That stung. Of course, as advertised as the auction had been, it would be easily discoverable knowledge for anyone who wanted to know—but still. The thought of my snug home, nestled so close to the sea cliffs, now lived in by strangers…
“Yes,” I finally answered. “Yes, it was sold.”
She gave the others a satisfied look, as if pleased to prove that this piece of information was, in fact, correct. “You poor thing, you must be so grieved. If you ever need someone to talk to, I am here. It is my job, you know, to help tend my husband’s flock.”
“Thank you for your offer,” I said. “It is so very kind.”
“Miss Leavold!”
Gareth. At last.
He hurried over, a sunny smile on his face, and the other women pretended not to notice him, stealing brief glances out from under their eyelashes. He was below them, a servant, and so to be ignored, but his good looks made it all but impossible not to notice him.
“Mrs. Harold,” he greeted. “Having a nice day?”
“Nice enough,” she said, her tone dismissive. But I saw that she noticed him too, although her look was wary rather than flirtatious.
“It was very pleasant to meet you all.” I said turned away before more invitations could be offered. Gareth touched his hat to the ladies, and then followed me up the street.
His smile faded the further we got from Stokeleigh. “I would avoid that Mrs. Harold,” he said. “Her husband, the new rector, is quite nice. Very young, very cheerful. But she grew up here, and she’s known to be a gossip. I wouldn’t trust a word she says, no matter how earnest it sounds coming out of her mouth.”
“I gathered that.”
“She’s worse than Wispel even. Her father has made a small fortune in negotiating land rights for the train companies. She seems to think all that money has made her better than everybody else.”
I detected a trace of bitterness. “Have you known her long?” I asked.
“Yes.” He turned his face away. “And we know each other still. A bit.”
We walked in silence the remainder of the way, and I contemplated Mrs. Harold. As the town busybody, she would know all about Violet’s death and investigation, and she wouldn’t hesitate to talk about it. Part of me felt certain that it was foolish to keep asking about it—if the law had been satisfied, surely I must be. And Violet and I had hardly been the best of friends. And Mr. Markham couldn’t be a murderer. The thought of someone so cultured and moneyed resorting to something so barbaric was unthinkable. And yet, there was a darkness in him. Hadn’t I seen it—thrilled at it even—when he had told me all of those things on his library floor?
Perhaps I would be paying Mrs. Harold a visit soon.
The next evening, there was a rap at my door, followed immediately by an attempt to turn the knob, which was stymied by the lock. The door rattled in its jamb for a moment before I heard Mr. Markham’s voice. “Miss Leavold. Let me in, please.”
I went to the door but did not open it. “Is it wise for me to open it to you?”
A short laugh. “I assure you, I am quite tame at the moment.”
I unlocked the door then stepped back. He opened it and strode in, looking around the room. “It is very gloomy in here,” he remarked.
“I think you would struggle to find a room in this house that is not.”
“And does that bother you?” he asked. “Coming from the sunny seaside as you did?”
“It does not,” I answered truthfully. “In fact, I very much like it here.”
He sat in an armchair by the window. “That is unexpected. Violet hated it here. I think she hated this house more than she hated anything in her life.”
“I am not Violet,” I said.
He looked at me. “No. No you are not.”
As he looked at me his fingers flexed and curled over and over again on the arm of the chair, and I wondered if they were remembering being inside me and remembering the soft sensation of quivering flesh, how they had brought me to such intense ecstasy.
“Pleasant memories?” he asked, and I realized he had caught me staring at his hand.
“I thought you were going to stay away from me,” I said instead of answering, hoping the warmth on my face wasn’t too obvious.
