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Chapter Two
The countryside of Kent was largely composed of the last lingering remains of hops fields and apple
orchards, as well as being clotted with sheep. As they rode, Trevor reached over and pulled a
wayward apple from one of the trees and was surprised to find it still firm and relatively tasty,
although the sweetness of the harvest season had long passed. Geraldine was right; the autumn of
1889 had brought a strangely extended expanse of fair weather, and he was relieved to note that no
clouds were approaching from any direction.
The sights, sounds, and smells of the farmland felt like a homecoming to Trevor, although he noticed
with wry amusement that Rayley, who had been raised in the city, had crinkled his nose at the first
whiff of the dung piles and had resolutely adjusted his scarf to cover his nostrils and mouth. Trevor
had done precisely the same thing years ago, when he had first encountered the smokestacks of
London.
Within Scotland Yard, Trevor suspected that he and Rayley were often seen as twin halves of the
same person – outcasts from the ranks of their fellow detectives based largely on their shared belief
that forensics, not deduction, was the future of criminology . They were striving to be modern men in
an antiquated system, constantly running headlong into the blockades of traditionalists, and their
struggles had hastened the growth of their friendship. But it was times like this – one of them
crunching apples and reveling in the country air while the other stayed tight and bundled on his horse,
regarding every sheep with suspicion – that Trevor remembered how different they truly were.
The afternoon before the two men had taken the rail to Edenbridge, the closest village to Hever, and
had then spent an agreeable evening at the town’s only pub, which was located on the ground floor of
the town’s only inn. They had been joined in their dinner by the Edenbridge constable, a ruddy-faced
bloke named Billy Brown. Rural policemen often resented the interference of outsiders in local
matters, and were more apt to be dismissive than impressed when that interference came under the
auspices of Scotland Yard. But Brown had welcomed them literally with open arms, smacking each
man’s back heartily in greeting. He seemed relieved that someone, somewhere, had taken an interest
in the matter, and it was clear that what he called “those bloody shenanigans” at Hever Castle had
rankled him for some time.
“It’s not strictly under my jurisdiction, mind you,” he had said, and then he had blown decisively on
the foaming top of his pint. “Properties of the Crown stand apart from all that. But crimes are being
committed within those noble walls both left and right, make no mistake.”
“We’re not here to clean up the place,” Trevor had reminded him. “More to rescue one particular
girl, even though there is not the slightest evidence the child wants to be rescued. Presumably Anne
Arborton is not being held against her will by LaRusse Chapman but is instead following him
eagerly. That is why we cannot enter the gates as lawmen, but rather taking the form of fellow
bohemians, a task I suspect Detective Abrams will be able to manage more convincingly than
myself.”