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Miriam considered it for a moment. “No. That spot was rubbed badly. The prongs of the thorn were quite small, but very sharp. But the saddle was on there for a while. Something must have increased the pressure.”
“Perhaps when she mounted?” he suggested.
“Longer than that. And she wouldn’t mount in the stable. The ceilings are too low. She’d have to duck right down to get out of the door. Maybe whoever did it had intended it to look as if she fell when she was out riding and was kicked and dragged when the horse panicked.” She winced. “There must have been a lot of blood, from the injuries the doctor described. If we look, we’d find traces of it in the stable.”
“What will that prove?”
“I’m not sure.” For a moment she looked puzzled. “There’s something missing, because it doesn’t make sense. The thorn in the saddle was to bring about a riding accident and yet May was supposedly kicked to death in the stable…”
“Mullane would have seen the difference between an accident out riding and her having been kicked in the stable. And the postmistress said May was killed in the night.”
“Yes, of course. That’s what I don’t understand. And whoever did this had to get the burr, or whatever it was, in place. Maybe he meant to take it out again, but, anyway, nobody found it until we looked. And we found it only because we knew where it would be. Miss Trelawny’s death would have been seen as an accident by everyone. Being killed in a riding accident is not unusual, especially for an older woman.”
“Then why didn’t that work?” Daniel asked. “Perhaps it did but she kept control of the animal? Or had regained control by the time she got home?”
“Possibly. And then when she took the saddle off, she unintentionally dug the thorn in deeper, not knowing it was there.” Miriam was thinking aloud. “But, of course, that can’t be entirely right, as Miss Trelawny wouldn’t have just been for a ride at night.”
“Of course, there’s another alternative,” Daniel said quietly.
“What?”
“That the horse wasn’t involved in May’s death at all. May was beaten with something as hard as a horseshoe, and with great force, and left in the stable for the horse to get the blame.”
Miriam frowned. “That’s horrible, but much quicker and easier. No chance of it going wrong. Not dependent on an animal. But why use the horse and a thorn in the saddle at all?”
“Because that would make it look like an accident, should anyone find the thorn. The last thing whoever did this wants is to have the police called in. It must all look ordinary, but very sad. Elderly woman has thorn in her saddle. Doesn’t see it. Rides the horse and when the animal is hurt enough, it kicks her. No investigation. No delay in putting the will through probate. Nothing to draw the attention, and certainly nothing to connect it in any way with…anyone.”
“Yes, but who?” Miriam asked. “And even more, why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we will take the rest of the afternoon to find out,” she answered. “One of us should search the house. I hate going through the personal belongings of someone who died suddenly, with no time to hide or destroy what was private. It seems such an intrusion. But we must.”
“You should,” he said with a twisted smile that was meant as an apology. “It’s better that a woman does it. You would not just be less intrusive, but you might s
ee things that I wouldn’t understand. And I’ll get the photographs from the postmistress and make inquiries about who visited around that time, and interest in buying the house—who asked, if anybody knew what was offered—and anything else I can find.”
“Be careful!” she said quickly, then blushed. “I mean…if the perpetrators really beat the old lady to death over it, they may feel so safe they are happy to let us poke around as much as we want. But they may not. We are getting a lot closer.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t be alone here.”
“Shall we pack up and leave?”
“What?”
“Shall we—” she began.
“Yes, I heard you.” He searched her face, trying to find out if she meant it, if underneath the bravado, the anger at injustice, the violence, she was actually afraid, and would be grateful for the chance to leave and not look cowardly. There was nothing of that in her face. It was anger in her greenish-blue eyes, not fear. One thing he was certain of: she would not take kindly to being supposed a coward. Should he leave the question to her?
He replied instinctively. “I thought not. Lock the doors when I go. I know! I know! Anyone could break in. But that would make a noise. Don’t fight them. Hide.”
“For heaven’s sake, Daniel! Nobody’s coming. All the people involved in this are in London, waiting to see Philip Sidney convicted of all the crimes he is charged with, and put away before anyone believes anything he says. Go and get the photographs from the postmistress. There’s still time to take more if those aren’t any good. And see what else you can learn. See if anybody saw a man like Sidney. Or Thorwood. Get several descriptions of the man trying to buy the house. That couldn’t have been Sidney.”
He was about to argue, for argument’s sake, but he realized it was emotion speaking, in both of them. They were afraid. May Trelawny’s death had been a violent and terrible one. Whoever had caused it was the dark center of the whole elaborate web of accusations and lies, the unseen shape they had been looking for all the time. They could not run away from it without losing all the things that mattered to them both, but to try to say that would be clumsy, and he was afraid she might think he did not understand.
“I’ll be back before dark,” he said.
* * *
