“I thought women in the Middle East were rather more modest than we are here in England,” Grandmama said thoughtfully. “At least that was the impression I gained from Maude. They keep to their own apartments and don’t speak to men other than those in their own families. Their clothing is certainly most decorous.”

Agnes was frowning. “But Maude went unaccompanied, wandering around like a…like a man!” she exclaimed. “Who knows what happened to her? Her taste is highly questionable. Even her virtue, I’m afraid.”

“I beg your pardon?” Grandmama said in angry disbelief, then realized she had gone too far. She must find an escape very quickly. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized, the words all but choking her. “I felt so close to Maude because she confided in me, and I in her, that I am more offended than I have any right to be at the thought that someone who did not know her at all should question her virtue. It is quite unreasonable, and even impertinent of me. Please forgive me. She was your sister, not mine, and it is your right to defend her. I did not mean to presume.” She watched Agnes’s face intently, as if she were eager for pardon. She was actually extremely eager to see Agnes’s reaction.

Agnes’s hands froze on the reins and she stared ahead, even though they were now very close to the village of Appledore and she should have been slowing the pony.

“It is not presumptuous,” she said, her face scarlet. Then she stopped again, still uncertain. “I’m sure you meant it only kindly. Perhaps we live too much in the past. Imagine too much.”

“About Maude?” Grandmama had to ask. She was overwhelmingly aware of the misery in Agnes, and the knowledge that she would always be second choice. She was sorry for it-she even understood it-but it did not excuse lies, or answer justice now. They were passing the village church and she saw the festive wreaths on doors and a group of children ran past them shouting Greetings! What happens to people that they become bitter, and why do we not turn to each other, and help? We all walk a common path from cradle to grave, just stumble over different stones in it, trip in different holes, or drown in different puddles.

Agnes had not answered her.

“I understand,” Grandmama said impulsively. “You had old memories of Maude once taking Arthur’s affection, and you were afraid she would say or do something outrageous now. Perhaps even spoil his chances of receiving the peerage. So you made sure she could not be in the house when Lord Woollard was here. And now that she has died, you feel guilty, and of course it is too late to do anything about it.”

Agnes turned to face her, eyes wide and hurt. She said nothing, but acknowledgment was as clear in her as if she had admitted it in so many words.

They delivered the jams and chutneys in Appledore and went on to the Isle of Oxney. The rising wind was cruelly cold. The horizon was blurred with gathering clouds and there was a smell of snow in the air. Perhaps it would not be necessary to feign a chill after all? Although how deep the snow would have to be to make travel inadvisable she did not know. St. Mary in the Marsh was only five miles away, not even an hour’s journey. Maybe a few sneezes and a complaint of a sore throat would be better? She had barely scratched the surface of what there was to detect. There were emotions, old loves and jealousies, old wrongs, but what had caused them to erupt now? Pitt had said that there was always a reason why violence occurred at a particular time, some event that had sparked the final act.

Why had Maude come home? Why not before, in all the forty years of her exile? Or next year? Why at Christmas, not summer, when the weather would be infinitely more agreeable? Whose death was it that she had been referring to? Surely not her own?

On the ride back to Snave, she deliberately spoke only of Christmas arrangements. What to eat? Goose, naturally, and plenty of vegetables-roasted, boiled, baked, and with added sauces. After there would be a Christmas pudding rich with dried fruit and covered with brandied butter, and flamed at the time of serving. And covered with cream.

But before that there were literally dozens of other things to think of and prepare: cakes, pastries, mince pies, sweets, gingerbread, and all manner of drinks, both with and without alcohol. And naturally a wealth of decoration: wreaths and boughs, garlands, golden angels, colored bows, flowers made of silk and ribbon, pine cones painted with gold, little dolls to be given afterward to the poor of the village. There were presents to be made: skittles painted as wooden soldiers, pincushions, ornaments handmade and decorated with lace and beads and colored braid. The hours of work could hardly be counted. They spoke of them together, and remembered about their own childhood Christmases, before the advent of cards and trees and such modern ideas that so much added to the general happiness.

After luncheon Grandmama took a brief walk in the garden. She needed time alone to think. Detection required order in the mind. There were facts to be considered and weighed.

There was little to see beyond a well-tended neatness and very obvious architectural grace and skill. There were arbors, gravel walks, herbaceous borders carefully weeded, perennials cleared of dead foliage, a flight of steps that curved up to a pergola covered with the skeletons of roses, and finally a less formal woodland overlooking the open marsh.

It was very wet underfoot, and rather muddy. The long grasses soaked the hem of her skirt, but it was inevitable. In spring this would be beautiful with flowers: snowdrops, primroses in all likelihood, wood anemones, certainly bluebells, wild daisies, campion. Perhaps narcissi with their piercingly sweet scent. She saw two or three crowns of foxglove leaves. She loved their elegant spires in purples or white. One of them looked a little ragged, as if an animal had cropped it. Except that no animal would eat foxglove-it was poisonous. Creatures always seemed to know. It slowed the heart. It was used by doctors for people whose hearts raced. Digitalis. She froze. Raced…slowed. Stopped!

Was that it? The answer she was searching for? She bent and looked at the leaves again. There was no earthly way of proving it, but she was perfectly sure someone had picked two or three leaves. The broken ends were visible.

She stood up again slowly. How could she find out who? It must have been the day Maude was here. Had it been wet or dry? Never dry in winter in this wood, but if freezing then the ice would prevent anyone getting as wet as she was now, or as muddy.

Four days before, Joshua had received Bedelia’s letter. Think! Windy, the noise of it howling in the eaves was clear in her mind. It had irritated her unbearably. And relatively mild. Who had come in with muddy boots, a dress soaked at the hems? A ladies’ maid would know. But how to ask her?

She turned and walked briskly back into the house and went to find Mrs. Ward.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized profusely; startled that she meant it without any pretense at all. “I went walking in the garden and became distracted with the beauty of it.”

“It is lovely, isn’t it,” Mrs. Ward agreed. “That’s Mrs. Harcourt’s skill. Mrs. Sullivan can paint a picture of a flower that’s both lovely and correct, but it’s Mrs. Harcourt who plans the garden itself.”

“What a gift,” Grandmama said. “And one from which we all benefit. But I am afraid that I have thoroughly muddied both my boots, and the hem of your dress. It was deeply careless of me, and I regret it now.”

“Oh, don’t worry! It happens all the time!” Mrs. Ward dismissed it. “Your own dress is quite clean and dry, and Nora can clean this again in no time.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t happen to everybody,” Grandmama told her. “I cannot imagine Mrs. Harcourt being so inelegant, or so thoughtless. You cannot name me the last time she did this!”