Page 86 of Duke of Sapphire

The cottage was low and dark, the fire doing more work than the window, and the shepherd sat across from Henry with his hands wrapped around a cup he had not drunk from in twenty minutes. He was a solid man, gray at the temples, with the kind of face that had been weathered into honesty. He had met Henry’s eyes when he opened the door. He had answered the first four questions without flinching.

Henry sat forward. “What time was it?”

“Past midnight.” The shepherd set the cup down. “I was up the hill with two ewes that had gone off. I came back down the track—the one that runs above the road—and I saw the carriage below.”

“Stopped? Moving?”

“Stopped.” He frowned. “Or—nearly stopped. It was moving slowly. The horses were wrong, I thought. Not behaving right.”

“And the people?”

“Two. On the road beside it.”

“Can you describe them?”

The shepherd looked at the fire. Then he looked at Charlotte, who was sitting slightly back from the hearth, her hands in her lap, saying nothing. Then he looked at Henry again.

“A man,” he said. “And a woman.”

“The woman.” Henry kept his voice even. “Describe her.”

The shepherd picked up his cup then put it down. “Fine clothes,” he said. “Not—not working clothes. Quality.”

Henry went very still.

“She was walking away from the carriage,” the shepherd said. “Before it went over.” He stopped. “Before I thought it went over. I heard something later. Down in the gorge. I didn’t go to look.”

“Before the carriage went over,” Henry repeated. “You are certain of that?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Henry leaned in another inch. “Which direction was she walking?”

The shepherd opened his mouth. Then he closed it.

“North? South? Toward the road or away from it?”

“I—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Away, I think. Or it might have been—look, it was dark.”

“But you saw the clothes clearly?”

“I said fine clothes. I said that.”

“And the man? Was he with her?”

“He was—” A pause. “Near the carriage.”

“Near it how? Beside it? On the box?”

“I don’t—” The shepherd pushed back from the table slightly. “I don’t know. It was dark and I was—I was not—” He stopped.

Something in the hesitation told Henry everything. He waited.

“I was not entirely sober,” the shepherd said at last.

Silence.

“My wife died,” the man said, and the words were very flat, the way a man said things when he was past the crying stage and had arrived at something harder. “Six weeks before. I was up the hill with the ewes because I couldn’t sleep, and I had had—” He put both hands flat on the table. “Considerably more than was wise.”