was on the tip of Gwen’s tongue to tell him to mind his own business, that she was more than capable of organising her own life, but checked at the last moment.
If the truth were known, it had indeed been her intention to go into half-mourning. Learning of Jane’s tragic demise had persuaded her to remain in her blacks. Yet now, quite suddenly, she began to experience a change of heart once again. After all, what benefit would come of just mourning Jane? Her time and energy would be put to better use in attempting to discover who was responsible for the loss of her dearest friend, because it seemed that no one else had troubled unduly to do so.
The smile she bestowed upon her visitor induced him to blink several times before finishing off his wine in one fortifying swallow. ‘I should consider it a very great favour, sir, if you would assist me in finding a suitable equipage. It is indeed my intention to go out and about a good deal more from now on.’
Evidently having decided to bring his visit to an end now, he rose to his feet. Gwen did likewise, forestalling him as he made to cross to the door by asking the identity of the local Justice of the Peace.
‘Lord Cranborne,’ he enlightened, before favouring her with a decidedly suspicious look. ‘What makes you ask?’
Seeing no earthly reason why she should keep her intentions secret, she said, ‘Because I assume he is the very person to consult if one wishes to discover precisely what is the current situation with regard to uncovering the identity of the Marsden Wood Murderer!’
Chapter Three
Jocelyn Northbridge numbered among the select few who were never denied admittance to Cranborne Hall, the principal seat of the Earls of Cranborne for centuries past. Nevertheless, the butler, highly trained and a stickler for adhering to accepted codes of conduct, requested the visitor wait in a small room off the main hall as a matter of course, before showing him into his master’s favourite retreat on the floor above a few minutes later.
The Earl, not attempting to hide his delight at this unexpected visit by one of his most well-respected and, in his considered opinion, sagacious of neighbours, rose immediately from behind his desk. More than happy to set aside estate matters for the time being, he drew the gentleman, whose reputation for selecting fine wines was second to none, across to the hearth and awaited judgement on what he himself considered a superior claret.
‘Well?’ he prompted when his welcome visitor, after sampling the liquid, merely held up his glass to the light, the better to study its contents’ deep rich colour. ‘Come, a little honesty, my friend. Isn’t it one of the finest you’ve ever tasted?’
Joss, never one to be pressed on matters of real importance, considered for a moment longer before nodding approval, and then immediately afterwards destroying his host’s understandable satisfaction by adding, ‘But certainly not the best tipple I’ve sampled this day.’
‘What?’ His lordship regarded the younger man as though his neighbour had taken leave of his senses. ‘You’re bamming me!’
‘Not at all, sir,’ Joss assured him, setting the glass to one side. ‘And that, in part, is why I’m here.’
‘Aha!’ His lordship was all avid attention. ‘Got yourself a new vintner, have you, and are willing to share the rogue’s fine stocks with an old friend?’
Joss wasn’t slow to set his lordship straight on the matter. ‘Not quite, no. What I have acquired is a new neighbour. And one who’s shown remarkable judgement in selecting wine. A very fine palate, I should say…for a woman, that is.’ He paused for a moment to stare blindly up at the portrait of the decidedly ill-favoured, though much missed, late Countess taking pride of place above the hearth. ‘Possibly the result of that time spent in Italy, I should imagine.’
‘And the name of the rare specimen?’ his lordship prompted, amused by the dry tone, and not just a little intrigued as well.
‘Old Warrender’s widow.’
In all probability it would have been at this juncture that his lordship’s interest in the unknown female would have swiftly begun to wane, had it not been for the odd flicker he detected, just for an instant, in his visitor’s eyes. He didn’t waste time in attempting to speculate on what the look might have denoted. If, however, it was a silent admission to a definite interest in the woman, then it would have been the first Northbridge had ever betrayed, at least in his lordship’s presence, for it was a well-known fact that his highly respected neighbour held all too few of the fair sex in high esteem.
One of the rare exceptions was, in fact, none other than his lordship’s favourite niece. A handsome young woman, with a fine figure and a quick mind, Anthea Kershaw appeared to be, on the surface at least, the ideal partner for a gentleman of Jocelyn Northbridge’s stamp. His lordship was very well aware that his youngest sister, Lady Florence Kershaw, had, for several years, nurtured the fondest hope of just such an alliance. Indeed, he himself wouldn’t have been averse to such a match, for he was as fond of this particular niece as he was his own sons, if not a deal fonder in many respects. Notwithstanding, he was not altogether sure that Anthea would make the ideal wife for his estimable neighbour. If the girl had one failing, it was a tendency to be a trifle too refined, a little too conciliating, and therefore would do almost anything to avoid confrontation. She would undoubtedly allow Northbridge his way in more things than would be good for him, with possible disastrous consequences.
His lordship regarded his companion steadily, as Joss, clearly in a world of his own that day, continued absently to contemplate the portrait of the late Countess.
‘Well, come on, Northbridge,’ he urged, after a further moment’s silence. ‘What’s the widow like? I seem to remember hearing someone mentioning once that she was young enough to be Warrender’s daughter.’
‘Ha! Granddaughter, more like!’ Joss returned with brutal frankness.
‘Good gad, the old dog! And is she pleasing on the eye?’
Surprising his lordship somewhat, Joss took a long moment to consider. ‘Not a beauty, no, at least not in my humble opinion,’ he revealed at last. ‘But well enough. Got what I’d call a sweet face. Damned disarming little thing, though,’ he went on, his heavy frown descending. ‘Turns out she was well acquainted with that governess I employed. She’s not at all happy nothing’s being done to track down the killer.’
‘You know we did all we could,’ his lordship returned, far from annoyed, though slightly nettled by the accusation. ‘Spoke again to all the usual suspects, but no fresh evidence came to light. No one heard anything; no one saw anything. Even had an extra word with my gamekeeper. I know Furslow’s not liked by most hereabouts. He’s been a prime suspect in many people’s minds from the start, especially as the first girl was discovered only a matter of weeks after he came to work for me. What is more, there’s no denying he has something of a reputation where women are concerned. But there’s absolutely nothing to link him with these murders. In fact, the opposite’s true. Several people have come forward to swear he was elsewhere, attending a prize fight or cockfight, when at least two of the women were first reported missing.’
‘True enough,’ Joss was forced to agree, his heavy frown still very much in evidence. ‘But that doesn’t alter the fact that more could have been done…should have been done to find the person responsible.’
His lordship watched, appalled, as his guest, quite without warning, tossed the remainder of his wine down his throat and rose abruptly to his feet. ‘Good gad, Northbridge! That’s no way to treat a wine of that quality!’
Ignoring the stricture, Joss began to pace up and down, resorting for the second time that morning to running impatient fingers through his hair as he did so. ‘That damnable female’s got under my skin, so she has!’ he at last admitted, coming to a halt in the middle of the room. ‘Just as I was on the point of departure, she came straight out and said that had any one of the victims been some highborn lady, no effort would have been spared. And damn it, Cranborne, you can’t deny the chit’s right! Then, when I