the bulrushes beyond. I knew what he was thinking.
“That’s where my brother found the body,” I said.
“Is all this your land, Miss Talbot?”
“The water meadow separates our land from Mr. Maitland’s. The property line runs down the center.”
His eyes gazed across the water, up the incline, and soon discovered the shepherd’s hut. When I mentioned that Lollie and I had seen Stoddart there with Maitland, nothing would do but Renshaw must see it. And I was just curious enough that I went along with him.
There was little enough to see. The sod hut, with its perishing thatched roof, was a square of six or seven feet on all sides. The only opening was the doorway. As the place had been abandoned for years, any creature comforts had been removed. All that remained was a bed of straw in one corner. Renshaw made straight for it.
“This is new straw!” he exclaimed.
A pile of fresh straw had been placed on top of the old. “I expect some tramp has spent the night here. Perhaps that is how poor Mr. Stoddart was killed,” I suggested.
Renshaw lifted up the new top straw and examined it. Then he lifted something out and held it up. It was a length of a lady’s blue ribbon about a foot long. There is nothing much to distinguish one blue ribbon from another. There must be two dozen local ladies who wore ribbons similar to the one Renshaw held between his thumb and finger. In fact, Mrs. Murray had been wearing blue ribbons yesterday when Aunt Talbot was reading her palm.
“It seems the tramp got lucky,” Renshaw said.
I gave him a cool stare for this piece of impropriety. “You aren’t in India now, Mr. Renshaw. Indian manners aren’t appreciated here.”
“You do the Indians an injustice. They are extremely polite. But not even they are so polite as to honor a vagrant in the manner this ribbon suggests.”
“It’s perfectly obvious some serving girl has been meeting her beau here,” I said, displeased with this broad talk.
He handed me the ribbon. “Very nice ribbon for a serving maid,” he said.
It was a satin ribbon, richer than could be purchased in Chilton Abbas. Mulliner’s keeps a thin, skimpy satin ribbon. Not narrow in width, but flimsy. It soon loses its shape. The shade of this ribbon was also richer than could be had locally. And there was a hint of purple in it, sort of a periwinkle shade.
“Ladies often give their older ribbons to their servants,” I said. “I trust you aren’t suggesting a lady was using the hut for a trysting spot.”
“So far as I know there are no ladies living on this property. Maitland is a bachelor, is he not?”
“Yes. And before you say it, Mr. Renshaw, I am the lady living closest to the hut. I assure you I did not—” His startled stare told me I had defended my fair name unnecessarily.
“I never suspected it for a moment. You stand much too high on your dignity, ma’am. What I am wondering is whether you happened to give this ribbon to one of your servants.”
“I did not. A lady with green eyes doesn’t usually wear blue ribbons.”
He dangled the bit of ribbon by my face. “It would look well with your hair, though,” he said. I jerked my head away. “Well, well. I believe we have a clue here,” he said, and folding the ribbon up, he put it in his pocket.
“You should give it to McAdam.”
He ignored my suggestion. “While we’re here, shall we have a look at the graveyard?” he said.
“I’ve had enough of an outing for one day, but as you are so interested in Mr. Stoddart’s murder, the graves he was looking for belonged to the Fanshawes. There’re no such graves in our cemetery.”
We began the walk back to the carriage, with the graveyard looming ahead on our right.
“I own I’m intrigued by this murder,” he admitted. “What could be serious enough for one human being to kill another—outside of the folly of war, I mean?”
“I believe you’ll find man’s ego is usually the cause. As you have just come from
“That’s where my brother found the body,” I said.
“Is all this your land, Miss Talbot?”
“The water meadow separates our land from Mr. Maitland’s. The property line runs down the center.”
His eyes gazed across the water, up the incline, and soon discovered the shepherd’s hut. When I mentioned that Lollie and I had seen Stoddart there with Maitland, nothing would do but Renshaw must see it. And I was just curious enough that I went along with him.
There was little enough to see. The sod hut, with its perishing thatched roof, was a square of six or seven feet on all sides. The only opening was the doorway. As the place had been abandoned for years, any creature comforts had been removed. All that remained was a bed of straw in one corner. Renshaw made straight for it.
“This is new straw!” he exclaimed.
A pile of fresh straw had been placed on top of the old. “I expect some tramp has spent the night here. Perhaps that is how poor Mr. Stoddart was killed,” I suggested.
Renshaw lifted up the new top straw and examined it. Then he lifted something out and held it up. It was a length of a lady’s blue ribbon about a foot long. There is nothing much to distinguish one blue ribbon from another. There must be two dozen local ladies who wore ribbons similar to the one Renshaw held between his thumb and finger. In fact, Mrs. Murray had been wearing blue ribbons yesterday when Aunt Talbot was reading her palm.
“It seems the tramp got lucky,” Renshaw said.
I gave him a cool stare for this piece of impropriety. “You aren’t in India now, Mr. Renshaw. Indian manners aren’t appreciated here.”
“You do the Indians an injustice. They are extremely polite. But not even they are so polite as to honor a vagrant in the manner this ribbon suggests.”
“It’s perfectly obvious some serving girl has been meeting her beau here,” I said, displeased with this broad talk.
He handed me the ribbon. “Very nice ribbon for a serving maid,” he said.
It was a satin ribbon, richer than could be purchased in Chilton Abbas. Mulliner’s keeps a thin, skimpy satin ribbon. Not narrow in width, but flimsy. It soon loses its shape. The shade of this ribbon was also richer than could be had locally. And there was a hint of purple in it, sort of a periwinkle shade.
“Ladies often give their older ribbons to their servants,” I said. “I trust you aren’t suggesting a lady was using the hut for a trysting spot.”
“So far as I know there are no ladies living on this property. Maitland is a bachelor, is he not?”
“Yes. And before you say it, Mr. Renshaw, I am the lady living closest to the hut. I assure you I did not—” His startled stare told me I had defended my fair name unnecessarily.
“I never suspected it for a moment. You stand much too high on your dignity, ma’am. What I am wondering is whether you happened to give this ribbon to one of your servants.”
“I did not. A lady with green eyes doesn’t usually wear blue ribbons.”
He dangled the bit of ribbon by my face. “It would look well with your hair, though,” he said. I jerked my head away. “Well, well. I believe we have a clue here,” he said, and folding the ribbon up, he put it in his pocket.
“You should give it to McAdam.”
He ignored my suggestion. “While we’re here, shall we have a look at the graveyard?” he said.
“I’ve had enough of an outing for one day, but as you are so interested in Mr. Stoddart’s murder, the graves he was looking for belonged to the Fanshawes. There’re no such graves in our cemetery.”
We began the walk back to the carriage, with the graveyard looming ahead on our right.
“I own I’m intrigued by this murder,” he admitted. “What could be serious enough for one human being to kill another—outside of the folly of war, I mean?”
“I believe you’ll find man’s ego is usually the cause. As you have just come from
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