Daniel Anderson, Lord Glanville, stepped forward and grabbed the wrist of the woman before she could escape. The scene in front of him needed no explanation. The man at her feet was dead, and the crimson splashes on the woman’s clothing suggested that she’d had a hand in the man’s unnatural death. At least Glanville had managed to catch the murderess before she washed off the blood staining her gloves and the front of her blue dress. She could not claim innocence now. Even the deepening shadows couldn’t hide the damning evidence.

“Unhand me, sir!” the woman—the very young woman—exclaimed. She twisted her arm and pried at his tight fingers with her free hand, her face pallid in the slanting rays of the evening sun. “Please—what are you doing? Let me go!” Her voice broke like a wave hitting a rock.

He frowned and tightened his grip. If she thought tears would make him let her go, she was much mistaken. If anything, her reaction convinced him of the necessity to restrain her until a constable could be fetched.

Glancing around, the furrow between his brows deepened. Yes, well… Restraining her presented another issue. If he went to find a constable, Miss Whoever-she-was would disappear.

“Please! We must find the constable! Mr. Blyth—” She broke off and ceased to struggle long enough to peer down at the crumpled form at her feet. A sob caught in her throat.

Her skin, already pale, emptied of whatever blood remained, leaving her the same color as the marble headstone next to her.

She was certainly a most accomplished actress, he thought.

“We can at least agree on that.” He yanked her toward the side door of St. Mary’s church.

“What are you doing?” she asked again, her voice rising. “Unhand me immediately!”

“Just a moment, and you shall have your wish.”

She tried to resist, but her efforts and helpless cries only made him walk faster. The thought of simply picking her up and carrying her crossed his mind, but he resisted the urge. His character was already black enough without having a woman slung over one shoulder if he chanced to meet the vicar when he entered the church.

To his relief, the church door was unlocked. He dragged her into the dim interior and glanced around the short hallway. Several open doors beckoned, one leading to what looked like the vicar’s office and another revealing a longer corridor that veered toward the back of the church. In that hallway was another door that was modestly shut. Opening it, he found a closet nearly filled with useful objects, including two brooms—one with no bristles—and a shelf supporting several aged, dusty-looking books.

Without ceremony, he pushed the woman into the narrow room and shut the door. Once again, the faint edge of annoyance arose as he looked around. There was no handy key in the lock. In fact, there was no lock at all, just a simple latch. He ran an impatient hand through his hair. He grinned, pulled out his pocket knife, and wedged it into the crack between the door and the jamb.

Just in time, too. The door rattled but held. A sharp cry of anger presaged another loud bang. The lady was obviously unhappy about her quarters and showing her displeasure by kicking the door.

“I am going to fetch the constable, as you requested,” he announced cheerfully. “I won’t be more than five minutes.”

“Let me out!” she shrieked. “Please—let me out! I have done nothing wrong! You cannot leave me locked in here! Please!”

“No need to beg. I assure you I am perfectly capable of locking you in this cabinet and leaving you there. So, if you cherish any doubts about my abilities to do so, I suggest you dismiss them immediately.”

Before she could protest further, he exited the church through the side door. In the churchyard he paused. He hadn’t been in Kendle more than a month, and in that time, he could not recall ever meeting, or even hearing the name of, the local constable. The magistrate and local squire, now, that was another matter. He had met Sir Horace Branscombe, and that gentleman would undoubtedly be able to notify the proper authorities.

Thankfully, Glanville had left his horse at the gate when he’d arrived, so it took only a moment to mount. Turning the horse’s head toward the lane, he paused. Sir Horace was sure to ask Glanville what he’d been doing at the church this evening.

Well, that was another awkward thing, now wasn’t it? He’d come to the church to speak to Blyth and insist he leave Glanville’s sister, Lady Lenora, alone. While he hadn’t harbored the intention to do any bodily harm to the curate, he had to admit that he wasn’t as saddened by Blyth’s fate as he should have been.

One might even argue that the woman locked in the broom closet had done him a great kindness in taking care of the situation for him. Or that he had done the deed, himself, and was using the lady as a scapegoat.

Of course, that was nonsense. He glanced over his shoulder at the church and frowned. He was almost inclined to release the woman. If he hadn’t stumbled upon her and her victim so soon after the tragedy, he might not even have felt it necessary to bestir himself enough to apprehend the person responsible. But he had, and now he had a duty to see that justice was done. He sighed as he prodded his horse into a rhythmic canter in the direction of Sir Horace’s fine home.

Really, it was too bad that the woman’s timing had been so poor. It was a great pity to see such an attractive lady hang for what was essentially a good deed to Lady Lenora. Or, in fact, any heiresses living in and around Kendle. The thought almost made him turn around, return to the church, and release her.

Almost.

Unfortunately, the lady’s luck and Glanville’s timing remained poor. Before he could reconsider and gallop back to the church to release her from her prison, Sir Horace’s butler flung open the massive double doors.

In a matter of minutes, Glanville had told his tale of treachery—presumed, of course, since he had not actually witnessed her strike her deadly blow—and murder. Red-faced and blustering, Sir Horace sent word to various sundry souls, ordered his own horse, and escorted Glanville at a quick canter back to the church.

“You caught the murderer?” Sir Horace asked again as they dismounted at the lychgate. His plump cheeks were red, and he was huffing as if he’d run the entire way instead of riding sedately behind Glanville.

“I believe so,” Glanville answered. “I found a woman bending over Blyth. Her gloves and dress were stained with his blood. It seemed clear enough.” Even as he said the words, though, his brow furrowed. It had seemed clear enough at the time, and yet… His sense of honesty shifted uneasily with unaccustomed doubt.

His friends had often complained of his overscrupulousness. They claimed it was awkward and frequently inconvenient when he insisted on telling the truth. Particularly at school and later at university. The troublesome habit continued to plague him into adulthood, even when he personally found it just as annoying as his friends did to admit the truth. Such as now.

There might have been an innocent reason for the lady’s presence in the graveyard. He rubbed the nape of his neck. If so, he’d dearly love to know what her reason was. And how so much blood had managed to find its way onto her person.

Sir Horace grunted and knelt down to get a closer look at the body. “Mr. Blyth,” he announced, glancing up at the darkening sky. He frowned, his brows beetling over his eyes.

The fluffy white clouds of afternoon were now crimson and orange with the last rays of the setting sun. The gloom cast by the aging bulk of the church and its guardian oak was growing deeper. It was not too dark, however, to see the stained corner of the broken piece of a tombstone, used to bludgeon the curate. Shaking out a voluminous handkerchief, Sir Horace picked up the chunk of stone.

He sighed and gripped a nearby gravestone with his free hand to get clumsily to his feet. “Did you see her with this? I presume it is what killed him.” He held out the rock.

“I did not see it in her hand,” Glanville admitted.

“Difficult to believe a lady—or any member of the fairer sex—would do such a thing. Or use such a crude instrument.”

Considering some of the ladies of his acquaintance, Glanville couldn’t harbor the same sense of disbelief. In fact, there were one or two damsels who would have been overjoyed to have had such a weapon on hand on several occasions that he could remember. Anger was an emotion shared fairly equally by both sexes.

Glanville shrugged. “It would not take a great deal of strength.”

Neither agreeing nor disagreeing, Sir Horace snorted thoughtfully.

Blyth’s upper body lay twisted around to reveal a slack face, streaked with blood and deformed by a depression in the left temple.

Glanville gestured to the wound. “Blyth wasn’t particularly tall. Even a small woman—”

“Or short man,” Sir Horace interjected.

“Anyone could have dealt that blow.”

The words barely left his mouth when a group of men pushed their way through the lychgate. The leather case carried by the man leading the procession proclaimed him to be Dr. Meek. He was not a tall man, in fact, the top of his head was level with Glanville’s shoulder, but he moved with brisk precision and assurance. The good doctor’s dark, straight hair was as short and flat as the hair painted on a wooden doll, and it was nearly hidden under his black hat. His neatly trimmed beard was pointed and, from the shape of his jaw, the beard was an accurate reflection of the equally pointed chin underneath.

The few times that Glanville had met him had left him with the sense that Dr. Meek’s surname was optimistic at best. The doctor had an arrogant manner and delighted in cutting off the conversations of others in order to express his own opinions in the greatest detail possible. However, he was no fool despite his belief that everyone else was.

A dozen men trailed after Dr. Meek, hanging back when he paused, as if in fear of impeding the medical man. Or causing him to notice any of them long enough to make one of his cutting, impatient remarks.

Dr. Meek came to a stop several yards from the body. He frowned and cast a sharp glance around the gloomy churchyard. However, before he could make any pronouncement, a taller, more robust man pushed his way through the group of men, clustering in an arc twenty feet away. The newcomer was dressed neatly in a dark blue jacket and trousers, and the jacket strained to cover his bearlike, rounded shoulders. He gave Sir Horace a respectful nod, though his intelligent gaze rested assessingly on Glanville.

“What’s this, then, Sir Horace?” The big man yanked off a battered hat and crushed it between his two enormous hands. “An accident, then?”

“No, Mr. Gribble.” Sir Horace shot a glance at Glanville and gestured to the large man. “This is our constable, Lord Glanville. Mr. Henry Gribble.” A brief smile flickered over Sir Horace’s face. “He is also the greengrocer in Kendle.”

“That’s right, sir—er, Lord Glanville.” He flung one hand out and waved it in the direction of the village. “Just a quarter mile on, there. Can’t miss it.”

“I don’t believe any of us are interested in carrots at the moment, Gribble,” Dr. Meek said, interrupting them. He balanced his bag on the top of a gravestone and opened it. “Are you sure there is nothing to be done for the unfortunate man?” He studied Glanville with stern eyes, his mouth compressed to a thin line that nearly disappeared between his moustache and beard.

Glanville opened his mouth.

Before he could speak, Dr. Meek made a brushing away motion with his hand and turned to kneel next to Blyth. “Never mind. I realize I ask the impossible of a layman.”

Dr. Meek held a small highly polished square of metal over Blyth’s sagging mouth. When no warm breath misted over the shiny surface, Meek felt Blyth’s neck and then bent to press an ear against the curate’s narrow chest. After two minutes, he sat back on his heels and scowled up at Glanville.

“There is no sign of life.” His words sounded accusatory, as if he blamed Glanville for calling him so urgently for a clearly hopeless case. The doctor pulled out a handkerchief, snapped it open, and fastidiously wiped his fingers on it before rising to his feet. “I can do nothing for him.”

“We didn’t expect you to,” Glanville replied mildly.

“What was the manner o’ death, then, Doctor?” Gribble clasped his hands—still gripping his crumpled hat—behind his back. His lips twitched, though his face remained impassive.

Glanville had the distinct impression that Gribble was doing his best not to chuckle at the doctor’s exasperation.

“Manner of death?” Meek’s thin, dark brows rose up his high forehead. “Manner of death?” He glanced around.

Sir Horace held out the stained chunk of marble he had found.

The doctor snorted and waved one hand at the rock. “There is your manner of death, Constable. I suggest you collect it from Sir Horace, and any other evidence you can find, for the inquest.”

“Oh, yes, Doctor.” The constable’s eyes crinkled at the corners. If the light hadn’t been fading so quickly, Glanville suspected he’d see them twinkling. “Just as I was thinking. Gentlemen, take a good look around, now. You have your lanterns.” He looked up at the sky. “Time to light them, I think.”

The men broke up into small groups of two or three and fumbled with their brass lanterns. Before long, they separated into pairs, one man carrying a light aloft while the other searched minutely between the gravestones. They spoke quietly, but a few of their comments still drifted over to Glanville. None of them were happy to be in a graveyard at twilight, or worse, at night. A few grumbled about suppers growing colder by the minute.

Glanville suppressed a smile and turned to the constable. “When I arrived, a woman was standing over the fallen man. She is currently residing in the church’s broom closet.”

Constable Gribble and Dr. Meek both turned to stare at him. Sir Horace, who had already heard about the lady, watched the men as they stumbled around the churchyard. Their comments had now turned dire as they discussed murder and the uneasy spirits of the dead who might be resenting such an intrusion on their rest.

“I believe this is the murder weapon,” Sir Horace said as he presented the constable with the chunk of marble.

“Murder? And just how did you come to that conclusion?” Dr. Meek asked, his voice dripping with disdain.

At least it was too dark to see if Sir Horace’s florid face flushed an even deeper red, although it wasn’t difficult to imagine.

“The blood on the marble certainly suggests it,” Glanville offered as he nodded to Sir Horace. Unable to resist the impulse, he added, “To the untrained mind of the layman, of course.”

The magistrate remained silent as he thrust his fisted hands into his pockets.

A curious snort came from Constable Gribble, through his fist. Since he was still clutching his abused hat in that hand, his entire face was hidden by the crumpled headgear.

“I will have to examine the remains under proper conditions,” Dr. Meek said. “As well as this rock. He may have simply tripped and hit his head on it. Or on a tree root or other such object.”

“The blood—” Sir Horace started to say, his brows jutting out above his eyes in a deep scowl.

“The blood could very well have simply splashed upon the stone. Head wounds bleed copiously,” Dr. Meek cut in, speaking over Sir Horace. “Though you may not be aware of that fact.”

The muscles in Sir Horace’s thick neck bulged, and his fists pushed into his pockets so far that the seams threatened to burst.

Dr. Meek wasn’t finished. He glanced at Glanville. “And this female of whom you spoke… Well. I suspect she merely stumbled over the man in the dark. Probably placing flowers on some grave, no doubt.” His condescending manner seemed to imply that only a foolish woman would think of honoring the dead with such useless gifts. “What can you expect from a woman?”

“What, indeed.” Glanville caught the constable’s gaze. “Perhaps we ought to speak to her while your men continue their search.”

“Yes,” Gribble agreed abruptly. “Though I doubt there is ought else to find. Leastways, not in the dark.”

Sir Horace let out a long breath and rotated his shoulders as he slipped his hands out of his pockets. “We must question this lady.”

After returning the metal mirror to his case, Dr. Meek locked it and tucked it under one arm. “I will return home, then, and await the delivery of the body.” He sniffed. “Though I doubt but what I have already described the circumstances of his death quite adequately.”

“Accident?” Gribble asked.

Dr. Meek gave him a sharp glance before nodding. “Indeed. Everyone believes they see murder when there is nothing more than an accident. I am sure you agree, Sir Horace.”

Sir Horace stiffened, an inarticulate noise escaping him.

Rumors of a tragedy at one of Sir Horace’s supper parties had whispered past Glanville’s ears when he first arrived in Kendle. He’d dismissed them easily enough. Such things happened, and people liked to exaggerate.

Now, given his further acquaintance with Dr. Meek, he couldn’t help but wonder.

“As a magistrate, I have, of course, a slightly different perspective,” Sir Horace said at last.

“Ah, yes. Magistrate.” Dr. Meek took a deep breath, filling his lungs in the manner of a man about to perform some amazing physical feat. “You are a great deal more familiar with such sordid matters, no doubt, than I. Well, gentlemen, I must bid you good night. I will be in my office, Mr. Gribble. I trust you will not delay here too much longer.”

“I will deliver the poor soul to you as soon as I can,” Gribble promised.

With a nod, Dr. Meek threaded his way back to the lychgate and disappeared into the night.

Glanville looked at Sir Horace and the constable before gesturing to the church. “Shall we?”

“Yes.” Sir Horace sighed. “I imagine your lady is tired enough of that closet to confess to anything.”

“We can only hope, Sir Horace,” Gribble replied jauntily as he turned on his heel and headed toward the side door. “We can only hope.”