The scent of pipe smoke – cheap, acrid, clinging – became an invisible specter haunting Blackwood. Sandra lay trapped in her gilded sickroom, but her mind prowled the periphery of the estate, fixated on that single, tangible clue Eleanor had unearthed from Mrs. Bell's morphine-laced recollections. It was a thread, gossamer-thin but vital, leading out from the sunlit prison of her confinement into the shadowed corners of resentment festering beyond the manor walls.
Paul returned from his urgent conference with Davies, his earlier frustration replaced by a grim, focused energy. He didn't sit; he paced the perimeter of her room like a sentinel, the weight of the new lead settling upon him.
"Silas Crowe," he announced, the name dropping like a stone into the tense quiet. "Davies remembered him. A tenant farmer. Held the lease on the parcel of land bordering the east wood – the land where the workers' village now stands."
Sandra pushed herself up slightly against the pillows, ignoring the protesting twinge in her abdomen. "Evicted?"
"Not evicted," Paul corrected, his voice tight. "His lease expired. We chose not to renew. The land was crucial for the village expansion, better suited to housing than marginal farming. He was compensated fairly, according to the terms. More than fairly, Davies insists."
"But he was angry," Sandra stated, reading it in Paul's expression, in the deliberate way he avoided the term 'evicted'.
"Furious," Paul confirmed. He stopped pacing, facing her. "Made a scene at the estate office. Accused us of stealing his birthright, of favoring 'factory scum' over honest yeomen. Davies handled it, thought it was settled with the payment. But Crowe… he has a reputation. A bitter man. Known to nurse grudges. And," Paul added, his gaze sharpening, "Davies distinctly remembers the smell of cheap pipe tobacco clinging to him that day. Strong. Pungent."
The connection snapped into place with chilling clarity. A man displaced, harboring deep-seated resentment. A man with intimate knowledge of the Blackwood land – including the secluded east service entrance, the woods providing cover. A man whose signature scent matched the phantom odor Mrs. Bell recalled moments before the scaffolding fell.
"He blames you," Sandra murmured. "Personally. The symbol of Barton power taking what he saw as his."
Paul nodded, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "And he smokes that foul pipe constantly, according to the few locals Davies discreetly asked. It's part of his identity. The surly farmer with his pipe."
"So he was there," Sandra breathed, the reality settling coldly. "He came onto the grounds. Slipped in through the east door while the household was busy with party preparations. Knew where the painters would be working. Knew the hook would bear weight soon. Cut it, then vanished back into the woods." The simplicity of it was terrifying. Not a mastermind, but a bitter, reckless man pushed to violence by perceived injustice. "He meant for the scaffolding to fall on *someone*. Anyone associated with Blackwood."
"Likely hoping for me, or you," Paul said, his voice dangerously low. The image of Sandra lying pale and still after the crash flashed behind his eyes again. "But Mrs. Bell… or Clara… or God forbid, Alexander… they would have served his purpose just as well. A blow against the Barton 'dynasty'." He slammed his fist softly against the wall this time, the plaster dust shivering. "He targeted my home. My family."
"What now?" Sandra asked, her mind racing despite her physical stillness. "Do you confront him? Have him arrested?"
Paul shook his head, resuming his restless patrol. "Not yet. Davies is making quieter inquiries in the village. We need confirmation he was seen near the estate that morning. We need to find the saw he used, perhaps traces of the metal filings. Hard evidence. Crowe is known, but he's also seen as a local, however sour. Accusing him without irrefutable proof could stir up the very unrest we suspect he might be exploiting, or that others might exploit." He stopped at the window, staring out towards the woods. "He's a cornered badger now. If he feels the net closing, he might lash out again. More directly. I won't risk it. Not with you here… vulnerable." The word tasted like ash in his mouth.
The helplessness of her situation pressed down on Sandra anew. She yearned to be in the village herself, observing Crowe, talking to neighbors, piecing together his movements. Instead, she was confined, reliant on second-hand reports. "Eleanor," she said suddenly. "She moves more freely. People talk to her differently. They see her as… separate from the Barton power, perhaps. A survivor, like some of them."
Paul turned, considering. "She's already proven observant. And discreet. But sending her deliberately into Crowe's vicinity…"
"I'm not suggesting she confront him," Sandra clarified quickly. "But she could visit the village market, talk to the women. Listen. See if Crowe has been acting strangely, boasting, or if anyone noticed him heading towards the Blackwood woods recently. Casual observation. She's clever, Paul. She knows the stakes." She thought of Eleanor's quiet courage in the tavern, her sharp eyes missing nothing.
Before Paul could respond, a soft knock preceded Clara's entrance. She carried Alexander, who was fussing slightly, rubbing his eyes. "He's tired but fighting sleep," Clara explained softly. "He keeps asking for Mama." She looked between Paul's tense form and Sandra on the chaise, sensing the renewed gravity in the room. "Bad news?"
Paul exchanged a glance with Sandra. Protecting Clara and Alexander meant shielding them from fear, but complete ignorance was also a danger. "A lead," Paul said carefully, moving to take Alexander from Clara. The little boy immediately buried his face in his father's shoulder, his small fists clutching Paul's coat. "A man who might be responsible for the accident. A disgruntled former tenant named Silas Crowe."
Clara's eyes widened. "The man who shouted at Mr. Davies? The one who smells terribly of smoke?"
"You know him?" Sandra asked, surprised.
Clara nodded, her expression troubled. "I've seen him sometimes, when I walk near the edge of the woods to sketch the old oaks. He glares. Once… he spat on the ground when he saw me. He frightens the village children. They call him 'Old Smoke'." She shuddered slightly. "He lives alone in a tumbledown cottage deep in the east wood. Near the Blackwater stream."
"Near the stream…" Paul murmured, his gaze sharpening. The east wood bordered the Blackwood estate, and the Blackwater stream marked a natural boundary. Crowe's cottage was strategically isolated, close enough for stealthy access. "You didn't tell anyone?"
Clara looked down, twisting her fingers. "I thought he was just… unpleasant. A sad, angry old man. I didn't want to cause trouble. And after… everything…" She trailed off, her past experiences with danger making her wary of drawing attention.
Paul crossed to Sandra, gently transferring the drowsy Alexander into her waiting arms. The familiar weight and warmth of her son was an instant balm, but also a stark reminder of what was at stake. Alexander sighed, snuggling against her, his breath warm on her neck.
"You did nothing wrong, Clara," Sandra said firmly, holding her son close while looking at the younger woman. "But this is important. Anything else you remember? When you saw him near the woods? Dates? Times?"
Clara frowned, concentrating. "It was… perhaps two days before the accident? Late afternoon. He was coming *from* the direction of the main estate, deeper into the east wood, towards his cottage. He was carrying… a bundle. Like a rolled-up canvas sack. And he was muttering to himself. I hid behind a tree until he passed." Her cheeks flushed. "He seemed… agitated. More than usual."
*A canvas sack.* Could it have held tools? The hook needed cutting somewhere discreet. A bundle carried from the estate direction shortly before the sabotage. It was circumstantial, but it wove another strand into the thread connecting Silas Crowe to Blackwood and the attack.
"Thank you, Clara," Paul said, his voice low and intense. "That is very helpful." He looked at Sandra, the pieces solidifying. The bitter, displaced tenant. The pipe smoke signature. The secluded cottage near the boundary. The sighting near the estate with a suspicious bundle shortly before the accident. The motive, the means, and the proximity.
"The cottage," Paul stated, his decision made. "Davies and I will search it. Tonight. Quietly. If he used a saw, if there are metal filings… we'll find them."
"Paul, be careful," Sandra urged, holding Alexander tighter. "If he's there… he's dangerous and desperate."
"He won't be expecting us," Paul said, a predator's glint in his eyes. "And he won't see us coming." He leaned down, pressing a kiss first to Alexander's head, then to Sandra's lips, a lingering promise of protection. "Davies is gathering men he trusts. We move after dark."
As Paul strode from the room to make preparations, Sandra was left with the scent of Alexander's sleepy warmth, the lingering perfume of the roses Eleanor had brought, and the newly pervasive, chilling ghost of cheap pipe smoke. The enemy had a name and a face now: Silas Crowe, Old Smoke. The hunt was moving from the sunlit gardens and anxious sickroom into the shadowed depths of the east wood. The peace of Blackwood hung by a thread, and the man who had sought to sever it was about to face the Beast he had so recklessly provoked. Sandra held her son, her gaze fixed on the darkening window, praying the evidence they sought would be found before Silas Crowe decided to strike again. The scent of resentment had led them to the source. Now, they had to contain the fire before it consumed everything.