“Very true.”
Walter opened the double-paned doors and they stepped outside. The balcony was built on the roof of the terrace. Slightly more narrow than the terrace below, it made a perfect spot to drop something onto anyone standing at the balustrade beneath it. There were four square stone posts, and all but one held round stone urns filled with red geraniums.
Walter pushed tentatively at one, but it didn’t even budge until he put his shoulder into it. “You’d have to push it hard. Bound to be intentional.”
They left the balcony, deep in thought. Finally Laura said, “But how did they manage to wreck the carriage? It was done on the spur of the moment. No one knew I was going for a ride, including me, until that morning.”
“They had two or three hours. Plenty of time to sabotage the brake slipper. It wouldn’t take much—just damage the chain so it comes off under stress.”
“Wouldn’t someone notice a member of the household sneaking about in the carriage house?”
Walter shrugged. “No one would think anything about it if he was dressed for riding. Just nip into the carriage house when no one is looking.”
Laura’s mind went back to that afternoon. She’d seen Claude outside the stables. Were she and Walter merely fooling themselves about Claude?
“Tougher to make the horses bolt at just the right moment,” Walter mused. “But he knew you would take the road past the castle. He could hide in the shrubbery beside the road beforehand. No, in the garden somewhere. Parts of it aren’t far from the lane, and he’d be concealed by the trees and bushes. When he saw the coachman set the brake and start down the hill, he just had to startle the horses.”
“How? There weren’t any loud noises. The driver thought one of the animals was stung by a bee. That’s a bit difficult to arrange.”
“Let’s look around the gardens.”
Taking the back stairs, they went out to the gardens, going in the opposite direction from the waterfall steps. More shrouded in trees, it did not offer the splendid view of the other path, but at last Laura caught a glimpse of the road.
Walter gestured in front of them, saying, “There’s a clearer spot ahead.” He stopped before a tree trailing vines and lifted the strands to let Laura pass under them. “It wasn’t this overgrown when I was young.”
“Oh!” Laura stepped into a small shaded glade, bordered on three sides by shrubs and a large flat rock. On the fourth side lay the road and castle. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the trees, casting dappled shadows on the mossy ground. “How charming.”
It offered a narrow view between the tree and a large rhododendron bush, but she could see the road quite clearly. It was astonishingly close.
“Yes, it’s lovely. I used to like to sit here and daydream.” Walter sat down on the flat rock, and Laura joined him. “I haven’t been here in years.”
“Someone has.” Laura pointed to something on the ground beneath one of the bushes. “A cork from a bottle of wine.”
“The moss looks trampled, too.” Walter wandered around the perimeter. “Look!” He squatted down and came up holding a folded square of wool. “A blanket. Someone’s made themselves comfortable here.”
“So the murderer sat here waiting for the victoria,” Laura mused. “If only we could figure out how he got the horses to bolt.” She glanced up at Walter. “How would you do it?”
“What? Me?”
“Yes. If you were writing this in a book, how would you have your character engineer it?”
“Oh. Well . . .” Looking pleased, he sat down again. “Something simple, but effective. Not a gun because there was no noise. A peashooter wouldn’t carry far enough.” After a long moment, his face brightened. “Young Robbie’s slingshot!”
“You’re right!” Laura straightened. “If you were a good enough shot, it would be perfect. No noise. It stings the horse as if he’s bitten, and he bolts. But wouldn’t you be easily seen?”
“Not if you’re wearing dark clothing and standing a bit back from the edge. It’s well shaded, dark to anyone out in the sunlight. And who would be looking up here when they have that view spread out in front of them?”
“It’s uncertain. Several things could make it fail—as it did.”
“But nothing lost if it didn’t succeed,” Walter pointed out. “Small chance of being caught.”
Laura sighed. “The problem is . . . the slingshot belongs to Claude’s son. This doesn’t clear Claude at all.”