“Mr. McOwen,” Jonathan said with mock sternness, “There is a high probability that half the village married couples met while they were in service. Surely you do not wish to depopulate the countryside?”
Mr. McOwen lifted his hands as if to fend off criticism. “No, no, be it far from me to dictate the actions of others. But that somewhat seems to go with being a Duke, if you’ll pardon my saying so, Your Grace.”
Jonathan sighed.This sighing habit must stop. Soon it will be a tell, just as if I were in a card game.“Alas, you have the right of it, Mr. McOwen. I have been fortunate in the people who are on my staff and living in the village, so it has not been too great a responsibility. But this most recent situation is less than pleasant.”
“It is, Jonathan. And I will stop picking at you, and get these rodents into a bag.” So saying, Mr. McOwen then got out a game bag. He then slid on a glove and carefully picked up each mouse, vole, and squirrel, placing them inside it.
Back on the trail, they rode on up the mountain. There were no horse prints at the sheering shed, but there were a great many human footprints. Oddly, the shed showed no recent evidence of having been used for sheep.
Inside, Jonathan looked at the benches and makeshift podium. It was clear this had been a meeting place.
“Should we take it apart?”
“That would let them know that we are aware of them,” Mr. McAhmladhson said.
“Unless they are completely blind, they will already know that,” put in Mr. McOwen. “What might be more to the point is that they have used boards and timbers out of the sheep pen. The next group of shepherds coming down from the heights will have a mess to clean up before they can use the shed.”
“Let’s at least set that part to rights,” Jonathan directed. “We’ve had enough problems without failing to anticipate one we can prevent.”
The three gentlemen quickly set about returning the timbers to their accustomed place in the sheep pen. Since Mr. McAhmladhson and Mr. McOwen were far more adept at replacing the timbers, Jonathan confined his efforts to kicking apart the mounds of turf. As he did so, one of the mounds gave an odd clink.
Jonathan bent down, and brushed away the crumbling bits of dirt and grass. When he did so, he found an odd assortment of bottles, jars, and small vials. “Gentlemen! Look at this,” he called.
“What is it?” Mr. McOwen asked.
“Good question,” said Mr. McAhmladhson, uncorking one of the bottles and sniffing at it. “Fah! It smells foul, like a brewery batch gone wrong. Let’s pour it out.”
“No, not so fast,” Jonathan said. “Let’s carefully pack the stuff into a saddlebag and take it down to Inspector Ravensgard. I’m sure he would be interested in it. I’d leave it here and observe it, but I don’t want to think what might happen if some of the village lads chanced upon it. Dead maids are quite enough excitement. The last thing we need is a dead child.”
“Quick thinking, Your Grace,” nodded Mr. McOwen. “I have just the thing. I have my fishing creel, which will protect the bottles. We can pack them in some of this grass and earth to keep them from rattling about.”
Having found one stash of odd items, Jonathan approached the destruction of the other mounds more cautiously. None of the others proved to be a hiding place for anything.
Higher up the slope above the shearing shed, a figure made a gesture as if he were throwing a stone, but he made no sound. Foolish, foolish to have left the things in the shed. Just because a seasonal building does not show signs of recent use does not mean that it will always stand empty.
Another man stood behind the first, his hand on a great grey hound to keep it quiet. “I don’t like it,” he said.
“You don’t have to like it,” said the first man. “Just do the job you were hired to do and be glad the wind is blowing to us instead of away. Those red eared hounds have keen noses and would quickly catch our scent otherwise. As soon as they are gone, we will go higher up the mountain. It will rain soon and all the sign will be gone by morning.”
Chapter 33
Celeste strained the bits of peppermint out of the tea, added a little honey, and brought the resultant cup to the Duchess where she was propped up in bed. Her Grace was definitely not at her best this afternoon. Another late summer storm had blown up from the west, which meant that an afternoon horseback ride was not possible even if Margery, Duchess of Gwyndonmere, had been in the pink of health. As it was, “pink” was an excellent description of her nose.
The Duchess took the cup from Celeste and sipped at it, then held it under her nose. “I can almost smell that,” she said. “I feel so miserable right now. Why did it have to rain? I feel as if the air is pressing in on me.”
The atmosphere did feel oppressively still in the chamber, but opening the windows while the wind and rain lashed at them was out of the question. Fortunately, the wind had not howled down the chimney, blowing the ashes and soot about the room.
“Perhaps if you dress for dinner and spend some time out of this room it might help,” Celeste suggested tentatively.
“I just don’t feel up to it,” the Duchess whimpered. “My head hurts abominably and my stomach is upset.”
“Perhaps a little dry toast to go with your tea, Your Grace?”
“Perhaps just a little. Is there marmalade?” The Duchess perked up like a hopeful child.
“There is marmalade,” Celeste reassured her, “In fact, there is a new pot just made up today. In just a moment, I can have some for you.”
Celeste picked up the toasting fork off the tray, skewered a thick slice of bread and began toasting it over the fire. When it was done, she spread a thin layer of marmalade over it and brought it to the Duchess.
