Adam walked away from his encounter with Miss Miller, her father and the new clergyman with slight ringing sound in his ears. It was as though his blood was rebelling, having been so well suppressed by his strict adherence to politeness and propriety in the course of the conversation.

It was quite evident what was afoot with the presence of this new young clergyman. Adam had hardly formed an opinion of the man, save that he disliked him on sight.

But then again...

What if it was within the power of a man like this new vicar — Adam could not remember his name — to be capable of making Miss Miller happy? He knew full well that, in present circumstances, he was not able to do so, and so, was it not better if someone, at least, were able to give her the good life that she deserved?

He longed to be magnanimous. He longed to be capable of greeting the news that Miss Miller was engaged — news that would inevitably come soon — with genuine rejoicing in his heart, that a young woman who so richly deserved joy should have it bestowed upon her.

But he was not capable of it. Certainly not in the first flush of distress at seeing her with someone else. In fact, he had been somewhat surprised by the suddenness and intensity with which he found himself disliking the young man, who was presumably of blameless character.

Indeed, Adam despised the Reverend Miller for the way he was behaving. It was quite evident to Adam that Miss Miller’s father approved the match and was doing everything in his power to ensure that it took place. The very thought of such subtle orchestrations made Adam feel quite ill with disdain.

But could he dwell on it now? Of course, he could not, no matter how magnetic the prospect appeared.

Adhere steadfastly to the task which you have set yourself, he reminded himself. Your task is to clear your name, and so your name must be cleared indeed.

His task today was to visit the local physician, the man who had been called when the two bodies were removed from the lake. Adam could recall well how none of them had held any hope, how they had all known full well that the two souls had departed from this world, never to return.

However, when his father had seen little Freddie’s body laid out on the grassy knoll, he had called out for a doctor with such heartbroken insistence that nobody had felt able to deny him. And so, Dr. Spencer had been fetched, though he had done little more than glance at the white drowned faces and then place the linen sheets gently over them so that the dead could be decently covered.

“It is good to see you, Mr. Harding,” Dr. Spencer said courteously.

Adam had always liked Dr. Spencer. The gentleman was a man of science, far more interested in establishing the facts than indulging in unchecked speculation about what might or might not have happened. “It is always pleasant to see the prodigal son return, and you have been away for a long time.”

“In scripture, the father of the prodigal son was more forgiving than I can claim my father to be,” Adam replied with a sad, wry smile. “Nonetheless, sir, your greeting is very gratefully received. My return to these parts has not been met with unanimous encouragement.”

“It is a small village,” the doctor said, waving his hand as if to wave away the rumors. “Gossip is the primary pastime, and every tale of gossip requires that there be a villain. If I were you, sir, I should not take it too personally.”

“It is hard not to take things personally when one’s character is being assassinated,” Adam replied. He was about to sigh and indulge in a little misery, but he caught himself before he allowed the feeling to take hold. “No more of that, sir. I came to you in the hopes that by your scientific skill you may have established a little more about what happened to Mary Warwick and her son.”

“Well, sir, they drowned. Of that there is no doubt,” Dr. Spencer sighed. “Your father did not wish me to perform autopsies on their earthly remains. I suppose such a feeling is understandable, particularly in the situation of a woman and child. But from a scientific perspective. it would have been most useful.”

“Indeed?” Adam said. “Even though you are quite certain as to what caused their deaths?”

“Quite certain, sir. But the nature of science is that one always has to trust the information that one possesses, and in some cases, it may be that there is better information available if one could only discover it.”

Dr. Spencer sighed. “I know that the blame for that day was pinned upon you, and if there was anything that I discovered in the course of my investigations that could absolve you, then I should certainly have informed you of it. However, I am afraid that it is not within my power to clear your name.”

Adam frowned.

“If you are not able to clear my name, and are not possessed of any particular knowledge that should allow you to know that I am not guilty, then why do you speak to me so civilly? Why should you, too, not believe that I am guilty?”

“I believe only what has been proven to me,” Dr. Spencer replied. “The fact that you were in the vicinity of the lake when the deaths occurred is not concrete proof of your guilt, and until such proof is produced, then I do not believe that it is for me to make any judgements. Particularly when such judgements are likely to be the cause of a great deal of suffering, as they have been in your own case.”

“I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” Adam said sincerely.

“It is not me that you ought to thank, but science itself,” Doctor Spencer replied briskly. “Such as it is, I see no reason why your father should suspect you in this matter above anyone else. Perhaps true proof will emerge of what occurred that day. And when it does, perhaps this will play a part.”

He reached into the drawer of his bureau and retrieved from it a small object. At first, Adam did not understand what it was, but it took him only a few moments to ascertain that the article was a small piece of black cloth, irregular in shape and apparently torn.

“This I found clamped in little Freddie’s hand,” the doctor said, smoothing down the cloth as though it were the curls on the aforementioned child’s brow. “I do not know how he came to possess it, but to my mind, the most logical explanation for his having it is that he tore the clothes of whoever pushed him, in some sort of struggle.”

Adam reached out his hand, and the doctor gave him the scrap of cloth to examine.

It was just a small piece of cloth — the hemmed edge of a garment, as far as Adam’s admittedly inexpert eye could discern. It did not seem the proper thickness to be part of a man’s coat — the fabric was much thinner. Adam’s initial instinct told him that it belonged to a lady’s dress.

“Could it have been from his mother’s dress?” he asked. “Could he have not seized it as they were struggling in the water?”

Even the image his words conjured filled Adam with profound distress. He imagined the little child struggling, not understanding that he was dying. He imagined how his mother must have fought to keep him above the surface, her own skirts dragging her down.

“No, indeed, that was the first thing I checked,” the doctor replied. “She was wearing a blue dress when she died, and there were no tears in it.”

Yes, a blue dress, that was right. Adam could remember the sight of it, soaked through and covering the limp body. He recalled the way that she had lain on the bank, her gown drenched, her wet hair about her face, her lovely complexion infused with the pallor of death.

Mary Warwick had always had a profusion of beautiful auburn hair. Adam could not help imagining it breaking free of its arrangement in the water, fanning out about her in the water like poor Ophelia in Hamlet.

The mere thought that this terrible thing had happened in the place where he had grown up, the place that he had loved so dearly, was almost enough to make him walk out of Dr. Spencer’s house and depart for the Continent, away from all of these dreadful ghosts.

No more running, he reminded himself.

“So if this is not from Mary’s dress, then one can surmise that it belonged to their attacker, or at least, someone who was present very soon before they died,” he said.

“My thoughts precisely, sir,” Doctor Spencer agreed. “I have not expressed this to your father, because it seems to me that he is not — forgive me — of a scientific bent, but my belief is that if one were to ascertain to whom that cloth originally belonged, then one would be very near indeed to finding out what truly took place that sad day.”

“Quite so,” Adam agreed. He was doing his best to appear attentive, but a fresh thought had seized his mind, and he found himself rather carried away by it.

He recalled the day that, seized by a fit of passion and energy, he had walked to the lakeside in Lawley Park, the very lake where the genesis of these sad events had taken place.

All in a flash, he recalled the sight of the woman, standing on the other side of the lake, apparently watching him. The woman whom he had half-fancied, in the first few instants that he had seen her there, to be the phantom of Mary Warwick herself, come to investigate the aftermath of her own death and the failure to bring the perpetrator — whoever it was — to justice.

But it had been no ghost. Adam was certain that he had seen a flesh-and-blood woman, a woman whom he recognized but knew not from where. Her face had been indistinct.

A dreadful thought occurred to him. Could it have been this woman who was responsible for the deaths of Mary and Freddie? Could this wicked crime have been inflicted by a woman? And if so, was this same woman still roaming the grounds of Lawley Hall?