A Tall Dark Stranger (6 page)

Renshaw sighed. “I can see Beau has changed somewhat from the days when I knew him. I had hoped to see him settled down—married—but he seems strangely restless. It’s interesting, renewing acquaintances with old friends after so many years.”

“I don’t think Beau is in any hurry to settle down.”

“The more fool he,” Renshaw said.

I looked to see if he was being ironic. He looked only rueful. Was it possible Renshaw was truly interested in marriage as apart from nabbing an heiress?

We were talking in the carriage. Before we got away, Addie Lemon spotted us and came forward to meet Renshaw.

“I can’t expect to cause any fuss at the assembly at this rate,” he complained in mock annoyance after she had left. “I’ll be as well-known as an old ballad.”

“Do you not improve on longer acquaintance?” I asked.

My question was greeted with a challenging, confident smile. “You tell me, ma’am. This is the second time we’ve met. Am I even more tedious than the first time?”

Such self-confidence required a good set-down. “That would be impossible, Mr. Renshaw,” I said demurely.

“Cut to the quick, wretch!” he exclaimed, clutching a hand to his heart. Then he laughed. “That will teach me to go fishing for compliments in a dry stream.”

“The stream is not dry, sir. You are merely using the wrong bait.”

He examined me with interest. “Can you suggest a more successful bait, Miss Talbot?”

“Surely it is not for the prey to advise the predator, but you must not take the notion I am a gudgeon only because I happen to live in the backwaters of the country.”

“You’re hard on me. I am only seeking your approval, a kind word ...”

I found myself becoming intrigued by Renshaw in spite of my aunt’s warning. Everything about the man suggested wealth and privilege. His jackets, the emerald on his finger, the team and sporting carriage—all were of the first stare. His manner, too, was easy without being insinuating. Best of all, he could laugh at himself.

Yet by his own admission his career in India had not been distinguished. It was not gentlemen of wealth and privilege who were sent to India but younger sons with their way to make in the world. Renshaw must have known he would inherit his papa’s estate. Why had he gone to India at all? Perhaps the hop farm was small. The only other explanation I could think of was that he had been escaping some scandal. That was easy enough to believe of any friend of Beau’s.

But if there had been a scandal a decade ago I felt Renshaw had changed. He spoke almost wistfully of settling down, marrying. Unless, of course, it was all an act. He had either been acting when I first met him or he was acting now.

To lead the conversation toward India, I asked, “Was it in India that you became interested in palmistry, Mr. Renshaw?”

He glanced at me with a perfectly frank expression. “No, Miss Talbot, it was in Hampshire, when Beau told me your aunt is a devotee. I try to make myself agreeable to strangers. Your aunt had read Beau’s palm and he briefed me on a few points. Pity he hadn’t remembered the significance of a fire hand.”

“You’re very frank!”

“I am coming to the conclusion that there is no point in trying to con you, ma’am. Those green eyes see too much.”

“Why should you want to con me or, indeed, anyone? Surely that is not the way to make yourself agreeable to new acquaintances.”

“That is a perfect example of what I mean. Here are we, a fairly handsome young couple, driving in a new curricle with a spirited team on a lovely spring day and you refuse to feel romantic. You insist on talking common sense.”

“It takes two to talk sense, Mr. Renshaw. Why should you want to con me?”

“It also takes two to flirt, Miss Talbot. Why do
you
refuse to flirt? I am eligible—by which we both understand my pockets aren’t to let. I have a good character. My face may not set every heart aflutter, but taking into account the spring season I had hoped for something more than mere common sense.”

“I take leave to tell you, Mr. Renshaw, that you are a weasel. I repeat, why should you want to con me?”

“And you, ma’am, are a badger. I was not trying to con you. Any bachelor will tell you the way to a young lady’s heart—or at least company—is via her chaperone. Beau said your aunt was ‘crusty’ and suggested she was not vulnerable to compliments but to an interest in palmistry. You see what a deal of trouble I’ve been to, only to get you into my carriage. And what thanks do I get? Common sense. Nothing but common sense. Really, Miss Renshaw, I expected better of an
artiste.”

That explanation was a mite too flattering to swallow holus-bolus, but I knew I would get nothing better from this prevaricator. “Pity Beau hadn’t warned you of the danger of a fire hand,” I said.

“Next time I shall read the tea leaves and give your aunt back for that estimate of my character.”

“Oh, are you taking Auntie to tea? She didn’t mention it.”

He emitted a long, exasperated sigh. We drove a few miles east of Chilton Abbas, then he turned the curricle around and we drove back toward Oakbay Hall. I picked up the whip, just fiddling with it to give my hands something to do. Taking into account our delays in the village, it had been a long enough drive for a first outing. I expected we would go directly home. But as we passed the church, Renshaw drew off the road and stopped.

“The water meadow where you did your sketches is behind the church, I think you mentioned?”

I hadn’t mentioned it, but he might have learned it from Beau. “Yes.”

“It sounds fascinating. Could we have a look at it?” I felt a shiver to even think of that place. Yet it held a fascination as well as repugnance. I wouldn’t go there alone for some time, but I felt safe with Renshaw.

“Very well, but there is not much to see.”

“I think you mentioned a graveyard.... That is ‘a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.’ “

He came to a dead stop. “Oh, Lord! What an
asinine
thing to say! You’ll think I’m planning to misbehave. I promise you I am not. The lines are from a poem.”

I looked at the whip, thinking it would provide a weapon—not if Renshaw misbehaved. I wasn’t really concerned about that. But if the murderer had returned to the scene of the crime ...

“You shan’t need that. Word of a gentleman,” he said, and removed the whip from my fingers. Setting it aside, he alit and helped me down from the high seat of the curricle.

There is some enchantment in a water meadow. The atmosphere is so soft and moist. The very air looks green from the surrounding trees and grass. Light from the water plays on the vegetation, giving a magical sense of movement to the stillness.

On arrival, all seems silent, but if you stop a moment and listen, there is a veritable symphony of nearly inaudible sounds. The buzz of insects, the rustle of a leaf as it is moved by the breeze, an occasional chirp of a bird, and the louder splash as a frog leaps for a gnat.

As my eyes toured the greenery for a likely candidate for sketching in the future, I forgot Renshaw for a moment. When he spoke, I gave a little leap of surprise.

“It’s very peaceful here,” he said. There was a tinge of reverence in his tone, the sort of hushed voice one hears in church. I sensed that he appreciated the simple beauty of my outdoor cathedral and liked him better for it. He spied a snakehead and went toward it. “This must be where you were sketching,” he said.

“No, it was farther to the right.”

He went along and found the very plant I had sketched the day we met Stoddart, close to the spot where Lollie had found his body the next day. I noticed Renshaw peering into the bulrushes beyond. I knew what he was thinking.

“That’s where my brother found the body,” I said.

“Is all this your land, Miss Talbot?”

“The water meadow separates our land from Mr. Maitland’s. The property line runs down the center.”

His eyes gazed across the water, up the incline, and soon discovered the shepherd’s hut. When I mentioned that Lollie and I had seen Stoddart there with Maitland, nothing would do but Renshaw must see it. And I was just curious enough that I went along with him.

There was little enough to see. The sod hut, with its perishing thatched roof, was a square of six or seven feet on all sides. The only opening was the doorway. As the place had been abandoned for years, any creature comforts had been removed. All that remained was a bed of straw in one corner. Renshaw made straight for it.

“This is new straw!” he exclaimed.

A pile of fresh straw had been placed on top of the old. “I expect some tramp has spent the night here. Perhaps that is how poor Mr. Stoddart was killed,” I suggested.

Renshaw lifted up the new top straw and examined it. Then he lifted something out and held it up. It was a length of a lady’s blue ribbon about a foot long. There is nothing much to distinguish one blue ribbon from another. There must be two dozen local ladies who wore ribbons similar to the one Renshaw held between his thumb and finger. In fact, Mrs. Murray had been wearing blue ribbons yesterday when Aunt Talbot was reading her palm.

“It seems the tramp got lucky,” Renshaw said.

I gave him a cool stare for this piece of impropriety. “You aren’t in India now, Mr. Renshaw. Indian manners aren’t appreciated here.”

“You do the Indians an injustice. They are extremely polite. But not even they are so polite as to honor a vagrant in the manner this ribbon suggests.”

“It’s perfectly obvious some serving girl has been meeting her beau here,” I said, displeased with this broad talk.

He handed me the ribbon. “Very nice ribbon for a serving maid,” he said.

It was a satin ribbon, richer than could be purchased in Chilton Abbas. Mulliner’s keeps a thin, skimpy satin ribbon. Not narrow in width, but flimsy. It soon loses its shape. The shade of this ribbon was also richer than could be had locally. And there was a hint of purple in it, sort of a periwinkle shade.

“Ladies often give their older ribbons to their servants,” I said. “I trust you aren’t suggesting a lady was using the hut for a trysting spot.”

“So far as I know there are no ladies living on this property. Maitland is a bachelor, is he not?”

“Yes. And before you say it, Mr. Renshaw, I am the lady living closest to the hut. I assure you I did not—” His startled stare told me I had defended my fair name unnecessarily.

“I never suspected it for a moment. You stand much too high on your dignity, ma’am. What I am wondering is whether you happened to give this ribbon to one of your servants.”

“I did not. A lady with green eyes doesn’t usually wear blue ribbons.”

He dangled the bit of ribbon by my face. “It would look well with your hair, though,” he said. I jerked my head away. “Well, well. I believe we have a clue here,” he said, and folding the ribbon up, he put it in his pocket.

“You should give it to McAdam.”

He ignored my suggestion. “While we’re here, shall we have a look at the graveyard?” he said.

“I’ve had enough of an outing for one day, but as you are so interested in Mr. Stoddart’s murder, the graves he was looking for belonged to the Fanshawes. There’re no such graves in our cemetery.”

We began the walk back to the carriage, with the graveyard looming ahead on our right.

“I own I’m intrigued by this murder,” he admitted. “What could be serious enough for one human being to kill another—outside of the folly of war, I mean?”

“I believe you’ll find man’s ego is usually the cause. As you have just come from India, I’m sure you’ve seen examples of it” He looked a question at me. “I’m referring to suttee, the delightful notion men have that their widows should hop on the funeral pyre and join them in the hereafter.”

“Why, that is really a compliment to the ladies, ma’am. Their spouses can’t do without them even in the afterlife.”

“A high price to pay for a compliment! If it is the wife who dies first, the husband doesn’t repay in kind. He manages to get along very well—with another wife.”

“It’s a cruel custom, but you can’t lay it in my dish, Miss Talbot. It was done long before I went to India and will no doubt continue now that I’ve left. In fact, I’ve never seen it myself. Each society has its own customs that often seem bizarre to outsiders. The French eat frogs; we eat cows; the Indians immolate their widows.”

“The customs are hardly comparable!”

“I doubt a cow would see the difference. They’re God’s creatures, too.” He scowled at me and added, “And, yes, I do eat beef.”

“I didn’t ask!”

I was surprised he didn’t mention that the English were trying to ban suttee. Uncle Hillary had more than once spoken hotly on the subject. The Raj was dead set against suttee.

“You’re probably right to suggest man’s ego was at the root of the murder, however,” he allowed. “A blow to his purse or his pride—either one could be the reason. Perhaps a lady is involved.”

“It’s not usually ladies who murder.”

“Not by means of stabbing, at least, though I don’t acquit the fair sex of deadly passion,” he said. “It’s more usual for a lady to use poison. But I said only involved—as the cause, was my meaning.”

When I didn’t reply, he said, “All right-thinking men cherish their wives above rubies, you must know. To have a wife stolen demands some extraordinary revenge.”

“The same revenge that’s customarily exacted when a man cheats at cards, in fact.”

“Or is sold a jade disguised as a goer,” he added, failing to acknowledge my point.

“Why do you assume Mr. Stoddart stole some man’s wife? He didn’t strike me as that sort.”

“Unflirtable, was he?”

“He seemed nice. If a lady was involved, which we don’t actually know, it might have been some man’s daughter or sister.”

“That had occurred to me. I didn’t want to risk offending you again. You would fit into the category of sister. You have me treading on eggs, Miss Talbot. I had forgotten how thin an English lady’s skin can be—and how pretty,” he added, stopping to gaze at my cheeks. “Like rose petals.”