“Hard to say. But sure as the devil, part of a broken mast washed ashore some days after the wreck.”
“And?”
“The mast was black, that’s what.” The agent paused to catch his breath and straighten the lapels of his coat. “Only reason a ship wears black masts is to sail at night. To sail, that is, without being seen. Now does that sound like smuggling or not?” Without waiting for an answer, Mr. Penn yelled out to a hackney.
The carriage stopped in front of him, and mumbling about being late, he clambered in and rode away.
Felton wasted no time. He made inquiries twice—first to the garrulous blacksmith, then to the friend-of-everyone proprietor of the local inn. The latter of the two gave him what he needed. Directions to the home of David Bowles.
Christ, give me answers.The news ran through his brain, all the little pieces he knew, but it made no sense. Too much information. All unrelated. What did any of this mean? Had Captain been a smuggler? Then, when the ship went down at his own accidental doing, the other man Bowles had told others the vindictive tale?
No wonder Ellis had gone into hiding. Probably more than a few angry men had gone after revenge. But still, how did he end up with Eliza? What good would she have done him? And how could the murder of Lady Gillingham possibly tie in with this?
When he reached the home of Mr. Bowles, he dismounted and looped his reins around a tree branch. The house was situated on the southern end of the village, with a well-trimmed hawthorn hedge around the perimeter of the lawn. The brick house was two stories, modest in all appearance, with two chimneys on either side of the roof and white-framed windows. Vines crept along the triangular doorway.
Felton rapped on the door. No answer. Didn’t the man keep servants? If not a butler, then at least a maid of all work to greet callers? He was ready to leave when the door opened.
A thin, long-faced woman wiped wet hands on her apron. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I am looking for Mr. Bowles.”
“He not be home.”
“When will he be?”
“I don’t know, sir. I—I never know such things.” She ran a tongue across dry lips, as if unsure what to say next. Then, without looking at him, “Wh–who should I be telling him called, sir?”
“Felton Northwood. I shall return another day.” He nodded his thanks and left the village. His rage mounted. Why was everything a dead end? Why did every lead take him nowhere?
Back home, he stabled his horse, then walked for the house. Next plan of action would be to talk with the man Bowles—if he could find him at home, that is. It was just possible Swabian and his men were involved in this too. A gang of smugglers perhaps, the whole lot of them. Would that explain the maid’s apparent nervousness?
Perhaps Felton could have learned more from speaking with her.
“Oh, Master Northwood.” Dodie rushed outside before he could open the door. “I ne’er thought you’d come. Just terrible it’s been, rightly terrible, and e’eryone be cryin’ and cryin’ and—”
His breathing hitched. “What are you talking about?”
“Just dreadful, it is. I says to them, I says, ‘Mebbe that letter be wrong’, but they says, ‘Go away, Dodie’. So I go away and I be watchin’
for you, Master Northwood, ’cause you be knowin’ always wot to do—”
“Where are they?”
“The drawin’ room, Master Northwood. Hurry now, please.”
He sprinted through the foyer, burst through the drawing-room doors.God, please, no.
His mother lay on the floor, curled in front of the fireless hearth, shaking her head against the Turkish rug.
His father bent next to her. He said nothing. No calming words of comfort. No dismissive, light-hearted change of topic. Just…nothing.
Fear slammed Felton in the stomach. “Papa?”
“Get him out of here.” Mamma’s wail. “Get him out of here!”
“Son, leave—”
“Tell me.” He collapsed next to them on the floor. Groped for his mother’s hand, as her tremble made its way through his own body. “Please.” Choked. “Tell me.”
