Gwynnie stood in the middle of the stables, listening to the horses whinnying. Night had firmly fallen, and with no light to guide them, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. To her right was a line of stalls, with some of the horses’ noses peering over the tops of the doors. To her left were stacks of hay.
Gwynnie moved slowly across the stone floor, listening as Tombstone and Emlyn followed behind her.
Tombstone was struggling to light something. He repeatedly struck the flint wool from a tinderbox; the sound scratched in the air, but no light followed.
“Give it here,” Emlyn ordered.
“I know how to light a lantern.”
“Your hands are shaking. Little wonder. If I was searching for my lover’s body too, my hands would shake.”
“I did not call him that —”
“Shh.” Gwynnie waved her hand at the two of them, worried that someone walking past the stables might overhear their conversation.
Emlyn succeeded in lighting the wool and pressed the orange flame to a candle set in an iron lantern. She dropped the flint wool to the stone floor, where it burnt itself out, then closed the glass door of the lantern and passed it back to Tombstone. He took it, staring at her in wonder.
“Did you think that because I am wanted for murder, I am not capable of any kindness?” She raised an eyebrow and walked past him, moving toward Gwynnie.
“Ma, this is not the time for that conversation,” Gwynnie warned, but Emlyn shrugged, clearly deciding she would speak as she wished to.
“Why would Renard bring the body here?”
“It is simple enough.” Gwynnie walked on. At the back of the stables, she swept aside a heavy curtain and waited for Tombstone to catch up. The light from the lantern fell on a second chamber, full of small carriages and carts. “He must have hoped to hide the body in a carriage and take it away come morning.”
“That wouldn’t have been possible.” Tombstone stepped forward, holding the lantern higher. “From New Year’s Day, any new arrivals came by the wherrymen. The flood had risen too high across the south lawns, blocking Woolwich Road.”
Gwynnie glanced at her mother. They too had arrived by the wherrymen just a few days later.
“So, he’s still here?” Gwynnie’s eyes darted around the stable.
“It doesn’t smell.” Tombstone stepped forward, his gaze searching. “The stench grows worse by the day.”
“You have much experience, do you?” Emlyn asked.
“It is my responsibility to investigate any strange deaths in or around the palace.” Tombstone looked back at her, his expression grave. “I should think that from your past, you too know how a body can smell.”
Emlyn said nothing and moved to the carriages, opening doors and searching inside.
“How would you stop a body from smelling?” Gwynnie asked.
“Covering it in something, like the cloak the yeoman described, would not be enough. You’d have to be rid of the body itself. Perhaps dump it in the river.”
“You already said that would have been impossible with the fireworks.”
“Then you’d have to bury it.”
Gwynnie looked down at the heavy stone floor. At the far end of the chamber were bales of hay, stacked on top of one another. She grabbed the top bale, rolling it off the others. Tombstone held the lantern up high as she shifted the other bales.
A stone slab had been moved. It rested against the back wall of the chamber, revealing mounded earth beneath.
Gwynnie said nothing as Tombstone laid the lantern down on the nearest ledge. He disappeared out of the chamber, into another back room, where something metallic clunked. He returned a few seconds later carrying a spade in one hand and a fork that was usually used for the hay in the other. Gwynnie took the fork, though it was tall and unwieldy, and she struggled to thrust it into the ground.
Without a word, they began to dig. The earth was solid because of the cold air, though it was obvious it had recently been turned over. Emlyn joined them, and when Gwynnie grew tired, she took over, making the hard ground soft with the fork, which Tombstone then shifted to the side in a fresh pile beside the hay.
It took a long time. The candle in the lantern was burning down and Gwynnie had just replaced it with a fresh candle when Emlyn stopped, the fork in the air.
“Halt,” she ordered.
Tombstone raised the spade as Emlyn reached down and shifted some of the earth with her hand.
Gwynnie stepped around Tombstone to peer in.
Emlyn had revealed a stretch of black cloth within the earth.
They both looked at Tombstone.
“Let me be the one,” he whispered. “Please.”
Emlyn and Gwynnie both retreated back from the earth, watching as Tombstone laid down the spade.
He took a shuddery breath as he knelt down. He reached into the hole and took hold of the black cloth. With one tug, he pulled the corner of it back.
The pale face that appeared, grey as sour milk, was a shock.
“God’s blood!” Gwynnie cried. For a change, Emlyn didn’t reprimand her.
A groan escaped Tombstone and he sat back. He stared into the open grave, down at the face of the man he had not only once called a friend, but something dearer.
