She turned on her brother savagely. “I cannot wait. He may already be dead.”

Oscar held up his hands as if surrendering. “I know, I know, Georgie. I meant I’ll go with you. See what I can do.” He turned to Cecil. “Can you ride and tell Tony what’s happened?”

Cecil nodded.

“Here.” Oscar pried the letter from George’s hand. “Give him this. He’ll need to come when he can.”

“Of course, old chap.” Cecil looked curious but took the letter.

“Thank you.” Tears began to run down George’s face.

“It’s all right.” Cecil started to say more, then shook his head and left.

“Well, I can’t say that I approve of all this, whatever it is.” Lady Beatrice had been quiet through the scene, but she rose now. “I do not like being kept in the dark. Not at all. But I will wait just this once to find out what you are all rushing about for.”

“Of course, Aunt.” George was already half out the door, not really listening.

“Georgina.” Lady Beatrice laid a palm on her niece’s tear-stained face, halting her. “Remember, dear, we cannot stay the hand of God, but we can be strong.” She looked suddenly old. “Sometimes it is the only thing we can do.”

“OLD MISTRESS POLLARD WAS MURDERED, plain and simple.” Silas sat back in his leather armchair and looked at his younger son with satisfaction.

Bennet paced the library like a young lion. In contrast, his brother cowered in a too-small corner chair, his knees drawn nearly to his chin. Why Thomas was in the library at all, Silas couldn’t fathom, but he didn’t really care either way. All his attention was on his younger son.

In the week since his men had brought in Harry Pye, Bennet had railed and raged against his father. But however much he tried, he couldn’t get away from that one fact: A woman had been murdered. An old woman, true, and a poor one at that. One that nobody had much cared about when alive. Nevertheless, she was human and so, no matter how decrepit, several steps up from a dead sheep.

At least in the popular estimation.

In fact, Silas had begun to wonder if he’d made a mistake in his haste to catch Pye. Local sentiment was running very high. No one liked a murderer on the loose. Had he simply left Pye to his own devices, someone might have taken matters into their own hands and lynched the bastard. He might already be dead by now. But in the long run it made very little difference. Dead now or dead in a week, either way, Pye would soon be very, very dead. And then his son would no longer be arguing with him.