Crawford grunted, but acknowledged the point with a nod. “We’re going to be busy all day here, interviewing everyone again—all of the guests and then all of the staff, one by one. If luck comes our way, we might find one of the staff—either those of the household or those visiting—who glimpsed one of the male guests slipping through the corridors. That said, the way these cases tend to go, I won’t be holding my breath. No one ever seems to witness the murderers moving back and forth.”
Sir Humphrey looked questioningly at Sebastian. “Any luck with your search for this gunpowder?”
“No.” He glanced at the magistrate. “But we did find four very old casks, most likely of brandy, hidden in the crypt of the old ruined chapel.”
“Did you, by Jove!” Sir Humphrey looked enthused. “Any good?”
Sebastian suppressed a wry grin. “I’ve yet to tell Blanchard. No doubt he’ll send a couple of footmen to retrieve the casks. However, the find made me wonder if there might be other hidden places—or perhaps a secret tunnel connecting the house to caves or even to the shore. Pressingstoke Hall isn’t that far from the sea, and this has been a smuggler’s coast for centuries.” He fixed Sir Humphrey with an inquiring look. “I’ve heard that was often the way with old houses in this area in times past, but I checked this morning, and there was no hidden place or tunnel marked on the house plans, even on the older iterations.”
“Ah.” Sir Humphrey tapped the side of his nose. “But there wouldn’t be anything marked on the plans—wouldn’t be a secret then, what? But indeed, you’re right. While what’s around us”—with one hand, he waved at the walls surrounding them—“is relatively new, it’s built on a much older base, one dating from an age when having a secret tunnel into a cave system at least, if not directly to the shore, was the norm.”
The inspector looked intrigued. “Wouldn’t the finding of casks in this crypt suggest there wasn’t such a tunnel?”
“Not necessarily,” Sir Humphrey said. “Two different routes for two different levels of involvement. If the master of the house was dealing directly with the smugglers, the secret tunnel and the caves it accessed would be used. But if the master wasn’t involved, then the casks left in the crypt are the smugglers’ payment for him looking the other way. That’s how the system worked in these parts.”
Sebastian pulled a face and uncrossed his legs. “Regardless, we’ve found no hint or trace of anything resembling barrels of gunpowder inside the house or in the grounds. We’ll need to expand our search to the rest of the estate.”
He rose, and Antonia smoothly came to her feet.
Crawford and Sir Humphrey rose as well.
Sebastian nodded to them both. “If you need us, we’ll be riding over the fields, quartering the estate from the western edge to the coast.”
Crawford glanced at Sir Humphrey. “We’d better get on interviewing the rest. One of the men has to be our murderer—we just have to find clues enough to point to him.”
“We’ll leave you to it.” Sebastian took Antonia’s elbow.
“Gentlemen.” With a nod to Sir Humphrey and the inspector, she let him escort her to the door.
* * *
Antonia changed into her riding habit, then joined Sebastian at the side door; he’d already been wearing buckskin breeches and riding boots, topped with a soft linen shirt and a hacking jacket. A plain cravat completed the outfit; he might have been the model for what the fashionable marquess was wearing this year for riding about the countryside.
“So where are we heading first?” She stepped through the door he held for her, then, tugging on her gloves, walked briskly down the path toward the stable.
He fell in at her side, striding with long-legged ease; it occurred to her that the shock of Cecilia’s murder had leapfrogged them—her and Sebastian—over the awkwardness she’d assumed would attend their first meeting after being intimate.
They’d been plunged into dealing with the ramifications of the murder and, of course, instantly—without the slightest hesitation on either of their parts—had banded together to face the situation.
“Before we get to that”—his voice was a deep murmur, but his tone was definite enough to be one step away from invincible—“I should make clear that, as far as I’m concerned, all that I told Sir Humphrey and Crawford about us—you and me—is the simple, unvarnished, and inviolable truth.”
She considered that—considered how she wished to respond—then briskly nodded. “Duly noted.”