#please read city of brass i promise its worth it

[mythology-void]

I need everyone to know about this perfect little man

[tardis-sapphics]

46 cause why not.

i didn’t forget!! i’m just shit at consistency. anyway, here’s my attempt -- tw for body horror

It is difficult to find the things you cannot see.

Good things come along in life in a myriad of ways—sometimes with a fanfare, a parade, and sometimes without acknowledgement. They have been loud, and they have been quiet, and stubborn. So stubborn. They entered Yaz’s life on the back of a beautiful stranger. They have ruffled through Yaz’s hair like the winds of space, cool on the fingertips with a whispered promise of worth, and deserving, and relief.

But they do not come alone. In the spirit of balance, of course, the sinister creeps in without a trace.

It starts—somewhere. She doesn’t know. She can’t possibly know; neither of them can. But it starts somewhere, stalking her through distant lands and keeping a close eye on her.

They travel. Always. New sights—so many new sights, her brain is filling up with them—with new temperatures, new peoples, new curiosities. The mountains of Poboba, where they swim upright through swarms of glowing insects. Underground caverns populated by mammoth butterflies, fluttering high above them and casting frantic shadows in the green firelight. Glass cities and beach huts clustered in their millions. A whole planet dedicated to sculpting.

It follows her.

The problem is that she can’t keep her energy up.

They stay in for a couple of a days, instead of a couple of hours. The Doctor spends time reading on the Second French Revolution in the 2500s, whilst Yaz struggles through sleep on the sofa beside her. When she is tired of being tired—and the Doctor, though she’ll never admit it, is tired of being in the same spot—Yaz pushes herself upright and asks to see Eartha Kitt in concert.

She lasts an hour. It’s not Eartha—at a sudden burst of brass, she jumps awake in her chair. It’s hard to fight an invisible force. Not for the first time, she sees the Doctor glancing at her, frowning—and then smiling placidly when she is caught.

‘Maybe it’ll go away,’ Yaz shrugs when the Doctor insists on sonicing her. It picks up something unusual, but it can’t say what. Too many variables, too many possibilities. It almost short circuits.

‘It better,’ the Doctor grumbles, the frown producing a deep line in her brow.

‘Doctor,’ she says, struggling to keep a yawn out of her voice. She places a hand on the Doctor’s arm, and it makes her look at Yaz. Still frowning. ‘I’ll be fine.’ Yaz aims for reassuring. ‘I just know it.’

‘But what if you’re not?’ the Doctor counters. There’s more to her worry; there’s centuries’ worth of concern that Yaz cannot comfort by herself. Always, it shines in her eyes—the guilt of living too long.

She should be so hard, Yaz thinks, like stone. And, yes, some nights she is stone, unreachable, stuck in the wallows of memories.

But here, on this night and on most others, she is soft and living. And worrying so deeply, Yaz cannot perceive the bottom of this well. If the Doctor were to fall in, she would be screaming for miles.

Yaz tries to push that thought out of her mind. She has no energy for misery.

‘Then we’ll deal with it,’ she says simply. ‘We always will.’ The Doctor’s expression tightens, and Yaz corrects her mistake. ‘We always can.’

No absolutes. No certainty. Just the certainty of themselves, existing now, together.

They are preferring 1950s New York to the south, though the laws here are still restrictive. If they go anywhere, they prefer public places; Yaz particularly enjoys the parks, where she can sit and regain her breath.

But the New York air is brittle. Winter is always what it says it is here; unlike in Sheffield, where icy winds give way to disappointing drizzle. Yaz shivers in the cool of the night. ‘Let’s go back.’ Her teeth are chattering.

When they return to the hotel, she finds herself shivering still. She hides under the duvet to keep herself warm, but she hardly feels it. Putting on the Doctor’s coat does nothing either.

She can’t feel much at all. The world lurches around her and her arms shudders as she reaches to put a hand on her forehead. Sweat. Lots of sweat.

‘Doctor,’ she manages to spit through clattering teeth. She looks toward the bathroom, where the Doctor has popped in to further investigate the ‘suspicious’ showerhead. ‘Doctor.’

The Doctor reappears in a flash, and her face falls further at the sight of Yaz bundled under the covers.

A pale hand on Yaz’s head, a finger on her pulse point. ‘You’re burning up, Yaz,’ the Doctor murmurs. Her voice is not quite frantic, but it is certainly on its way.

Yaz rolls her eyes. ‘Think I’d guessed that by now, thanks,’ she huffs, and she can hardly think about how similar to the Doctor she sounded then. Blinking down at her lap, she slides her hands back just so and laces her fingers with those just checking her pulse. ‘D’you know what this is?’

Now the Doctor settles on the bed, one hand still entwined whilst the other reaches for the sonic on the beside table. ‘No idea yet. Could be your bog-standard human fever, but I have a sneaky suspicion it’s something more…’ She purses her lips.

‘More…?’ Yaz enquires.

‘More rude,’ the Doctor finishes, her face scrunched in concentration. She scans Yaz with her sonic again. ‘In any case, the planets we were last on were quite remote. Unique, and with plenty of unique illnesses. That’s always the risk with these adventures—but they’re really very beautiful—’

‘So I’ll have to let it take its course?’ Yaz interrupts. A yawn overthrows all her functions, until another bout of tremors cuts it short.

‘Unfortunately. But I’ll be here the whole time, I promise.’

Yaz refuses to leave the bed. She is not quite sure how the Doctor does it, but she manages to secure their residency for over the week—and it is a necessary foresight, as Yaz deteriorates rapidly. Both are helpless in the face of it.

The shaking is joined by a fluctuating body temperature. The Doctor tells her that technically, she is experiencing both hypo- and hyperthermia; this ‘fun fact’ is made ‘fun’ only by Yaz surviving both of them. She manages a couple of hours of fitful sleep, but her waking hours are hell on earth, with added perspiration.

And then the shadows start creeping.

She can feel them in amongst the delirium of her fever. They are black in the flog: clear and defined when everything is unfocused. She cant anchor herself to this bed, this room, but she knows where the shadows are at all times.

The Doctor joins her on the bed; Yaz is eighty percent sure about that. But Yaz’s words are crashing into each other as soon as she tries to speak, like cyclists falling over the starting gate. An eagerness, and a purpose—but a shoddy execution. She struggles against her own incompetence, eyes fixed on a shadow crawling closer, as she tries to warn the Doctor of the impending danger.

She tries and tries until it’s the only word tumbling out of her mouth, garbled and destroyed—but necessary, necessary, please, not the Doctor, anyone but the Doctor—

Two hands encapsulate Yaz’s face and the Doctor takes up all her sight—blurred and unsolid. Yaz blinks, maybe.

The Doctor is speaking to her. But then half of her face is cloaked by shadow and her smile starts melting—melting, dusty pink dripping down onto peach skin—then onto blue—and the stripes—she can’t remember the colour of the stripes before they were sullied by the Doctor’s wax-melted mouth—hardly breathing, Yaz watches in horror as the Doctor’s nose succumbs to the same fate, then her left eye, the eyeball sliding down the rest of her face, red coating what was the white of an eye, hazel-green that held a universe—her Doctor, Doctor, melting—

Yaz screams, wrenching her eyes shut, heart pounding, writhing against the secure clamps around her head, crushing her wafer-thin—

Then something lands on her, in her brain, and she sleeps.

The sheets smell of sweat. Gross. Yaz turns onto her other side, but the stink persists. When she breathes out, her mouth tastes dry and wrong, unclean, and she resolves to take a shower. She must be strong enough by now.

Everything comes back to her with the subtlety of a brick wall, and she bolts upright, wide eyed.

From the edge of the bed, fingers fidgeting, the Doctor stares back at her. Face fully intact.

‘Oh, Yaz,’ she breathes, more a sigh than a verbalisation, and immediately strong arms are enveloping her.

Yaz relaxes into the hug, her own arms reaching up to grip onto the Doctor’s shoulders, tightening as the thudding of her heart quickens. She’s still covered in multiple days of sweat but she couldn’t care less. The Doctor is fine, she’s here, she’s alive, she is fine.

Unexpectedly, the relief pours out of her in a sob—then another, then another. When she breaks away from the hug to save herself from drenching the Doctor’s coat, thumbs brush across her cheeks to clear them of salty tears.

She stares at the Doctor’s—fully-structured—face, kind, old eyes wide in their delight. They are blurry again, but this time it’s just the tears, some pooling in the Doctor’s eyes too.

‘You made it,’ the Doctor grins. Her palms are soft on Yaz’s cheeks, her fingertips calloused. ‘Was all a bit touch and go for a while.’

‘Your face isn’t melty,’ Yaz blurts.

The Doctor starts. ‘Oh! Right. No wonder you screamed in my face,’ she responds a moment later, absorbing the information. ‘I was about to be a bit offended, to be honest with you.’

It’s said lightly, but her voice is too tight to deliver it correctly. Yaz collects the Doctor’s hands to hold in her own, playing with fingers on her lap.

‘What was that, Doctor?’ she asks. ‘Never had a fever like that.’ She never wants to again.

The Doctor clears her throat. ‘I’m fairly sure that’s shadow fever,’ she explains. ‘There’s a bunch of similar viruses that produce those symptoms, which tend to be grouped into one term—nearly all of those viruses come from the galaxy we’ve just travelled from. Rare, but not impossible to get. No wonder my sonic had a hard time identifying it—you probably had multiple strands jostling for your attention.’

Yaz sighs, the movement causing a strand of hair to fall in front of her face. ‘Fantastic.’

The Doctor brushes it away for her. ‘That’s why I had to send you to sleep,’ she admits, her face gall and guilty. ‘Old Time Lord trick—I really am sorry about that.’

Yaz nods the apology away. The sleep has helped enormously—now what matters to her is that shower.

Except, when she looks for the bathroom door, she can’t find it.

‘But I need to warn you,’ the Doctor continues.

‘Yeah?’ Yaz mumbles. Her voice feels like static. She tries to cough it away. Still no door. Weird.

‘You got through the worst bit, and you’re definitely gonna live, Yaz, I promise.’ The hands recede from her own. Yaz looks at them, familiar brown skin and all ten digits—but they feel odd, like they are not her own. ‘But you’re gonna feel the effects for a while. You need to stay in bed for a couple more days. Your body’s not strong enough to move—and neither’s your mind.’

Now the static is growing. Fuzzy. All’s fuzzy.

‘That was round one, Yaz. Might help if you sleep off rounds two and three, I think.’

Why did the Doctor stop holding her hands? Was it because they feel fuzzy?

‘Just tell me if you need my help, yeah?’

Yaz follows the sound of the voice, up the waxwork, until she looks squarely at the Doctor again.

The Doctor, perched on the edge of the bed again, her mouth dripping down around her chin, her hands trying to hold her eyes in place.

Yaz screams.

[blog-sliverofjade]

Hearth Fires 1: Ultimatum

Pairing: Remi Denier x OFC

Summary:  Lorel Maddox just wants to live as a human, run her bakery in peace, and forget. Unfortunately, the alpha of the local leopard pack has very different ideas.

Remi Denier doesn't know what to make of the female Changeling who wants nothing to do with him or the RainFire pack. He does know that he has a driving need to protect her. Even if it's from herself.

While they're embroiled in a battle of wills, there's a war brewing on the horizon. The outside threat could not only destroy everything they hold dear, but tear apart the fragile new bonds of the Trinity Accord, plunging the world into bloodshed to rival the Territorial Wars of centuries past.

Word count: 2056

Hearth Fires Masterlist

Beta read by the inestimable pandabearer

Lorel hummed along to the bluesy song that twined with the smells of dozens of sweet things filling the air.  Swinging her hips slightly from side to side, she counted out the day’s totals to figure out what to bake tomorrow.  The maple pecan cupcakes were sold out, as were the pear sticky buns. Maybe she’d switch it up for the weekend and make chai cupcakes and maple sticky buns.

As she tallied, she mentally designed an upcoming wedding cake order.  The couple wanted silver accents, which was in vogue and nearly to the point of tired and overdone.  Maybe arabesque flowers outlined in a royal blue and the silver? She could gild the edges of sugar paste flowers.  Would it be too on the nose to mimic the flowers in the bride’s bouquet?

The door opened almost soundlessly.  One of the first things she’d done was rip the bell off; the jangling was hell on changeling hearing.  Finishing up the note she was in the middle of, she turned around to greet the customer.

“Hi, how can I help you?”  The chirpy greeting died off as her nose caught up.

Spices like cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla had temporarily masked the threat that had snuck up on her.  A threat that smelled like moss and oak, and a dominant predatory changeling male. Her blood turned to ice water.  The power of him filled the shop and had her animal in a crouch, waiting to see whether she should run or would have to fight.  She wiped her palms on her apron and plastered on a smile that probably more closely resembled a grimace.

The stranger scanned her with a coolly appraising eye from the top of her frizzy hair to her flour-dusted hands.  She froze in place and avoided eye contact by focusing on his right shoulder while still watching him like a rabbit he’d decided was dinner.  Fear spiked in her scent, strong enough that even she could smell it over the mixture filling the place, and he could probably hear the thundering of her heart.  He turned, locked the door, and turned the sign to closed. Her cat was clawing at her to run far, climb high, but she was too busy doing her best impression of a deer in headlights to pay attention.

His presence, reinforced by his actions, could only mean he wanted one of two things: either he wanted her gone or he wanted her for himself.

“Ms. Cain, I’m Remi Denier, alpha o’ the RainFire pack.  Please, ‘ave a seat so we can talk.” The bayou dripped like Spanish moss from his words.  He pulled a chair from one of the bistro tables by the front window and gestured for her to take the other seat.  He was laying the southern gentleman routine on thick.

“It’s Maddox now, and I’m comfortable right here.”  The strained pitch to her tone gave lie to the statement.  It did not bode well that he knew her birth name; she shifted her weight in preparation to dash out the back door.

“Ya won’ get very far, Ms. Maddox." His brilliant topaz eyes flashed gold in stark contrast to his mild drawl.  The alpha, and he certainly looked the part at somewhere over six feet with line-backer shoulders, sat where he could watch both the front door and the one that led to the kitchen.  He stretched out long, jeans-clad legs; he was making himself at home. On her turf. “I ‘ave de alley covered.”

“What did I do to deserve such an honour, Mr. Denier?” she asked crisply and folded her arms.  While she wouldn’t stand a chance against a predatory changeling alpha determined to hurt her, that didn’t mean she would go down without a fight.  She just had to wait for her opportunity.

“You’re in my terr’tory.”  His eyes had gone leopard-gold.  Shit. Heart hammering, she felt her cat settle into a crouch in preparation for a pounce.  Adrenaline dumped into her bloodstream and she wanted to bare her teeth at the threat, but strangled the urge before her lips did more than twitch.

“No pack can control a mixed-race city, and your border ends at the Madison-Haywood line.”  Their boundary was the next county over; she had made certain before she took over the bakery. The hard look in his eyes said without words that the cat didn’t care about semantics.

“RainFire does now.  Say, could I get a cup o’ coffee?”  His accent was so thick she could practically cut it with a knife.

“Sorry, I’m not in the habit of feeding strays.”  The acerbic retort popped out of her mouth before she knew what she was saying.  Swallowing, she dropped her hands to fist at her sides in preparation for a full shift and not just to hide the talons that had sprouted from her fingertips.

Remi Denier didn’t attack, didn’t even growl.  To her utter consternation, he laughed. The sound was rich and filled the bakery like the tones of a brass bell.  Her cat sat back on its butt and cocked its head in confusion.

“We’re small and growin’, jus’ expanded our claim last month,” he explained, spreading large hands wide.  And she had purchased the shop five weeks ago, which was when she’d checked that no shifter groups had marked the area as theirs.

“I took over this place before that.  I won’t be run off my land.” Said land wasn’t even an acre in total, and it was technically just the home she shared with her aunt since the storefront was on a lease, but it was hers.  Every survival instinct screamed at her to stop challenging him, even as her animal was pacing in circles, waiting for the right opening to go for his throat.

“I never said not’ing ‘bout chasin’ you off.  Jus’ like knowin’ who’s in my terr’tory,” he shrugged and hooked an arm around the back of the seat.  The relaxed posture didn’t fool her one whit; one didn’t become an alpha without catlike reflexes.

“You already know that if you know my name.”  She folded her arms again and leaned back against the counter behind her.

“Lack o’ criminal record don’ mean much.”

“Not much to know,” shrugged Lorel.  “Raised by my human grandparents, some university, bounced around some, and then my aunt wanted to retire.  But you probably knew all that already.”

“You were born into the RedRock pack.”  Her stomach sank.

“I was just a kid, I don’t remember much.”  She leashed the need to snarl at the alpha. She couldn’t expose any potential weaknesses; if he thought she was hiding something she’d never get rid of him until he uncovered it.  Damn cats.

“Never joined another pack.”  A statement, not a question. Meaning he already knew the answer, he just wanted to see if she would lie to him.

“Never saw the need.”  Rounded shoulders rose and fell jerkily instead of in the fluid way they should have moved in feline changelings.  Remi filed that away the same as he had the talons that appeared when she’d thrown out the crack about strays. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called that, and no doubt it wouldn’t be the last.

“Never felt need for family?”

“I have family.”  Lorelei gestured around the bakery that had been her aunt’s.  While she couldn’t make eye contact, the hard ice in her voice hinted at a hidden backbone, a reminder that submissive was not synonymous with doormat.

“But do they understand you?”  That spine, which was already rigid, snapped so straight he worried it would snap under the strain.  Judging by the white lines bracketing her mouth she probably wasn’t about to reply any time soon, but the lack of an answer was an answer in itself.

If he was a better man, he’d feel remorseful about baiting a woman so far down the hierarchy she didn’t even risk a glance at his eyes for fear he’d see it as a challenge.  As it was, he only felt a twinge of guilt. The most extensive background check in the world couldn’t tell him how she would react under duress. Being cornered, no matter how temporarily, with a strange, dominant predatory changeling alpha was an effective stress test for most people.

“Unless you’ve got a sweet tooth, I think you’ve wasted your time, Mr. Denier.”  Her folded arms shifted, pushing her breasts up even higher until they nearly spilled over the heart-shaped top of her apron.  Instead of plain black canvas, hers was an ice blue that brought out the colour of her eyes, with cupcakes decorating the full skirt and ruffles of the same fabric edging the bodice.

“Hmm…”  He gave her a slow once-over.  Damn if she didn’t look like a treat herself with generous curves and freckles sprinkled generously over her creamy skin.  “Not worth the cavities.” The cat laughed as her jaw dropped in affront at the deliberate provocation.

“I promise I’ll only stick to the woods in this county, and I’ll let you know if I have to cross through your territory,” she said firmly, recovering quickly from the barb.  “I just want to run my business and not cause any trouble.”

Her cat was no doubt pissed he’d invaded her territory, but her eyes never flashed gold.  Other than the tiny shift to claws briefly, her other half never surfaced; as an alpha, he could tell.  If he hadn’t known beyond a doubt- and his nose never lied- what she was, he wouldn’t have guessed that she was changeling.  A few slips on her part were to be expected under the circumstances, which was a large part of the reason why he was there in the first place; he needed to see how she reacted.  But the sheer amount of control she had was bizarre for someone who had only lived among humans.

“How ‘bout you join RainFire?”

She gaped at him.

“No!” she cried once she realized he was serious.  Remi waited for her to elaborate upon her refusal.

“Why not?” he asked when it was obvious nothing else was forthcoming.  She continued to stare at him as if he were a few bricks shy of a load.

“Leopard,” she said slowly, pointing to him.  “Ocelot,” she pressed one hand over her heart.  Each word was carefully pronounced.

“DarkRiver has a jaguar and a lynx, we have a tiger. The old way of thinking was hurting more’n it was helping. No room for that in RainFire.” Lorelei seemed genuinely taken aback by that; she must have deliberately avoided any and all news touching upon changelings.  “Is it because of what happened at RedRock?” Women typically didn’t respond well to his bluntness unless he was seducing them, and by her full-body flinch, Lorelei It’s-Maddox-Now-Thank-You-Very-Much was no exception to the rule.

“You want an honest answer?”  Thin ginger brows climbed up her freckled forehead.  When he nodded, she pushed off the counter with muttered “fine” and a deep sigh.

“I just want to be left alone and nothing you can say will change my mind.”  Hands on her hips, her pink lips pursed into a bow that was probably poutier than she realized.

“You’ve managed pretty well on your own, sticking to mostly human areas.”  When he stood and stretched to his full height her breathing and heart rate quickened, but otherwise she gave no sign of being intimidated.  “How well do you think you’ll do now without pack to protect you? On your own, you’re prey for psy, changelings with a ‘tite more dominance on you, even humans if they're cunning enough.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Denier?”  Her face was a bloodless mask, yet she held his gaze with a hard stare of her own.  The contact only lasted as long as it took a heart to beat, but he felt electricity shoot through his body.  It wasn’t entirely sexual, despite his reaction. There was something off about her he just couldn’t put his finger on.

“No, but this is.”  The scent of fear sweat filled his nose, stronger than before.  “You’ve got one month to either join RainFire or leave town.  Au revoir, Ms. Maddox.” With a shallow nod of his head, he strode out the door and into the warm autumn afternoon.

[letterfromtrenwith]

Les trois Français - Ch. 7, 8 & 9

A crime/mystery AU

1793. After returning from the Americas to find only disappointment and heartbreak in Cornwall, Ross Poldark fled the place he once called home. Several years later, he leads a disordered, secretive life as one of London’s infamous Bow Street Runners, losing himself in the city’s murky alleyways and dark criminal workings.

His Aunt Agatha’s declining health finally convinces him to go back to Trenwith, the Poldark family home. There, he finds his cousin Francis, the county’s chief magistrate, embroiled in the perplexing case of the murders of three French emigres. Unable to resist the lure of a mystery, Ross must confront local politics, long-neglected friends, old enemies and lost loves in order to find the truth.

- Some new information, and a disturbing development.

~

Chapter 7

“I don’t recall this place.” Truro had not changed a great deal in the decade or so Ross had been away from it – Perrin the drapers, Sharrow the bookseller, The Red Lion Inn, all familiar from his youth. Not this establishment – although that was rather too grand a word for it –  the grimy, flaking sign over the small shop front proclaiming it as ‘R. F. Moreton, Licensed Pawnbroker’.

“Much cause to visit a pawnbroker in your youth, cousin?” Francis asked with the raise of an eyebrow, before laughing. “As much as it may not look it, Mr Moreton only set up shop here a half a dozen years ago. Come from Coventry, out of their sight of their law-men.”

“A fence?”

“Undoubtedly,” agreed their companion. William Henshawe Sr had been an acquaintance and sometime business associate of Ross’ father, but the eldest son had evidently chosen a different path. Francis described the man as the only truly useful constable he had been able to recruit. A solid, dependable-looking man with quick, intelligent eyes and a calm, friendly face. “But he chooses to be occasionally useful, so we allow him a bit of leeway. A necessary evil, like.”

“Ah.” Ross was not unfamiliar with such arrangements.

“He’s remarkably honest otherwise, relatively speaking.” Francis added. “With his genuine clients.”

“You believe he has something pertaining to the French murders?”

“He claims so. Something we need to see, so he says.” The shop was not open yet, so Henshawe tugged the ratty bell pull before hammering on the door when no answer was immediately forthcoming.

“All righ’, all righ’, don’t be batterin’ a man’s door in.” A weasel-like face appeared in a murky crack between door and frame, brightening into an obsequious smile when its owner recognised his visitors. “Ah, Cons’able - and the chief magistrate hisself! What an ‘onor for an ‘umble man such a meself. And who be this fine gen’leman?”

“Captain Poldark is a Bow Street Runner, assisting us in this matter.” Francis answered, flatly, evidently unmoved by the man’s ingratiating manner.

“Oh, ‘ow very excitin!” He waved them into a dark, cramped hallway leading into an equally cramped shop, high shelves stacked haphazardly with clocks, pottery, folded cloths and all manner of other goods sold off for desperately needed money – or to hide stolen property. Moreton edged behind a counter, leaving Ross, Francis and Henshawe pressed rather uncomfortably close together on the other side.

“Well, man, show us what you have. And if you are wasting our time…” Henshawe dropped his voice menacingly, and Moreton held up his hands beseechingly.

“Jus’ a minute!” He reached under the counter, bringing up an object wrapped in a bit of ragged cloth. Laying it down, he pulled back the fabric to reveal a knife – a long, thin blade with some sort of detailed handle. With some difficulty, the three law men crowded closer, Ross ending up peering over Francis’ shoulder as his cousin bent to look more closely.

“Bring some more light, will you?” The unwashed windows let in little of what light fell onto the side street housing the shop. Moreton brought over an old brass candelabra, thankfully without further comment. With better illumination, Ross could see that it was some sort of dagger, rather like the type Ross had seen amongst the Italian tradesmen in London, what they called a stiletto. The handle was not wood, however.

“Is that…?”

“Mother o’ pearl, I do believe.” Moreton declared. “A very fine piece, indeed.”

“So why show it to us instead of send it along for the pretty penny it is no doubt worth?” Francis asked, and Ross concurred with his suspicious tone. A country-town Cornish pawnbroker was unlikely to come across something so valuable very often, if at all. Turning it over the magistrates was not exactly good business practice.

“Well, considerin’ how fine it is, I assumed the fella what sold it to me didn’t come about it entirely honest, like. And that folk might be lookin’ fer it, and that if they were, old Moreton would be first port o’call for Mr. Henshawe ‘ere.”

“But you sent for me, Moreton.”

“I did that, sir. On account o’this.” He tilted the knife, exposing the place where the blade met the handle. Someone stood on Ross’ foot as they attempted to huddle even closer, but he barely felt it as he concentrated on the small red-brown mark at the hilt.

“Is that..?”

“Blood.”

~

“It might mean nothing. Blood on a sharp knife is hardly remarkable.”

“But an expensive knife sold off relatively cheap to a pawnbroker a short while after a murder shouldn’t be ignored.” Francis frowned, steadying himself as his horse picked its way around a puddle.

“You’re right, but if it’s just a dead end, we’ve wasted valuable time, especially if the Admiralty starts breathing down our necks again.”

“Indeed. I confess I do not like the notion that their agents have been operating here without my knowing of it. Not as much as I dislike the thought of a French spy, of course, but still.”

“You had no notion of either?”

“None whatsoever. Of course, the English agents will know how we work, how to avoid us. They could be anyone. But a French agent…I can’t shake the idea that that might have something to do with these murders.”

“I agree. Especially since there seems to be no obvious motive for du Pas or d’Aubigné’s murders.”

“Perhaps the spy killed them to cover his tracks?” Francis mused. “But Dwight says they were killed by different men. And I believe him to be right.”

“More than one spy?”

“Lord, I hope not.”

They were on their way to Killewarren to consult with Dwight about the knife, taken from a petulant Moreton, not pleased to have been rewarded for his public service with only a few coins – a fraction of the weapon’s true value.

“The price of honesty, Mr Moreton.” Francis had smiled, tucking the knife into his coat.

Moreton had been unable to given them much detail about the man who pawned it, bar a brief description of a stocky man with brown hair and a scar on the back of his hand. It was something and nothing. For fear of rousing suspicion, he could not have asked the man too many questions, especially not where he had got the knife.  

Henshawe had been despatched to find a couple of other constables and rout every informant and known lowlife they could find in an attempt to locate this person. It was long shot, but as Ross well knew, luck was a great friend to a lawman.

Dwight was thankfully at home when they arrived, Caroline looking crestfallen when told it was not a social call. She did manage to extract a promise from Francis that he and his sister would come for dinner soon, and retreated back into her sitting room looking triumphant, her little fat dog waddling behind her.  

“That woman is a force of nature.” Francis muttered as they followed a liveried footman to Dwight’s study. Ross chuckled – he hadn’t had much opportunity to meet his old friend’s wife, but he was rather impressed by her. Despite appearances, he thought that the serious, intellectual Dwight and the lively young woman were probably rather well matched.  

Dwight took the knife with interest, concurring that the stain upon it was indeed blood. He brought a mounted magnifying glass to a small table near the window and examined the weapon closely.

“Look, it’s been wiped. See the streaks here.” In better light it was indeed possible to see fine lines where someone had attempted to clean the blade.

“Could this knife have been used to kill either of our Frenchmen?” Ross asked. It annoyed him that he had not seen the bodies – he had heard Francis’ accounts, and read Dwight’s notes, but as excellent as they were, they were no substitute for his own observation. He felt at a disadvantage coming to this case so late, and he could feel a touch of excitement at the thought that this might finally, finally be a clue.

“Wait a moment.” Dwight searched through a pile of papers on his desk, returning with a sheet showing a neat drawing of what Ross realised was a knife-wound. “This was du Pas’ wound, a single strike through the back, piercing his heart. This blade is certainly long enough…and I believe it is the right shape also.”

“So, we could well have the weapon which killed du Pas…but not his killer.” Francis made a face. Ross looked back at him.

“Yet.”

Francis was pensive as they mounted their horses a short while later. Dwight had agreed to make an official report confirming that the knife was a good match for du Pas’ wounds, but also reiterated his original conclusion than an entirely different blade had been used on d’Aubigné.

“This is somewhat beyond my purview, so feel free to ignore me, but in my experience, the sort of injuries done to d’Aubigné – particularly the more…intimate ones – suggest someone acting in a great rage. Stabbing a man once is one thing, doing so two dozen times and mutilating him in such a fashion is an entirely different one.”

Ross was entirely inclined to agree with the doctor, and Francis had concurred also. On their way out, Ross lingered in the doorway, wanting to say something to Dwight, make some pathetic attempt at making amends for being such a poor friend for so long.

“Dwight…I must apologise for – “ Dwight looked up from the desk he had returned to, and shook his head, smiling.

“There is nothing to apologise for, my friend. Do not concern yourself.”

Ross was not sure he could have been quite so forgiving in Dwight’s shoes, but chose to be thankful for his friend’s good grace.

Turning out of Killewarren’s sweeping driveway, Ross was about to suggest they track down Henshawe and see if he had made any progress even in the relatively short time since they left him, when they were hailed by a call from behind them.

“Sirs! Sirs!” A young man came running up the road from the direction of Trenwith and Nampara; he skidded to a halt next to their horses, breathing heavily. It took him a few attempts to speak further, in the meantime thrusting a note into Francis’ hand. “Miss Demelza asks you come, sirs. She – hoo! – she says do ‘ave summin’ important for ye. Ugh.”

The young man gratefully accepted a few coins from Francis in reward for his message, as well as being ushered to Killewarren’s stable-yard, where the horsemaster agreed to give him some ale and let him sit a while. Ross and Francis immediately thereafter set off to find Demelza – who was one and the same as the Miss Carne Ross had been introduced to a few days earlier – following her instructions to meet her at a cottage in Sawle.

They found her sitting outside the little house, sharing a rugged wooden bench with another young woman – a pretty, soft-featured blonde who looked vaguely familiar to Ross.

“Mr Poldark, Captain, this is Emma Tregirls.”

“Tregirls?” Ross knew her instantly. “Tholly’s daughter?”

“Aye, sir.” Emma smiled. Tholly had been an employee of Ross’ father many years ago – a complete rogue by any stretch of the imagination, but a loyal servant. Tholly had never married Emma’s mother so far as Ross knew, but Ross had met the girl a few times when she was just a child.

“How is your father?”

“Dead, sir. Drowned.”

“I am sorry to hear it.” Both Emma and Demela had made disapproving faces at her words, so Ross surmised that whatever Tholly had been doing at the time of his death it had not been legal. Still, it was a sad end for a man Ross remembered with fondness.

“Your message, Demelza?” Francis hadn’t bothered with addressing her formally, and Ross took note of the familiar, almost intimate, way they looked at each other. Now was not the time to consider that further, however.

“It is Emma who wishes to speak to ye. She do serve at the kiddly, and overheard somethin’ I think may be very important.”

“Aye, Sirs.” Emma frowned a little, as if gathering her thoughts. “A man were in last night, payin’ for folks’ beer and drinkin’ hisself merry, boastin’ about ‘ow ‘e ‘ad ‘made ‘is fortune’ and the like. ‘Twould have thought nothin’ of it – a good night at card table or cock-fight and every man’s King Midas! – but when ‘e did come to pay he did give me a silver coin, and said ‘Ave some o’ that French bounty, me darlin’.”

“Do you still have the coin?” Francis asked. Ross had felt him go tense next to him at Emma’s words, and knew he shared his sense of excitement. This could be even more significant than the knife.

“No, sir. I ‘ad to turn it over to old Roger – he do own t’kiddly, and would ‘ave known if there were money missing – but I did ‘ide it when the man handed it over, so as no one else would see it.” Ross was impressed with her foresight – if anyone else in that ale-house had seen the coin, the man who handed it over could well have set himself up for a robbery, at the very least. He could have done it with his boasting alone.

“Do you know this man’s name? Or can you describe him?”

“No name. But ‘e were biggish man, although not fat like. Dark ‘air, scruffy. And he did have a scar on the back of ‘is hand.”

Chapter 8

The note had come to George’s office at about four o’clock, and he had to admit to being surprised by it. Francis, Ross and the constables had arrested a man for the murder of M. d’Aubigné. This man had apparently admitted taking an expensive knife from the scene of d’Aubigné’s murder, as well as a bag of French coins from the man’s body.

“So, d’Aubigné was robbed?” Elizabeth asked later, after he had relayed the information. They sat in their private sitting room after dinner, where they knew they would not be disturbed. George trusted most of his servants implicitly, but it was never for the best to discuss such things too openly. Not in front of the children, certainly – and not merely because such things were not suitable for young ears. Valentine and Ursula were both highly inquisitive and intelligent, not quite old enough to fully understand, but old enough to take in just enough that they could be liable to repeat things best not repeated.

“It appears so.”

“But did you not say that his injuries were very vicious?” George frowned at the remembrance. He did not consider himself especially sensitive, but he had rarely seen anything so unpleasant. The exact details he had not shared with Elizabeth – she was by no means delicate, but there were certain things people did not need to hear.

“Yes, which seems excessive for a thief.”

“And Francis said it was not a robbery originally, didn’t he?”

“M. d’Aubigné’s pocket-book was found in his room afterwards. With little inside.”

“So, where did all of the money come from? And in French coin? Had he deposited any with the Bank?”

“No. I went back and checked the ledgers today just to make sure.”

“So...”

“So it is all but confirmed, I think.”

“Then, you must tell Francis. It is surely imperative now.” George sighed. He knew Elizabeth was right. It had long pained him to keep things from his closest friend, especially when Francis was so open with him.

“Yes, but I must wait until we are sure. Furthermore, even if I tell what I know, it still leaves many unanswered questions. Du Pas, for one.”

“It is a great puzzle.” Elizabeth took a sip of her sherry. “One which I am afraid I must add to.”

“Oh, yes?” George had noticed that Elizabeth seemed a little distracted over dinner.

“I took Valentine and Ursula for a walk in the grounds today, and I met Caroline and Séraphine out riding.” Séraphine – the young Comtesse de la Chatre – was one of the Enys’ guests at Killewarren. At only sixteen, she had been smuggled out of France by loyal servants of her family – none of whom she had ever seen since. Tragically, it was highly likely they were all dead, or at the very least imprisoned. Now just eighteen, she had become close to both Caroline and Elizabeth, and often visited Elizabeth at Cusgarne, spending quite some time keeping her company throughout her recent confinement. The Comtesse was a sweet girl, and George admired her strength and gentility in the face of the tragedy she had suffered.

“Oh, yes?”

“We spoke for a while, but when they rode away, Séraphine held back, and she said that we must speak privately, and she would call on Wednesday. She was very agitated.”

“Agitated?”

“ Yes. She also said – she said she believed there was an imposter amongst us. I wanted to ask her what she meant, but Caroline called for her and she rode away.”

“You are sure that is what she said? An imposter?”

“Yes, absolutely. Imposteur.” Elizabeth looked puzzled, and George imagined his expression matched hers.

“What could she have meant by that? What sort of imposter?”

“I have no idea – I suppose I shall find out.”

“Indeed.”

“She seemed nervous when Ross, Francis and I spoke to her at the dinner party, but I assumed she was merely disturbed by what had happened to d’Aubigné.”

“Perhaps it is to do with d’Aubigné.”

“I cannot imagine how.” Elizabeth frowned into her glass. “Not after his death.”

“No.” George tutted. “Everything that happens seems only to throw up more questions and not answers. The more we try to unravel the threads, the more tangled they become.”

“Well, we should have a definitive answer to one question soon.”

“Yes. Very soon.”

~

“Papa!” George turned to see Ursula running across the gardens towards him, her little dress flying out behind her. Catching up to him, she took a firm hold of his coat. “Where are you going?”

“To the stables, my pet.”

“Can I come? To see the horses?” Ursula had inherited her mother’s love of the outdoors, happily accompanying her on walks in the gardens, and out to pick flowers. She was very fond of animals as well, especially dogs and horses, and extremely put out that she was not yet allowed to ride while her elder brother was. She looked up at George pleadingly, brown eyes identical to her mother’s. Even if he had been inclined to refuse her, it was terribly hard to do so. He bent to pick her up, her arms –warmly encased in a jacket Elizabeth or a nurse had no doubt struggled to get her into – wrapping around his neck.

“Oh, very well.”

While George dealt with his business with the horse master, one of the stable boys helped Ursula to feed a young foal.

“Little one has not been named yet, Sir. P’raps young mistress would like the honour?”

She most certainly would, and it took Ursula some time to decide, changing her mind several times before settling upon ‘Butterfly’.

“Perhaps,” said George, lifting his little girl into his arms again, “when she is grown up, you will be big enough to ride?”

“Really?”

“Yes.” The sheer happiness on her face was everything. Before leaving, he stopped a moment to see his own favoured mount, Mab. Ursula gently patted her nose as the beast snorted contentedly in her stall. George was about to turn back to the house – since he had a rare day at home, Elizabeth had insisted they have tea together as a family, and he had no intention of disappointing her – when he noticed the occupant of the opposite stall. A fine-looking Cleveland Bay with a light mane, it was not one of theirs, unless it had been acquired without his knowledge.

“Freddy,” he called over one of the most senior stable-boys, soon to be a groom, “where did that horse come from?”

“Oh, did Mr Barnett not say, Sir? He must have forgot. Daniel found her wandering t’other day, near the woods, covered in mud. She wasn’t hurt, so we jus’ cleaned her up and we’ve been feeding her. Mr Barnett meant to ask what you wanted done wi’ her.”

“When did you say she was found? Exactly?”

“Um, I believe ‘twas morning after that French fella was – “ He cut himself off, glancing at Ursula. “If you know what I mean, Sir.”  

“I do. Thank you, Freddy. Tell Mr Barnett just to keep looking after her for now.”

“Will do.” The young man carried on about his business, and George went back to the house, his mind turning over yet another question.

Ursula was full of her visit to the stables, regaling her mama and older brother with the details over tea.

“’Butterfly’? What a pretty name, my love.” Elizabeth smiled.

“Why did Ursula get to name the foal?” Valentine frowned.

“You named your horse, remember? Fitzgerald?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“What’s the new horse called, Papa?” Ursula asked before taking a big bite of ginger snap, dropping crumbs down her frock. Elizabeth tutted affectionately, and then frowned when she took in Ursula’s question.

“New horse?”

“It is not our horse, my dear. One of the stable boys found her wandering a few days ago.”

“A few days?” George couldn’t help but smile at the working of Elizabeth’s quick mind.

“Yes.” He glanced to the children, indicating they would speak later, and Elizabeth nodded.

“Now, Valentine, why don’t you tell Papa about your lessons?” Valentine was certainly delighted to share what he had learned, and George listened proudly.

After tea, they sat in the parlour for a while, Ursula and Valentine playing on the hearth rug, Nicholas sleeping in his cradle, and the twins sat between their parents on the sofa – Susannah watching Elizabeth sew, the needle kept carefully out of her reach, and Clare leaning against George’s side as he perused some routine papers from the Bank. It was a peaceful scene, and George knew he should be content, but his mind was not on his paperwork. It was trying to make some sense of everything: d’Aubigné , du Pas, the knife, the money, the thief, the horse…He felt as if there was something just out of reach, something his mind could not quite grasp. From the way Elizabeth kept unpicking her stitches, and pausing with her needle stuck in the fabric, he knew she was likely similarly absorbed.

The door opened, admitting a housemaid, Polly.

“Sir, Madam, there is a lady here who wishes to speak with you. Mistress Vosper.”

“Margaret?” Elizabeth and George shared a glance.

“I showed her to your study, Sir.”

“Thank you, Polly. Will you stay with the children for a few moments, please?”

“Of course, Sir.”

Margaret Vosper awaited them in George’s study, looking both serious and triumphant. She had a letter folded in her gloved hands.

“It is confirmed, at last.” She handed George the note. “Nothing. We have him.”

~

“You are distracted, my dear.” Elizabeth smiled at him over her tea cup at the breakfast table the following morning. “You have still not decided?”

In light of Margaret’s visit – and the information she brought – George and Elizabeth had sat up most of the night in deep discussion. On the one hand, they had the answer to an important question, on the other, it created yet other questions and brought into sharp focus as dilemma he had been continually putting off resolving.

“You must take Francis into your confidence now.” Elizabeth had insisted as they readied for bed. “Ross, too, perhaps.”

“Ross?”

“Well, he is as deeply involved now as anyone. I cannot claim to know him as I once did, but Francis would not have invited him in if he did not still believe him trustworthy, family affection or no.”

“You are right – as you always are. To tell all to Francis is surely the only correct course, and yet still I find myself hesitant.”

“Considering what we now know…” She glanced up at him in her dresser mirror, understanding dawning on her lovely face. “You are concerned for his reaction.”

“I have deceived him, my truest friend, save yourself…Oh! It is foolish, I know. Sentimental, as Cary would say.”

Elizabeth had wrinkled her nose at his mention of his uncle, his only living Warleggan relative, temporarily lightening George’s mood. Cary had never particularly approved of George’s choice of a wife, considering the Chynoweth family, although an ancient one, to be insufficiently rich or influential to provide an advantageous match. But as it was neither her name nor her fortune which made Elizabeth desirable so far as George was concerned,  he had ignore his uncle’s objections. Cary had not softened much in the years since, nor done a great deal to earn the favour of his niece-in-law.

“Well, so much as it pains me to say this, my love, in this matter I believe Cary and I would be in agreement.  Sentiment must be put aside, for the overall good.”

“My uncle has never been concerned with the overall good.”

He smiled as he recalled the conversation, draining his own tea. It was time to set off for the Bank. The decision would have to wait, but he could not put off the inevitable. He took his leave with a kiss to Elizabeth’s cheek, but as he collected his hat in the front hallway, there was an insistent knocking on the door. It was far quicker to answer himself than wait for a footman. An agitated-looking messenger was on the other side, and he thrust a folded paper into George’s hand.

Elizabeth arrived as he read – attracted by the noise of the visitor. She had to speak to him more than once before he answered her, so startled and unnerved by the contents of the note was he.

“George?...George? What is it?”

“Oh, it – It appears my decision has been made for me. I am afraid that someone else has been killed. Murdered.”

“Oh, no. Who?”

“I am sorry, my love, but it the Comtesse – Séraphine.”

Chapter 9

“Spratt continues to insist he is no murderer.” Ross shifted in his chair. “And I believe him.”  

Ezekial Spratt was career petty larcenist who had somehow managed to never be brought up in front of Francis, but whose description was thankfully instantly recognisable to the ever reliable Henshawe. Spratt took a little tracking down, but was eventually dragged out of a bawdy-house where he had been using his newly-acquired wealth to entertain himself like a king. According to the constables – who may have generally lacked wits but did at least possess muscle – extracting Spratt had been a sight easier than prying the silver coins out of the hands of the house’s madam, although the threat of an appearance at the next Assizes had ultimately proven effective.  

Faced with the inside of Truro jail, as well as interrogation by Francis, Ross and Henshawe, Spratt instantly admitted to finding the knife in the clearing, and robbing d’Aubigné’s body of his purse, but swore by every version of God he could imagine – as well as on his mother’s grave – that he had not killed the man. Although Henshawe had warned that Spratt was an habitual liar, Francis found himself inclined to believe the man.  

Spratt was clearly an unscrupulous worm, but he was no killer. Especially not one who would mutilate their victim in such horrific and intimate fashion.    

 “I agree with you, cousin. “ Francis sat back and scrubbed a hand over his face. They had been up most of the night questioning Spratt. “So, considering where Spratt found it, the knife seems to belong to d’Aubigné. Or his killer.”  

“It had to be d’Aubigné. A different knife was used by his killer. D’Aubigné must have taken the knife to defend himself but was disarmed somehow. The fine craftsmanship of the weapon is certainly fitting to someone of d’Aubigné’s former wealth.”  

“But if it is d’Aubigné’s, then he likely killed du Pas. For what reason we don’t know.” 

“Some of this must have something to do with this French spy your nephew told us about.” Ross frowned, obviously feeling as frustrated as Francis.

 “But who is the spy? Did d’Aubigné kill du Pas for being the spy, and was then killed by some compatriot of du Pas’? Or was d’Aubigné the spy? If so, who killed him? Or were they both killed by the spy? If so, why so differently? Oh Lord, but this is a quagmire!”  

“As to the spy – have you truly had no hints from your own informant? Not even the Carne girl?”

 “Oh, there have been rumours of French collaborators for years, but they were always just wild speculation and gossip. Whoever the spy is, they have been careful, and the Admiralty’s agents equally so in concealing their enquiries.” Francis had not missed the odd intonation in Ross’ voice when he asked about Demelza – it had not been an entirely casual question. Ross had evidently deduced some part of the true nature of his relationship with Demelza. She was not just a tenant of the land he cared for, nor merely an informant – she was so much more. But now was no time to dwell on his difficult situation with her – aside from the fact that it was yet another impossible conundrum. He chose to ignore Ross’ rather unsubtle probing. “If d’Aubigné went out into the woods with a knife and a purse full of coins, he must have been meeting someone for some purpose or another. Blackmail, perhaps.”  

“On his part or the other’s?” Ross gave a mirthless laugh at Francis’ frustrated sigh. “Yes, cousin. I too feel as if I am continually banging my head against a wall.”

 That was when Henshawe burst into the room. 

~ 

It was a very severe Dwight, and a very pale Caroline, who met them in the entrance hall at Killewarren. 

“It is the Comtesse?” Francis asked, although Henshawe had already told him. He supposed he could not quite believe it. Dwight nodded grimly, and Caroline let out a tiny sob, gripping her husband’s arm tightly. She had obviously been crying already, and Francis felt badly for her. Through the doorway into the parlour, he could see the poor remaining souls of the household – Madame de Voyer, and the MM. de Dreux and Leféron.  They sat silent and solemn, huddled close together by an unlit fireplace.

I must end this, Francis thought. End these people’s terror. They came here to escape a horrific death, but have been met with brutality and violence nevertheless.

 “Yes, it is. I have confirmed it.” 

“Where was she found?” Ross demanded. Dwight glanced at Caroline, clearly not wishing to speak more in front of her. A clearly astute maid gently placed her hand on her mistress’ arm.  

“Come, mistress. Come and sit down, let the master and Mr Francis look after the Comtesse now.” Caroline let herself be led away. Francis admired how much she had striven to so far put a brave face on things for the sake of her guests, but the death of the young girl he knew she had become close to had clearly hit her very hard. It was not merely for the sake of the French that this terrible situation had to be resolved. Once certain his wife was taken care of, Dwight turned back to them. 

“In the gardens, out beside the rockeries. She often walked there in the mornings.”  

“Who found her?” Francis dearly hoped it had not been Caroline. 

“One of the groundsmen. He’s downstairs with a glass of brandy.”  

“Let us speak to him first.”  

David Rowe was a broad, rugged-featured man somewhere in his thirties. His powerful build marked him out as a physical labourer, and might have ordinarily made him somewhat intimidating. Now, he slumped on a stool at the scrubbed kitchen table, staring blankly down at the glass he held in a shaking hand. 

“David.” Dwight spoke to him quite gently, as if he were a nervous patient. “This is Mr Francis Poldark, and Captain Poldark. They are here about the Comtesse.”  

“That poor girl.” The big man’s voice was very small and quiet. “Lyin’ there like…Such a sweet thing she was, no airs and graces, despite who she were. Smile at us all while she walked through t’gardens.”  

“Mr Rowe, why were you in the gardens this morning?” Unless he was an extraordinarily good actor, David Rowe had not killed the Comtesse, but Ross’ question still had to be asked. It took Rowe a moment to absorb it, and his head snapped towards them.  

“I din’t do it! I could never!”  

“They didn’t say you did, David.” Dwight soothed. “Just tell them what you told me.”  

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” The man took a deep breath, gathering himself. “I were comin’ back from Tehidy. My sister be a cook there and I went t’ visit yesterday. Spent afternoon helpin’ some of the men tryin’ to fix the water pump in the yard – ‘tis blocked so it seems…Anyhow, I stayed night in my sister’s cottage and I were walkin’ back this morn’. Took shortcut through gardens as I were later comin’ than I intended. I came round end of hedge and….and…” “You found her.” Francis finished.  “Aye. Her ‘ead were…Oh, Lord, I never seen such a terrible thing.” And with that, he put his head in his big, rough hands and sobbed.  

Dwight led them back to the same room where, just a few days ago, M. d’Aubigné had been brought. At first appearance, the Comtesse showed no such signs of violence as he had. Someone had covered her with a sheet, which Dwight gently removed. She lay on her back, hands neatly at her sides, eyes closed. Her hair was disordered, and her pale yellow skirts were filthy – not just at the hem, which might have been expected from a walk, but all up the front to her knees.  

“Prepare yourselves, gentlemen.” Dwight took a firm hold of the young woman and turned her on to her side. Francis took a moment to realise that the horrified gasp he heard had come from himself, while he felt Ross stiffen beside him. The back of the Comtesse’s head had been caved in, blood and gore matted into her pale brown hair. 

“Dear God in Heaven.” The groundsman’s horror suddenly made perfect sense. D’Aubigné’s injuries had been terrible, Lord knew, but this…Dwight lay her back down, even his face ashen. With equal tenderness, he lifted both her arms to show a multitude of cuts and scratches on their undersides.

 “Likely caused by her falling onto the gravel path.” 

“What – What was used?” Francis asked, fighting to steady his voice. Dwight stepped to the side to indicate a heavy stone on the bench behind him. It was covered in blood.

“Her hair is stuck to the blood, also. It is from the rockery, there are a dozen others like it.” Carefully, Dwight covered her up again. “I will prepare a thorough report as always, but if you don’t mind, I should like to go back to my wife.”  

“Of course, Dwight. Thank you.” Ross patted his friend gratefully on the back as he passed, and both Poldarks watched him disappear down the corridor in silence.  

“We must catch this monster.” Francis spoke first after Dwight had disappeared up the servant’s stairs to the main house.  

“You think it is the same man who killed d’Aubigné?”  

“Do you not?” 

“I do. For the pure savagery of it. But, why her?”  

“Why any of them? Why any of this?” Francis slammed his hand against the wall in frustration. “I have been stumbling around in the dark like a fool, and now that poor girl is dead!”

 “I feel your frustration, Francis, believe me, but there is nothing we could have done. We have had nothing to go on. We still have nothing.”  

George and Elizabeth Warleggan were arriving when they eventually came back upstairs, perhaps sent for in the hope that Elizabeth could provide some comfort to her friend. Elizabeth also looked shaken – she too had been close to the young Frenchwoman, Francis knew. After greeting them briefly, she hurried into the parlour.  

“Caroline, my dear.”  

“Oh, Elizabeth, it is too dreadful.” As the maid closed the door, Francis caught a glimpse of Elizabeth embracing Caroline, who had begun to cry again.  

“This is a terrible business.” George was frowning in the direction his wife had gone, from whence the sound of Caroline’s weeping, and the murmur of Elizabeth and Dwight’s voices, could still be heard. “That poor girl.” 

“Terrible, indeed. But, if you will excuse us, George – “ Francis would have perhaps liked to discuss this newest development with his friend. George had a quick, analytical mind, born of years of being buried in accounts books, and his input had helped Francis with several cases. However, Ross was here now, and he had much more experience with this type of crime. Besides, he could not share the confidential information James Blamey had provided them about the French spy. 

“Actually, Francis, there is something I must tell you. Regarding Séraphine – the Comtesse.” Both Ross and Francis had been making to leave, but this stopped them in their tracks. “Two days ago, Elizabeth chanced upon her out riding in the woods. They could not speak privately, but the Comtesse said she would call upon her today. She told Elizabeth she believed there was an imposter among us.”  

“An imposter?” Ross frowned.  

“Yes – those were here exact words. ‘An imposter among us’.” 

“Did she say who this ‘imposter’ was?” 

“No, as I said, we assumed she would explain herself today. It seems likely that this ‘imposter’ has prevented her.”  

“So it does.” This cast things in a somewhat different light. Could the Comtesse have been referring to the spy? But how did she know of it? More questions!

“There is another thing. It could be nothing, but I feel strongly that it is not. One of our stable boys found a wandering horse at the edge of our grounds – the night after d’Aubigné was killed.”  

“Well that – “ Francis suddenly remembered something, a report he had glance over the a few days ago, but cast aside as being minor, and unrelated to the more serious matters at hand. “Is it a Cleveland Bay?”  

“Yes.” 

“One was stolen from the Kerwin Farm that same night.”   

~

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