“You’re frightened to walk through a field? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a right of way.” Beryl Mayhew hoisted her skirts and clambered over the wooden stile. “Young Tom Perkins may want to close the footpath, but everyone still uses it.”
Her brother George stared over the fence, then shrugged off his tweed Norfolk jacket, slung it over his shoulder, and followed. “Come on, Leighton. It’s the fastest way to Heatherington.”
Grumbling, Nigel Leighton joined them, and they set out across the field, following the well-trod path. Once they reached the lane, a short walk would take them to the bridge that crossed the small river and then on into the village. A copse of trees ahead marked their goal.
“I don’t see why we couldn’t ride there in the dogcart,” Leighton panted. “I’ll be exhausted by the time we return.”
Beryl glanced at him. Leighton was almost twenty and had obviously spent his time at Cambridge indoors, engaged in sedentary pursuits. Wisps of flaxen hair poked from the sides of his cap, and his skin was pale, in contrast to Beryl and George’s dark hair and freckled faces. Beryl sighed. Why had George brought such a whining weedy specimen back for the summer? Surely he was not playing matchmaker.
They were only a few yards from the end of the path and the fence when a voice bellowed.
“Get out, you damned trespassers!” Young Tom Perkins charged down the hill toward them.
With a glance over his shoulder, George hurried his steps.
“Is that a pitchfork?” Leighton broke into a run.
“Young Tom!” Beryl turned and faced him. “You know this is a public footpath, and if you don’t stop this nonsense, I’ll tell Constable Wright that you’re pestering us.”
Pitchfork in hand, Perkins strode up to Beryl, glowering. Although almost thirty, he would be “Young Tom” to the locals until his father died, and possibly beyond. “That’s as may be, Miss Mayhew, but some of those village young’uns chase my cows ’til they won’t give milk. How am I to grow my dairy with no milk? My customers depend on my deliveries.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Beryl said. “But this field is a right-of-way. Did you tell Constable Wright about the children?”
“Yes’m. And he did have a word with them.” He picked a blade of grass and chewed it thoughtfully. “’Twould be a grand field for my bull.”
Beryl laughed. “Don’t even think of moving your bull into this field. Why, Sir Denys would have you up before the bench in a heartbeat. Now,” she continued, lowering her voice, “a few goats would be another matter, and I doubt the local lads would get much satisfaction from chasing them.”
Perkins grinned and touched his cap. “There’s an idea.”
Her grin mirrored his. “And one that won’t cause more trouble. Good day.” She made her way to where the young men waited just outside the fence.
As she climbed over the stile, George murmured a comment, something about “bearding the lion,” and Leighton snickered. Beryl shot them both a hard glance and bit back a remark about running from the field of battle; she had promised her aunt not to antagonize her brother during his stay. Not often, at least. She headed down the path. It was short walk to the lane, which was bordered by high banks and hedgerows.
Shade dappled the dusty, rutted road. The still, warm air smelled of honeysuckle.
“Race you to the bridge!” George called suddenly, already three steps ahead. With a groan, Leighton took off at a better pace than his earlier complaints would indicate.
Beryl—careful not to be overheard—muttered a mild curse, picked up her skirts, and dashed after them.
* * * *
Laughing, the young men lounged against the bridge’s sturdy parapets as she panted up to them. Both had their jackets draped over the stones, and Beryl spared a moment to envy their freedom from long skirts, gloves, and bonnets.
“Don’t feel too smug,” she said. “You try running in petticoats and heels and see how well you do.” Leaning against the sun-warmed granite, she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her damp forehead. At least they were out of the stifling lanes, and a breeze cooled her face.
George chuckled. “There was a time when you could keep up.”
“Keep up? I could best you,” she said, and at his indignant expression added, “at least some of the time. But that was five years ago when I was twelve and didn’t wear a corset.”
Leighton’s eyebrows rose and his cheeks darkened. “Miss Mayhew!”
“Pay her no mind,” George said, elbowing his friend. “You will hear more shocking words than corset during your stay.”
“It’s not a shocking word. It’s simply an article of clothing.” Beryl frowned. “Or are you so delicate you can’t bear to hear of such a thing, Mr. Leighton?”
Leighton scowled. “I’m not delicate. I’m studying medicine, after all.”
“Medicine?” Beryl stood and smoothed her gloves. “Will you specialize in research, or are you destined for a consulting room on Harley Street, catering to the wealthy?”
“There’s nothing wrong with Harley Street.”
Beryl’s soft snort was response enough.
George laughed. “Again, don’t mind my sister. She’s a freethinker and has been influenced by our aunt. She has no respect for my legal studies, either. Come. We’re almost to Heatherington.”
A faint caw sounded. Beryl looked up, shading her eyes with her hand. A dark speck headed toward them.
“Wait!” she said.
George followed her gaze. “Is it Hermes?”
“Hermes?” Leighton squinted up at the sky. “Who or what is Hermes?”
Beryl stripped off her gloves and walked over to the grass along the river’s banks. She squatted down and rooted in the green blades and wildflowers. “He’s my pet crow. Or was, for the first year of his life. Ah!” She stood, holding a fat worm.
Leighton backed away. “Disgusting!”
“Disgusting?” Beryl raised one brow. “And you’re going into medicine? How will you manage your anatomical studies?”
Lifting his chin, Leighton said, “I will do perfectly well.”
Beryl didn’t bother to reply. She placed the worm on the bridge’s parapet and collected two good-sized stones, then waited until the crow circled closer.
He landed on the other end of the parapet, glossy black feathers shining in the sun. Tilting his head to one side, he regarded her with glittering eyes.
“Hullo, Hermes,” she said softly. “Here’s a worm and a puzzle for you.”
Laying the stones close on either side of the worm, she stepped back.
“But the stones prevent it from reaching the worm,” Leighton said. “I didn’t take you for a tease, Miss Mayhew.”
“Oh, don’t fret. Hermes knows a few tricks.”
Hermes hopped toward the stones, cocked his head the other way, and paused for a moment, as if studying the situation. Then he opened his wings and glided over to the grass beside the stream.
Leighton shook his head. “Your puzzle was too much for it.”
“Not at all.”
Hermes searched amongst the grasses until he gave a triumphant caw. He picked up a twig with his beak and flew back to the parapet. There he poked the twig into the crevice between the stones, pushing the worm out of its hiding place. Dropping the twig, he snatched up the worm and swallowed it.
Beryl smiled at Leighton’s open-mouthed stare. “Good boy, Hermes.”
With another caw, Hermes flew off.
George threw his arm over Leighton’s shoulders and gave him a shake. “Close your mouth, Nigel, or something will fly in.”
Leighton’s mouth snapped shut and his face twisted into a reluctant smile. “Crows are more intelligent than I expected.”
“Of course they are.” Beryl pulled on her gloves and headed toward the village.
* * * *
As villages went, there was nothing memorable about Heatherington save its ordinariness. An Anglican church, a Methodist chapel, three shops including a bookseller, and a public house (with a parlor for ladies) lining the lane were the extent of its charms. Yet there was always a muted bustle in the street, and Beryl seldom visited without meeting a friend or acquaintance. Or even, as she could see before her, a handsome young man.
The handsome young man in question turned from the shop window and tipped his hat. “How do you do, Miss Mayhew.”
She smiled. “I’m very well, Mr. Fitz-Clarence.”
“Mayhew.” He nodded to George.
“Fitz-Clarence.” George nodded with all the insouciance he could muster.
Beryl added, “And this is George’s friend from Cambridge, Nigel Leighton.”
Leighton shook Fitz-Clarence’s hand, and the warmth of his greeting made George’s coolness all the more obvious.
“How d’you do, Mr. Leighton. Mayhew, it’s good to see you again. So you’re home for the summer. How are your studies?”
Beryl pressed her lips together. For heaven’s sake, Fitz-Clarence always made it sound as if George were a child to be humored. After all, he was only three or four years older than George, not thirty or forty.
Color rose in George’s face, but before he could reply, Beryl stepped over to the bookshop window. “We are here on an errand of mercy, Mr. Fitz-Clarence. My aunt has a touch of catarrh and must rest. We have come to find a book for her to read until she improves. You are usually au courant with the latest from London. Do you have any suggestions?”
Fitz-Clarence frowned thoughtfully. “I saw Mr. Trollope’s newest book in Robertson’s shop. And one by Miss Yonge, as well.”
“Two excellent suggestions. Thank you.” She favored him with a smile.
Across the road a shop door opened and three young ladies exited and hurried over. “Why, Beryl, we didn’t expect to see you here,” a pretty blonde said. “Mr. Mayhew, Mr. Fitz-Clarence.”
There were more introductions for Leighton and the young ladies—sisters Margaret and Amanda Dole, and the speaker, Verity Plum. After Beryl explained their errand, Margaret giggled and said, “Oh, but Mr. Wilkie Collins has published another book! I know how much your aunt admired The Moonstone, and she would certainly enjoy one of his.”
“So your aunt enjoys sensational novels?” Fitz-Clarence asked with a lift of his brow.
George laughed. “She adores them, as does Beryl.”
“They’re certainly more entertaining than some so-called edifying novels I could mention,” Beryl said with a sniff. “Margaret, shall we see if Mr. Robertson has it in stock?”
Leaving their friends outside, Beryl and Margaret made their way into the stuffy little bookshop, and after a short discussion with Robertson, the owner, completed their transaction and emerged, flushed with success.
Only to find themselves deserted by friends and family. Beryl glanced up the road. There they were. As expected, George and Amanda walked together through the shaded churchyard, strolling along gravel paths beneath the plane trees, followed by Leighton and Verity, her hand on his arm. Fitz-Clarence trailed the other couples, swiping at clumps of tall grass with his stick.
“We have been abandoned,” Margaret said, laughing. “Not that I blame them. The churchyard is far more appealing than this dreadfully hot pavement.” Beryl could only agree.
Their friends turned at Margaret’s hail and waited for them to catch up.
“Allow me,” Fitz-Clarence said as he relieved Beryl of her parcel. “Did you decide on Wilkie Collins?” he asked.
She nodded. “Man and Wife.”
Verity stumbled; Leighton caught her arm and steadied her.
“A…a pebble rolled under my foot,” she stammered, “and my ankle buckled. I’m perfectly fine now.”
“Have you seen Verity’s new bracelet?” Margaret asked Beryl. “It’s from a secret admirer.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Cheeks aflame, Verity held out her left arm. A delicate gold chain, its links of fine filigree, encircled her wrist. “It was a birthday present from my grandmother.”
“It’s lovely but so fragile,” Beryl said. “Be careful. If you catch it on something, the links will break.”
“That’s true, but it’s so beautiful I don’t want to take it off.”
“What piece of frippery are you admiring now?” George said, peering over Beryl’s shoulder. “Very pretty, but not as lovely as the one wearing it.”
Verity’s blush deepened, and she turned away.
“Goodness me,” Beryl said, nudging George. “Aren’t you the preux chevalier.”
Fitz-Clarence laughed. “Quite so. Your aunt must be pleased that your time in Cambridge is not wasted.”
George met his gaze. “My time there has not been wasted, unlike that of some others.”
Silence settled over the group. Fitz-Clarence’s sudden departure from Cambridge had been a subject of much speculation, but no one knew the true story.
“Touché,” Fitz-Clarence said, sketching a bow to George. “Please excuse me. I have obviously overstayed my welcome.”
“Not at all,” Beryl said. “In fact, it is growing late, and I was going to ask if you would care to escort me to Ferndale, since my brother and Mr. Leighton appear to be otherwise occupied.”
“It would be my pleasure.” Fitz-Clarence offered his arm.
After a brief discussion regarding their plans, George and Leighton joined Beryl and Fitz-Clarence in saying good-bye to the young ladies. As they started down the lane, the two young men strode ahead, already deep in conversation. Beryl looked up; in the distance, a familiar black shape circled and swooped.
They were outside the village and approaching the bridge when Fitz-Clarence glanced at her. “You certainly took the wind out of your brother’s sails,” he said softly.
She laughed. “A salutary exercise. George is inclined to think too well of himself, and it’s my sisterly duty to ensure that this does not last.”
“I would say that you are doing a fine job, Miss Mayhew.”
“You are too kind,” she said, her cheeks warm. He was indeed a charming man. “You recommended Mr. Trollope earlier. Have you read his latest?”
“I’m afraid not. The last I read was Phineas Finn.”
Their conversation turned to books as they crossed the bridge and retraced her earlier path up the lane and through the field, finally reaching her aunt’s home.
Too large to be a cottage and too modest to be stately, Ferndale comfortably housed Miss Eleanora Mayhew, as well as her niece and nephew. A façade of Portland stone provided a sense of permanence, and the gardens, while not extensive, offered privacy and shade in the summer.
When they reached the front door, Beryl retrieved her parcel and offered tea, which was politely refused. “I don’t wish to impose, and you will want to check on your aunt.”
Very true, yet it was with a small pang of disappointment that she watched him stride back down the gravel path before she turned and entered the house.
* * * *
Tap. Taptaptap.
Beryl sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes. Although early, there was just light enough to see.
Tap. Taptap.
Where on earth… The window?
Throwing back the blanket, she scrambled out of bed and crossed to the open window. Hermes perched on the outer sill.
“What do you want?” she asked, holding out her hand. He hopped on the sill but did not enter. Something gleamed in his beak. “What’s this?”
She gently caught the chain, and he opened his beak. She peered at the gold in her hand. Verity’s bracelet.
“I told her to be careful. Where did she lose it?”
Hermes tilted his head and emitted a soft caw. He spread his wings and glided over to the old oak tree at the edge of the garden. Two louder caws, imperious.
“Very well.” Beryl sighed. That particular tone signaled she would have no peace until he had shown her whatever it was that had caught his attention. She quickly dressed.
She slipped out the kitchen door, avoiding the cook and scullery maid, and walked across the lawn. The grass sparkled with morning dew. Standing before the oak, she rested her hands on her hips and looked up at Hermes.
“Well?”
He ruffled his feathers, then swooped across the lawn and landed on a gazing ball. He turned to look at her, and she obediently followed.
* * * *
A quarter of an hour later she emerged, breathless and tousled, from the overgrown shrubbery. Hermes had led her to the artfully placed Gothic ruins built half a century ago by a romantic baronet. Beryl had always loved exploring the deliberately broken walls and intentionally tumbled stones scattered among the bushes. When she clambered to the top of the ruins she could glimpse the Fitz-Clarence house, its prim Georgian façade concealing the original rambling Jacobean structure, the roofs of various outbuildings clustered around it just visible among the trees.
Hermes perched on a rhododendron branch and cawed.
Beryl stared at the lush foliage. Why would Hermes have found Verity’s bracelet here?
With an impatient croak, Hermes hopped to the ground and ducked under the bush.
She stepped forward and lifted the branches. Peering underneath, she could see little, for deep shadows cloaked the uneven ground. Hermes hopped beside her and pecked at a…
Stifling a gasp, she backed away, her heart pounding.
A leg. A trousered leg.
But whose?
He must be sleeping or perhaps passed out from drink. A tramp, taking shelter from the morning damp?
There was only one way to discover the truth. With shaking hands, she pushed aside the branches until the growing light illuminated a shock of fair hair. She bent and tugged at his shoulder.
“Hullo? Can you hear me…”
He rolled onto his back, and Beryl cried out.
Open eyes glazed, tongue protruding, Nigel Leighton was most definitely dead.
* * * *
“A pet crow showed you where the body was hidden,” Constable Wright said, his voice flat. He stood beside the drawing room hearth, hands clasped behind his back, his helmet on a small table. Sunlight striped the patterned carpet and gleamed off his brass buttons.
“Yes.” Sitting on the settee with George beside her, Beryl lowered her gaze to her clasped hands. It did sound improbable. “Hermes woke me early—he has done it before, when he wanted to show me something interesting—so I followed him.”
Aunt Eleanora coughed gently from the wing chair she habitually occupied. Her gray hair was drawn into a severe knot at the nape of her neck, and she wore her usual black, relieved only by touches of white lace at throat and cuff. “Beryl speaks the truth, Constable. She raised Hermes from a fledgling, and I have often seen him demand her attention.” She gave Beryl an encouraging nod.
Constable Wright frowned. “That’s as may be, Miss Mayhew. But the superintendent won’t take kindly to the notion that Miss Beryl discovered the body through the offices of a pet crow.”
“Sir Denys knows of Beryl’s pet,” Aunt Eleanora said. “I’m certain that if the superintendent asked, Sir Denys would confirm her statement.”
Constable Wright opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it. The stuff of local legend, Sir Denys was a force to be reckoned with.
“Very well,” he said, shoulders stiff.
George suddenly stood. “Who cares about a pet crow. What of my friend? The man who was killed…murdered!”
Beryl closed her eyes. She would never forget the sight of Nigel Leighton’s face.
“George, no one has forgotten Mr. Leighton.” Aunt Eleanora’s voice was gentle. “I’m certain Constable Wright will do everything in his power to discover who is responsible.”
With a stifled groan, George covered his face with his hands. Then he dropped his hands and nodded. “I apologize for doubting your devotion to duty, Constable.”
Constable Wright coughed. “Very natural, sir. So the facts are that you and Mr. Leighton went for a smoke and a stroll before retiring. Mr. Leighton, not having finished his cigar, decided to walk a little farther while you returned to the house. You left the side door unlocked and did not hear Mr. Leighton return.”
“Exactly.”
“Would you like to add anything else, Mr. Mayhew? Miss Beryl?”
“No,” George said.
Beryl hesitated. Should she tell of the thin gold chain in her pocket? If she did, what would become of Verity? At the very least, her reputation would be in tatters, and she might even be falsely accused of this dreadful crime. No, Hermes had given her Verity’s chain and entrusted her to discover the extent, if any, of Verity’s involvement with Nigel Leighton’s death. She glanced at the constable and shook her head.
“Very well. And now if you’ll excuse me, the superintendent is waiting for my report.” Wright gave a stiff bow, collected his helmet, and left.
Glancing at Beryl and George, Aunt Eleanora said, “Well, my dears, after that I would very much like a cup of tea.”
* * * *
“There is no need for you to escort me, George,” Beryl said three hours later. She reached the stile to Young Tom’s field and turned to her brother. “I am simply going into the village.”
“And I am simply accompanying you.”
Beryl sighed. When George thrust out his chin like that, he would not be moved. “Very well. But do not complain of boredom if I linger in the shops.”
They crossed the field in silence; a faint caw came from the trees ahead. Beryl shaded her eyes and scanned the branches until she spotted a familiar form circling toward them.
With a flutter of black feathers, Hermes landed on the stile. He waited until Beryl and George approached, then flew off with a croak.
“What has he left you this time?” George asked as Beryl picked up the small item.
“It’s a button.”
George laughed. “Another treasure for your hoard. You have collected dozens of buttons, courtesy of Hermes.”
Beryl examined the button with a frown. “It’s rather fine. For one thing, it’s not brass. It’s silver, engraved with a crest of some sort.” She turned it over. “Look. It has been pulled from the cloth. See? A few threads of blue serge are still attached.”
“You make too much of a random button when more important matters should occupy your thoughts.”
Laying her hand on his arm, Beryl replied gently. “I’m sorry about Mr. Leighton, of course I am.” But important matters did occupy her thoughts. For one thing, her trip into the village was not frivolous. She hoped to discover where and when Verity lost her bracelet, and that might provide a clue as to who killed Leighton.
“I still don’t understand,” George said. “How did Hermes know where to find Nigel’s body? He’s a crow, not a hound.”
Beryl shook her head, her steps lagging. She didn’t understand it either.
“And how did he signal you?” George continued. “Did he bring you something?” He peered at her face.
She turned away.
“He did.” George grabbed her arm. “He did! What did he bring you? Something of Nigel’s?”
“Stop that!” She broke free and glared at her brother. “It’s…not Mr. Leighton’s.”
“Then what is it?”
Reaching into her pocket, Beryl slowly withdrew the gold chain and showed it to him.
A crease formed between his brows. “Whose bracelet is it?”
“Verity’s,” she said. “She showed it to us yesterday.”
George picked up the delicate links and examined them. “It’s broken.”
“Yes. She must have caught it on something.” She held out her hand, and he returned the bracelet. The gold puddled in her palm. She contemplated it for a moment before shoving it into her pocket.
“Perhaps she didn’t notice when it broke,” George said. “But Hermes brought it to you and then took you to Nigel’s body.”
“Yes. So it’s possible that Verity was with Mr. Leighton before he was killed.”
George met her gaze. “Or when he was killed.”
* * * *
As Beryl and George approached, it appeared that every resident of Heatherington—stolid, sleepy Heatherington—had congregated in front of the shops, talking in low voices and glancing about, as if expecting…something.
With a cry, Margaret detached herself from a knot of women and ran to Beryl. “Oh, my dear!” She took Beryl’s hands. “We heard about Mr. Leighton’s death. Such a pleasant young man, and how very tragic.”
“Yes, indeed. We are all very—”
“But have you heard?” She leaned close and lowered her voice. “Verity has gone missing.”
“Missing? What do you mean?” Beryl exchanged a glance with George.
“The maid went to wake her this morning, and her bed hadn’t been slept in. Even before hearing of Mr. Leighton’s death, her father was quite wild with fear for her safety, and a number of men have gone out to hunt for her.”
“Where are they searching?” George asked.
“I don’t know,” Margaret said. She looked up. A man on horseback was nearing the village. “Look! It’s Mr. Fitz-Clarence. He’s been out all morning. Perhaps he knows more.”
A disheveled Fitz-Clarence rode up and leapt from his foam-flecked horse. Throwing the reins to a boy, he gave a curt order to water his mount. “Where is Mr. Plum?” he asked, glancing at the villagers crowding around. “He was not at home.”
“He’s still out searching. Any sign of Miss Verity?” one man called.
“No,” Fitz-Clarence said, smoothing back his windblown hair before settling his cuffs. “But perhaps one of the others has had better luck.”
Beryl pushed her way through the crowd toward Fitz-Clarence, George on her heels.
“Mr. Fitz-Clarence, where were you searching?” she asked.
Giving a little start when he saw her, Fitz-Clarence inclined his head. “Miss Beryl, Mayhew. I am so very sorry to hear about your friend. It is a great tragedy.”
“Thank you,” George said. “But we have just heard the news about Miss Verity. Have you looked for her in the area where Nigel was found?”
Fitz-Clarence shot him a glance and slowly nodded. “Yes, I have just come from there. The police examined the immediate vicinity, of course, but I widened the search all the way to my house, in case she…” His voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat.
“In case she had met with Mr. Leighton and was trying to escape his killer and find a safe haven with you?” Beryl said briskly, ignoring Fitz-Clarence’s discomfort. “Yes, that is certainly one possibility.”
“A possibility, perhaps, but there was no sign of her anywhere in the area.” Fitz-Clarence sighed. “I can only pray she is safe.”
“Amen,” Beryl and George said together. Beryl hesitated, then continued. “Who else is participating in the search?”
“A dozen local gentlemen, along with any farmers who can spare the time.” He gave her a brief smile. “Anyone able would of course wish to provide assistance to such a lovely young woman.”
A hubbub arose near the churchyard as two other riders appeared, but their solemn expressions quieted the bystanders. They had been looking along the main road, but neither had seen any trace of Verity. A few pessimists frowned, and one pointed to the family headstones that stood nearby, as if Verity were already laid to rest.
From the other direction another horse and rider flew across the bridge and into the village. The dappled gray pulled up as it reached the shops. “Has anyone seen her?” Young Tom Perkins cried, dismounting and leading his horse over to the trough.
Fitz-Clarence shook his head and turned away. Perkins groaned.
Beryl and George hurried over to the newcomer.
“Where were you looking, Young Tom?” George asked.
“Around my property, along the lanes,” he replied. “I searched every hedge, every ditch. She’s not there.”
“Well, she cannot have gone far, since she is probably on foot. I shall join in the search,” George said. He led Beryl away from the others and spoke softly. “Hermes could have found the bracelet anywhere. Although he took you to Nigel’s body after bringing you the bracelet, it does not necessarily follow that Miss Verity was there with Nigel.”
“Not necessarily, but—”
“But nothing, Beryl. Hermes is a remarkable crow, but he is still a bird. I will trust in man’s intelligence rather than a bird that brings you shiny treasures.”
Beryl did not agree but would not argue the point—not this time. “Good luck to you. The shops hold no interest for me now. I am going home.”
George smiled. “A sensible decision. Wait with Aunt Eleanora, and I will send word as soon as we have found her…” He leaned closer. “Hopefully alive.”
Beryl returned his smile. Yet as she walked over the bridge, she scanned the sky for a familiar black shape.
* * * *
She did not see Hermes until she strode up the drive leading to Ferndale. Then he swooped down and settled on the grass before her.
“Hullo.” Beryl took the bracelet from her pocket and held it out. “The lady who wore this, do you know where she is?”
Hermes cocked his head to one side and regarded her. He hopped forward and cawed softly. Then he turned, swiveled his head to glance back at her, and flew to a branch in the tree across the garden.
Beryl pocketed the bracelet and followed.
* * * *
Beryl looked around at the Gothic ruins and scowled at Hermes, who sat atop a half tumbled stone wall. “She can’t be here! The constables combed the area when they retrieved Mr. Leighton’s body this morning, and Mr. Fitz-Clarence looked as well.”
Hermes let out a loud croak.
“What do you want to show me?”
With another caw, Hermes soared to a thicket of trees and perched on a branch. He cawed again. Muttering a curse and not caring if Hermes heard, Beryl pushed her way through the undergrowth. Whenever she paused to catch her breath or pull her skirts from a briar, Hermes flew back and encouraged her with calls and croaks.
Finally she emerged into a small, isolated clearing. Trees and shrubbery rose like ramparts around a grassy glade, and Hermes alighted at the far end, in front of a thatched cottage. According to village gossip, it was built eighty years ago for a Fitz-Clarence ancestor who enjoyed playing carefree yeoman on sunny afternoons. The thatch was old and wanted repair, but the granite walls and oak door remained solid, and iron bars had been installed over the tiny window to keep out vagrants. Beryl walked slowly toward the cottage. What were those muffled sounds? It almost sounded as if someone was crying out…
With a sudden piercing caw, Hermes flew off and Beryl turned, startled, as a man strode into the glade.
“Oh!” She pressed her hand to her chest, her heart beating rapidly. “You surprised me, Mr. Fitz-Clarence.”
Fitz-Clarence stared at her for a moment, then glanced up at the branch where Hermes perched. His face twisted into a scowl. “That damned bird. He sees far too much.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I watched him approach and knew you would be close behind. It is his fault you are here, and you leave me no choice.” With a much-put-upon sigh he stalked toward her, and she could not help but take a step back. The glitter in his eye and set to his jaw sent a chill down her spine. He looked…dangerous.
As she turned to flee, he sprang forward and caught her arm, spinning her around to face him. She cried out, but his other hand clamped around her throat, his fingers pressing into the soft hollows beneath her jaw. Her vision dimmed. She clawed vainly at his tightening hand and kicked, her boot connecting with his shin. He jerked and lost his grip on her throat.
She staggered, gasping. He struck her on the chin and her knees buckled, sending her to the ground. In a second Fitz-Clarence knelt beside her, both hands reaching for her throat again. She grabbed his wrists, but he pressed his advantage and broke her hold. His clenched fist struck her temple twice, and she lay dazed beneath him.
An unearthly screech pierced her stupor. Suddenly a demon with black feathers appeared before Fitz-Clarence, cruel beak pecking at his face, wings beating, talons lashing out.
Hermes!
With a scream, Fitz-Clarence rose, flailing at the crow. Hermes flew beyond his reach, then swooped and tore at his back, battering his head with beak and wings.
Bending over to protect his face, Fitz-Clarence grabbed Beryl’s arms and dragged her across the grass toward the cottage. Hermes continued to rake his back. Dizzy and nauseated, Beryl dug in her heels, tugging against his inexorable grasp. With a curse he kicked her in the ribs, then hoisted her upright, gripping her hard around her waist. She cried out as pain sliced through her.
Fitz-Clarence fumbled an old iron key from his pocket and unlocked the door.
“A shotgun will take care of that damned bird before he rouses the entire village,” he said. “And then I shall take care of you.”
Throwing open the heavy oaken door, he shoved Beryl inside. She stumbled and reached out for support, landing hard against another body. They both tumbled to the floor. Fitz-Clarence slammed the door shut. The lock clicked.
With a groan, Beryl blinked and focused on the face beside her.
“Verity?”
A tousled, tear-stained Verity embraced her. “Oh, Beryl! I am so happy to see you.”
Outside, Fitz-Clarence screamed again, a bestial cry of rage.
“Hermes must still be on the attack,” Beryl said. She scrambled to her feet and helped Verity up, pulling her to the tiny window. In the clearing, Hermes continued to swoop at Fitz-Clarence like a dark, avenging spirit. Fitz-Clarence struck at the crow, missing him, and the key dropped to the ground. He reached for it, but Hermes landed, covering the key with his body and croaking loudly. Fitz-Clarence retreated, nursing bloodied hands and head, then turned and ran into the trees.
Vision clearing, her dizziness retreating, Beryl moved from the window and looked around. The cottage consisted of one room containing a small table, a rumpled bed, and the shattered remains of a wooden chair. “Did Fitz-Clarence destroy the chair in his anger?”
Verity shook her head. “No. I did, to provide myself with a weapon. I would have attacked him when he opened the door, but—”
“But I knocked you down,” Beryl finished. “Did he hurt you?”
“A little,” Verity said. She raised her hands; her wrists were bruised and swollen. “He tied me up, but I managed to free myself. But Beryl, he killed Mr. Leighton!” Her voice broke.
“Why? And why imprison you?”
“I have long known that he admired me, and there were times when I…” She bowed her head.
“You encouraged him?” Beryl said gently.
Verity nodded.
Beryl stifled a sigh. “You are not the first to fall under his spell.”
“Perhaps not, but my behavior was thoughtless. I will have to live with the fact that an innocent man paid a terrible price thereby. Yesterday Fitz-Clarence told me he had urgent news, news that would change my life, and that I must meet him at the ruins last night. I foolishly agreed.” Verity chafed her wrists. “He said he…was mad with desire for me,” she whispered. “He could fight it no longer and would take me to a place where we could be alone, where he would show me what it was to be loved by a man.”
“How horrible! What did you say to that?” Beryl asked.
Verity shuddered. “I said I loved another, and he told me I did not know my own mind and he knew what was best for me. He raved that we were destined to be together and that nothing should part us, even if I did not realize that now, even if it took time—days, weeks, months—for me to see he was in the right. I replied I could never love one who treated me so. The banns would be read soon, and I would be the wife of a man who respects me and has more honor and integrity in his little finger than Fitz-Clarence has in his entire body. I spat in his face, and he could not contain his rage.”
“You were very courageous to brave his anger.” Had Verity lied about loving another, or was she genuinely engaged to someone? Beryl’s curiosity was piqued, but now was not the time to inquire. “How did he respond?”
“He grabbed me, and I screamed once before he struck and stunned me. Mr. Leighton must have heard my cry, for within a few moments he appeared and flew at Fitz-Clarence. I was too addled to see much in the moonlight, but I could hear everything…. The sounds Mr. Leighton made as the life was choked from him… I will never forget.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she covered her face with her hands.
Beryl pulled Verity close in a comforting embrace. “Fitz-Clarence has gone to fetch his shotgun, but we can try to overpower him as he enters. Let us each wield a chair leg—”
A fusillade of imperative raps on the window interrupted her.
There, on the windowsill, sat Hermes. Beryl quickly unfastened the latch and opened the window.
Hermes held the key in his beak.
“Oh, you wonderful creature!” Reaching careful fingers through the bars, Beryl grasped the key and pulled it inside. “Verity,” she said, holding up the key. “Do you think you can run?”
Verity wiped away a tear and nodded. “Like the wind.”
Beryl unlocked the door with shaking hands. “Then let us go.” As they left the cottage, Beryl closed and re-locked the door, pocketing the key. “That might give us more time.”
“We will need it.” Verity grabbed her hand.
Despite their bruises and pains, the two women darted across the glade and into the trees, trying to make as little noise as possible as they pushed through the shrubbery and ducked under low branches. Safety beckoned; Ferndale was only minutes away.
“Hush.” Beryl lifted her head. The faint sounds of someone crashing through the undergrowth increased. She held her finger before her lips. “Keep moving quickly and quietly.”
“He will hear us,” Verity whispered, trembling.
“We must chance it.” Beryl gave her hand an encouraging squeeze.
They moved carefully through the thick undergrowth, but at every brush of cloth or crack of twig, Beryl flinched. Surely he would be upon them at any moment! At last a familiar open lawn was visible through the thinning trees. It provided no cover, but Ferndale lay just beyond—their safe haven, if they could only reach it.
The sounds of pursuit drew nearer.
“Run!”
Beryl and Verity broke from the trees, almost flying as they dashed across the grass toward the house.
A raucous caw cut through the quiet.
Heart pounding, Beryl glanced around. Hermes would not be so foolish as to call attention to their vulnerable position…or would he?
Hermes was nowhere to be seen, but Fitz-Clarence erupted from the wood with a shout. Shotgun in one hand, he pounded after them.
A caw sounded again as a black shape arrowed from the trees toward Fitz-Clarence. With a croak, another crow joined him, then another. A veritable chorus echoed through the wood and across the lawn as a feathered black cloud descended on Fitz-Clarence.
Beryl and Verity stumbled and slowed, staring.
Fitz-Clarence screamed, dropped the shotgun, and raised his arms to shield his head from the onslaught. He fell to his knees, then collapsed to the ground.
The din increased, the whirlwind of crows intensified, and his shrieks rose in pitch.
Unable to look away, Beryl stood frozen, her mouth dry with horror.
“That’s enough!” George shouted as he ran across the lawn from the house, waving his arms at the black maelstrom that engulfed the fallen man.
Beryl started, her paralysis broken; she picked up her skirts and ran after him.
“Hermes!” she cried. “Stop! We are safe!”
Gradually the flying crows quieted and slowed, many settling on the lawn around the huddled shape, while others retreated to the wood, perching on branches. The noise abated, her ears rang in the quiet.
Beryl hurried to the bloodied body. George stood before Fitz-Clarence, face impassive, staring down at the battered man. He glanced at her.
“He’s still alive.”
She nodded and her hand crept up to her bruised throat. She would not, could not, bring herself to touch him. He would have to wait for the doctor.
George lifted his hand and gently touched her bruised chin and temple, then studied her throat. “He did that?”
“Yes. Hermes led me to where he had hidden Verity.” Where was Verity? She glanced over her shoulder and breathed easier. Verity was still safe, standing on the terrace. She turned back to George. “Fitz-Clarence tried to kill us, but Hermes intervened.”
“Hermes deserves as many worms as he can eat for the rest of his life,” George said. “How is she?”
“Frightened but basically unharmed. He had not had time to do…anything.”
George turned from Fitz-Clarence and offered his arm. “Shortly after you left for home I thought about the etched silver button Hermes brought to you this morning and remembered where I had seen silver buttons engraved in such a manner.”
“On Fitz-Clarence’s blue serge coat.” Grateful for the support, Beryl leaned on him.
“Exactly. When you said you were returning home we could see Hermes following you, and Fitz-Clarence disappeared. He must have taken fright and wanted to ensure Hermes didn’t lead you to Miss Verity.”
“Which he did.”
“Yes. I gathered together a few of the locals, including the doctor, intent on combing the areas that Fitz-Clarence claimed to have searched. But you and Hermes were a step or two ahead of me.”
They started back toward the little group of people standing in front of the house, passing several men, including Dr. Sayre, who trudged toward his patient, carrying his black bag.
Beryl glimpsed Verity standing with the others by the house and breathed a sigh of relief. Verity was unharmed, held closely in the arms of…Young Tom Perkins? When Verity had said she loved another, Beryl had not guessed this.
“Did you know about Verity and Young Tom?” she asked.
“Not until he came to me, frantic with worry, and insisted on accompanying our search party. He needed someone to confide in, I suppose. They have been in love for years and secretly engaged for the past several months. Her father would not permit the match until Young Tom’s prospects improved.”
Beryl nodded. “Hence the reason for expanding his dairy.”
“They will be calling the banns now.”
“Did Fitz-Clarence know of this match?”
“Not until yesterday. Young Tom apparently let something slip about their plans, and that might have precipitated Fitz-Clarence’s actions.”
“Perhaps.” Beryl gave her brother’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Or perhaps he had already planned it. But one fact is certain: if Nigel Leighton hadn’t been outside last night and heard Verity’s scream, Fitz-Clarence would surely have harmed Verity. As it was, he did not have time to do more than truss her up and stow her in that little cottage near his home. Although she broke from her bonds and was ready to defend herself, Mr. Leighton’s actions helped save her, and he will always have my gratitude.”
George nodded and cleared his throat. “At least his death wasn’t meaningless.”
Beryl didn’t agree, but she certainly wasn’t going to contradict her grieving brother. “That must be some comfort,” she said.
Fending off the questions and remarks of the others, she and George made their way over to Verity and Young Tom. His strong arm supported her, and she pressed against him.
“You must be exhausted,” Beryl said to Verity. “Come inside and rest until we can arrange a carriage to take you home.”
“In a minute.” Verity looked at the small group of men on the lawn. “Is he…”
Beryl shrugged. “Alive but badly injured. He will answer for his crimes.” She reached into her pocket and drew out the bracelet. “I wanted to return this. Hermes found it and brought it to me.” Had it only been this morning?
“Thank you.” Verity took the delicate chain. “But I won’t… I can’t wear it again.”
A soft caw caught their attention. Hermes circled overhead, then swooped down, landing on a stone wall and staring at them.
Holding out the chain, Verity slowly walked toward Hermes. “Thank you for all you have done, Hermes. I’d like you to have this.” She placed it on the stone before him and stepped back.
Regarding her intently, Hermes let out a gentle croak, then picked up the chain in his beak. With a flap of his wings he lifted and soared, disappearing into the trees.
Beryl shepherded Verity, Young Tom, and her brother toward the front door. “Let us go into the house while we wait for word from the doctor. I, for one, could use a cup of tea.”
She heard a distant caw and smiled.
Carla Coupe’s short stories have appeared in several of the Chesapeake Crimes series, and most recently in Malice Domestic’s Mystery Most Historical. Two of her short stories were nominated for the Agatha Award. She has written a number of Sherlock Holmes pastiches, which have appeared in Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Sherlock’s Home: The Empty House, The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI, and Irene’s Cabinet. Her story “The Book of Tobit” was included in The Best American Mystery Stories of 2012. www.carlacoupe.com