Yesterday evening, when the house was quiet, I had taken two flashlights and every candle I could lay my hands on into Milly’s room. Wearing gloves, I took the items from the eaves and photographed them, alongside that day’s newspaper. Someone had done this deliberately, as a way of pointing an accusing finger at Stephen Walmsley. If I was right, and the pair of expensive shoes belonged to the unknown man, Milly would also be regarded as an accessory. There were coins and notes, a signet ring and a fob watch. The brown paper bag contained a pair of socks, a tie, and a gun. By doing nothing, I was withholding evidence. To do the “right thing” might damn Stephen for two murders. He could hang only once.

Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

My visit to the prison had not taken long. I was back at Thorpefield Manor by 8 a.m.

Naturally, the ever-watchful Raynor noticed my return, but made no comment. Let him think it was my Monday habit to go out for an early drive, and come back looking as if I’d found a penny but lost a five pound note.

At about ten o’clock, Gertrude and I made our way to the stables. It had been so long since I wore jodhpurs and riding jacket that my outfit felt like a disguise, which in a way it was.

As we entered the stable, I felt warmth from the heat of the horses’ bodies. The familiar scent of hay and horses swept me back to the days when I first learned to ride.

Alec was lifting down a bale of hay. “I’ve saddled Jasper for your guest, Mrs. Brockman. Is that all right?”

She didn’t answer Alec, but said to me. “Jasper’s a good-tempered creature and knows his way about.”

Gertrude’s piebald whinnied at her approach.

We mounted, and moments later were riding along the broad drive into the now bright morning.

Gertrude called to me. “You still have a good seat, Kate. Do you remember our old instructress? She was full of praise for your riding. “Look at Catherine! She has glue on her bum.”

“I’d forgotten that.”

Beyond the drive, we crossed the road and took the bridle path that led to the hamlet of Thorpefield. Our way took us through a small wood and over furrowed fields.

At the edge of the hamlet were the long rows of miners’ cottages, small two-storey dwellings built of local stone and with stone roofs. Philip and I had passed them during our drive in the grocer’s van on Friday. A woman in a colourful pinafore knelt on the pavement, scouring her doorstep. Gertrude slowed her horse. “Do you want to take a photograph?”

I had a small knapsack with me, containing camera, notebook and pencil. “She wouldn’t appreciate being pictured on her knees.”