Hugh, seeing the answer in the man’s eyes, took Muldrow by the neck and shook him. Muldrow’s head rattled, and he spat in Hugh’s face. “Oh, so clever. But it’s too late, now. She is dead and buried.” He laughed, cackling like a fool, his grip on reality slipping away. He was fast descending into real madness.

Philomena moved closer to Hugh, and he slid his arm around her waist, searching for the right questions to ask. He needed to know the full story of the man’s deceptions, and his hold over Philomena.

“Why do you say this lady is your wife?” Hugh said, his voice quiet.

The constable, brow creased, shook his head in disbelief.

“So you know?” Philomena blurted.

Hugh’s heart lurched. So, it was true. He had feared the worst, and he was right. Philomena was indeed married to Muldrow, Hugh’s enemy. Hugh’s arm slid away from Philomena and fell back by his side. His eyes closed. He could not bear to look at her beloved face. This pain was worse than the cut of any knife. Philomena could never be his wife, then. Every dream of love and married happiness was in vain.

Muldrow giggled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “What a day it was when I caught sight of my dear wife in the village. Such good fortune! As soon as I heard the gossip, how the great Lord Thatcham had fallen in love with some waif from London, and I saw the wench, I knew who she was.

“What a gift. All my dreams came true. I would keep the Manor and stand by, year after year, watching you, Thatcham, yearn for my wife.” Muldrow’s words tumbled over themselves. “That I should take another woman from you—what a triumph, my dear Lord High and Mighty Thatcham.”

Muldrow rounded on Philomena. “But you had to spoil it.” Without warning, the man began to cry, snivelling into a sleeve. Hugh was transfixed. Muldrow had finally slipped into madness. “You little harlot, no better than your mother, spoiling all my plans.”

Hugh turned to the constable. “I think we’ve heard enough. Take him away and lock him up. Make sure you keep someone on guard.”

The constable led the weeping, shivering Muldrow away. The housekeeper decided discretion was the better part of valour and scurried away to the kitchens. Joseph had long ago made himself scarce. The constable could find him later. Hugh hardly cared, now.

At last Hugh was alone with Philomena. Her face paper white, she hung her head, eyes fixed on the floor.

“So you are indeed married,” Hugh said.

She nodded. “I am sorry.” Her voice was heavy with tears.

Hugh touched her arm and then dropped his hand. She was a married woman, no matter how disgusting her husband.

“I will tell you everything I know,” she said, “although I hardly understand it all myself.”