Read Online When Falcons Fall by C. S. Harris - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: C. S. Harris
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the whirl of a flushed partridge; the man’s companions all laughed.
He said, “What time does the sun set these days?”
“About half past nine.” Rawlins drew a quick breath as he caught the implications of Sebastian’s question, for the old mill lay on the same stream that ran past the priory. “I hadn’t thought about that; five o’clock is a long time before sunset. Surely she couldn’t have been on her way here that early? Unless perhaps she wanted to give herself time to find the best angle—perhaps even sketch out the basics of the scene before the sun started going down? I don’t really know how artists work.”
“I suppose it’s possible.” Sebastian studied the rolling, daisy-strewn green pasture on the opposite bank. The river made a slow, lazy bend here. The view was pleasant and peaceful, but he wouldn’t have thought it in any way remarkable or striking. “Would you say this is a particularly scenic stretch of the river?”
“It’s all right, I suppose. Although I must say there are places I’d think would be more appealing to an artist.”
“Such as?”
“Well, there’s the old brick pack bridge down past Maplethorpe Hall, for one. Folks are always saying how pretty it is.”
“Might not hurt to ask the men to search down there too. Just because she said she was planning to sketch the river doesn’t necessarily mean she was coming to this part of it.”
Rawlins turned to look at him. “You think she could have been killed at the bridge and her body brought up here? But . . . why? Why bring her up the river to the water meadows? Why not simply leave her there?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. But I think it’s worth a look.”
Rawlins nodded, his hands propped on his hips as he chewed his lower lip. “I stopped by Dr. Higginbottom’s. He says you figured out Emma Chance was smothered.” The young justice of the peace squinted up at the hard blue sky, a gleam of amusement lighting his eyes. “Can’t say he’s happy about it—you being the one to figure it out, I mean.”
“Had he finished the autopsy?”
“Not yet, although I warned him I’ve contacted the coroner in Ludlow, and he says he wants to hold the inquest on Friday.” Inquests were supposed to be held within forty-eight hours of an unexpected death, but that was sometimes difficult in the more sparsely inhabited country parishes. Rawlins swiped at another fly. “Higginbottom showed me that paper he found in her hand—
The rest is silence
. Seems odd, doesn’t it? I mean, I assume that whoever put it in her hand wanted us to see it as some sort of suicide note. So why not pick something more to the point?”
“You don’t recognize it?”
“Should I?”
“Only if you’re fond of Shakespeare.”
Rawlins gave a quick, unaffected laugh. “Well, that explains it, then. Never cared much for him myself—although my mother was always reading him when she was alive. It’s from one of his plays, I take it?”
“It’s the last line of
Hamlet
.”
“Ah. Wasn’t he that ‘To be or not to be’ fellow?”
“He was.”
Rawlins watched one of the cottagers wade out into the river, the water rippling and lapping around his thighs. “The thing I don’t get is, if the murderer wanted us to think she’d killed herself, why didn’t he leave whatever book he cut that out of right there beside her?”
“Perhaps the book would have incriminated him in some way.”
“I suppose.”
The cottager who’d waded out into the river shook his head and surged back toward the bank. The men were coming together now in groups of three and four. The search had been futile.
Sebastian said, “As it is, in his attempt to be clever, the killer left us a valuable clue.”
Rawlins swung his head to look at him. “He did? What?”
A breeze kicked up, shifting the feathery branches of the willows and bringing Sebastian the scent of damp earth and fish as they turned away from the river. “We now know
He said, “What time does the sun set these days?”
“About half past nine.” Rawlins drew a quick breath as he caught the implications of Sebastian’s question, for the old mill lay on the same stream that ran past the priory. “I hadn’t thought about that; five o’clock is a long time before sunset. Surely she couldn’t have been on her way here that early? Unless perhaps she wanted to give herself time to find the best angle—perhaps even sketch out the basics of the scene before the sun started going down? I don’t really know how artists work.”
“I suppose it’s possible.” Sebastian studied the rolling, daisy-strewn green pasture on the opposite bank. The river made a slow, lazy bend here. The view was pleasant and peaceful, but he wouldn’t have thought it in any way remarkable or striking. “Would you say this is a particularly scenic stretch of the river?”
“It’s all right, I suppose. Although I must say there are places I’d think would be more appealing to an artist.”
“Such as?”
“Well, there’s the old brick pack bridge down past Maplethorpe Hall, for one. Folks are always saying how pretty it is.”
“Might not hurt to ask the men to search down there too. Just because she said she was planning to sketch the river doesn’t necessarily mean she was coming to this part of it.”
Rawlins turned to look at him. “You think she could have been killed at the bridge and her body brought up here? But . . . why? Why bring her up the river to the water meadows? Why not simply leave her there?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. But I think it’s worth a look.”
Rawlins nodded, his hands propped on his hips as he chewed his lower lip. “I stopped by Dr. Higginbottom’s. He says you figured out Emma Chance was smothered.” The young justice of the peace squinted up at the hard blue sky, a gleam of amusement lighting his eyes. “Can’t say he’s happy about it—you being the one to figure it out, I mean.”
“Had he finished the autopsy?”
“Not yet, although I warned him I’ve contacted the coroner in Ludlow, and he says he wants to hold the inquest on Friday.” Inquests were supposed to be held within forty-eight hours of an unexpected death, but that was sometimes difficult in the more sparsely inhabited country parishes. Rawlins swiped at another fly. “Higginbottom showed me that paper he found in her hand—
The rest is silence
. Seems odd, doesn’t it? I mean, I assume that whoever put it in her hand wanted us to see it as some sort of suicide note. So why not pick something more to the point?”
“You don’t recognize it?”
“Should I?”
“Only if you’re fond of Shakespeare.”
Rawlins gave a quick, unaffected laugh. “Well, that explains it, then. Never cared much for him myself—although my mother was always reading him when she was alive. It’s from one of his plays, I take it?”
“It’s the last line of
Hamlet
.”
“Ah. Wasn’t he that ‘To be or not to be’ fellow?”
“He was.”
Rawlins watched one of the cottagers wade out into the river, the water rippling and lapping around his thighs. “The thing I don’t get is, if the murderer wanted us to think she’d killed herself, why didn’t he leave whatever book he cut that out of right there beside her?”
“Perhaps the book would have incriminated him in some way.”
“I suppose.”
The cottager who’d waded out into the river shook his head and surged back toward the bank. The men were coming together now in groups of three and four. The search had been futile.
Sebastian said, “As it is, in his attempt to be clever, the killer left us a valuable clue.”
Rawlins swung his head to look at him. “He did? What?”
A breeze kicked up, shifting the feathery branches of the willows and bringing Sebastian the scent of damp earth and fish as they turned away from the river. “We now know
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