I said only, “It is finished. That’s all that matters.” And closed the bedroom door behind me.

  I was not particularly happy about persuading Gordon Neville to confide in me. And I’d been rewarded for my efforts only with renewed uncertainty. Even so, that uncertainty was enough for me to continue to defend him until I knew more. And my promise to Lady Beatrice, given that she was an old friend of Cousin Melinda’s, weighed heavily on me.

  I went down the passage just as the body of Frederick Caldwell was being removed from the room where he had died. I stopped some distance from the men, and watched the still form beneath the sheet start its progress toward the stairs. Just as I was about to follow, Mark Caldwell stepped out of the room and shut the door firmly behind him. He didn’t look my way, his gaze was on his brother’s stretcher. They walked toward the stairs, moving slowly and carefully. They had reached the top of the steps and were turning the stretcher to begin the journey down them to the hall below.

  But before they could finish their turn, I heard another door open on the far side of the passage, and Grace came out of her room. She saw the stretcher being borne away, and screamed. Racing forward, she insisted that the men lower their burden so that she could throw herself across her husband’s body one last time.

  It was rather wrenching to say the least. Her brother-in-law walked around the stretcher and put his hands on her shoulders, apparently intending to comfort her. Or so I thought, until he almost lifted her bodily off the stretcher.

  “He’s no longer there,” Mark Caldwell said. “You are wasting your tears on the shell of the man he was.”

  She struggled against his grip. “You don’t understand. He’d only been home for a few weeks. I’ve waited four years—I’ve done nothing to deserve this! I’m not ready to be a widow, not now. Not after he survived.”

  He paid no heed, holding her tightly, stroking the back of her hair and nodding to the stretcher bearers. They didn’t move, uncertain what to do in the face of her reaching hands and cries. Then Grace gulped, holding Mark Caldwell’s wrist, before weeping again.

  Arthur’s mother came hurrying down the passage. “My dear!” she exclaimed as she drew near enough. “You will make yourself ill of grief. And then you shan’t be able to attend the services—”

  She was there, reaching out to take the weeping woman from Mark Caldwell’s hold, turning her so that she was gently pulled into Mrs. Neville’s arms, her head on Mrs. Neville’s shoulder.

  By then, Grace Caldwell’s cries had become sobs, and she allowed herself to be led away.

  Mrs. Neville mouthed, How did she know?

  But Mr. Caldwell was already directing the undertaker’s men to continue taking the body down the stairs.

  For an instant as they raised the stretcher in preparation for the descent, I thought they were about to drop the body on the top step. I heard Mark Caldwell break off swearing at them. The two men, anxious now, began their slow journey down the long staircase.

  As soon as they were a little in advance of him, Frederick’s brother started down as well.

  I hadn’t intervened. Grace Caldwell barely knew me, and it was her husband they were removing. While her behavior was a little dramatic, this wasn’t an ordinary death, expected and prepared for emotionally. Still, if Mrs. Neville hadn’t appeared, I would have done my best.

  When the undertaker’s men had arrived safely at the bottom of the stairs without mishap, I turned and quietly carried on down the passage to our room.

  Lillian was there. As I opened the door she said, “Mrs. Neville and I were talking when we heard poor Grace’s cries. Is she all right? I was asked to stay here, and let her attend to it.”

  “Mrs. Neville has managed to take her back to her room.” I didn’t add that I’d thought Lillian was sitting with Mrs. Caldwell. “It was rather upsetting.”

  “You can just see the front portico from her room. She must have heard the horses. She had fallen asleep—I don’t think she’s really closed her eyes except when she had taken the laudanum. Mrs. Roper came to spell me, or I’d have been there to deal with her.”

  And Mrs. Roper would have had difficulty stopping a guest in the house from doing what she’d set her mind to.

  Lillian sighed. “I wish I felt free to go and speak to Gordon. Lady Beatrice wished me to. I promised to write to her. But with that Inspector slithering about the house, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

  I managed to keep a straight face.

  “His injuries are healing slowly,” I said, not mentioning the fever, knowing it would worry her. “But a cell . . .” I knew something about cells, having spent a night in an Irish one. “And besides, he is hardly going to flee. They can do their investigating while he recovers.”

  “But a cell, why? Arthur told us it was an accident. Both men were badly hurt, as well. And apparently Gordon came to summon help at some cost to himself.”

  I took a deep breath, uncertain of what to tell her. For that matter, I myself wasn’t sure of the evidence that the Inspector appeared to be so certain of. “I expect the police feel that it’s better to do a careful investigation, even though the family is a prominent one. To avoid any feeling of favoritism.”

  “I don’t know,” Lillian said, getting up to poke the fire. “This is a different generation of policemen. They have no respect for anyone.” As she sat down again, she added, “I’ve found them difficult to deal with myself.”

  I said, “Tell me a little more about Frederick Caldwell. What sort of man was he?”

  “He was quite lovely. Quiet, well read, but when there was something that he felt strongly about, he could fight for it. He was a protector. The sort of man people naturally respect. He adored Grace. He’d have done anything to make her happy. It was hard for them to be separated all these years. But he did his duty. As did Arthur and Gordon.”

  It was clear that she liked all three of these men. And to my surprise, I realized why. They had been kind to her. She wasn’t just Lady Beatrice’s companion, a paid servant. She had become in a sense an accepted part of the family. After all the years she had so often been treated badly in her various posts, she finally felt safe. In turn she was very fond of them, the children she herself had never had.

  “What do you know about Mark Caldwell?”

  She was suddenly uneasy. Not wishing to speak ill of a family friend. “He’s not the easiest man to get along with. I try, but he’s always rather—well, Lady Beatrice says he’s got a disruptive temperament.”

  To say the least!

  “And he has always been very protective of Grace.”

  There was a knock at the door. I rose to answer it and found Arthur standing there.

  “Could I have a word, Sister?”

  “Of course.” I smiled at Lillian and walked out into the passage.

  “There’s really no place to talk quietly except the room where Frederick died. Would it bother you to go inside there?”

  “No, not at all.” We walked in silence down the passage and went into the room. I noticed at once that all the personal things belonging to Grace Caldwell had been removed, to her new room. The belongings of her husband lay forlornly just as he’d left them to go out onto the fells with Gordon.

  Arthur frowned, seeing them too. “I shall have to do something about these. I don’t think Mark is in the mood to take care of them.”

  He moved to the window, flung back the long drapes, and let in the pale light of the gloomy day. Turning to me, he said, “I’ve had a telegram from Aunt Bea. She wants news. I don’t know precisely what to tell her. I need to know, for instance, if she can travel. Frederick’s death will upset her enough, but if that Inspector takes Gordon into custody for it, she will be on the road, gallbladder or not.”

  “I had a telegram from her doctor. She has now healed enough to travel. I thought it best for her not to, back when Miss Taylor and I came in her place. Her heart—we were afraid that her godson had died and you were not breaking the news . . .” I purposely used the relationship between Lady Beatrice and Gordon. I wondered if Arthur realized that his brother was her favorite . . .

  Arthur seemed to understand. “Yes, just as I thought.” He rubbed his forehead with one hand. “Mark wants to stay. He insists there will be nothing short of a miscarriage of justice if he doesn’t. And he’s rather reluctant to sleep in the room where his brother died. I am at a loss where to put her. I can’t very well ask her to double up with Mother in the master bedroom.”

  It was his mother’s place to worry about such matters. But I could see that Arthur was trying to take some of the burden from her, and there was the inescapable fact that it might be impossible to stop Lady Beatrice once she knew the situation here.

  I said, “I expect the truth will bring her here posthaste. Is there no place in the village where he could be put up?”

  “The room above the pub is hardly suitable.”

  “Then move Lillian and me to a lesser room, and give that one to Lady Beatrice.”

  “There’s the maid’s bedroom next to yours. It’s rather plain—but it has a hearth, and a large bed . . .” He hesitated, then said flatly, “If you’ll come and see?”

  I followed him back down the passage to a door that I’d seen just down from our room. He opened it, and went to the windows to pull the drapes.

  It was indeed rather plain by the standard of other rooms I’d seen, like Gordon’s, the one where Frederick had died, and the one Grace had been moved to.

  Smaller, with only a single pair of windows, a large bed, two chairs, an armoire, and a small writing desk, but the heavy early Victorian pieces made the room seem smaller than it was.

  “It should do nicely,” I said. Then, before I could stop myself, I said, “I didn’t know Frederick of course. But everyone tells me he was quite a nice man.”

  “He was. A good friend since university. And we served together in France in ’17. It’s just a damn—terrible thing to happen, least of all here, and much less in the company of my brother.”

  “I don’t quite understand why everyone is so afraid that there might be more to the incident than an ill-fated mishap.”

  He had been looking around the room, as if hoping it would grow larger or finer or in some way seem less a reflection on the house that guests should have to be put here. Even a nursing Sister and Lady Beatrice’s companion. Frowning, he seemed to debate with himself. “There’s a history of sorts between Frederick and Gordon. Mark knows it.” Having said that much, he realized he had to explain, as if to make it less violent. “They were the best of friends. Well, the three of us were more or less inseparable. Yorkshire men against the world, at Oxford. Then Gordon met Grace. He fell in love with her. Asked her to marry him, and she said yes. They put off announcing it because our father was ill, and Gordon was sent for. We’d been told he didn’t have long to live. And so Gordon and I stayed here for several months. My father surprised the doctors by recovering, and I went back to Richmond and he went to York to join Grace.”

  The silence lengthened. Finally he said, “She told him that she believed she’d been mistaken in her affections, and rather than announce the engagement, she wished to end it.” He turned away. “A month later, she announced her engagement to Frederick.”

  That, I thought, could be viewed as a motive for murder. Long-delayed revenge—but then both men had only just come back from France. Had that suddenly stirred up feelings Gordon had thought he’d put behind him?

  “Surely Frederick must have known—as a friend, he must have had some notion of how things stood between Grace and your brother?”

  “I don’t know who was at fault. Grace or Frederick. Or the simple fact that she had been mistaken about where her affections lay. At any rate, it was just before the war when Gordon and Frederick made their peace. Gordon appeared to accept what had happened and come to terms with it. But it was awkward when Frederick and his wife came for the weekend. I don’t know why that should be, but it was. My mother noticed it. I did as well. And then the accident, while they were out there alone, hunting those blasted sheep.”

  “It could very well be true, that the fall happened exactly as your brother described it.”

  “I wish I knew . . .” Turning toward the door, he said, “I’ll send a telegram to Lady Beatrice. She will want to be here for the funeral service. I’ll simply say nothing about the police. It’s not something to put in a telegram anyway.” He opened the door and waited for me to step into the passage. “There’s no haste in moving. Until we know my great-aunt is coming. My mother will ask one of the maids to help you when the time comes. Thank you, Sister Crawford.”

  And he strode down the passage, leaving me to return to our room.

  “Is there any trouble?” Lillian asked as I stepped in and shut the door.

  “Arthur received a telegram from Lady Beatrice asking for news. He believes she may decide to come as soon as he replies. But Mr. Caldwell is staying. They’re short of rooms for everyone.”

  “There’s no place for him to stay in the village,” she told me, echoing what Arthur had said. “It’s rather tiny and there’s really no need for accommodations. Most people who come to visit this part of Yorkshire prefer Wensleydale or Swaledale.”

  “How did the family come to settle here?”

  Lillian smiled. “The story goes that when Richard III fell at Bosworth Field in 1485, the Nevilles fled to Scarfdale, where they had a minor holding. They were his wife’s family, you know. It was thought that Henry Tudor would see to it that everyone who supported Richard would be punished in one way or another. And some of them didn’t intend to risk that. But the wool here is particularly good, and they quietly prospered.”

  That explained the boar heads on the gateposts. A small defiant gesture even in exile. It was Richard’s emblem, after all. That had been a turbulent period in history.

  The wool market had collapsed at the end of the Great War. I’d heard the Colonel Sahib talk about it. The demand for blankets and uniforms had ended with the war. I wondered if that had affected the Nevilles at all.

  Lillian rose. “I ought to see if I can help Mrs. Neville. I’m used to staying busy . . .”

  I thought she was also uncomfortable talking about our hosts.

  I too felt like a sixth finger. Partly because I could no longer claim to be a nursing Sister, I’d resigned. And partly because I had no business involving myself in this family’s affairs. As soon as Lady Beatrice was released by Dr. Halliday, I could quietly return to Somerset.

  I just couldn’t turn away when a patient was involved. That had always drawn my attention, because something disturbing my patient was disturbing his ability to recover. Yet, Gordon wasn’t truly my patient . . .

  The rest of the day passed uneasily. One of the maids who was sister to a tenant farmer reported to Mrs. Roper—who told Arthur and Mrs. Neville—that Inspector Wade was seen walking about the farms, asking questions. Margaret passed the news to Lillian and me.

  “What is he doing there?” Margaret pondered. “I don’t believe you can see that outcropping from any of the farms. I don’t see the point.”

  Lillian said, “He’s a troublemaker. I don’t know what his motive is, but he seems to feel antipathy toward this family. Arthur tells me that he’s from a strong union family in coal country. The mine owners were the enemy. I expect he simply transferred that aversion to anyone with land, money, and standing.”

  It made sense. Gordon had said much the same thing.

  “I expect,” I said, “he’s hoping that someone among the staff or on the farms might tell him more about Gordon and Frederick than he can learn from the family—”

  The expression on Margaret’s face stopped me.

  I suspected that Arthur did and didn’t want to tell her.

  “It hardly constitutes a motive for murder, all these years later. They weren’t twenty years old,” I said.

  But the situation with Grace some years later, could be seen as a motive . . .

  I liked Margaret. She was sensible and pleasant, took her role in this family seriously, and was loyal to it. More to the point, she seemed to be defending Gordon rather than suspecting him. And yet beneath the loyalty were there creeping doubts? I thought perhaps it was Inspector Wade who had sown those . . .

  Unable to stand the tension in the house any longer, I put on my walking shoes and went out into the fine mist that had replaced the drizzle. The gardens were heavy with moisture, blossoms dropping, limbs lower than they ought to be. I stayed near the house, but I remembered the stream—beck—I’d seen earlier before we turned into the road that led to the gates of the house. I wondered where that went, and in which direction the village lay—how far it might be, whether I could walk to it or must borrow a horse.

  I realized that I was exceedingly damp now, and turned back to the house, wondering if Arthur had sent the telegram to Lady Beatrice or was holding off until tomorrow.

  Needless to say, many of us around the table that evening strove not to appear uneasy, but it was a far cry from the birthday celebration they had been anticipating. We all retired later with no loud summons at the door. The man’s visit to the farms hadn’t been successful, I hoped.

  I had looked in on Gordon from time to time, and someone had fed him his meal. When I visited him before joining Lillian in our room, his mood was black.

  “How is the pain?” I asked, resting my hand for a brief moment on his forehead. The fever was still there, and I thought it had gone up a little.

  “The shoulder is better, I think. The arm throbs. And I’m going mad lying here. Arthur says he has given my orders to everyone who depends on them, but it isn’t the same, relying on someone else. Even my own brother.”

  “You can ask him tomorrow. Meanwhile, is that a book I see on the table over there? Is it one you’ve been reading? Shall I read a little of it, to settle you for the night?”