘Yes, that would matter to them, I agree. I am seeing conspiracies and sinister motives where there are none. I think I will ride over to call on Mrs Gilpin. She seems the obvious person to ask about her husband’s predecessors.’
After he had gone Laura chatted to the unresponsive Thwaite, did some embroidery, tried to make plans for the future and endeavoured not to think about Theo Quenten. Pitkin and Mrs Bishop spent some time at the bedside to relieve her, time she spent fruitlessly studying the rubbings of the tomb.
When Theo sent a message to say he had accepted an invitation to dine with the widow she decided to have her own meal in the sickroom. Mr Thwaite had begun to waken at more regular intervals and to take more water and broth, but the visits by one of the menservants to assist him with his physical needs left him so exhausted that she did not like to push him to answer questions.
As evening drew on the household began to settle to its new state of siege, reporting to Laura, she thought with a weary amusement, as though she was the commander of the garrison. The patrols inside and outside were set, the locks and windows secured and those not on duty retired to sleep. She wondered whether they were being overdramatic. No-one had called other than the groom with the note from Theo, no-one had been seen loitering or behaving suspiciously anywhere near the house.
She told Mrs Bishop she would wait up for Theo. She wanted to let Pitkin rest for his turn at the bedside later and she knew she could not even lie down on the sofa and doze until Theo was home safely. A nagging worry was beginning to gnaw at her. Elderly widows did not normally entertain well into the evening and the clocks had struck eleven already. What if someone had waylaid Theo and, even now, he had the same knife stuck between his ribs that had almost killed poor Will Thwaite?
Theo is not a slight, peace-loving curate, on foot and unarmed, she reassured herself. He is tough and fit and probably has pistols on his saddle and he is riding a good horse and on the alert.
It was tiring worrying with nothing to distract her. Thwaite was deep in sleep, the Grange was dark and quiet except for the usual creaks and groans of an old house settling from the warmth of the day into the cool of the night. She dared not light the chamber with anything more than a shielded single candle in a dark lantern in case that disturbed the invalid, so sewing or reading were impossible and her mind was going round and round like a rat in a trap.
Why that one particular creak should jerk her out of her thoughts she did not know, but Laura sat up, suddenly alert. It had not been so very loud, but it had come from the direction of the kitchen and, now she thought about it, there were no floorboards in there, only flagstones. The only things that might creak were the doors and windows.
Edward, the footman on guard in the house, had gone upstairs only five minutes before, she had heard his quiet tread on the stairs as he went to check that the doors into all the unoccupied rooms on the upper floors were locked. Theo’s groom was on duty outside, but he could not cover all four sides at once…
Laura picked up the candle, turned the metal shield so that only a thin ray of light came out and tiptoed to the door, eased it open and stepped out into the hallway.
It was only her imagination, of course, she told herself, but best to set her mind at rest because otherwise she’d be starting at every little sound. But the kitchen door was open – she could see the glow of the banked fire in the range.
It came at her suddenly, a large dark mass that loomed out of the shadows, cutting off the glimpse of the fire, flapping great wings of blackness as it swooped.
Laura screamed, threw the lantern and found herself flying backwards to hit the doorframe behind her with a sickening thump. Stars spun against the blackness and she tried to scream again as she staggered to her feet to block the doorway with her body. Then the hand found her throat.
Chapter Eight
‘Gawd, I’m glad to see you, my lord. We thought you’d been attacked too.’ Jed Tucker put down the shotgun he’d raised to cover the horseman riding into the yard out of the darkness.
‘Who has been attacked?’ Theo swung down out of the saddle and realised that the house was a blaze of lights on the ground floor. ‘Laura – is she unharmed?’
‘She says so, says it’s just bruises.’ As Theo turned and ran towards the house he called after him. ‘She’s got guts, that lass.’
Mrs Bishop was in the kitchen talking to Edward who had a nasty red lump coming up on his forehead and was clutching a cup of what smelt like hot milk and brandy. ‘There you are!’ She turned on him like an anxious mother with an errant schoolboy. ‘Where have you been, my lord? We thought they’d got you too. I’ve been that worried – ’ There was a shotgun here too, lying on the table.
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