Discovering the Devil

T w e n t y - n i n e

XXIX

HARRY thought his anger might split him in two.

It took an hour for the fire to die down, even with the frantic aid of hundreds of pails of water. He'd personally helped administer fifty of those buckets himself, what could a handful of people do in the face of such destruction? In the end, Harry was not sure the water had been any help. He was sure that once the fire had decided it was finished eating, it had simply sighed at its own gluttony and extinguished itself into the sky. An acre of tobacco, an acre of sugar, an acre of cotton, all gone. Now, he walked through the charred fields, surveying the damage. The air smelled acrid and sour, and once beautiful leaves were now blackened ash. The more he saw, the bigger his anger grew.

There was no way that any of this had been an accident.

Long ago, when he'd first arrived at Hawthorne's halls, he'd been subject to the occasional pranks by boisterous boys. There had been a reasonable share of vandalism and nightly disturbances, but nothing like this. This was not the work of a gang of stupid boys or a Milford villager with too much time and hatred on his hands. He did not even suspect the countess of such a crime, he knew she'd much rather draw blood than burn money. As he toured the rows of ruined harvest, he saw Herschel's leer, his condescending smirk. By God, Harry would not let him get away with this.

When he returned to the study, a group of constables were waiting. Three of them, youngish, looked nervous once he entered. Nerves, of course, glazed with contempt. Harry noticed one stare at him at touch longer than necessary before looking at Penelope and dropping his gaze altogether. The fourth, the eldest and presumably the leader, was calmly nursing a cup of tea. Penelope must've had them fetched when he was gone. She stood a little aways from the policeman. Her face relaxed with relief when she saw him, and he couldn't blame her. He had been in a sorry state when he'd left the house. "Good afternoon, Sir," the lead constable greeted. "My name is Mr. Harold. I understand that there has been a fire?"

Harry gestured for the two of them to sit. The constable remained standing. Harry's jaw tightened with irritation. "Yes."

"I was summoned at the behest of your housekeeper." Mr. Harold offered a watery smile. "Women can be quite hysterical. She seems to think that it wasn't an accident."

Penelope scowled at him. "Fires of that scale do not start by themselves."

"She's right," Miss Stone seconded. Harry turned to view his second supporter. He hadn't even noticed that she'd entered the room. "It looked very unnatural."

"I'm sure it did," Mr. Harold said agreeably, in the tone of voice one would shoo a pet. His eyes glimmered at Harry, as if they were sharing some secret joke. Women, his eyes laughed. They're always so emotional.

"She's correct. It wasn't an accident," Harry said tightly. "In fact, I have a very good idea of who did it."

"Lord Hawthorne, wildfires are prone to erupt on hot, dry days like these. It seems to be an unfortunate accident." Mr. Harold spoke as if he were soothing a child whose toy had been broken—softly, slowly, patiently. Harry would've preferred cold and antagonism. This brand of condescension only inflamed his nerves more.

"It's humid today. And quite temperate, I might add," Harry snapped.

Mr. Harold's smile persisted. "Nevertheless, there is no way to prove that it was not an accident."

"So, Harry pronounced slowly, you will not even investigate the possibility?" The other young constablemen eyed him warily, but they stayed silent.

"If my lord would excuse me saying so, it would be quite difficult to investigate every person who might have a motive to do something like this."