Grace, and in good time.’
The rider jumped down. ‘My dear, I am glad I did not miss you altogether.’
Wolf watched as the man caught Grace’s hand and raised it to his lips. He looked to be on the shady side of forty, stocky and thick-set, with a ruddy complexion and more than a touch of grey in his hair. His brown coat was cut well, but not in the height of fashion, and he greeted Grace with an easy familiarity. Even before they were introduced Wolf had guessed his identity.
‘Sir Loftus Braddenfield is our local Justice of the Peace.’
It did not need the warning note in the parson’s mild words to put Wolf on his guard. Some spirit of devilry urged him to tug his forelock, but he suppressed it; Sir Loftus Braddenfield did not look like a fool. The man was coolly assessing him as Wolf made a polite greeting.
‘So you are on your way to London, eh? Where are you from, sir?’
‘I have been travelling in the north for some time,’ Wolf replied calmly.
‘And you thought you’d break your journey in Arrandale. Friend of Mr Duncombe’s, are you?’
‘I knew the family,’ explained Mr Duncombe. ‘A long time ago.’
Sir Loftus was still holding Grace’s hand and it occurred to Wolf that he did not like seeing his fiancée escorted by a stranger. Wolf excused himself and as he walked away he heard Sir Loftus addressing Grace.
‘I wish I could stay longer, my dear, but I have business in Hindlesham. I merely called to invite you and your father to dinner this evening. But if you have visitors...’
Grace’s reply floated across the yard to Wolf as he ran lightly up the garret stairs.
‘Mr Peregrine is not a visitor, Loftus. More one of Papa’s charitable cases.’
He winced. That cool description should allay any jealous suspicions Braddenfield might have. Clearly the lady had a very low opinion of ‘Mr Peregrine’. He went inside, but as he crossed the room he could not resist glancing out of the window, which overlooked the yard. The little party was still there, but the parson and Braddenfield appeared to have finished their discussion, for the magistrate was taking his leave of Grace, raising her hand to his lips. Wolf scowled. She was smiling at Braddenfield more warmly than she had ever smiled at him.
Kicking off his boots, he threw himself down on the bed. It did not matter what Miss Grace Duncombe thought of him. There were more pressing matters requiring his attention. Putting his hands behind his head, he thought of all he had heard from old Brent and from Jones, the caretaker at Arrandale Hall. He closed his eyes and conjured his own memories of the tragedy. He remembered the servants coming up to the hall while he knelt beside Florence’s almost-lifeless form. Jones had added one small detail that Wolf had forgotten. It had been Charles Urmston who pulled Wolf to his feet, saying as he did so, ‘You have done it this time, Arrandale. Your temper has got the better of you.’
Everyone would think Florence had met him on the landing, ready to continue their argument, and he had pushed her away so that she had fallen to her death. There were witnesses enough to their frequent quarrels. And the theft of the necklace was also laid squarely at his door.
He sat up abruptly. Whoever stole the diamonds knew the truth about Florence’s death, he was sure of it. Wolf glanced out of the window again. The stable yard was empty now. Mr Duncombe and his daughter were invited to dine with Sir Loftus, so he was free to patronise the local inn this evening.
* * *
‘Well, well, that was a pleasant dinner.’
Grace wished she could agree with her father, but if she were truthful, she had found the evening spent with Sir Loftus and his elderly mother a trifle dull. Mrs Braddenfield was a kindly soul, but her interests were narrow and her son, although well educated, lacked humour. Grace supposed that was partly to do with his being Justice of the Peace, a position he took very seriously. They did not even have the company of Claire Oswald, Mrs Braddenfield’s young companion, to lighten the mix, for she was away visiting relatives.
The conversation over dinner ranged from local matters to the weather and the ongoing war with France, but it had all been very serious. Grace compared the evening to the previous one spent in the company of their mysterious guest. They had discussed a whole range of topics and her own contributions had been received without the condescension she often detected in her fiancé’s manner. Berating herself for being so ungrateful, she sought for something cheerful to say.
‘It was very kind of Loftus to put his carriage at our disposal.’
‘It was indeed. It would have been a chilly ride in the gig.’
She heard the sigh in her father’s voice. At times like these Papa felt the change in their circumstances. The tithes that provided a large proportion of his income as rector of the parish had diminished considerably since Arrandale Hall had been shut up and when their ancient coachman had become too old to work they had pensioned him off. Grace had persuaded her father that a carriage was not a necessity; they could manage very well with the gig and the old cob. And so they could, although she could not deny there were benefits to riding in a closed carriage during the colder months of the year.
Sir Loftus owned the manor house in the market town of Hindlesham. It was only a few miles, but Grace was thankful when they reached Arrandale village, for they would be home very soon. It was nearing midnight and most of the buildings were in darkness, no more than black shapes against the night sky, but light spilled out from the Horse Shoe Inn, just ahead of them. With her head against the glass Grace watched a couple of figures stagger on to the road without any heed for the approaching vehicle. The carriage slowed to a walk, the coachman shouting angrily at the men to get out of the way. From the loud and abusive response she was sure they had not come to harm beneath the horses’ hoofs.
Grace was relieved her father was sleeping peacefully in his corner of the carriage, for he did not like her to hear such uncouth language. Dear Papa, he was apt to think her such a child! Smiling, she turned her gaze back to the window. They were level with the inn now and there was someone else in the doorway. As the carriage drove by, the figure turned and she saw it was Mr Peregrine.
There was no mistaking him, the image was embedded in her mind even as the carriage picked up speed. He was hunched, his coat unbuttoned and he was wearing a muffler around his throat rather than the clean linen she had taken the trouble to provide for him. His hat was pulled low over his face and it was the merest chance that he had looked up at just that moment, so that the light from the inn’s window illuminated his face.
Why should he be skulking around a common inn at midnight? And had he recognised her? Grace drew herself up. She was not at fault. If he had seen her, then she was sure he would be at pains to explain himself. She was more than ever relieved that he was not sleeping in the house. When they reached the vicarage she gently roused her father and accompanied him indoors. She decided not to say anything to him about their guest tonight, but unless the man had a satisfactory explanation for his activities she would urge her father to tell him to leave.
* * *
The following morning she found their guest breaking his fast in the kitchen, freshly shaved, a clean neckcloth at his throat and looking altogether so at ease that for a moment her resolve wavered. But only for a moment.
‘Mr Peregrine. When you have finished your breakfast I would be obliged if you would attend me in the morning room.’
