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They remained at their post for another couple of hours, but other than the two carts reappearing, both clearly empty, all was quiet.
Henry watched the carts as they trundled through the gate, finally disappearing from view, then turned back to the rest of the party. ‘It’s getting late. I think we’ve learned all we’re going to from this vantage point,’ he pronounced. ‘To linger for much longer risks us being noticed and possibly a second conversation with someone distinctly less accommodating than Bella’s shepherd. I suggest we get back to the inn. We certainly have more to discuss over dinner than we did this morning.’
Henry requested a private parlour for their dinner at the Crown and Thistle, offering additional compensation that Charlotte privately thought exorbitant. Outwardly, however, she declared herself perfectly satisfied, hinting to the Innkeeper’s wife that they wished to discuss their young cousin’s marriage prospects. Their hostess agreed wholeheartedly that such a thing was not a topic to be discussed in public.
However, they’d scarcely finished the soup when a knock on the door heralded the arrival of a telegram. The innkeeper’s son, who proudly told them his name was Kevin after his granda in Ireland, held it out with a flourish that provided a good indication that the lad had the wherewithal to go far.
‘For a Mr Shackleford,’ he declared solemnly, knowing full well that the man in question stood not three feet away. Nodding gravely, Henry exchanged the missive for a tip that would secure the lad’s undying devotion for the foreseeable future.
Waiting until Rob had confirmed the closed door didn’t conceal an eavesdropper on the other side, Henry looked down at the paper in his hand and read out loud.
LAST INCUMBENT DIED 11 YEARS PAST NO LEGITIMATE ISSUE STOP TITLE SHOULD HAVE PASSED TO CROWN YET RECORDS SHOW IT CONFIRMED TO PRESENT HOLDER SAME YEAR STOP NOT YET DISCOVERED BY WHAT AUTHORITY STOP SOMERSET BEQUEATHMENT SEPARATE FROM INHERITANCE STOP WILL KEEP LOOKING STOP RHYS
‘So, no legitimate issue,’ Rob commented, ‘which leads us to the likelihood that there was an illegitimate one. That said, a lapsed title wouldn’t be simply handed over to a claimant turning up out of the blue unless he could prove firstly that he was in fact related to the deceased and secondly that he was legitimate. Neither is an easy thing to do.’
‘Would it be possible for someone with influence to override the law of inheritance and see to it that Giacomo Bianchi became Baron Cadmore in the very year the title should have died with the last holder?’
‘The only way would be to provide forged documents,’ Rob returned. ‘Each claimant is investigated thoroughly, and most are ultimately proven false, but as Rhys said, there are hundreds of baronies in England, and one would assume that those lower down the pecking order don’t receive quite the same exhaustive enquiries.’
‘And I dare say greasing the right palms might well have helped tip the scales,’ Ben added, just as a knock on the door heralded the arrival of their main course – a steaming hot pheasant pie served with gravy and boiled potatoes.
Once they were alone again, Charlotte gave a frustrated sigh as she picked up her knife and fork. ‘I believe the question of how our nemesis acquired his title is a problem for another day,’ she declared, her tone suggesting she found the postponement infuriating. However, no one could argue as she added, ‘For now we need to focus all our attention on the upcoming auction.’
By general consensus, the talk turned to idle chatter until they’d finished their main course, which was swiftly followed by an equally delightful jam roly-poly.
Naturally, Billy consumed all the leftovers - enviously watched by Beatrix since ladies did not ask for seconds - and once the empty plates had been replaced with a bottle of port for the table, they were left to their own devices.
Asking Beatrix to lay her earlier sketch out on the table, Benedict climbed to his feet and turned it so it was visible to the rest of the party. As expected, it was rather more than an artistic interpretation of a fallen tree.
‘The gate you’ve drawn here, he said, tapping the page, is the only approach by carriage, and it’s watched, as we saw by at least one man who’s no more a game keeper than I am a bishop. It will be difficult to get into the property that way, even after dark. But that’s not the only way to get onto the land surrounding the folly.’
He paused, moving his finger to the rough line Bea had sketched along the drawing’s edge, indicating the old dear park wall. ‘When Arthur and I were boys and my father was still alive, my uncle had his gamekeeper make a breach in the wall near the north corner. If I remember rightly, it was done so the deer could get through without damaging themselves or the gate. It came out in scrubland behind the old kitchen garden, no more than two hundred yards from the back of the folly itself.’
‘You’re certain it’s still there?’ Henry quizzed him.
‘No,’ Ben admitted. ‘I know it was there ten years ago. I’ll need to confirm it before I stake anyone’s safety on the memory of a boy who was more interested in catching rabbits than mapping walls.’
‘And once inside the grounds?’ Rob asked. ‘What then?’
‘Then we’re relying a lot more on what we saw today, rather than my childhood recollections,’ Ben responded. ‘We observed two carts come through the front gate – both at the same time. If that happens again tomorrow, it suggests deliveries on a schedule, which hopefully means that the man minding the gate is potentially left with little to do between times.’ He shrugged, adding, ‘Obviously we can’t make any assumptions, and I’d like to put a watch on the place for two more days before I’d be confident enough to plan our entry around it.’
‘The dogs the shepherd mentioned concern me rather more than the men,’ Charlotte interjected. ‘Especially if they roam free during the hours of darkness, as he suggested.’
Ben nodded. ‘We dare not go in blind. We need another day of watching from a position near the breach in the wall. We’ll then have a far better notion of where the dogs are kept, how many there are and whether they’re actually loosed at night or kept close to the folly.’ He looked over at Billy. ‘How do you fancy coming along on a reconnaissance mission first thing tomorrow, lad?’
Billy nodded enthusiastically before frowning and asking, ‘Wot’s a recon…reconiss… one o’ them?’
‘We need to check out these dogs and find out whether a ten-year-old’s memory of a hole in a wall was worth the telling.’
‘I’m yer man.’ Billy grinned, helping himself to a stray bit of bread in case he got peckish in the night. ‘Mind you, I wish Aggie wos ‘ere. I reckon she’d give the buggers a run fer their money.’
Charlotte narrowed her eyes at the boy’s language but said nothing. Retribution, Billy knew, would come later, when he least expected it. He shoved the heel of bread in his pocket with a philosophical sigh. A hero’s path was never meant to be smooth…
‘And once we’re done with the watching, what then?’ Arabella demanded. ‘Do we return home?’
Henry sighed heavily. ‘That’s what I’d planned for, but having looked at the setup, I don’t think we dare. We can’t simply leave and hope that nothing changes in our absence. We are here now, and we have to see it through.’
Unsurprisingly, nobody argued – they were all feeling the same sense of urgency. A moment later Arabella repeated her question with a slight adjustment. ‘So, how many of us, and doing what exactly?’
