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Watkins ducked her head into the back seat. The anger had vanished, replaced with anguish. But was that over the loss of her partner, or the realization she’d just made herself a suspect in the woman’s murder?

Chapter Four

    “Ill news hath wings, and with the wind doth go … ”
    — Michael Drayton, The Barons’ Wars

    7:50 AM

    From the dining room of the large stone building called Ramsey Lodge in the town of Bowness-on-Windermere came the clang of silverware and the chink of china as the early-morning help set the tables for breakfast. In the long timbered hall, a damp coolness radiated from the original flagstone floor. Nora Tierney paused by the heavy oak door to scoop her wavy auburn hair off her face and tie it into a ponytail that hung to her shoulders. Pushing her glasses up her nose, she watched Simon Ramsey and his sister Kate at the far end of the hall, their heads bent together as they stood behind a worn Jacobean desk in deep discussion over orders for Ramsey Lodge for the next two weeks. A wave of fondness washed over Nora. How fortunate she was to have them as friends these last five months.
      She hated interrupting them. They were intent on sorting business before she and Simon left tomorrow for ten days in Oxford, but they’d grown quite protective of her in the time she’d lived with them. The last thing she wanted was to cause her friends anxiety if they couldn’t find her. Her hesitation over slipping out for a walk ended when Darby came prancing to her side. The Lakeland Terrier began barking and leaping in his eagerness to join her. Both Ramseys looked up, Kate’s tall, slender frame a feminine version of her lanky brother’s, her sandy hair curling against the nape of her neck.
      “Darby, down,” Kate chastised the small dog. “We really need to keep him from jumping up on you now, Nora,” she said, smiling. Nora smiled back, and her hand instinctively went to the growing bump at her waist.
      “He’s my buddy,” Nora crooned to the wheaten dog, bending down to rub his small V-shaped ears with affection. “Yes, you can come with me.”
      “Better take him on leash,” Simon said. “Too many tourists this time of year to trust him without it, and I don’t see you chasing him across the quay.” His smile crinkled the corners of his deep blue eyes.
      “Good idea,” Nora answered, pulling a leash from the brass umbrella bin, clipping it to his collar as the dog sat obediently, short, stiff tail wagging. “Be back in a bit.”
      Darby sniffed with deep interest as they made their way through the rose arbor, past the terraced patio and down the path, lifting his leg at intervals. The tree at the corner of the Promenade was of particular interest, and Nora tugged him away to cross Rayrigg Road, heading toward the shore of England’s largest lake. Pale ribbons of apricot and pink streaked the powder-blue sky as the sun warmed the shore. Puffs of clouds that hung without seeming to move in the warm haze were sharply reflected in Windermere’s surface. Nora had never seen such a startlingly blue sky.
      She walked the dog among the early bustling throngs of tourists touring the quay across from the lodge at the eastern edge of the lake. The travelers, who wore hiking shoes or trainers, searched among the ice cream stalls and trinket shops for the perfect postcard to send back home. Nora was convinced no card could capture the beauty of the Lake District.
      Connecticut-born Nora Tierney had loved England ever since she’d spent a year at Oxford in Exeter College. She returned after graduate school in journalism to the place that had given her comfort after her father’s tragic death. Now that she knew Oxford inside and out, she was learning about this section of the Lake District. On one of her exploring walks she had been amused to find that St. Martin’s Church, consecrated in 1483, contained stained glass windows that included the coat of arms of John Washington,