Frank had entered the ballroom from one of the servants’ corridors, a discreet side entrance, rather than the main doors. (The Sanditon resort was his only option for exploration grounds, at the moment. He was making do.)
And this was the ballroom: this had to be the place Edmund Rosewood had had his heart attack. He eyed the room – the repaired windows, the grand empty space – in careful thought, before noting that there was another observer already in here. Ah. Prosper Cresswell. Edmund’s friend. The architect. Of course.
For a moment, Frank admittedly did consider slipping away back through the servants’ entrance; but Cresswell had spoken aloud, so he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t already been seen. Instead, he shook his head briefly to himself, and then wandered over to the man and the altered doorway.
“A nice touch,” Frank remarked, glancing up at it.
And this was the ballroom: this had to be the place Edmund Rosewood had had his heart attack. He eyed the room – the repaired windows, the grand empty space – in careful thought, before noting that there was another observer already in here. Ah. Prosper Cresswell. Edmund’s friend. The architect. Of course.
For a moment, Frank admittedly did consider slipping away back through the servants’ entrance; but Cresswell had spoken aloud, so he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t already been seen. Instead, he shook his head briefly to himself, and then wandered over to the man and the altered doorway.
“A nice touch,” Frank remarked, glancing up at it.