guarded greetings when Charles came to the table and took the chair beside hers suggested Nicholas had finally realized how consistently Charles was about.
Although Nicholas shot her a disapproving glance, good manners prevailed, and he made no comment.
Charles, apparently blissfully unaware, mentioned meeting Albert Carmichael at Lostwithiel market the day before.
Nicholas professed never to have met Carmichael.
Penny explained the Cranfields’ interest, then had to remind Nicholas who the Cranfields were.
“Ah, I see.” Nicholas took a long sip of coffee, then shifted his gaze to Charles. “Has there been any advance in your investigation, Lostwithiel? Any suggestion over who is responsible for that luckless young fisherman’s death?”
She had to hand it to Charles; he didn’t so much as bat an eyelid or pause in cutting his roast beef.
“Yes, and no.” His tone was cheery, as if discussing the latest price for fish. “For various reasons, it seems unlikely the killer was anyone normally resident in the area.”
Nicholas blinked. “Why is that?”
Charles sat back, reached for his coffee cup. “Gimby wasn’t killed-he was interrogated, then executed. It was a professional piece of work.”
Nicholas looked like he was going to turn green again. Looking down, he picked up his fork and pushed a small mound of kedgeree across the porcelain. “So…no one local…”
“No. Which is why I’ve been assessing all visitors to the area.”
“Vagabonds?” Nicholas’s brows rose. “Could it be just…no, you said professional.”
“True, but there’s no reason a professional might not have appeared as a vagabond, but if killing Gimby was his only purpose, he’ll be long gone by now. Still”-Charles shrugged-“I might draw a bead on him.”
Penny kept her head down and her tongue still, for which he was grateful. He didn’t want Nicholas distracted.
After a long moment, Nicholas asked, still not meeting his eyes, “Only purpose…what other purpose do you imagine this villain might have?”
Gallic shrugs were so useful. “Who knows? But it could, for instance, be someone who didn’t want me to be able to question Gimby, not, as one might suppose, to protect whoever Gimby might have betrayed, but because he, this professional, is on the same quest as I am, and he doesn’t want me getting to the Holy Grail first.”
He was feeling his way, gauging how best to pressure Nicholas. Despite their antipathy, he was starting to get a feel for the man; he wasn’t a coward, but was possessed of an extremely cautious nature. Probably a good thing for someone high in the Foreign Office; equally a good thing in a traitor.
Nicholas had blanched at his words, but, this time, had himself well in hand. Lips thinning, he nodded, effectively ending the discussion; Charles got the impression that he’d been fishing for confirmation, having already followed much the same line of thinking.
Penny finished her breakfast; he quickly downed the last pieces of his roast beef, stood, and drew back her chair.
Rising, she glanced at her gown. “I’ll have to change.” Her back to Nicholas, she looked up and raised her brows. “I’ll meet you in the hall.”
“In the forecourt-I’ll have the horses saddled and brought there. I need to be in Fowey by half past ten.”
Her eyes asked
Nicholas rose as he turned to make his own farewell, joining him as he left the parlor. “Do you conduct a lot of business in the area personally?”
Charles glanced at him, wondering. “No. My steward and agent handle almost everything.”
“Ah, I see. I thought the trip to Fowey…”
“That’s part of the investigation.” Halting, he faced Nicholas. “It’s Gimby’s funeral. There’s an old saw that murderers often turn up to watch their victims go into the ground-to witness their final end, so to speak. I’m hoping our professional might not be so professional and turn up.”
Nicholas drew a not-quite-steady breath, tightly said, “In that case, I wish it might be so. Anything that removes such a cold-blooded murderer from among the innocent is greatly to be desired.”
With a nod, he headed for the library.
Charles watched him go, intrigued; of all the words Nicholas had uttered in his hearing, those last had been unquestionably the most sincere.
He was waiting with their horses in the forecourt when Penny came hurrying out. She came down the front steps; a smile of anticipation lighting her face, she walked quickly to him.
She halted before him, waiting to be lifted to her saddle.
He took a moment to slap down his demons; kissing her witless in the forecourt in full view of the library windows wouldn’t be a clever thing to do.
Reaching for her, he lifted her up. He informed her of their reason for hying to Fowey as he held her stirrup for her.
He was mounting Domino when the thud of approaching hooves reached them. They both shortened their reins; holding their horses steady, they watched a dusty rider come galloping in along the drive.
The rider saw them, drew rein, and trotted the last way.
“Mornin’, ma’am, sir. I’m looking for Lord Arbry.”
Penny waved to the house. “If you’ll just ring the bell…”
Norris had heard the hoofbeats; he appeared on the porch.
A step behind him came Nicholas. “I’m Arbry. Is that the dispatch from the Foreign Office?”
“Yes, m’lord.” The courier dismounted and unbuckled a satchel from his saddle. He handed it to Nicholas, who’d come down the steps to take it.
“Good.” Nicholas examined the bag, checking the seals, then nodded at the man. “If you take your horse to the stable, then come up to the house, Norris here will take care of you.”
“Thank you, m’lord.” With a bow to Nicholas and another to Penny and Charles, the man led his horse away around the house.
Nicholas tucked the bag under his arm.
Leaning on his saddle, Charles said, “I didn’t realize you were working down here.”
Penny picked up the silky, dangerous note in his voice; she wondered if Nicholas had. He seemed faintly flustered.
“Just a few things they want my opinion on.” With a weak smile and a nod, he went indoors.
Charles watched him go, then met her eyes. “Let’s go.”
They rode out. Not, this time, like a pair of giddy reckless children. Being responsible adults, they cantered down the lane.
And came upon Julian Fothergill. He was climbing over a stile as they turned into the lane to Fowey. Seeing them, he sat on the top of the stile; as they neared, he saluted.
“Good morning!”
Reining in, Penny smiled. “Good morning. Have you been out bird-watching?”
Two spyglasses on cords hung around Fothergill’s neck. “Indeed.” He gestured across the lane to where the footpath he was on continued toward the estuary. “I’m on my way to have a look around the river mouth to see if there’s any good vantage spots there. I heard there’s a stretch of marsh-that’s always good for spotting.”
Charles nodded in greeting. “There’s fair cover along the banks-the marsh extends out from them, but is underwater at high tide. Be careful.”
Fothergill smiled. “I will.”
“Have you had much luck?” Penny asked, wondering what questions might lead Fothergill to reveal more. He was a sunnily personable gentleman; she couldn’t see him as a murderer, but they ought to be logical and investigate all five visitors.
“Oh, yes! Just yesterday I spotted a pied gull, and…” Fothergill’s countenance glowed with a zealot’s fire as he recounted numerous species he’d seen.
“You’ve covered quite a stretch of territory,” Charles said. “You must have been down along the cliffs to spot those gulls.”
