Chapter 7

The Dispatch Ledger

It was two days after returning from the Harold stables that Sion Arden sent a note ahead to the Crowell manor, and in it he wrote, once again, that he wished to walk in the garden with the lady. This time, however, he enclosed with the note a small parcel holding a white handkerchief, freshly washed and pressed. It was the handkerchief with the rose embroidered in the corner. He had pressed two coins into the hand of the old laundress at the knights' headquarters to see to it, and she had taken a third, saying she had had a dreadful time keeping the embroidered rose from being ruined.

The reply came that evening in a small, neat hand: thanks for the return of the handkerchief, a single line saying the garden would be free at two o'clock the following afternoon, and, at the very bottom, a postscript saying that the butler Claude wished to see Sir Arden. That was all.

Sion read the postscript three times. There was no reason in the world for a butler to wish to see a fiancé. In that case, the lady meant to pass him something, using the butler as a pretext. What she meant to pass him he could not tell. Sion folded the reply and slipped it between the pages of his notebook, and then, with his own hands, brushed the worn cuffs of the uniform he would wear the next day.

The butler's room of the Crowell manor was at the western end of the ground floor of the main house, right beside the servants' stairs. The room was cramped but immaculate, and on the bookshelf that took up one wall stood leather ledgers of identical size, shelved by year. Claude held his back straight despite his seventy years, and when Sion entered, he rose from his chair and bowed precisely once from the waist.

"Sir Arden. The lady said you might have questions concerning House Harold, Sir, so I have prepared the ledgers in advance."

The old man's voice carried no emotion whatsoever. But the very words "prepared the ledgers in advance" meant that this butler had granted the lady's requests more than once before.

Open on the desk lay the dispatch ledger from two years ago. Every item that had left the house was recorded one line at a time: the date, the recipient, the sender, even the contents. The page Claude indicated with his finger was the month in which the engagement of the lady and Count Harold had been announced, and Sion read slowly down the lines.

The day after the engagement announcement, a pair of silver candlesticks to House Harold in the name of His Grace the Duke. Appropriate to the formalities of an engagement gift. Three days later, in the name of the Lady Adelaide, a single handkerchief embroidered by hand and one book titled On Horses and Riders. She had apparently chosen it knowing the Count was fond of horses. And eleven days after the announcement, in the name of the Duchess, a basket addressed to the old mother of House Harold.

The contents of the basket, listed separately, were dried figs, a southern specialty; a jar of honey; preserved lemons; and one sack of southern grain samples. Sion's finger stopped at that last item.

"What are these grain samples?"

"Around that time Her Grace had opened dealings with several southern merchants. On account of silk for Lady Céline's trousseau. The merchants sent over various samples by way of courtesy, and as the grain samples were of no use in this house, I understand she put them into the gift basket as well. Since the Count was said to keep many horses."

"Which merchant was it?"

What Claude turned to show him was the receiving ledger for the same month. The list of samples received from southern merchants named two silk merchants, one spice merchant, and one grain merchant, and beside the grain merchant's trade name was a small drawing, the butler's copy of the mark the merchant used. A red circle. The very mark the lady had spoken of in the stables, when she said the oat sacks had changed from a blue anchor to a red circle.

Sion took out his notebook, copied the drawing exactly, and wrote the duchess, the basket, the southern grain samples, and the red circle on a single line, then drew a line beneath it. The motive was already there, a stepmother who did not welcome her stepdaughter's matches; and now there was even a route, running from the grain samples in the stepmother's basket, through the horse that ate that grain, to the fall three days later.

Even after he had finished drawing the line, he could not lift the nib from the paper. When he had written motive and opportunity in this same notebook on the night of the ball, and when he had first opened the case file on that nobleman some years ago, the line had connected exactly this effortlessly.

"Who packed the basket?"

"The head maid, Martha, would have had the maids pack it. The delivery was made by the coachman, Hans. That record would be in Martha's duty roster. In my ledgers I record only things. I do not record people."

Having said this, the old man closed the ledger and looked straight at Sion, and for the first time there was something in his eyes.

"Sir. I have served this house for fifty years. Her Grace is a cold woman. But she has never used poison in this house."

"How do you know that?"

"Those who use poison do not send such large baskets."

Sion did not answer. The old man might well be right, but it was not a remark he could set down in his notebook as evidence, so he bowed his head to the old man in thanks and left the butler's room.

The garden was empty, as the lady had said. The frost roses had withered further than last time, and the wind passed low between the boxwood. The lady sat on the stone bench at the entrance to the maze with a book open on her knees. When Sion approached, she closed the book and rose to greet him, and in her hand was the white handkerchief he had sent back.

"Thank you for the handkerchief. Not a single rose was spoiled."

"The handiwork of the knights' laundry."

"Did you see Claude?"

Sion looked down at the lady for a moment. Her gaze rested at about his buttons, and her voice as she asked was small and polite, yet the question held the composure of someone who already knew perfectly well what she had sent him to the butler's room to see.

"I did. I saw the ledgers, too."

"I see."

The lady asked nothing further, but turned toward the maze and began to walk slowly, and Sion followed half a step behind, at the distance of an escort and the distance of an observer. Yet today he had the feeling that he was the one being observed, and as they turned the third corner, the lady spoke without breaking her stride.

"That spring, Her Grace opened dealings with a number of southern merchants. On account of silk for Céline's trousseau. Those merchants sent over various samples, and Her Grace mixed them into the engagement gift baskets she sent out. Not only to the Harolds. That Season, more than twelve houses received courtesies from Her Grace."

Sion's steps slowed ever so slightly. It was because the lady, who had gone so far as to count how many houses society's baskets had gone to, did not add a single word about what the basket might mean.

"Did grain samples go into all twelve?"

"That I don't know, either. Claude's ledger would only have recorded the basket to the Harolds. I heard that the baskets to the other houses were seen to separately by Her Grace's lady's maid."

"From whom did you hear that?"

Only then did the lady raise her head a little and answer, reflecting him in her grey eyes.

"I have lived in this house for twenty-two years, Sir Arden."

While Sion was still searching for something to say, the lady bowed her head again and walked on. Instead of taking out his notebook, Sion wrote in his head. Baskets to twelve houses or more; the other baskets seen to by the duchess's lady's maid; if the grain samples went only to the Harolds, it was intent, and if they went to all twelve, it was coincidence.

At the exit of the maze, the lady turned and held out the handkerchief in her hand to him once more.

"You should keep this, Sir."

"...I returned it to you."

"I know. But it was evidence, wasn't it? You mustn't return evidence to a suspect."

The lady said this as if it were nothing at all, bowed her head in farewell, and walked toward the manor, and Sion looked down at the white handkerchief lying on his palm. The embroidered rose was immaculate.

The word "suspect" was one he had never once spoken aloud in front of her.

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