‘Dead,’ I say, nodding at Robert.

  ‘Murdered,’ Matilda adds, voice wavering, ‘and she almost took Harriet along with her.’ She starts gnawing at her fingernails as if her life depends on it.

  Robert’s eyes widen – whether at the revelation of Mrs Churchill’s murder or at Matilda’s use of my Christian name, I’m not sure – and he grips my arm so tightly, it feels as if his fingertips are fused to my bones.

  ‘I’m fine, as you can see,’ I say, shaking him off. ‘I don’t suppose the killer wished me any harm. I was just unlucky enough to be in the vicinity when Mrs Churchill opened the parcel.’

  That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.

  ‘Parcel?’

  ‘Yes. It happened at this table. There must have been some noxious substance inside, because she collapsed as soon as she opened it, and I followed almost immediately.’

  ‘And yet you survived,’ Robert says, still squeezing my arm as if to reassure himself of this fact.

  ‘I was further away. And I pride myself on having a stronger constitution than a fifty-five-year-old woman who was recovering from being pushed down the stairs.’

  Matilda stops biting her nails and narrows her eyes. Apparently, Mrs Churchill didn’t fill her in on everything that happened in Highbury, which is hardly surprising as she wouldn’t even admit to me that she’d been pushed.

  ‘What substance do you suppose could have killed her so quickly?’ Robert asks.

  ‘Well, I don’t know, do I? I’m not a chemist.’ Ironically, Mrs Churchill is probably the one person who would have been able to identify the source of her demise.

  ‘Harriet, if I’d realised—’

  ‘How could you?’ I say, patting his arm. ‘Besides, there was nothing you could have done.’

  ‘When I couldn’t find you here, I went back to Highbury. I looked everywhere. The farm, Mrs Goddard’s, even Hartfield—’

  ‘Hartfield? Good Lord. How am I supposed to explain to Emma why you’re inviting yourself into her house, demanding to know my whereabouts?’

  ‘I didn’t present myself to Emma. I asked the coachman.’

  ‘Don’t suppose she won’t hear of it. Gossip has a way of getting back to Emma Woodhouse.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll think of some explanation. Tell her I’m madly in love with you and stalking you, if you like.’

  I’ve had my fill of stalkers, thank you very much, although Robert isn’t to know. In fact, Father has been strangely silent since the Romani incident. Some might take this as a sign he’d given up. Not me. Not with my father. He’ll be biding his time. Waiting for the perfect opportunity to present itself. He has much more patience than I do.

  Patience is a luxury reserved for only the greatest of prizes, Hattie, he always said. The trick is to learn when it’s worth indulging in.

  I suppose he thinks I’ll come running back to him now my new venture has failed so spectacularly. Regardless of what he did to me. What we did to each other. But I will never run to him again.

  I don’t know why I haven’t told Robert about my father’s threats. I suppose because he’s so disapproving of my past, I don’t wish to remind him of it. Besides, he’d probably use it as proof that things are getting too hot for me in Highbury. But where else can I go?

  I’m roused from my thoughts by footsteps and raised voices.

  ‘Matilda?’ Frank shouts from the hallway and then, in a lower tone, ‘Where is that damn girl?’

  Matilda drops her trunk on her foot, eyes wide. ‘I did not expect— He mustn’t find you here.’

  Robert grabs me by the arm and pulls me towards the garden gate. ‘We’re leaving,’ he assures Matilda.

  She nods. ‘You must,’ she says and scurries into the house.

  ‘Harriet, come on.’ Robert squeezes my shoulder.

  I don’t think so. I’m not about to leave just as one of my prime suspects returns to the scene of the crime. And not without seeing Mrs Churchill’s body. Who knows what sort of evidence the killer might have left behind?

  ‘Give me a minute,’ I say, shaking off Robert’s hand and tiptoeing up the garden path. I slip through the door and into the corridor, edging towards the sound of conversation in the hallway.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Frank’s voice hitches. ‘She was so much better. I would never have left if I’d thought she was still in danger.’

  ‘I did not think her better,’ Matilda says, as if she’s talking to a fellow servant rather than a member of the family. ‘But the doctor said it would have been quick, at least.’

  ‘Doctor?’ Frank snaps. ‘Who did you call?’

  ‘Dr Phillips.’

  ‘Phillips? He’s a drunk. You should have called Baxter.’

  ‘He had been summoned to a childbirth. So it was Phillips or nothing and neither of them could have done anything for her by then.’ Matilda scowls at Frank, but he is too distracted to notice.

  There’s a loud thump and the chink of china against wood. ‘We would have been here sooner, except that the stable-boy got turned around somewhere along the way, which is so unlike him. It was lucky he found me at all. If I hadn’t stepped out to greet an old friend in the street, he might still be wandering around Knightsbridge. I should never have left her alone.’

  I peer around the corner just far enough to see Frank, fingers tapping against his thigh, face ashen, eyes bloodshot. He doesn’t look at all like a man who has just killed off the woman who is standing in the way of his earthly happiness.

  ‘Will you be wanting anything?’ Matilda asks, glancing in my direction.

  Frank runs his fingers through his hair. ‘No, Matilda. Not now.’

  As Matilda withdraws, Frank sinks to the floor, head in his hands. My anger against him for shunning me at Box Hill immediately evaporates. His shoulders shake as he sobs and I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around him and smother his grief. I know what it’s like to lose a mother, and Frank has lost his mother twice over. I cannot countenance the idea that he played any part in Mrs Churchill’s death.

  I can help him. I will help him.

  A hand tugs me backwards as I step out into the hallway. ‘Harriet,’ Robert whispers in my ear. ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing?’

  ‘What does it look like? I’m going to speak to Frank.’

  ‘Are you insane?’

  ‘It has been suggested. But look at him. He’s distraught.’

  ‘He’s a skilful actor. We’ve already established that.’

  ‘Well, if he did do it, I’ll catch him unawares. He might confess something he means to conceal in the shock of it all.’

  I don’t for a second believe this, and Robert’s raised eyebrow tells me that he doesn’t either.

  ‘Or, you’ll blow your only chance with him. This is madness. What do you think he’ll do if you confront him? You can kiss goodbye to your profession, for one thing.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t approve of my profession.’

  ‘I also don’t approve of you throwing everything away for a man as unprincipled as Frank Churchill. You’ll gain nothing by it. We need to leave. Now. Get back home.’

  Except Highbury isn’t my home. I don’t have a home. But I do have Mrs Churchill’s five thousand pounds and, as rude as she was to me during our final encounter in Highbury, if I’m going to keep the money, I owe her something. I can’t protect her any more, but I can find her killer.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ Robert says as we walk to the inn where Mr Knightley’s horse is being fed and watered.

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Jane Fairfax, if you must know.’

  ‘You think she was involved?’ Robert presses his lips together in a way that tells me he has something to say about this, but is doing his best to keep it to himself.

  ‘I found her standing over Mrs Churchill’s unconscious body at the Bateses’ apartment. She admitted to pushing her.’

  ‘And so you think she sent the parcel to finish the job?’

  ‘No. She was clearly distressed when she thought Mrs Churchill was dead. I don’t think her capable of premeditated murder. But there was someone else in the apartment, I’m sure of it. She was covering for them. And, whoever it was, if they were angry enough to push an ageing woman down the stairs, then they certainly wouldn’t balk at sending her a poisoned parcel.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who it could have been?’ Robert asks in a tone which suggests he clearly has his own ideas about this.

  ‘It wasn’t Frank. According to Emma, he was one of the last to leave Donwell Abbey, along with Miss Bates. So it couldn’t have been her, either.’

  ‘Then who was it?’ Robert asks, arms folded.

  I shrug. ‘Mrs Elton, perhaps? The Eltons left the Abbey just after I did. I was on foot. She could easily have got there before me if she used her carriage. And she has been clinging to Jane like a limpet since she got here.’

  ‘Just because Mrs Elton might be the victim of one of your cons—’

  ‘There is nothing to suggest it,’ I remind him – except for the fact that I know I’ve met her somewhere before.

  ‘—that doesn’t mean she’s murdered your employer to get back at you.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ I insist, although trust Robert to bring this up. ‘Mrs Elton clearly knows Mrs Churchill. I saw them arguing at the Abbey.’

  ‘And did you ask Mrs Churchill about it?’

  ‘Well, of course I did. I’m not a complete amateur.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Mrs Churchill denied knowing her. Said she was asking for directions to the Abbey and Mrs Elton waylaid her.’

  ‘Hmmm. Mrs Elton is enough to try the patience of the mildest of women and Mrs Churchill was certainly not that. And I don’t see why Jane would cover for her. You’d think she’d be glad to get her out of the way.’

  Robert’s right, of course. Despite Mrs Elton’s insistence that she dotes upon Jane, I can’t imagine the feeling is mutual. But Mrs Elton is definitely up to something.

  ‘Well, then there’s Durand, the moneylender.’

  ‘Yes, but that assumes he really is the big bad crime lord you’ve convinced yourself he is. Can you really be so certain that Durand is a threat? You haven’t even met the man.’ Robert frowns. ‘Have you?’

  ‘No.’ But only because Denny dragged me away from his lair before I could find my way inside. Robert’s right, though. It’s about time I met with Durand.

  ‘Just how reliable is this witness of yours anyway?’

  ‘I’m quite certain Durand is a dangerous character,’ I say, ignoring Robert’s question. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him to have done away with Mrs Churchill just to teach Frank a lesson.’

  Revenge.

  There’s another suspect lurking at the back of my mind. Someone else who is seeking revenge, although not on Frank Churchill. But I don’t intend to share the theory of my father’s involvement with Robert. He would put it down to paranoia. Obsession. And he’d probably be right.

  But the first warning note arrived just after Sophia’s murder.

  ‘You seem determined to suspect everyone but Frank Churchill,’ Robert says.

  ‘And you seem determined to suspect only him.’

  Robert smiles. ‘I suppose it’s too much to ask you to drop this whole thing, while you still can?’

  He’s wrong. I can’t drop it. It’s too late for that.

  ‘It’s such a comfort that you know me so well,’ I say. ‘It saves a lot of time in unnecessary arguments.’

  ‘I don’t see why you’re so intent on pursuing this. It’s not as if Mrs Churchill can pay you now.’

  ‘And everything is about money—’

  ‘It usually is with you.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ve decided to do something more noble at last,’ I say, raising my chin.

  ‘Not this, Harriet.’

  ‘You can’t pick and choose for me, I’m afraid.’

  He rubs the back of his neck, narrowing his eyes. ‘You’re infuriating, you know that?’

  ‘You may have mentioned it before.’

  ‘If you’re going to do it, promise me something.’

  ‘Depends on what it is.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ he snaps, pulling me to a standstill. ‘Don’t trust anyone. Least of all Frank Churchill.’

  ‘Is that all?’ I say, rolling my eyes.

  ‘Do you promise?’

  ‘I promise,’ I say, as we reach the inn. He looks deep into my eyes, searching for the loophole in my assent. Evidently, he can’t find it because he nods and beckons for me to go ahead of him as we enter the stable yard.

  ‘How did you get here?’, I ask as Robert greets Mr Knightley’s stallion. Robert gestures towards the chestnut Arabian mare in the next stall. ‘I borrowed another horse from Mr Knightley. She’s a bit tired from the ride, mind you, so we can’t leave just yet.’

  ‘You go. Take him back home,’ I say, nodding towards Mr Knightley’s stallion. ‘I’ve got you into enough trouble as it is. I’ll bring her back later.’

  Robert shakes his head. ‘I’m not leaving you to ride back alone. It’s not safe.’

  ‘Well, I got here on my own, didn’t I? I’m as capable a rider as you are. So if it’s safe for you, it’s safe for me.’

  Robert looks as if he wants to protest, but settles for a shrug.

  I reach out and squeeze his hand. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For coming to find me.’

  ‘Well, of course I came to find you,’ he says, busying himself with the Friesian’s saddle as his cheeks flush.

  ‘I know things haven’t been easy between us lately. We’ve both been distracted.’

  Robert turns to face me. ‘I will always be here when you need me. You know that.’

  Actually, I didn’t know that. I’ve never really had a friend before and so I don’t know what to expect. My profession hasn’t afforded me any time or space for friends, but I want to make room for Robert. I want him to be able to depend on me as I have come to depend on him. I don’t tell him this, of course. I don’t want him to think I’m going soft. And I don’t want to make any promises I cannot keep.

  I step forwards and draw him into an embrace. ‘Even when I’m stealing horses from your ridiculously handsome landlord?’

  He snorts against my neck. ‘Even then.’

  I pull away and hold him at arm’s length. ‘Robert, promise me something.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Never give up on your dreams. And never promise me you’ll do anything for me. You’re setting a dangerous precedent.’

  His chest vibrates with silent laughter as I lean in for another hug.

  ‘Noted,’ he says, his lip brushing against my ear as he gives me a final squeeze and leaps up into the Friesian’s saddle. ‘I’ll see you in a few hours. Don’t get up to any mischief in the meantime.’

  I wave him away, wordlessly. I don’t want to lie to him again. Not when we’re having a moment. ‘I will take you home,’ I assure the chestnut mare, stroking her neck. ‘There’s just something I need to do first.’

  CHAPTER 22

  Rule number twenty-two: Avoid discovery at all costs. Even if that cost is your dignity.

  My ear is pressed against the garden gate as I slide the latch across and push.

  Please don’t be locked.

  I’m not dressed for scaling garden walls this afternoon. I’m in luck, because the gate swings open and I tiptoe up the garden path, glancing at the upper windows.

  The back door sticks as I turn the knob. I push my weight into it and give it a kick for good measure.

  ‘Damn it all to hell!’

  It’s locked.

  I pluck a pin from my hair and get to work on the lock. It takes less than thirty seconds to register that satisfying click.

  I’m in.

  I push my palm against the door. I’m not in. It must be secured from the inside. Talk about locking the stable door after the horse has bolted.

  Time for Plan B.

  My eyes sweep across the garden, searching for inspiration, until they settle upon the garden furniture that played host to Mrs Churchill’s final moments. I lift the chairs up onto the table, assessing the stability of the new arrangement. Satisfied, I drag two plant pots full of ferns over to the door and position them between a sundial and a generously proportioned statue of Perseus, holding aloft Medusa’s severed head.

  I return to the garden gate, fingers fishing inside a velvet pouch I carry with me for just such emergencies and drop a gold cufflink onto the ground. Finally, I glance again at the upper windows and, when I’m sure nobody is observing me, I charge at the garden furniture, toppling table and chairs with an almighty clatter.

  That should do it.

  As the garden door opens, I’m busy concealing myself behind the ferns, hand resting on Perseus’s thigh to steady myself. I stifle a groan as Wakefield steps out, his sharp eyes taking in the heap of garden furniture on the patio. I had hoped Matilda would have come to the door (if she hasn’t left Richmond already) or, failing that, the footman. The butler will be much harder to get past.

  Wakefield paces around the garden. He stoops to recover the furniture, setting it right with a precision that only a butler could manage. He pauses to scratch his nose with his little finger.

  I flinch as a sparrow hops onto my shoulder and pecks at the seam of my pelisse. Wakefield spins around as the ferns rustle. He edges towards the door, stops, eyes sweeping across the garden, then takes another step towards the ferns. I hold my breath, willing myself to stay as still as the chiselled Perseus I’m crouched beside. As Wakefield tiptoes towards my hiding place, the sparrow dives right at him. The butler ducks as the sparrow swoops over his head and I use his distraction to conceal myself behind the sundial.

  Wakefield retreats towards the house, which is exactly the opposite of what I want him to do. Because I’m certain he’ll bolt the door behind him and I’ll be right back where I started. And I don’t have a Plan C.