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Rayley had smiled at this insult-inside-a-compliment and had taken a swig of his own ale, then
winced. Country stuff, probably brewed no more than a stone’s throw away from the inn where they
now sat, far stronger and more bitter than what the pubs served in London. “I wonder if they will
accept us as freely as Mrs. Arborton predicted.”
“Bring food,” Brown had advised with a growl. “And then they will accept you freely enough. I
gather that they are all but starving out there.”
And so Rayley and Trevor now journeyed laden down with every sort of foodstuff the shops of
Edenbridge could offer. Bread, cheese, tea, ham, a jug of ale, and jars of jam, all rattling in their
sacks along with brushes, paints, and the sticks of am unassembled easel. The painting tools had been
borrowed from Geraldine, who was an enthusiastic but somewhat mercurial hobbyist. She had done
a bit of everything at one time or another, including landscapes, and it had been decided that Rayley
would pose as a painter. He had no particular abilities in that direction, but he did have the thin,
serious face which the profession seemed to require, and Geraldine has assured him that if he claimed
to paint “in the modern style” he could swipe colors on the canvas with abandon and no one was
likely to detect his utter lack of talent.
Trevor, in contrast, was masquerading as a poet, which meant that the only supplies he required was
his little leather notebook and pencil, two items which were rarely out of his grasp anyway. He was
convinced that his rapid rise at Scotland Yard was due to his insistence on taking copious notes at
every crime scene and interview, and he supposed that when a man is scribbling away in a notebook
it is impossible for an outsider to tell if he is creating a poem or constructing an accusation of
murder. Still, he felt oddly fretful as he tossed the apple core aside and shifted his weight on the
horse. Rayley noted his notable sigh and turned from his own horse.
“Steady on, Welles. It is only the twentieth of the month and I wager we will be back at Gerry’s table
before you know it, sampling her fine holiday lamb. Or is Gage serving goose this year?”
“It’s not that. I’m just unsure if I can truly pass as a poet.”
“Well, it’s not as if anyone actually knows what a poet looks like, is it?” Rayley asked amiably. “So
that much should work in your favor. Ah, look there, Welles, for it would seem we have found
ourselves already at Hever.”
They had just crested a small hill and now were poised looking down on a lush meadow, with
patches of green still evident here and there across the brown and grey. At the bottom of the hill lay
Hever Castle. Emma had described it as a small one – insignificant, had she said ? – but to Trevor’s
eye it was an impressive place of pleasing proportions, with two balanced turrets and a serene moat
encircling its base of gray stone. A suitable birthplace for a queen who had been heralded for her
grace more than for her morals.
“Easy to see how this first view would dazzle an impressionable girl like Anne Arborton,” Rayley
said. “She must have felt as if she was being carried away like a princess in a child’s fairy tale.”
“True enough,” Trevor said. “The disrepair everyone has claimed the castle suffers is hardly evident
from this vantage point. I suppose we shall see more signs of ruin as we approach.”