Free Death at Knytte by Jean Rowden

soon fade. Lust and her seductive skills couldn’t be relied on to hold him forever.
    At this point Lucille suddenly halted. There were other inducements. He was certainly a risk taker, and he had few scruples. Lucille rubbed her hands together as if to warm them, although the day wasn’t cold. A woman could be mistress of her own property, not necessarily surrendering all her worldly goods to a husband when she married. Unless shehad a son, Knytte and most of her husband’s estate would be hers when he died. It was surely a tempting prize for any man.
    She walked on. Almost feverish with the ideas revolving frantically within her mind, Lucille hardly noticed that she’d wandered into the ruins; she turned a corner and found herself face to face with Jonah Jackman again.

    Beddowes stood on a little-used road, trying to decide what he should do. He judged he was several miles to the northeast of the King’s Arms, having been thrown roughly from the parson’s rickety dog cart by Bragg and another man, with warnings not to return. He had been fed, though poorly, at the parson’s command, and there was a crust of bread stowed inside his shirt for his dinner.
    Threats or no, the sergeant would have retraced his steps towards Trembury if necessary, but the encounter at the King’s Head convinced him it was pointless. Bragg had foiled Sir Martin’s ambush because he’d thought they were after smugglers. Aching and disgruntled, Beddowes decided he’d pass on what little information he’d gained as soon as he had a chance. The so-called brotherhood were powerful in this part of the country, and any help he could give would be welcomed by the customs men.
    Staring along the road, which wound roughly from north to south, Beddowes couldn’t decide what his next move should be. The thieves might be anywhere, even on a train back to London, although if that was their intention, why make him travel so far to collect their booty? They would lie low, surely, for a few days, after so narrow an escape. From their voices and apparel they belonged to the gentry, or were able to ape them sufficiently well to fool those they met; they wouldn’t sleep rough. That wasn’t much help, for there were a hundred inns where rooms could be hired.
    The sergeant often did his best thinking on his feet, but to walk north in search of the London road seemed like an admission of defeat; the crimes he’d been summoned to investigate had all taken place within fifty miles of where he now stood. He wasn’t ready to return to Scotland Yard just yet.
    Beddowes made up his mind to see Docket, which meant heading for Clowmoor. Sir Martin’s secretary would be easier to contact than the Lord Lieutenant himself. He would take the next track to the west, although he couldn’t be too sure where it would take him; the unmade roads in these parts followed devious routes, winding around deep bogs and peat hags.
    When he’d been entrusted with the case, Beddowes hadn’t had much opportunity to study the notes the local police had made; perhaps it was time to begin again, and see if some clue had been missed. Half a dozen large houses had been robbed; if there was a pattern, some link between chosen time and place, perhaps he could hazard a guess at where and when the thieves might strike again. Then there was that intriguing reference, so annoyingly interrupted by Bragg. A pair of something of great value was to be among the next expected haul. A pair of candlesticks? Or earrings?
    Deep in thought, Beddowes had walked no more than a mile before he heard the thud of hoofs and the rattle of a carriage behind him. The road was bad, and the carriage would demand the most level way; mindful of his part as a ragged and crippled tramp, he slouched to the edge of the ditch that ran alongside. Here he halted to allow the landaulet to pass.
    Without reducing speed the vehicle came so close that he felt the stir of its passing give a tug at his ragged coat. He kept