Gertriss giggled. I chose the door set in the far side of the room from the one we’d entered.

And I reluctantly closed it behind me.

The rest of the House wasn’t nearly so artistically inclined. There were storage rooms and rooms full of stored furniture and rooms full of barrels and rooms full of crated art supplies. And then there were the rooms, which housed the artists themselves.

The artists were housed barracks-style, with a half-dozen single-occupant rooms set aside for special stars of either gender. I poked my head in here and there, finding nothing but the clutter and mess you’d expect a gaggle of perpetually drunk teenagers to leave behind. The smell was exactly that I remembered from my army days. I gathered Ella and Emma had long ago abandoned any pretense of maid services in the artist’s wing.

We made it as far as the laundry unchallenged. Inside that room, though, stirring an enormous vat that boiled and smelled of bleach so strongly it made my eyes water were two of Lady Werewilk’s staff.

They gave us the usual stink-eye but neither said a word. Clouds of blinding caustic steam rose up with every slap of their paddles. I rummaged through the list of servants Lady Werewilk had provided and decided those two worthies were Eegis and Gamp.

Neither appeared inclined to speak, much less confess to nefarious deeds, and Gertriss was turning an interesting shade of blue.

“Excellent work,” I offered, as we brushed past them. “Mind that wine stain on my pantaloons.”

And out the door we went.

I blinked. We were outside, though in a shade so deep it might as well have been in the dark heart of the House. But the air was cool and sweet, and we both just stood there and blinked away the bleach for a minute.

Gertriss put her hand on my arm just as I was about to speak.

“…heared nothin’ good about him,” said a gruff man’s voice.

The door we’d stepped out of opened to the side of the House. A rough gravel wagon path wound around to the door, which I gathered was used for deliveries coming in and trash being hauled out. Parked there in the gravel round was a wagon, sans ponies. The wagon was tipped back and away from Gertriss and I, and from the sound of it a couple of layabouts were reclining in the empty wagon bed, taking advantage of the cool evening breeze and the apparent absence of any watchful eyes.

Oh, but there were ears. Four of them.

“Still, I don’t think Weexil had nothin’ to do with no foolishness with crossbows. Them people is from town. You know what happens when town-folk get kilt.”

Silence. I assume someone nodded in grave agreement. I all but shouted for them to keep talking.

“Well, even if he does come back, I reckon Lady Werewilk won’t be havin’ none of him no more. I’m lookin’ to take on his job. Maybe that little split tail of his too.”

Lustful guffaws all around. Gertriss blushed, and she nearly let her nails do to my elbow what they’d done to my face.

“You’re twiced too old to be chasin’ anything that young,” opined one unseen lounger. “You better stick with old widow Henshaw down the road.”

More laughter. And then a graphic exchange of speculation involving the Widow Henshaw that was proving far too earthy for Gertriss’s delicate ears.

I reached behind me, opened the door very quietly and then let it slam shut.

The wagon nearly flipped over as it disgorged a trio of wide-eyed drovers, all of whom hurriedly set about trying to look busy despite their empty hands and equally empty wagon.

“Evening, gents,” I said, greeting each with my famous friendly smile. “My name’s Markhat. Who might you be?”

Sputtering. Exchanges of sideways glances. Three different versions of why it only looked like they’d been idling on the job.

I held up my hands. “Relax,” I said. “I wasn’t hired to supervise the unloading of turnips. Nobody is going to tell tales later on of a few men taking a break after a long day’s work. I only asked your names to be polite.”

“Hell, we don’t work for Lady Werewilk anyhow,” said the boldest of the lot. “My name’s Left. This is Tombs. That there is Polton.” He spat. “Must be havin’ quite a feed in there tonight. This was the second wagon-load of vittles.”

I nodded. “The whole house will be there. Except maybe Weexil. I guess everybody knows about him, though.”

Left nodded. “Took off. Packed up and left before dawn, not a word. Damndest thing.”

I kept my mouth shut and looked hopefully expectant. Sometimes it works.

“Burned all his stuff. Every scrap of it. Least that’s what they say. Old butler found what was left in the oven.”

“Boots too,” I offered, as though I’d already heard that. I was just guessing.

“That’s what we can’t figure,” offered Tombs. “Who the hell burns a good pair of boots?”

Sometimes I’m good at guessing.

“We need to get the ponies,” said the third man. Maybe he was smarter than his companions, or maybe he just needed a privy, but he’d had enough gabbing with the people from town, friendly smiles or not. “Need to get back on the road.”

And they went.

Gertriss and I watched them go.

I shrugged as soon as they were out of sight.

“Do you reckon-do you think that this Weexil told someone we were due here today, Mr. Markhat?” asked Gertriss. “Maybe he didn’t want to be around when word got out we’d been murdered on the road.”

I nodded. “The thought crossed my mind,” I said. Weexil, what had been his last name? Weexil Treegar. Bought all the art supplies for the painters. I tried to remember when the Lady had hired Weexil, decided he’d been there since the first batch of artists had taken up residence-well before the first surveyor’s stake was ever found.

I motioned in the direction the drovers had taken. “We might as well see the grounds in the daylight,” I said.

Gertriss walked, frowning. “But why did he burn everything?”

“He didn’t burn it,” I said. Gertriss sets a good pace. I had to move faster than my customary amble to keep up.

She turned her face toward mine.

“If he didn’t, who did?”

“His lady love, of course. Look. She either wakes to find him gone, or maybe he leaves behind a note of some kind. Either way, she’s not happy. So what does she do?”

“She finds anything he left behind and she stuffs it in the only fire still burning early in the morning. The cook stove fire.”

“Which makes me think he left a note,” I said. “Something sappy and overdone. I’d bet you two new horseshoes he even asked her to burn his note in the note. That’s probably what gave her the idea to toss in his boots as well.”

Gertriss nodded. “Reckon the worthless lying bastard had that coming.” She practically dripped venom when she spoke, and for the first time I wondered if perhaps Gertriss had left her quaint country village for reasons that might surprise even Mama Hog.

“What matters to us is finding out who he left behind. She’s the only one who might tell us what he was doing, and who he was doing it for.”

“So you reckon he did set them bandits on us?”

“Set those, not them. And yes. I think friend Weexil may have been someone’s eyes and ears here at House Werewilk, and I think someone didn’t want us to arrive on time and breathing.”

Gertriss just nodded, and kicked at a pinecone.

We tramped about, not talking, just looking. House Werewilk covered a lot of ground, as did the other structures that filled the woods behind it.

Arranged in a ragged half-circle a bowshot from the main house were two barns, overflowing with loose hay, a huge old slate-roofed stable, three two-storey houses much newer than anything else that looked to be servant’s quarters, a smithy, a lumber-mill, a fenced vegetable garden sporting thirty rows of tall green corn, a well-house, and a row of privy-houses that must have made Gertriss long for the plain country comforts of home.