The Truth about Love

was tall, then even standing above him on the steepest stretch of the path, they’d have had to lift the rock high to bring it down with such force.” He refocused on Gerrard’s face. “A single blow, it was.”

A small, distressed sound escaped Millicent.

Coloring, Barnaby glanced at her. “Sorry. But, well, it couldn’t have been a woman-no ordinary woman, anyway. A giantess might have done it, but unless Thomas was acquainted with one hereabouts, well…” Barnaby smiled apologetically, clearly attempting to lighten the moment.

“You’re saying,” Gerrard reiterated, “that Thomas was killed by a man, almost certainly a man he knew.”

Barnaby nodded. “That seems the only reasonable conclusion.”

The drawing room doors opened. Barnaby and Gerrard rose as Lord Tregonning and an older gentleman they hadn’t previously met came in. Jacqueline swung her legs down; Gerrard gave her his hand and helped her to her feet. He didn’t like her pallor, or the way she stiffened; he wound her arm with his and settled her hand on his sleeve, his hand covering hers. Millicent rose, too, and moved to stand on Jacqueline’s other side.

The gentleman bowed to Millicent and Jacqueline, who curtsied.

Lord Tregonning waved at Barnaby and Gerrard. “This is Mr. Adair, who found the body, and Mr. Debbington, another guest. Sir Godfrey Marks, our magistrate.”

Barnaby and Gerrard shook hands with Sir Godfrey, and exchanged murmured greetings.

Sir Godfrey turned to Jacqueline. “I’m sorry to disturb you, m’dear, but your father showed me this watch, which was found on the body.” Sir Godfrey held out the watch. “Are you sure it was Thomas’s?”

The last vestige of color drained from Jacqueline’s face, along with all expression. She glanced briefly at the watch, then nodded. “I’m sure. Sir Harvey and Lady Entwhistle will recognize it.”

Sir Godfrey paused, searching her face, then he nodded and returned the watch to his pocket. “It’s a pity it’s so long ago now, but just refresh my memory-you walked with him to the stables and parted from him there?”

“No.” Jacqueline lifted her chin; Gerrard felt her fingers tighten on his sleeve. “I walked only a little way along the path-we parted where it enters the Garden of Hercules. Thomas went on, and I returned to the house.”

Sir Godfrey looked at Lord Tregonning, then glanced briefly at Jacqueline; the expression on his face looked suspiciously like pity. “So you were the last here to see him alive?”

Gerrard felt her fingers flutter beneath his, but her chin set; her expression remained impassive.

“Yes.”

Portentously, Sir Godfrey nodded, then turned to Lord Tregonning. “We’ll leave it at that.” His tone was heavy. “I’ll speak to the Entwhistles and let them know. Could have been gypsies or vagabonds, of course. No sense pursuing it-nothing will bring poor young Entwhistle back.”

Lord Tregonning’s face remained set and unresponsive. “As you wish.” His voice was devoid of emotion. He didn’t look at Jacqueline, or any of them, but stiffly returned Sir Godfrey’s nod and turned with him to the doors.

Jaw slack with amazement, incomprehension in his eyes, Barnaby stared at Gerrard, then glanced at Jacqueline. Before Gerrard could react, Barnaby started after the two men; he touched Sir Godfrey’s arm. “Sir Godfrey, about the circumstances of this death-”

Sir Godfrey halted. He frowned fiercely at Barnaby. “I don’t believe we need to delve deeper into that, sir.” He glanced fleetingly at Jacqueline, then met Barnaby’s gaze. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you you’re a guest here. No point creating unnecessary distress-a sad occurrence, but there’s nothing more to be done.”

With that deliberate and emphatic verdict, Sir Godfrey nodded curtly, and departed, Lord Tregonning beside him.

Astounded, Barnaby stared after them.

When the door shut, he turned. “What the devil was that about?” He looked at Gerrard, then transferred his affronted gaze to Jacqueline. “The bounder behaved as if you’d killed Thomas! Why on earth would he think that?”

Gerrard felt the stiffness go out of Jacqueline; with a helpless gesture, she sank unsteadily down; he eased her back onto the chaise. “Because,” he said, his tone lethal, cutting, “too many people hereabouts believe Jacqueline killed her mother, so why not Thomas, as well?”

“What?” Barnaby stared at him, past incredulous. Then he looked at Jacqueline. “But that’s ludicrous. You couldn’t have killed your mother.”

Gerrard fleetingly closed his eyes and thanked the gods for Barnaby. Opening them, he saw Jacqueline, color returning to her cheeks, staring at his friend. She’d been taken aback when he’d seen her innocence, but for someone with no real connection or interest in her to so clearly declare it…she was dumbfounded.

Gerrard voiced the question he knew was in her mind. “Why do you say that-why ludicrous? Why couldn’t Jacqueline have killed her mother?”

Barnaby almost goggled at him. “Have you taken a good look at the balustrade on the terrace?”

“It’s a stone balustrade, the usual sort of thing.”

Barnaby nodded. “The usual thing-solid stone, a ten-inches-wide stone top, waist-high to a man, midriff-high to a woman of average height, which I understand Lady Tregonning was.

“A woman of average height”-Barnaby bowed to Jacqueline-“couldn’t push, tip or bundle another woman of average height, and, as it happens, greater weight, over such a high and wide barrier. It would be as close to impossible as makes no odds.”

He looked at Jacqueline, consternation and the beginnings of horrified comprehension dawning in his eyes. “When I say you couldn’t have killed your mother, I mean it literally. She had to have been lifted bodily to the top of the balustrade, and then pushed, or more likely thrown, over. I don’t think you could physically have managed it, not alone.” He hesitated, then asked. “They don’t really believe you did, do they?”

It was Millicent who answered. “Yes, they do.”

Briefly, Millicent explained to a flabbergasted Barnaby how matters had fallen out at the time of Miribelle Tregonning’s death.

“And so they all took it into their heads it was Jacqueline.” Millicent humphed. “I never subscribed to such nonsense, but by the time I learned of it, it was the general belief. Most of those in the area regard the notion as unproven fact.”

Barnaby was appalled. “Unproven facts aren’t facts at all!”

Given his belief in the application of logical deduction in solving crimes, Barnaby viewed the making of conjecture into fact as akin to heresy. Gerrard listened as Barnaby questioned, and Millicent elaborated, describing the way local sentiment had evolved, how the notion of Jacqueline as her mother’s murderer had taken root in so many minds.

It was frighteningly simple, yet the outcome was devastating. He glanced at Jacqueline. Not only devastating, but difficult to remedy.

She said little. She appeared to be listening; he wasn’t sure she was. Treadle brought in the tea tray and Millicent poured. Jacqueline accepted a cup and sat back, sipping. Barnaby and Millicent continued their discussion, moving on to consider how to rectify the situation. Jacqueline listened to that, but there was nothing new, nothing she hadn’t already thought of; he watched as her mind turned inward, and her thoughts slid away.

She’d just learned that a young man she’d cared for, and who had cared for her, had been brutally murdered. Even though she wasn’t looking at him, watching her face Gerrard sensed, not her thoughts, but her emotions.

Sadness, and more, too many swirling feelings for him to distinguish; one part of him, the polite gentleman, recoiled from intruding on her grief, another part, the painter, noted and cataloged, while the private man wanted to gather her in his arms and comfort her, to soothe and reassure.

He blinked; looking down, he set his cup on its saucer. He couldn’t recall such an impulse to comfort afflicting him before, not with such poignant force, with such sharp and clear empathy. Empathy was a necessity for an artist, yet it had never before had such a personal edge.

Never pressed him so keenly to act, to share the burden if not make it his.

From beneath his lashes, he glanced at Jacqueline. If he acted, how would she respond?

He hadn’t forgotten that moment in the studio, dramatically interrupted though it had been. They’d moved on, taken a definite step forward together, so where did that leave them-he and she, and what lay between them- now?

She finished her tea. Without glancing at him, she rose. When both he and Barnaby rose, too, Millicent broke off