“Please, calm yourself.” Pascal helped her to sit down on the edge of her own bed. He took out a handkerchief and offered it to her. She dabbed her neck with it, as if it was helping to cool her, but it simply drew Pascal’s gaze to her skin.
Tombstone finished searching Gwynnie’s bed and stood straight, shaking his head.
“See, Tombstone? What did I tell you?” Pascal barked with laughter. “Renard’s implications this morning were laughable indeed.”
“Implications?” Gwynnie repeated the word, looking straight at Tombstone. “What does that mean?”
“Renard came to see us this morning and made a complaint. He claims to have seen jewels in this room. Curious, do you not think?” Tombstone asked her, his words slow and deliberate. “You accuse him and now he accuses you. You might as well be children in the street.”
“I do not know what is going on.” Pascal shook his head gravely and knelt down before Emlyn, who was still gasping and dabbing herself with the handkerchief. “But rest assured, I know the truth. I know how mad it is to accuse any woman of being one of the Shadow Cutpurses.”
Emlyn began to wail and conveniently, tears reached her eyes.
Gwynnie glanced down and saw her mother was discreetly pinching herself hard through her skirt, not that either of the men noticed. It was a quick tactic indeed to produce tears when needed.
“You believe that we could be those thieves? Oh, it is too much.”
“I would have thought you more concerned to be accused of murder.” Tombstone stepped past Gwynnie and moved to the windowsill, peering out at the courtyard below.
“What do you mean?” Emlyn sniffed through her tears. “You believe that these thieves, these cutpurses, are also responsible for Master Battersby’s death?”
“Of that we are certain,” Pascal said, perfectly calmly. “Which is why I urge you not to distress yourself. I know, despite the claims of Renard, that you and your daughter have nothing to do with this appalling business.”
“Thank you. What a good heart you have, sir.” Emlyn gave him a winning smile.
“To think a woman would do any of it. Pah! The whole idea is monstrous. Ladies are too delicate for such a thing.” At Pascal’s words, Gwynnie folded her arms, uncertain whether to be relieved or angry. She supposed at least his belief that women were as fragile as spun sugar meant that she was safe from his suspicion.
“And what do you believe?” Gwynnie asked Tombstone, who had remained silent.
Pascal was no longer paying attention to their conversation. He was asking if Emlyn needed anything for her present relief. As he wittered on, Gwynnie waited for Tombstone to answer. He was taking his time, thinking through his answer carefully.
“I do not believe that just because you are a woman you are innocent.”
Gwynnie’s stomach knotted tight.
“But there are things that do not make sense to me.” Tombstone shook his head and turned away, looking out of the window. Gwynnie turned with him, careful to keep the hat pin firmly pressed beneath her boot. “I saw the body of Master Battersby, and I am certain of one thing — his body was moved.”
“Moved? What makes you say that? The glass on his boot?”
Tombstone jerked his head toward her.
“I saw you looking at his boots,” Gwynnie rushed to explain.
“Well, the glass is one concern.” Tombstone shifted, leaning his weight against the stone windowsill. Gwynnie held her breath, fearing the stone would slip. If it did, it would give away the hiding place for their jewels. “The lack of blood is another.”
“I heard you speaking of that. You said a man who had had his throat slit should have more blood.”
“I did say that.” He frowned. “How many conversations have you listened in on that you were not a part of? Do you hide whilst listening?”
“I am a maid.” Gwynnie forced a smile. “We maids do not need to hide. People simply do not look at us — they see through us.”
Tombstone shifted position. “Well, either Master Battersby was moved from where he was killed — and there would be more blood where he died — or he died of something else, and his throat was slit later. If his body was moved, then a woman would struggle to do that alone.” Tombstone eyed her carefully. “Two women might just be able to do it.”
Gwynnie’s brows lifted. Was he accusing her?
“You believe Renard’s tale?” She shook her head. “Of course you do. When he is a gentleman, what would my word stand for?”
“Gwynnie —”
“Am I allowed to take something to Newgate? Or will you take me as I am? I do not suppose people live long there, even if they are innocent.”
“Gwynnie, I did not say I believed him.”
Gwynnie turned back to face him, hearing the hat pin scratch the matting beneath her boot. Tombstone either didn’t hear the sound or did not realise what it was, for he didn’t react.
“You have just intimated that you did.”
“No, I said two women together could have done it. I have my reservations, the first being chiefly this.” He nodded at the window. “Renard claimed to have seen the jewels in this chamber. Now, as I do not believe either your mother or you would invite that man in here, how is it possible he saw what was in your chamber at all?”
Gwynnie followed his gaze to the window. As they were in the rafters of the building, and the window was small, it was impossible for Renard to see into the room from the courtyard. They always kept the door locked too.
“He would have to force his way in here to see anything, and why would he do that?” Tombstone said calmly. “No, I’m beginning to believe that Renard’s claim was one of revenge. If he believed that you were the one to point the finger at him, then that would explain it.”
“Then … you believe me?” Gwynnie asked with hope.
“Perhaps.”
“You do not look pleased about the idea.”