“What were you hoping to find?” Kyle asked, rephrasing the question.
“I was looking for Alys Bailey’s grave.”
“And what would finding her grave prove?”
“Not a thing,” I replied, feeling more defensive than I had reason to be.
“Are you all right, Nicole?” Kyle asked, turning to look at me.
“Fine.”
“You haven’t written a word, have you?”
“Not in the traditional sense,” I replied archly.
“And in the nontraditional sense? Do you know where you’re going with this?”
“You’re not my editor, Kyle,” I snapped. And not even my friend, I added mentally.
Kyle nodded and fixed his gaze on the road. We drove back to the retreat in silence.
“Thank you,” I said as soon as Kyle pulled into the car park.
“My pleasure.”
I got out and hurried toward the entrance, eager to be alone.
Chapter 31
I shut the door to my room, tossed my bag on the chair, and kicked off my shoes, climbing onto the high bed and pulling the duvet over me to keep out the chill. As a writer, it was my job to analyze people’s feelings and motivations, so I started with my own. Why was I upset? Kyle had taken time out of his day to come and collect me from the cemetery so I wouldn’t have to wait for Alastair, but instead of feeing grateful to him, I had been snappish. His questions had been kindly meant, the sort of thing any writer would ask another. So why was I so angry?
The answer was obvious. I was upset he was married. Somewhere deep inside, I had allowed a tiny bud of hope to spring to life on the withered tree of my romantic dreams, and now that bud had died before it had a chance to unfurl. Kyle was just the kind of man I was drawn to: intelligent, attractive—very attractive, if I were being honest with myself—and charming. Since meeting him a few days ago, I hadn’t seen a single display of inflated ego, cunning, or sexual aggression, which made his friendship with Len even more puzzling, since Len was all those things and more. I had enjoyed Kyle’s company. His gaze, when we’d walked by the reservoir and then later when we were alone in his car, had been warmer than that of a man who was simply passing the time of day. I’d thought he’d found me attractive and interesting, and the realization that he’d either been oblivious to my budding attraction or had exploited it for his own amusement stung. Perhaps, like Len, he’d hoped to make the most of his week away from home.
The truth was that I was terribly lonely, and the prospect of making a connection that had the potential to blossom into something more had lifted my spirits immeasurably, but now they were lower than before, my dented little ego dropping to the floor and rolling on the dusty floorboards right under the bed. Was I going to be alone for the rest of my life? I asked myself as I lay there, giving in to self-pity without reservation. I knew I was being overly dramatic, but at the moment, it seemed like I’d never meet anyone who had more than a passing interest in me. Was there something fundamentally wrong with me?
Oh, quit whining and get to work, my inner voice said, clearly disgusted with my maudlin thoughts. Self-pity is not attractive.
I hauled myself to my feet and went to the desk, where I sat down and turned on my laptop. I hadn’t uploaded the photos of the journal from my phone yet, but while at the cemetery, I had decided to hold off on deciphering the entries. I needed to outline events that pertained to Alys’s case. Then I would cross-reference the events mentioned in the journal to determine whether they corresponded with my outline. Since the entries weren’t dated and the writer’s name wasn’t in the book, I couldn’t use the journal as a primary source until I was sure it supported the story.
I began with the Lockwoods. Given that they had once been one of the most prominent families in the area, their history was well documented online, so I had no difficulty drawing up a fairly comprehensive family tree. The Lockwoods had been in Derbyshire since the thirteenth century, possibly even longer. The records weren’t always accurate when they went so far back. Medieval Lockwoods had been landowners who expanded their territory and influence through marriage. It was John Lockwood who had been created Viscount Lockwood in 1532 by Henry VIII, presumably for service to the crown. By the beginning of the seventeenth century, the family had owned a fair bit of North Derbyshire, but I wasn’t really interested in those holdings. What I was looking for was a reference to the Ashcombe estate, which had encompassed a good portion of Derwent Valley.
The Honorable Jeremiah Lockwood, youngest son of Viscount Asa Lockwood, had married Marjorie Ashcombe in 1639. Since, as a woman, Marjorie couldn’t own property, the estate had passed to her husband. Had Marjorie not been contracted to marry at the time of her father’s death, the estate would have gone to her nearest male relation, which was a distant cousin on her father’s side. It wasn’t until the eighteenth century that Ashcombe Manor had been renamed Lockwood Hall. Given the dates I had to work with, Jeremiah Lockwood would have been responsible for what befell Alys, being the lord of the manor and the only real figure of authority in the village besides the vicar, who would have answered to him as well.
I made a note to check who the local magistrate or justice of the peace would have been at the time of Alys’s trial. Had the justice of the peace adhered to correct procedure, Alys’s case would have been tried by the quarterly assizes of the Midland Circuit, which
