She permitted herself the briefest of laughter. It was a brittle, a heartbreaking sound. “And what, now, do I answer? If I say no, you will not believe me; and if I say yes, I will not believe myself. But I cannot avoid the one or the other; so no it must be, Miss Austen. I did not kill the Captain.”I expected her to look at me then, to convey the sincerity of her words; but she did not. The very sight of my countenance must be odious to her. “I have been moved to wish for his death in the past; and I admit that his death, once achieved, caused me no pain. —Until, that is, my cousin was taken for it.”
“And why should I believe what you say?” I enquired gently.
She shrugged. “Why should you believe otherwise?”
“Because I am committed to a pursuit of the truth,” I replied, “and must consider every possible alternative. I will leave no stone undisturbed, until I have found the meaning behind Fielding's death, and may know whether your cousin is guilty or no. My heart whispers that he is not; he had not the look of wilful deceit, in all his assertions to the coroner—his was rather the appearance of intentional restraint.”
“And so you would have me stand in his place.” Her expression of amusement was scathing. “I would gladly take it for him, if he would let me. I would give my life for Geoffrey, Miss Austen!” she cried, with a passionate look. “And even you, who must bear him some love, could never say as much.”
“I? Low? That is absurd,” I replied, excessively stung. “I am merely an Englishwoman, who pays the notion of justice the most profound respect I would not have your cousin falsely accused, and hang for a crime he did not commit”
“Noble words,” Seraphine said, with something like a sneer, “but false words nonetheless. You Englishwomen are all the same—cold, and unwilling to admit in the brain what the heart knows to be truth. Well, Miss Austen, I am French. And I say you are in love with my cousin. I am not afraid to look the truth full in the face. But I hate you for it.”
“Hate me if you will, Mademoiselle. Believe what you will. It is no concern of mine,’” I rejoined, with an effort at calm. “I care only for the facts. Were you within the Grange's walls, the night of Fielding's murder?”
“Why should I answer you?”
“Because the more knowledge I have, the more likely that I will find the truth; and that can only help us all. Even did I prove your cousin guilty, we might draw comfort from the certainty. Would you rather continue in ignorance, and allow blind luck to determine the outcome?”
“No,” she said reluctandy. “Though you will understand that the truth makes not a particle of difference to me. I care nothing for your justice. I care only for Geoffrey. But if the world believes him guilty, he shall certainly die. I am not so wilful I do not see the danger.”
“Will you answer me, then?”
The need for hope and the desire to thwart me struggled for mastery in her face. “I was within the Grange all night. I did not stir beyond its doors, as the housekeeper, Mary, may vouch. You were correct, when you said we had guests abovestairs. She and I were much occupied in tending to them.”
“A smuggler's crew?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps. You saw yourself what a friend my cousin has been to them.”
“A friend? Not their leader?”
She did not answer.
“How many horses are stabled at the Grange, Mademoiselle?”
“Eight,” she answered, without hesitation. “A matched pair for the curricle, and Satan, of course; four draft horses for the farm; and my own mount.”
“And do all bear the same sort of shoes?”
“Stamped with Geoffrey's initials, you mean? Of course. Any of the horses might have left those prints.”
“Any, that were the same size, and bore the same weight,” I replied thoughtfully, “for the height of the horse and the heft of its mount, must severely affect the impressions.”
“That is true!” she cried. “Geoffrey is a tall, well-built fellow, and Satan the same. Not every horse could make a print like that stallion's, when Geoffrey is upon him.”
“Not, for example, yourself.”
“No,” she replied, with a bitter smile. “My Elf is a dainty lady. The draft horses, however, with a man astride, might manage it”
“There is also the curious affair, Mademoiselle, of the white