Page 10 of A Treacherous Treasure

“Is this your land? Forgive me for trespassing.”

“Not at all. You may walk here any time you like. Your husband’s—that is, your estate—ends just there at that copse of trees.”

He led the horse at a slow walk across the field, his pistol in one hand and the reins in the other.

She still looked shaken, but she was amazingly calm for someone whose husband had been murdered the day before and who had just been shot at.

They were quiet on the way back, intermittently speaking of the weather and the wildflowers and trees. When they passed the stable, one of the grooms was standing outside and helping Mrs. Heywood down from the horse.

“We heard the gunshots,” the servant said.

“Go and fetch the constable,” Mrs. Heywood said. “Tell him there has been more trouble.”

He hurried away while another groom took charge of his horse. “I’ll be back for him shortly,” Thomas said.

He offered Mrs. Heywood his arm and she took it, leaning on him as they walked the rest of the way to the house.

“Is there anything you need? Any way I might be of service?” he asked as they neared the front steps. “The constable will be here soon. Perhaps I should stay and speak with him.”

“Would you? I would be grateful to have you corroborate my story. Did you not say you saw the man who was chasing me?”

“I did.”

“Please stay. You can have tea with me.”

He couldn’t imagine she was feeling up to having company, but she seemed earnest, and he did need to speak with the constable. It would seem strange if he had heard the shots and witnessed Mrs. Heywood being chased but did not stay to tell the constable what he’d seen.

“Very well, but if you need to go up to your room and rest—”

“No, I am well enough.”

They went inside and she gazed into the drawing room as they walked past. Thomas caught a glimpse of Arthur’s body lying on the table, and there was a servant sitting beside it, doing some kind of needlework.

Already the constant vigil had begun. He remembered when his father had died, someone had to be in the room with his body at every moment, day and night. It was one of the rituals of death and decorum, and it exhausted his mother, who felt she had to be the primary sitter.

Rebecca Heywood rang the bell. “Please bring the tea into the sitting room,” she instructed the servant. “Is Mrs. Heywood downstairs?”

“No, mum, she’s in her room.”

Mrs. Rebecca Heywood’s shoulders visibly relaxed, and they went into a sitting room.

“Are you certain you don’t wish me to go so that you can lie down upstairs?”

“No, no. All I need is some tea, and the constable will be here quickly. He lives very near.”

Soon the tea arrived. She held the cup in both hands, drained it, and poured herself another cup after less than a minute.

“Don’t mind me,” she said. “I grew up with a bunch of older brothers, one of ten children, and we were not so formal as my husband’s family.” She stared at the floor.

Was she remembering that her husband was now dead?

He hated to think negatively of the dead, but it was the truth that she had not suffered much of a loss. Still, he was her husband and she must feel as if she’d been dealt a blow. As she’d admitted, it had been a shock.

They drank the entire pot of tea, and her demeanor became less dazed. She suddenly sat up straighter.

“Forgive me. I should have offered you a glass of brandy. May I?”

“No thank you. I rarely indulge, especially this early in the day.”