The Lord and the Banshee (Read by Candlelight #13) - Gillian St. Kevern Page 0,13

library. Lord Connaught displayed an interest—I suppose research appeals to his journalist training—and Miss O’Flaherty doesn’t have a choice.”

Thomas glanced at him, but Julian didn’t seem to mean anything in particular by his statement. “That was a good thought. Pip’s not likely to come to much harm in a library with so many witnesses present.”

Julian turned to glance back at him. His eyes caught the sunlight, exaggerating the yellow of his irises. “If anyone can manage it, Father can.”

Thomas frowned at him. “Be more respectful when you speak of your father. He has gone to great lengths on your behalf, and he cares about you greatly.”

“I care about him too, but I don’t see that caring means that I should ignore his foibles.” Julian turned back to the path. “And you must admit that father has no end of foibles.”

“I do not discuss his foibles.” The grass up ahead was scuffed with footmarks and there were a few small stones scattered over flattened grass. “This looks like the place.”

Julian rolled up his sleeves. “Indeed.” He got down on his knees, inhaling the grassy scents.

Thomas glanced around. Pip was not the only member of their family with foibles it was better not to comment on. He saw no sign of any gardeners or other members of the household staff. For the moment, they were unobserved.

“This is the place all right.” Julian tapped the grass. “Father was standing here when the stones fell. See the indent in the ground? That would have been him turning on his heels once he spotted the falling rocks.”

The spot Julian indicated was a good distance from the scattering of small stones. Cross’s chest relaxed. “And the stones?”

Julian crawled over the grass. “Here.” He indicated the vicinity of the small stones. “They’ve removed the big ones.”

“Not quite the narrow escape your father described, but I suppose that anyone might exaggerate in the circumstances.”

Julian stood, examining the knees of his suit for grass stain. “Two metres is still a bit too close for comfort.”

Cross shaded his eyes against the sun, peering upwards at the stonework on the roof. There was a noticeable chunk missing. “Learn anything from the roof?”

Julian pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands. “Nothing useful. The scents of the entire household are up there. After it happened, everyone had to troop up to the roof to examine the damage—including Great-Aunt Beatrice and Cousin Stella.”

So they shared the same suspicion. “Do you know where they were when the masonry fell?”

“I decided that too many questions at one time might look odd. I’ll enquire later.”

Cross nodded. “It might be pure coincidence. The stone looks old enough, and it’s clear that the estate has been neglected while in probate. That shadow your father saw might have been imagination.” Pip had enough of the stuff to spare. “All the same, it’s interesting that the banshee’s return coincides with the arrival of a distant heir with no love for Connaught castle.”

Julian folded his handkerchief and replaced it in his jacket pocket. “I didn’t tell you what I smelled last night after pursuing the banshee.”

In the fuss following Cross’s attack, they’d almost entirely forgotten the banshee. “What did you learn?”

Julian led the way across the lawn to a spot where a cross had been marked in the turf by a pen knife. “As far as father and I have been able to determine, this is where we saw the banshee last night.”

Cross peered at the grass. It was trampled, yes, but he could only make out two sets of shoe prints—Pip’s and Julian’s. “No footprints?”

Julian shook his head. “Not a blade of grass touched. I wouldn’t even have been sure this was the right spot if not for the scent.” His shoulders hunched together.

Now this was promising. Cross rested his hands on his walking stick. “What did you smell?” Julian’s nose could not be admitted as evidence publicly, but it could give them a valuable pointer towards the guilty party.

Julian tugged at his cuffs. “Do you remember the winter we spent in Paris? Mr Scott thought the catacombs might interest me.”

“I remember. You did not care for the experience.”

Julian shook his head. “It was the smell. I don’t know how to describe it—sweet on top, mixed with incense and herbs like a church. But underneath it, this choking sweet, sort of sour smell—it was decay and mould and neglect. It was everywhere, you couldn’t help but breath it in. It stuck to your throat until you were breathing