Two elderly couples were being helped into a carriage as Robin and Edwin pulled up in the motorcar. The women’s old-fashioned bonnets were tied firmly onto their heads and one was clutching a guidebook.
“Looks to be a popular place,” said Robin. “They certainly weren’t persuaded to turn around before they’d even arrived.”
“No,” said Edwin. A different kind of unease had taken over now. He suspected he knew why the other visitors had been unaffected, and it brought up a whole host of new questions.
The carriage pulled out. A man in servant’s livery approached the car. “Here to see the gardens, sirs?”
“Yes. No.” Edwin craned his neck up at the house. The grey stone of the frontage crawled attractively with ivy. “We need to speak to Mrs. Sutton.”
A genteel cough. “My apologies, sir, Mrs. Sutton does not generally see visitors. She is not interested in selling the estate. If you are members of the Horticultural Enthusiasts Association, she does appreciate receiving letters—”
“I quite understand.” One of Robin’s most comfortable, sunny smiles accompanied the calling card he handed over to the footman. There was a pause where the man visibly digested the words Sir and Baronet. “We’re here on family business, about Mrs. Sutton’s great-nephew. Reginald Gatling. We’d consider it a great favour if she’d see us.”
Edwin barely remembered that he owned calling cards even when he was in London. “Edwin Courcey,” he said, in response to the footman’s inquiringly open palm.
They stood under the high, glowering clouds until the footman reappeared and ushered them into Sutton Cottage itself. Flora Sutton received them in a large parlour crammed with vases full of fresh flowers. She was older than Edwin had expected: a small white-haired woman with a bluish translucent look to her wrinkled skin. Her hands trembled. She looked like a piece of crumpled tissue paper, right up until her cloudy, rheumy eyes fixed themselves on Edwin and he had the unnerving sense he’d been instantly understood and classified.
“Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Sutton,” said Robin.
“Are you the Courcey?” she demanded.
“Yes,” said Edwin. Her eyes hadn’t shifted from him, even when Robin spoke. “We’re here about Reggie.”
“Mm. So Franklin said.” Now the piercing gaze travelled between the two of them. “Reggie did say there would be others, soon enough. You may dig up every square inch of the grounds, gentlemen.” Her chin lifted. “You are too late. It is safe now, far away from here.”
“What is?” asked Edwin.
Robin was quicker. “The last contract,” he said. “Whatever the blazes it really is, Gatling had it from you?”
Mrs. Sutton pressed her lips together and bowed her head. The shake of her hands worsened for a few moments. When she looked up, half of the vivacity had left her face. “I think you boys should leave,” she said, suddenly querulous. “I cannot help you.”
“You don’t know what we want help with,” said Edwin, feeling wrung by guilt, but irritable nonetheless.
A sigh like rustling leaves. “Please—”
“I was raised by liars, Mrs. Sutton. I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.”
Edwin looked at Robin, startled. Mrs. Sutton was doing the same. Robin looked apologetic and charming and yet, somehow, like a rock planted amongst crashing waves. He was already shrugging off his jacket, unfastening his shirt cuff.
Robin went on, “We don’t mean you any harm, you have my word. There are people after this contract, and they think I know where it is. And they’re not too concerned with the niceties of how they go about getting their information.”
Mrs. Sutton gathered her spectacles onto her nose and gazed at the bared curse. She was controlling her face now, but she still looked shaken.
“You wrote to Reggie, didn’t you?” Edwin said. “At the London office. I’m the Assembly liaison,” he added, into her hesitation. “I work with Reggie. He’s been missing for the past three weeks.” Hastily, he explained the circumstances—who Robin was, and how he’d become involved. How the contract was mentioned for the first time when Robin was cursed, and how they’d found her letter, rose-scented, in Reggie’s mail.
“Yes, I wrote to him. I wanted to—check in,” said Flora Sutton. The spectacles dropped again. Now she sat like a fairy queen in a bower, keen as fresh-cut grass. “He didn’t send me a single word after he left with it in his pocket. And I’d kept it safe so long, I felt anxious over it.”