Page 53 of Corpse in the Canal

“And not by Penelope herself, for he’d have paid no attention to that. Either by his own father or by Dr. Owens. Which, it struck me suddenly, might well be motive. If Owens had to warn Percy off, what damage was already done to Penelope?”

“That’s pure speculation,” Solomon said, frowning, “based on no evidence or even hearsay.”

“I know,” she admitted. “Actually, I was seeing if Sir Felix would react.”

“He didn’t, beyond a slightly baffled no.”

“Exactly. But he did react to our first mention of Adelaide Jenkins.”

Solomon, who had noticed the same thing, nodded. “He seems to be a chivalrous man. Adelaide has no protector. Penelope has her father, and no one in their right mind alienates the only physician for miles around.”

“There is that,” Constance allowed. “But don’t you think it goes a little deeper? He wasn’t just protecting Adelaide’s reputation. He was aware of her isolation, her loneliness, and, beyond that, would have us believe she has no motive for killing Percy.”

Uneasily, Solomon had to acknowledge she was right. “He was quite put out that we knew of Percy’s harassment.”

“He doesn’t know you and she are old friends,” Constance said with apparent carelessness. “And I think he’s in love with her. Which gives him a motive against Percy.”

Solomon nodded. “And he was out for all of the afternoon in question. He could easily have come across Percy, either at Larchford or around Dare Hall, if he went that far.”

“He wouldn’t shoot Percy in a duel, or over any kind of drunken insult to him,” Constance went on. “But he might well to protect the woman he loves.”

Solomon thought about that. “He might,” he said reluctantly, his stomach twisting. “Do you suppose she returns his affection?”

Constance met his gaze directly. “Would that be a problem for you?”

He hated that it took courage for her to ask that. He hated that she was hurt. But at least he could be honest. “Not for me. It might be a problem for David.”

*

David’s problem was his current lack of paints. Sitting cross-legged on the bank of the canal, his back to the town of Channing, his sketchpad on his knee, he was sketching the course of the canal into the distance. He had caught the shape of the gentle rise on the right bank, and the big houses spaced out, surrounded by their own fields and woods. Here and there, a few cottages dotted the countryside. The distant bridge at Larchford drew the eye to the left bank, where thicker woods and seemed to hold more mystery.

Up to a point, he liked what he had drawn. But it needed life. A few cows and sheep in the fields, a few soaring birds, were not enough. The picture needed the vibrance of color, the shades of green and the reds and golds of falling leaves, the changing reflections in the canal.

And it needed people. A passing boat, perhaps.

And yet it wasn’t a boat or even a boatman that he truly wanted in his picture. It was a woman with raven-black hair and skin of the same shade as his own, part of this quintessentially English scene, and yet carrying with her the hot sunshine of Jamaica. A foolish desire. A foolish obsession.

And yet he wasn’t even surprised when she emerged from the wood in front of him. He had heard the high, childish laughter and the woman’s voice. Perhaps that was where his inspiration came from, to establish her in his picture, just there.

She caught sight of him and paused, the teasing smile fading from her shapely mouth. She caught the child’s hand, and David’s hand began to move without permission, without his taking his eyes off the pair before him. Clarence tugged his mother’s fingers—he carried a small basket in his other hand—and she began to walk onto the path.

Some thorns caught in her skirts, trying to hold her back, but she merely pulled the fabric free, leaving a small piece of bright-blue patterned wool behind. If she noticed, she obviously didn’t care, merely kept walking with careless, mesmerizing grace.

Hastily, David remembered his manners and rose to his feet, sketchbook in one hand, pencil in the other. “Mrs. Jenkins. Clarence.”

“Mr. Grey.”

Her voice, smooth and rich, seemed to flow through him, like sweet wine in his veins.

He smiled. “But which one?”

“Mr. David,” she said immediately. “The difference, once noticed, is clear.”

“We’ve been picking blackberries,” Clarence said happily. “Shall we eat them?”

“We mustn’t disturb Mr. Grey when he’s busy,” Adelaide said. “But you could offer him the basket.”

David took off his coat and spread it on the ground. “I am happy to be disturbed, and to taste your blackberries.”