It was highly unusual for a gentlewoman—even a widow—to travel without a male relative. Sebastian said, “I take it you spoke with her?”
“Several times. She asked if she could sketch the Grange and I said yes. The original part of the house dates back to the thirteenth century, you know.”
“And did she sketch it?”
“She did, yes. On Saturday.”
“When was the last time anyone saw her?”
Rawlins drew up at the edge of the water meadow and turned to give him a blank look. “I don’t rightly know. I suppose that’s one of the first things I should find out, isn’t it?”
Sebastian narrowed his eyes against the strengthening morning sun as he studied the clump of trees on the far side of the meadow. “It would help.”
A broad, flat area of grassland that lay beside the river, the water meadow was kept irrigated when necessary by a carefully controlled series of sluice gates, channels, and field ridges. The latest crop of hay had recently been harvested, leaving the grass shorn close and the air smelling sweetly of new growth and the cool waters of the slow-moving river. Only a loud buzzing of flies near a far stand of alders hinted at the presence of death.
They crossed the clearing to where a belligerent-looking middle-aged man introduced by Rawlins as Constable Nash stood beside the young widow’s body, his massive arms crossed at his chest. Sebastian remembered what Rawlins had said, that the constable was convinced the woman had killed herself. Constable Nash obviously did not appreciate having his judgment questioned by the new justice of the peace.
What was left of Emma Chance lay at his feet, her head propped against a low log, her bare hands folded at her heart as if she were already in her tomb. Even in death, she was beautiful, her features dainty, her skin flawless, her neck long and graceful, her hair a rich dark brown. A fashionable spencer and hat rested nearby, the fingers of one fine gray glove peeking out from beneath its brim. An empty bottle of laudanum, its cork stopper carefully replaced, was at her side.
“It’s suicide, I tell ye,” said the constable. “Plain as plain can be. She done took off her hat and that fancy little coat thing, laid down, drank the laudanum, and killed herself.”
Rather than answer, Sebastian hunkered down beside the woman’s small, delicate body. Her gown was plain but of good quality and fashionable, its soft, subdued gray appropriate for a widow who’d been in mourning for more than six months. He could see no signs of violence of any kind, although that didn’t mean there were none.
Yanking off one of his gloves, he touched the back of his hand to her cheek. She was utterly cold.
“When was she found?” he asked.
The young Squire cast one quick look at the dead woman, then stared pointedly away, toward the slowly moving waters of the river. “Just after dawn. One of the lads staying at Northcott Abbey was out early looking for birds and happened upon her.”
Sebastian shifted his gaze to the surrounding grass. The close-cropped stalks were visibly crushed in places, but the ground was slightly elevated here and too hard and dry to show the footprints of those who had trod it. And he found himself staring at the dead woman’s feet, just visible beneath the hem of her gown. She wore half boots made of fine soft kid, relatively clean except for some dust on the toes.
He rested one forearm on his thigh as he felt a slow, familiar anger begin to build within him. For a beautiful young widow to be so overcome by a vortex of grief, desperation, or guilt as to take her own life was tragic. But for someone to steal that life away without her consent was an abomination.
He said, “Is there another path she could have taken to get here besides the one we followed?”
“Well . . . I suppose she could have come along the riverbank. But it’s awfully muddy at the moment.”
“Then you were right,” said Sebastian. “She was murdered.”
“What?” bellowed the constable, his features twisting with outraged incredulity. “What’re ye talkin’ about? Why, the laudanum she took is right there.”
Sebastian shook his head. “Easy enough to kill a woman and leave an empty bottle of laudanum at her side.”
Rawlins swatted at a fly crawling across his eyes. “But how can you tell she was murdered?”
“Look at her feet.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look at your own feet.”
The Squire stared down at his serviceable brown-topped boots, their soles heavily caked with muck from the path through the woods. “There’s no mud on her shoes! That means she couldn’t have walked down here by herself. Is that what you’re saying?”
Sebastian nodded. Judging from the stiffness of the body, he suspected she’d been dead a good twelve hours or more, but he was no expert. If they’d been in London, he’d have asked to have her remains sent to Paul Gibson, a former regimental surgeon who was a genius at teasing out the secrets of the dead.
But they weren’t in London.