of other buildings that Matthew guessed to be a stable, the coachhouse, and structures having to do with the winery.
Simon Chapel. The name of course meant nothing to him, but for Ausley’s notations. It was a farce that Charity LeClaire was Ausley’s niece. That deception had been for the coroner’s benefit. The documents must have been well-forged, for McCaggers to be taken in by them. It all seemed like an elaborate effort, but what was the purpose?
Matthew went back inside and sat down to enjoy the bacon, biscuits, and a dab of apple jelly, for the mind would be sluggish without nourishment. He also had the feeling he was going to need his full complement of wits about him. Soon Evans returned bearing a silver tray that held a glass of very dark red wine and a pitcher of water.
“Anything more you require?” the man asked.
“Nothing more, thank you.” Matthew tried the wine. It was somewhat thick to be an afternoon libation but otherwise satisfying. “This is the estate’s grape?”
“Unfortunately not. That particular bottle was purchased in New York. Our vines have yet to produce a grape worthy of Mr. Chapel’s approval.”
“Oh.” That led to a question he’d been hoping to ask. “How long has the vineyard been here?”
“Many years. Mr. Chapel purchased the estate from a Dutchman who actually made his fortune in the shipping trade and let his son grow the grapes. They did produce a wine, though we consider it to be beneath our standards. The soil’s a problem, you see. But Mr. Chapel has great aspirations.”
“He must enjoy a challenge.”
“He does.”
Matthew wasn’t content to let Evans retreat without another try. “So the vineyard is Mr. Chapel’s chief occupation?” he asked as he spread jelly on a biscuit with a silver knife.
“Oh, no sir. Just one of many. If you’ll pardon me now, I do have some tasks at hand.” Evans offered up an easy smile. “I’d suggest you take a moment to browse the library downstairs, just to the right along the corridor.”
“I do enjoy books. Oh…might I walk in the garden?”
“Of course. The entrance to the garden is through the dining-room at the rear of the house. Dinner is served at seven o’clock. You’ll hear the bell being rung. Good afternoon, sir.” And then Chapel’s assistant was out the door before he could be troubled with any further questions.
Matthew took his leisure finishing the food. At length he drank the last of the wine followed by a glass of water and then stood up. He had brought his silver watch, in the pocket opposite where his key currently resided, and checking it he saw the hour hand neared four o’clock. Chapel’s hospitality was excellent, but it was time to explore this velvet cage.
He returned the watch to his pocket and went out into the corridor, where he followed the Persian runner back to the staircase. The house was quiet; if there were other servants about, they were discreet to the point of invisibility. He walked downstairs, making no effort at stealthy treading, for after all he was an invited guest. Then he went back along the tapestry-adorned corridor, past other rooms and alcoves, and going through an archway he found himself presented with the dining-room Evans had mentioned. He stopped and took stock of the place.
To call this a dining-room was like calling City Hall a meeting house. A long table suited for a dozen guests stood at the room’s center, its stocky legs carved in the shapes of fish. Six elaborate brass candelabras taller than Matthew were placed at intervals around the room, ready to throw light from ten wicks apiece. The plank-and-peg floor was the color of honey and indicated a healthy history, though it appeared many of the bootmarks had been eased by judicious sanding. A large fireplace of red and gray bricks, in keeping with the external construction of the house, held logs behind a brass firescreen. Above the table, a simple oval-ring chandelier held eight more candles. When this room was fully lit up, Matthew mused, tinted glasses would be required.
But what both interested him most and caused not a little twinge of concern was the room’s display of weaponry. Above the fireplace and on either side of it were gleaming swords, displayed business-tip northward and fixed in place in fan-shaped arrangements under small crested shields. There were six swords in each display. Eighteen swords, and not all of them rapiers. A few of them had darkened blades and looked as if they’d tasted blood.
This was not a room in which to linger, he decided. Ahead of him, at the far end of the chamber, was a closed door off to the left and a set of glass-paned doors between wine-red drapes. He crossed past the fireplace and the swords, which seemed to hiss at him as he went by. The double doors were unlocked, and he stepped out into the warm sunlight onto a brick terrace that had a wrought-iron railing and a set of steps leading down to a garden path.
Just below the terrace was a small pond where goldfish swam amid waterplants. A turtle eased off a rock and vanished into the murk. Matthew followed the path deeper into the garden, walking between all manner of flowers and shrubs, through the cool of the shadows of trees and then into sunlight again. Birds chirped and called from all sides. An occasional bench was positioned to welcome the wanderer, but Matthew was not inclined to do any more sitting after that jolting coach ride.
Soon, by following one path that intersected with another, he came to a hedge wall. He walked along it a distance and discovered an iron gate about six feet high, topped with spear-points. Beyond the gate the path continued through an untamed thicket. A chain and padlock told him he was not going out this particular way. Further on he found a second gate in the hedge wall, also similarly locked. He paused and rubbed his chin. Evidently his explorations were meant to be contained, and this realization struck him like a glove smack across the face. After all, it was not only Mr. Chapel who enjoyed a challenge.
Matthew continued walking, mindful that he was now definitely seeking a way out. After a few further paces, his attention was caught by the glimpse of a red cardinal in the lower branches of a nearby tree. He saw the cardinal take flight, perhaps alarmed by his approach, and as it soared up into the sunlight Matthew took a moment to admire its grace and color.
Suddenly something darted in like a blur and hit the cardinal in midair. There was a sound of impact, like a fist on flesh. Red feathers whirled down.
The cardinal was gone.
Matthew caught sight of a large brown-and-white bird speeding away with a crimson mass clutched up underneath it. It sailed off to the right and was lost from view beyond the higher trees.
Some kind of hunting bird, he’d realized. Most likely one of the favorite predators of the medieval monarchs, a falcon or a hawk.
The speed of that flight and the quickness of the kill was stunning. The intrusion of violent death-even the demise of a cardinal-on this sunny afternoon, in this hedge-walled garden with locked gates, gave him a crawl of unease deep in his belly. He hoped it wasn’t an omen of his night to come with Simon Chapel. He thought it wise to turn around and go back to the house, which seemed to loom over him like a threat, but what was it Mrs. Herrald had said about going forward? In any case, he wanted out of the garden and he didn’t intend to let a lock or two stop him.
When he found the third padlocked gate, he decided he was climbing it. He looked around and saw a bench under a nearby tree. Dragging it to the gate, he stood up on it and set about trying to clamber over and avoid the spear-points, which were distressingly sharp. Careful, careful! he thought as a point snagged his breeches at the crotch. One slip and a fall on this thing and he’d be known henceforth as Mattina. But then he had pulled himself over and landed on the ground in not too untidy a splay. Before him the path went through vines and thicket. He dared not glance back at the house, because he didn’t care to see Evans or some other person watching him from a balcony. He set off along the path.
There was nothing to see but woods on both sides. The path curved to the right. Matthew didn’t know what he was expecting, but he had to be going somewhere Chapel didn’t want him going. He’d been walking for two or three minutes when he heard the distinct crack of a musket shot, somewhere off to the right and farther distant, but the noise was enough to make him stand stock-still until he could make his lungs pull in air again. He went on, more cautiously now, watching the underbrush for any sign of a human predator.
The path emerged from the woods. Before him was a dirt road, and on the other side more forest. Matthew noted mounds of horse manure steaming in the sun. The coach team had gone this way, probably heading to the stable. He reasoned that if he went left along the road it would lead him to the vineyard and the buildings there. He
