he’ll accept any money from me. But the least I can do is offer.’
‘Well, it looks as if you’ll be able to do so in person,’ Martha announced, as they turned into the driveway. ‘Because, unless I’m much mistaken, that’s his carriage standing there at the front door.’
As she had instantly recognised the comfortable equipage too, Gwen didn’t delay, once she had dispensed with her outdoor garments, in joining her unexpected visitor in the front parlour.
Standing over six feet in his stockinged feet, Jocelyn Northbridge was an impressive figure by any standard, and in the confines of a parlour that was only moderately proportioned he seemed more imposing than ever. Yet, strangely enough, as she moved towards him, hand automatically outstretched in welcome, Gwen felt not one iota intimidated by his superior height and breadth. In fact, the opposite was true—she felt oddly reassured to see him standing there before her hearth.
‘Do make yourself comfortable, Mr Northbridge,’ she cordially invited, once he had released her hand, after the briefest of clasps, so that she could indicate the most robustly made chair, the one that was sure to withstand his weight. ‘May I offer you some refreshment? I came across numerous bottles of a very fine burgundy whilst I was inspecting the cellar shortly after my arrival here.’
She was well aware he was studying her every move during the time it took to dispense two glasses and rejoin him at the hearth. Fortunately the short walk from the local church had done something to restore her healthy bloom, even if it could not disguise the fact that a total lack of appetite in recent days had resulted in weight loss, a circumstance that wouldn’t escape his notice, as very little did, she strongly suspected.
This was borne out by the exaggerated upward movement of one dark brow when she placed the two crystal vessels down on the table between their respective chairs. ‘Breaking with tradition on this occasion, Lady Warrender, and imbibing in the forenoon, I see,’ he quipped. ‘I’m relieved to discover you’re prepared to make adjustments from time to time to suit various occasions, and are not bound by monotonous convention or routine. Such persons swiftly become bores.’
Gwen came to the conclusion in that moment that if one wished to rub along with Mr Jocelyn Northbridge even just tolerably well, one must swiftly make allowances for his somewhat acerbic manner and forthright opinions. In view of the fact that she was very much beholden to him at the present time, it wasn’t too difficult a decision to reach to do precisely that.
Which was perhaps just as well, for when, a second or two later, she attempted to thank him for the consideration he had shown in dealing with Jane’s funeral, he interrupted with an expletive of impatience, dismissing her offer to reimburse him with a wave of one large, yet surprisingly shapely hand.
‘Kindness doesn’t enter into the matter, ma’am,’ he continued in the same blunt manner. ‘I had been assured by Miss Robbins herself, when she applied for the post, that she had no close relatives living. Consequently, when the tragedy occurred, I felt duty bound, as she was in my employ at the time, to deal with the matter personally.’ He paused to sample the dark liquid in his glass, favouring the remaining contents a moment later with a look of decided approval. ‘Needless to say I was oblivious to your close association, otherwise I would have taken the trouble to write apprising you of the tragedy. I happen to know she corresponded on a reasonably regular basis with someone residing in the capital, but could find no clue as to this unknown’s direction among her effects.’
‘That would undoubtedly have been Mr Claypole of Messrs Claypole, Claypole and Featherstone. Many of the letters Jane and I wrote to each other during my first years away from this country went astray. But when Percival and I visited Italy in more recent times, Mr Claypole the younger was kind enough to undertake the task of forwarding the letters, which resulted in many more eventually reaching their respective destinations.’
‘I found no letters among her belongings, ma’am. Which, incidentally, I’ve brought with me today. I thought you might like them.’
Gwen felt moved by the gesture. ‘That was kind of you, sir. I thank you.’
He didn’t attempt to throw her gratitude back in her face this time. He merely watched as she sampled the fine wine with what appeared to be a deal less appreciation than he himself had done.
Acutely conscious of this continued close scrutiny, Gwen turned her head slightly to stare down at the burning logs in the hearth, thereby offering him a prime view of a small, tip-tilted nose and slightly protruding upper lip.
‘Since learning of Jane’s tragic demise, I’ve discovered she was by no means the only female to have met her end in this Marsden Wood.’
No comment was forthcoming. Undeterred, Gwen added, ‘The daughter of a wealthy farmer is believed to have been yet another casualty. She, so I have been led to believe, was murdered some few years ago. There has been a further body unearthed, so I understand. Apparently it was too decomposed for any definite identification to be made. Although, because of a bracelet found close to the body, and remnants of clothing, it is strongly supposed she was none other than a local corn merchant’s daughter who disappeared last summer. Whether she suffered the same fate as Jane was, I’m reliably informed, impossible to ascertain. But it is strongly suspected that she too was violated…a fact you chose to withhold from me, Mr Northbridge.’
He didn’t attempt to deny it. Instead he cursed, long and fluently under his breath, before demanding in the blunt, dictatorial manner to which she was becoming increasingly less resentful, ‘Who have you been talking to…? The local sawbones, I’ll be bound!’
Without experiencing the least need to resort to profanity, Gwen returned the compliment by not attempting to prevaricate, either. ‘Dr Bartlet was, eventually, a deal more forthcoming than you were, sir, certainly. As was my new maid, Annie, a veritable fount of local knowledge. And no mean judge of public opinion, I might add.’
‘Is she, by gad!’ He was decidedly unimpressed, as his next words proved beyond doubt. ‘And what good has it done you to discover all the unsavoury facts surrounding the death? It was enough for you to learn you had lost a good friend in such a fashion without learning every last sordid detail.’
Gwen favoured him with a searching stare, and easily detected a look of concern lurking behind the sparkle of annoyance in those dark eyes. ‘I believe you were trying to be kind in sparing me the unsavoury facts, sir. But let me assure you, I’m no child. My husband always did his utmost to protect me, but he never once attempted to prevent me from increasing my knowledge of the world. I’m fully aware of what Jane must have endured before she was strangled.’
One expressive brow rose at this, betraying his scepticism, but he refrained from comment, leaving Gwen to rise to her feet and go over to the window, whilst the silence lengthened between them.
‘What’s of most concern to me now is what’s being done to bring the murderer to book.’ She swung round, catching a guarded look, not untouched by guilt, flickering over his strong and decidedly aristocratic features. ‘From what I’ve discovered thus far, no one has been charged with the crimes, though several likely suspects have been named.’
‘Sheer gossip, more often than not stemming from some personal dislike or grievance,’ he returned, totally dismissive, before running impatient fingers through his thick, slightly waving dark hair. ‘Of course enquiries were made about Miss Robbins. And the other women, too. But nothing ever came to light. No one ever came forward admitting to having witnessed the tragic incidents. In point of fact, no one has ever come forward with any relevant information at all, as far as I’m aware. And as far as Miss Robbins is concerned—no one, myself included, even
