So now we knew. I looked at what lay in Brockley’s palm and what had been suspicion hardened into certainty. We had done what Christopher said. We had searched the fir wood again, looking upwards. We had found Thomas. And we had identified his killer – or one of them.
We had decided that although I must go to Richmond with as little delay as possible, I should nevertheless call at Hawkswood, leave Dale, Sybil, Tessie and Harry there, and then, with Brockley and Joseph, go straight on to Firtrees to investigate the pinewood once again. Just one day would suffice, or perhaps two, if we found anything, Brockley said.
Spelton would ride straight to Richmond to deliver the latest Janus letter and announce that I was on my way, but had paused at home to settle my small son and his nurse there, before following him. That would be accepted, as long as I didn’t prolong the delay.
And here we were. Whoever had got rid of Thomas had put him in a sack – in fact, in four sacks, making a thorough job of it – and then tied the whole horrible package up in stout twine and slung it high among the dense evergreen branches of a massive silver fir. The arrangement wasn’t visible from the ground unless one was looking for it, peering intently upwards, searching for a place where the thick growth of fir needles seemed unnaturally dark, where there ought to be at least a few tiny chinks of light, and yet were not.
I didn’t look towards the horrid heap that Joseph had brought to the ground, but stared instead at the object that Brockley was showing me.
‘This could have been pulled off a jacket or doublet when … whoever it was, was disposing of him up in that tree, struggling with the twine and trying to wedge the whole nasty package into the branches,’ Brockley said.
Joseph nodded. ‘Wedged in a fork, it were, good and tight.’
‘Or,’ said Brockley, ‘if Thomas fought for his life, it could have been wrenched loose then. His jacket and shirt have rents and bloodstains. He was stabbed from behind, more than once. He could have had a little time to struggle, reach backwards, claw at his assailant …’
‘Brockley, don’t!’
‘I’m trying to imagine what happened. No one reported hearing cries for help; perhaps his attacker had a hand over his mouth. But if Thomas did fight, he could have grabbed at this and then the sacking and the branches did the rest.’
It was a button. A big button. It had a central stone of lapis lazuli, set in silver, and the stone had a little motif carved into it. I had seen buttons like that before.
‘We thought it,’ I said, ‘but now we know it. Robert Harrison.’
‘And his father as well,’ said Brockley. ‘George Harrison has charge of Edmund Harrison’s papers, has he not? Master Meddick said he had written to Edmund about the tin mine. George Harrison must know about it, and he would be next in line to inherit it. I fancy he is after that mine, and poor Master Lake, under the terms of Edmund’s will, was in the way. The son helped the father. They kept themselves informed of Master Lake’s plans and laid their own accordingly. One of them went to Cornwall at the same time as we did, and arranged the note, and followed the messenger, ready to meet Master Lake at the mine. Perhaps he told Master Lake that he was there on Tremaine’s behalf.’
‘And then politely let Eric walk into the mine in front of him, knocked him out and then hitched his horse to the roof support and … we know the rest,’ I said. ‘Eric would have had no suspicions. He hadn’t a suspicious nature. Two monsters, as you said.’ I was shuddering.
We fetched the handcart, and between them Brockley and Joseph loaded the horror onto it, piling the sacks on top so that I need not glimpse what lay below.
‘We can’t just take this straight to Firtrees,’ I said. ‘Lisa mustn’t see it! I think we’d better get the local vicar to help. We’ll report our suspicions to him. I really do recognize that button. When we met Robert Harrison while we were sheltering from that storm, he had them on his doublet. One of them actually fell off! I noticed them because they were unusual.’
‘So did I,’ Brockley said. ‘Also …’
‘He offered to marry Jane, very soon after Thomas vanished. Almost as though he knew for sure that Thomas was dead.’
‘And,’ said Brockley, ‘didn’t he say he meant to go travelling to see his employer’s English customers? Maybe he went to Cornwall instead. But I wonder why he wants to marry Jane. Conscience?’
We made our way out of the wood, pushing the cart. I tried to think things through.
‘Possibly,’ I said, ‘he wants to make sure that Lisa doesn’t start legal proceedings after all. I know she didn’t seem to be considering it, but what if she changed her mind? Marrying Jane would be a wise move.’
‘It would,’ Brockley agreed. ‘I’d reckon that father and son planned all that ahead like everything else. He made that offer only a few days after Thomas vanished.’
I said: ‘We had better make haste to find that vicar!’