Lord Hawkridge's Secret. Anne Ashley
quite capable of driving the two miles to the Hall without your escort.’
A little over an hour later Emily was back in the pleasant house which had been her home for the past few years, and was endeavouring, without much success, to explain to her somewhat eccentric grandsire precisely what had taken place during the eventful journey back from the local town.
Appearing faintly bewildered, he regarded her in silence for a moment over the rim of his half-moon spectacles. ‘Shot?’
‘Yes, Grandfather, shot.’
‘But I thought you just said that you’d run him down.’
‘No, I didn’t say that,’ she corrected, striving to be patient with the old gentleman, who could be something of a trial on occasions. ‘Do try to pay attention, sir. I said I thought I must have run him down, but I hadn’t. He’d been shot.’
He bent a look of mild reproach upon her. ‘But you cannot go about the county shooting people, my dear. I dare swear a great many folk deserve it. But it simply won’t do. Will not do at all! Besides, Sir George won’t be best pleased when he hears about it.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Emily exclaimed, just as the door opened and her grandfather’s housekeeper showed none other than the local magistrate himself into the parlour.
Sir George Maynard, a large, grey-haired gentleman with a big barrel chest, which his waistcoats strained to cover, and deceptively merry blue eyes, which little escaped, was a much respected figure in the community. He was an old acquaintance of John Stapleton’s, and had a fondness for his friend’s granddaughter, which he betrayed now by casting her a sympathetic smile, whilst giving her slender hands a brief, reassuring squeeze.
‘A very distressing experience for you, my dear. Wouldn’t have had it happen for the world.’
‘Glad to hear you’ve taken it in such good part, George!’ Mr Stapleton announced, instantly gaining his friend’s attention. ‘Least said soonest mended, eh? I’ve already given her a scold, so it’s best we forget about the whole business.’ He glanced about in a vague manner. ‘Now, what brought me in here in the first place, Emily?’
‘Your book, Grandfather. It’s here on the table.’ She picked it up and handed it to him. ‘Why don’t you return to your library, and leave me to talk to Sir George. I’m certain he’ll be happy to join you for a glass of port later.’
Never needing much encouragement to repair to the room where he spent much of his time, Mr Stapleton was happy to leave, and Emily was even happier to close the door behind him, before turning to her visitor whose round face was wreathed in an understanding smile.
‘A bit vague this morning, eh?’
Emily raised one fine brow in a sceptical arch. ‘He’s only vague, as I suspect you must realise, Sir George, when he doesn’t choose to be troubled by something.’
She invited her visitor to take a seat and then, without asking, as he had never been known to refuse, automatically poured him a glass of wine. ‘You’ve spoken to Jonas Finn, I do not doubt, and have seen the body?’
‘Yes, m’dear,’ he acknowledged, after sampling the contents of his glass and watching her gracefully lowering her slender frame, which was a delight for a man of even his advanced years to behold, into the chair opposite. ‘I don’t suppose for a moment there’s much more you can add, so I’ve no intention of plaguing you with a barrage of questions. I’ve arranged for the body to be removed to the undertaker’s in Kempton.’ The Baronet regarded her in silence for a moment. ‘You didn’t recognise the fellow, I suppose?’
‘No, sir. Never set eyes on him before today.’
‘Er…Finn did just happen to mention the man said something to you before he died.’
Emily nodded. ‘But nothing that made any sense. He spoke so faintly I could hardly catch what he was saying.’
‘Pity. It might have given us a clue as to his identity.’ The local Justice of the Peace paused to sample a drop more of the excellent claret whilst all the time studying his companion’s delicate features above the rim of his glass. ‘What—er—did he say precisely, m’dear?’
All at once Emily suspected that much more lay behind the stranger’s death, that he had not merely been set upon, badly beaten and shot, and that Sir George was definitely keeping something to himself. She was very tempted to do likewise, but then thought better of it. ‘I gained the distinct impression he was keen on ornithology. His last words, if I remember correctly, were about birds—kestrels, I think. But, as he had just stumbled out of Kempton Wood, perhaps seeing birds was the last thing he remembered.’ She shrugged. ‘Who can say?’
Just for a second or two there was an added sparkle in the Baronet’s merry blue eyes. ‘Well, if you should recall precisely what it was he did say, perhaps you’ll let me know.’
‘I dare swear it would all come back to me if I took time to think about it,’ she didn’t hesitate to assure him. ‘Though I must be honest and admit that it’s an incident I would far rather forget.’
‘Very understandable, m’dear.’ Tossing the remaining contents of his glass down his throat, he rose to his feet. ‘Well, I’ll be on my way. I’ve an urgent appointment to keep and must set out for London this afternoon. Perhaps you’d be good enough to inform your grandfather that I’m forced to cancel our Friday evening’s chess session. But you can tell him I remember the exact state of play, and that we’ll resume the game after my return.’
Sebastian Hawkridge, seated behind the desk in his library, was gazing through his morning’s correspondence. His intelligent forehead was furrowed by lines of deep concentration as he scanned the missive in his hand. His mien clearly betrayed the keen perception of an extremely astute gentleman, but it was a countenance that few in the polite world had ever been privileged to see.
To have played the part of a fashionable fribble would have been a role too hard to maintain. Yet he had certainly done his utmost in recent years to give the impression that he cared for nothing so much as the pursuit of pleasure. On occasions even this portrayal had been difficult to preserve, but it had been vital to keep up the pretence in order to enable him to undertake a very personal crusade, without arousing the least suspicion among his fellow peers.
Always alert, he clearly heard the sound of the doorknocker filtering through from the hall. He had issued strict instructions that he did not wish to be disturbed, and so knew the moment his butler entered the room that the caller’s business must indeed be urgent for his trusted servant to disobey an order.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, my lord, but a Sir George Maynard is here to see you on a matter, he assures me, of the utmost importance.’
It took Sebastian a moment only to recall the gentleman to mind and appreciate the precise nature of the business which must have brought him to the house. ‘Yes, show him in, Clegg,’ he instructed, and then rose from his desk in readiness to receive his unexpected visitor.
Once he had furnished him with a glass of wine and had him comfortably established in a chair by the hearth, his lordship swiftly dispensed with pleasantries. ‘Your visit, sir, is unexpected. But I doubt you have journeyed to the capital merely to make a social call. Bad news, I assume.’
‘Afraid so, Hawkridge. Sir Giles Osborne informed me that in the event that I was unable to get hold of him, I could safely pass on any information I attained to you. Sir Giles, so I’ve been informed, is out of town, but he ought to know as soon as possible that the man he sent into Dorset has been murdered.’ Sir George wasn’t slow to detect the flicker of sadness in the younger man’s penetrating grey eyes. ‘Was he by any chance a friend of yours?’
‘We were acquaintances only. I know that Sir Giles thought highly of him. Anderson was a good man.’
Leaning back in his chair, Sebastian stretched out his muscular legs, displayed to advantage