“I saw the devil astride a black stallion fifty yards away. He wore a caped coat and a tricorn, hid his face with a white mask.”
Was this a failed attempt at highway robbery, then? The person had an exceptional aim if they hit a moving target while on horseback. And the mask must have hindered his vision.
“Where is he now?”
“The lass fired a warning shot from her pocket pistol, and he disappeared into the night.”
It seemed the lass was as brave as she was reckless.
“So the mask had an extended beak, like the ones once worn by physicians treating victims of the disease?” The ones worn to masquerade balls by weak men who enjoyed intimidating young women. Was it the shooter’s intention to frighten Miss Hart? Was Turton’s injury a case of the person firing blindly in the blackness?
“Aye, sir.”
“And you determined that from such a distance in the dark?”
“When the devil fired, I glimpsed the mask as the charge ignited.” Buchanan glanced at Miss Hart, who was kneeling on the wet grass, examining the Scottish woman’s head. He shuffled closer to Evan and lowered his voice. “The intruder, the one who ransacked the lass’ home.” The man spoke as if Evan knew of the incident.
“Yes, what of it?”
“He left a mask at the scene, though I couldna tell the lass for fear she’d never sleep soundly again. I took it and hid it in my room.”
“A plague mask?”
“Aye.”
Then Miss Hart’s fears had merit. Someone was willing to go to great lengths to terrify the woman. “And did the intruder steal anything?”
“The lass is canny enough nae to leave prized possessions where some devil might find them. And she owns nothing of value save for the documents passed down from her grandfather.”
As Evan suspected, money was Miss Hart’s motive for wanting to marry him and obtain the third clue. So why had she not readily accepted his offer of compensation? Maybe she believed their legacy was worth a king’s ransom.
“Logic suggests the shooter had no intention of killing anyone, that his motive was to scare Miss Hart into abandoning her plan to have me honour the contract.” A pang of doubt said Evan was wrong in his assumption, and so he took a few seconds to consider what he’d learnt so far. “Or, the devil wants to scare us into marrying and solving the mystery of the missing legacy so he might steal it from under our noses.”
“Aye, I’m inclined to agree with yer second theory.”
Yes, the second explanation sounded more plausible.
A host of questions bombarded Evan’s mind. Indeed, he would need to interview Miss Hart and gather a list of suspects. Who knew about the contract? Who had the skill and cunning to commit a crime? The person had followed Miss Hart to Keel Hall, unperturbed by the storm, and waited patiently for her to leave. Would he have approached the carriage if Miss Hart hadn’t shot at him in the dark?
No, the villain was orchestrating events to suit his purpose, biding his time. Plotting. Planning.
Evan’s pulse soared at the prospect of working this case. He would have to meet with Lucius Daventry, the master of the Order, and explain the situation.
But then another thought struck him.
With the carriage overturned in the field, the villain knew someone would return to Keel Hall for help. Which meant while they were conversing over his coachman’s injured body, the miscreant could be inside Evan’s house, ripping the place apart.
Damnation!
He’d left the blasted contract on the sofa in the drawing room. And Fitchett would fight to the death to stop the thieving blackguard.
“We must return to the house at once.” Evan spoke loud enough for Miss Hart to hear. He crouched beside Turton. “I’ll lift you onto my horse and take you home. Are you able to manage the short journey?”
Turton winced in pain but nodded.
Buchanan swigged from his hip flask before bending down and pressing the lip of the vessel to Turton’s mouth. “Down this, laddie, and we’ll soon have ye tucked into yer bed.”
Miss Hart approached. “Mrs McCready took a bump to the head but can ride with assistance. Buchanan will need to ride with her. We can lead the other two bays back to Keel Hall.”