Alexander took a slow breath and stepped beside her.
“Forgive the intrusion, but we too have reviewed the evidence with Constable Neal,” he said. “And I cannot credit a word of it.”
Marcus rubbed his forehead, and Rosalind saw the turmoil in his eyes.
“She vanished,” he said at last, the words low and raw. “And they found those letters in her own chamber.”
Rosalind scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief.
“Then someone put them there,” she said. “Because she would never have written them. She would never have cause to do so. I would swear it before a magistrate. Before any court of law, if necessary.”
Marcus sighed, and Rosalind thought he looked more saddened than angry.
“She was frightened,” he said, more to himself than to them. “Yesterday, she hesitated before supper. She began to say something. I thought perhaps…”
Rosalind held up a hand, which, to her surprise, silenced him at once.
“You know what she feared?” she asked. “Disappointing you. She feared she was not becoming what you need, and that she had allowed a moment of weakness to push you away. But never did she show herself capable of deception. Certainly, not deception such as this.”
Marcus closed his eyes. Rosalind hoped he was beginning to feel remorse for such thoughts.
Alexander stepped forward.
“Rosalind is right,” he said. “This story the constable has sewn together is too neat. Too convenient. And it does not match what any of us witnessed. Not her behaviour. Not her character.”
Rosalind nodded, her agreement unflinching.
“She knew the names of every servant by the second day,” she said. “She remembered which guest preferred tea without milk and which one disliked the citron tarts. She worked from morning until night preparing for your precious gathering, not for greed, but for you.”
Alexander nodded, giving Rosalind a warm, supportive gaze.
“And if she had wanted to leave, she could have done so in full daylight with far less suspicion,” he said. “There was no need for theatrics.”
Marcus opened his eyes. For the first time since dawn, something real flickered behind them.
“I keep thinking that if I walk to the corridor, she will appear again beside the linen press. She will say I am fretting, and that supper must not be delayed on account of old paperwork.”
Rosalind’s expression softened. She saw now that it was, perhaps, less dreadful for Marcus to imagine Catherine a culprit than to face the thought of her as a victim. Yet he must face it all the same. If Catherine was innocent—as they all knew her to be—then her disappearance was no accident.
“Then trust that memory,” she said. “Not these forged pages and planted items. You must believe in what you know of her. She needs your help now. Not misguided judgment.”
Alexander nodded.
“She did not leave you,” he said. “She was taken. And the sooner we prove it, the sooner her name may be cleared—and her safety secured.”
***
The note arrived just past four o’clock, delivered by a stable lad with no badge, no livery, and no explanation. The paper bore no seal, only a single name scrawled across the outer fold:Lord Penwood.
Marcus broke it open with stiff fingers, unfolding the message inside. The handwriting was neat. The language, chilling in its simplicity:
Bring your Roman collection—everything of value. Do not bring the constable. Do not speak to anyone. Come alone, at dusk, to the old mill south of the village. If you want Lady Penwood alive, you will comply.
Any deviation, and she dies.
He read it three times.
Then a fourth.
