“Ruskin lived in lodgings in Bury Street—Number 23. His home, Crawton Hall, is near Bledington in Gloucestershire, just over the border of north Oxfordshire, southwest of Chipping Norton, the nearest market town.”
Tony frowned, but his knowledge of England was nowhere near as detailed as his knowledge of France.
“Ruskin has a mother living, and an older spinster sister. They reside at Crawton Hall, and haven’t left it in decades. Ruskin spent but little time there in recent years. That’s what we know of him to date.”
“Odd habits?”
“None known—we’ll leave that to you. Obviously, we can’t afford any overt activity.”
“What about manner of death—any word from the surgeon?”
“I called Pringle in. According to him, Ruskin was knifed with the stiletto you found. Very professionally slipped between the ribs. Angle and point of entry suggest a right-handed assailant standing beside and a little behind his left side.”
They both could see how it was done.
“So.” Tony sipped. “A friend.”
“Certainly someone he in no way suspected of murderous intent.”
Such as a lady in a pale green silk gown.
Tony looked up. “Did Pringle give any guesses as to the murderer—size, strength, that sort of thing?”
Dalziel’s eyes, scanning his face, narrowed. “He did. A man almost certainly as tall as Ruskin and, of course, of reasonable strength.”
“How tall was Ruskin?”
“A trifle shorter than me. Half a head shorter than you.”
Tony hid his relief behind a grimace. “Not much help there. Any other clues?”
“No.” Dalziel stood, fluidly graceful.
Tony did the same, with even more innate flair.
Dalziel hid a grin and led the way to the door. “Let me know what you find. If I hear anything useful, I’ll send word.”
He paused as they reached the door and met Tony’s gaze. “If I do have anything to send, where should I send it?”
Tony considered, then said, “Here. Back door. My butler’s reliable, and the staff have been with me for years.”
Dalziel nodded. They stepped into the hall.
Tony saw Dalziel out and locked the front door, then returned to the library.
He went straight to one of the bookcases and crouched, scanning the spines, then he pulled out a large tome. Rising, he crossed to where the lamp on the desk threw a circle of stronger light. Opening the book—a collection of maps of England’s counties—he flicked through until he came to the pages showing Oxfordshire. He located Chipping Norton, and Banbury in the far north of the county.
It took a few minutes of flicking back and forth, comparing maps of Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, and Warwickshire, before he had the geography straight. The only bit of Warwickshire “not far from Banbury” was also not far from Chipping Norton, and therefore, in turn, not far from Bledington.
Alicia Carrington’s home lay within ten miles of Ruskin’s.
Shutting the book, Tony stared across the room.
How likely was it, given the social round of county England that, living in such proximity, Alicia Carrington née Pevensey and Ruskin had never met?
The question suggested the answer. Ruskin hadn’t spent much time in Bledington recently, and despite telling him she and her sister hailed from the area, Alicia Carrington could well have meant their home was there now. The home she’d made with her husband; most likely she was referring to his house, not necessarily the area in which she and her family, the Pevenseys, had lived most of their lives. Of course.
He returned the book to the shelf, then headed for the door.