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CHAPTER TEN
It was an awful thing to have to say. The thought of the killer succeeding was enough to threaten to drive Moss completely out of his mind with worry. He looked at Cameron and the Captain. “Has anybody ever tried to run you down before?”
Both men shook their heads. Their faces were grim.
“But the bounder surely didn’t intend to kill both of us at the same time on that horse, did he?” the Captain demanded.
“No. I think he might have been targeting Clementine.” Moss pointed the end of his pencil at the woman in question. “I think it may be because you know something about the killer that is incriminating.”
“Like what?” Clementine asked. “People don’t tell me their secrets.”
“Maybe they don’t, willingly, but maybe you have seen something untoward that you have otherwise forgotten? If the killer saw you, they might believe that you could remember something that would identify them, or condemn them,” Moss suggested.
“Like what?” Clementine gasped.
Moss shrugged. “It is just a suggestion. Has anybody told you any personal details, any snippets of information about themselves, or something about someone else that they invariably wouldn’t tell you? On your travels have you, say, maybe seen someone somewhere they shouldn’t be?”
“Like leaving a lover’s house or something?” the Captain asked. He lifted his brows at Clementine.
“No. I don’t notice things like that. Why should I?”
“You are a popular young woman around these parts. It is inevitable that you would see the locals as you go about your business. People will exchange pleasantries with you, or snippets of gossip, I don’t doubt. Maybe someone told you something the killer doesn’t want getting out amongst the locals?”
“No. I don’t think so,” Clementine gasped. She scowled heavily. “I don’t think anybody in the village is a killer. Why, everybody I know is always friendly, albeit in different ways. Some are friendlier than others. Some like to stop and exchange pleasantries, others call greetings on their way by, but everyone is always very friendly. It is incomprehensible to think that one of them is a killer.”
“But one of them is, my dear. That is what Moss is saying. What we need to consider is who,” Cameron murmured quietly.
“Well, I know that, father,” Clementine snapped. “I am not dense.”
Moss grinned at her sharp retort and the affronted air Clementine adopted. It warned him that she had a somewhat feisty temper that was going to ensure that life with her would never be boring.
Wait! When did I start to contemplate life with her?
“Let’s consider the facts,” Moss began, not least because he had to do something calm and sensible before father and daughter started to squabble. “Firstly, we know someone around here is trying to get to Clementine, but we don’t know why yet. We know that several people have died, and they all appear to have had fits of some kind, which seemingly strike without warning or any protracted illness. Is that correct?”
Clementine nodded.
“Right, well, do all of the deceased have connections to this Autumn Fair?”
Clementine shook her head.
“Who doesn’t?”
“Mr Richardson. He isn’t involved in the planning. In fact, I don’t think he even visits the fair when it is on.”
“You spoke to all of the deceased in the days before they died.” It wasn’t a question, but Clementine nodded.
“How long is it between when you last spoke to them and when the victims died?”
Clementine studied her fingers. She hated to think of being the person responsible for several deaths, but that was effectively what Moss was saying, without accusing her of murder.
“A couple of days at the most,” she replied quietly.
“Has anybody else been seen at the time you have spoken to the victims? Did you nod at someone as they passed and happened to glance your way?” Moss persisted.
“No.”
“Sure?”
