such a tender moment justified all the effort of riding down to Kent. The tenderness did not last long.
The door suddenly opened and a young man came striding in.
'Penelope!' he said, descending on her. 'I have just heard the news from Lady Northcott.'
'George!'
'You poor thing!' He enfolded her in his arms. 'What an appalling crime! Someone will be made to pay for this, mark my words!'
The arrival of her fiancee unnerved Penelope and she lost her control for a short while, sobbing into his shoulder. George Strype made soothing sounds and patted her gently on the back. He was a tall man with long dark hair which fell in curls to the shoulders of his coat. Though he was moderately handsome, his costly attire failed to hide the fact that he was running to fat. Christopher noticed the podgy hands and the nascent double chin. He also experienced a surge of envy at a man who was entitled to embrace Penelope Northcott so freely.
George Strype flung an inhospitable glance at Christopher.
'Who are you, sir?' he said coldly.
'My name is Christopher Redmayne.'
'The messenger, I presume?'
'Oh, Mr Redmayne is much more than that,' said Penelope.
'Indeed?' said Strype.
'Yes, George.'
She introduced the two men properly then spoke so warmly about the visitor that Strype interrupted her. Keeping a proprietary arm around her shoulder, he sized the other man up then gave a contemptuous snort.
'So you intend to solve a murder, do you?'
Christopher held his gaze. 'Yes, Mr Strype.'
'How do you propose to do that?'
'This is neither the time nor place to discuss it.'
'In other words, you have no earthly notion where to start.'
'In other words,' said Christopher, 'this is an occasion of intense sadness for Miss Northcott and I would not dare to distress her further by talking at length about her father's murder. It would be unseemly.'
'Thank you, Mr Redmayne,' she said.
'He does not deserve your thanks, Penelope.'
'Yes, he does, George.'
'Why?'
'For showing such tact.'
'What use is tact?'
'And for displaying such courage.'
'There is nothing courageous in a foolish boast.' 'Mr Redmayne did not boast.'
'He is raising false hopes, Penelope, and that is a cruelty.'
'Nothing on earth would induce me to be cruel to your fiancee, sir,' said Christopher courteously. 'I am sorry that my plans meet with such disapproval from you, especially as you might be in a position to render me some assistance. Evidently, I would be misguided if I looked for help from your direction. When the killer is caught - as he will be - you may yet have the grace to admit that you were too hasty in your assessment of my character. You may, Mr Strype, though I suspect that you will not.' He turned to Penelope. 'Please excuse me, Miss Northcott. I have stayed far too long as it is.'
'No, Mr Redmayne.'
'Let him go,' grunted Strype.
'But the least we can do is to offer our guest refreshment.'
'He can find that at the nearest inn, Penelope.'
'George!'
'He is not a guest, Penelope. Merely a messenger.'
'That is very unkind,' she chided.
'We need to be alone.'
'I could not agree with Mr Strype more,' said Christopher, moving to the door. 'I have discharged my duty as a mere messenger and I must away. It is a long and tedious ride back to London. Please give my regards to Lady Northcott and tell her that I hope to meet her in less painful circumstances next time.'
'There is no need for you to meet her at all,' said Strype.
'You are probably right.'
'Goodbye, sir!'
'Goodbye.'
'Wait!' called Penelope as he turned to go.
Christopher hesitated but whatever she had meant to say went unspoken. George Strype exuded such a sense of displeasure that she was visibly cowed and took refuge in his shoulder once more. Her fiancee enjoyed his minor triumph, stroking her hair and placing a kiss on the top of her head. He was lavish in his affection. When he looked up to give himself the satisfaction of dismissing the visitor, he saw that he was too late. Christopher had already slipped out of the house.
As he strolled towards the stables, Christopher asked himself why such a lovely young lady should allow herself to become engaged to such a disagreeable man. Strype looked ten years older than his fiancee and clearly set in his attitudes. He had the arrogant manner of someone whose authority was never challenged. Christopher felt even more pity for Penelope Northcott. At a time when she most needed sympathy, she was in the hands of George Strype. The man's arrival did have one advantage. It robbed Christopher himself of all vain interest in Penelope. She was spoken for and that was that. His mind was liberated to concentrate on the important task of tracking down the man who killed her father.
The stables were at the side of the house but curiosity got the better of him. Instead of retrieving his horse, he went on to take a look at the garden which now stretched out before him. It was breathtaking in its sense of order. Neat rectangular lawns were fringed with colourful borders and dotted with circular flowerbeds. Trees and shrubs grew in serried ranks. Paths criss-crossed with geometrical precision and water met the eye in every direction. Gauging the amount of work which must have gone into its creation and maintenence, he could only marvel.
Its most startling feature was sitting on a bench. She blended so perfectly with her surroundings that at first Christopher did not see her. Lady Frances Northcott was resting in the shade of an arbour as she looked across to the willows edging the lake. Where she might have been tense and doleful, she seemed at that distance to be surprisingly at ease. Christopher could not resist getting a little closer to make sure that it really was the widow of Sir Ambrose Northcott. She had borne the news of his murder with extraordinary composure and Christopher fully expected her to return to him once she had escorted her daughter to her bedchamber. In the event, it was Penelope who came back, giving the impression that it was her mother who was so consumed by grief that she could not face the visitor again.
Lady Northcott was not consumed with grief now. Christopher crept across a lawn until he was only ten yards or so away. Concealing himself behind some rhododendrons, he watched her with fascination for a few minutes. When her head turned briefly in his direction, giving him a clear view of her face, he was shocked. Instead of mourning the death of her husband, Lady Frances Northcott had a smile of contentment on her lips.
Chapter Nine
Jonathan Bale ignored the light drizzle as he moved slowly around with his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. It was a long painstaking search but it yielded nothing of real value. He withdrew to the road and studied the site pensively. It was deserted. Work on the house had been terminated and Samuel Littlejohn's men sent home while
