to witness the transformation of summer to winter.
He hoped to God they would be able to identify the person responsible for her death. No one deserved to die more than the despicable fiend who’d murdered her.
But he mustn’t dwell on her death. It wouldn’t bring her back. His energies would be better directed at finding her killer. “How, my dear Dot, do you propose to walk along the River Avon when much of its frontage is across people’s private property?
“I can’t think of everything. I’m relying on you to determine how we’re to examine as much riverside as possible. You’re the man. And a lord, too. Who can deny you?”
He chuckled—though he had to reluctantly admit there was some truth to what she said. People were always intimidated by titles of nobility. It had been his experience that oftentimes he met with inordinate success merely by mentioning his title. “You would agree, would you not, that she had to have gone into the water north of the Pulteney Bridge?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Then I suggest we just start walking along the river, on its west side, of course.”
She nodded.
That’s what they did as soon as they reached the distinctive bridge. The area near where the river bank and the Pulteney Bridge converged was highly populated. “This could not possibly be the scene of the murder,” she said.
“I agree. He would have to have selected a more remote location for his dirty deed.” It was the dirtiest deed that could possibly be committed.
During the next half hour’s walk, the riverbank was surrounded by fairly dense population, most of which looked to be private houses. At any moment he expected someone to shout at them for infringing on property, but to his surprise, they didn’t see a single soul.
He was telling Dot about the dogs he kept at Hawthorne Manor—in answer to her questions—when he saw something that caused him to pause. That is where the murder occurred.
He eyed an ancient church—more of a chapel, really. Could Sunday service still be held there? The old church’s stones had become black with age, and it was so small, he doubted more than two dozen worshippers would be able to gather within its walls.
Who would be here on a weekday night? He felt almost certain the murderer would have asked Ellie to meet him here under the cover of darkness.
Then he would have murdered her. No one would have been around to see him lug her body and toss it into the nearby river.
Dot clutched his forearm. “That’s got to be it!”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“They can’t still be worshipping here,” she said as they came closer to the old church. “The place looks as if it hasn’t been used in years.”
“More like centuries.”
When they reached it, he tried the weathered timber door, not expecting it to be unlocked. It opened, its hinges groaning from disuse. They both stood inside the musty vestibule for a moment as their vision adjusted to the darkness, and then they strolled into the tiny church.
Dot ran a gloved hand over the back of the last pew. It left a patch of thick dust on her pale blue glove. Not a single hymnal or Book of Common Prayer was in evidence.
“Your suspicions are right. The church is no longer used for religious purposes,” he said. It sickened him to think of what this former house of worship might be the scene of nowadays.
She walked to the nave and stood there for a moment, her face as solemn as a hired mourner’s. “She was murdered here.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I feel it.”
“Then I suggest we invoke the scientific method, and . . .”
“Look for clues.” She began to walk toward the miniscule sanctuary. There was no longer an altar at the front of the church. With each step, she looked left and right, paying particular attention to the rough stone floors covered in dirt.
He moved behind her, duplicating her actions and looking in the same places she had already looked. When they reached the sanctuary, she went to the right, he to the left.
Almost indiscernible in the church’s dim light, especially in the dark corner, a scrap of red fabric was gathering dust. His stomach sank. Ellie often wore a red dress when working at Mrs. Starr’s.
He moved to the corner as if he were approaching a poisonous viper and bent to pick it up. The red was still vibrant, proving it had not been there for long. It was a moment before he