chapter Twelve
He knows, Clarice thought, the conviction growing in her mind. He knows the Reverend Wynter was putting the money back. But had the vicar known who was taking it? Was that what he had been trying to find out all those months, and had at last succeeded? And was killed for? No, that was absurd. As she had said before, it was pennies!
Boscombe was watching her, his face tense with concentration, waiting.
"You knew, didn't you?" Clarice said very softly. "Is...is that why you stopped working with the Reverend Wynter? Because you knew he was protecting someone who..."
His eyes were wide, his face almost comical with disbelief.
"You didn't...," she went on, answering her own question.
"No! Oh, I knew there were pennies missing here and there," he assured her, shifting a little in his seat. "At first I thought it was just that the Reverend Wynter was a bit careless, or even that he wasn't very good at his sums. Then I realized that in the end the figures were always exactly right, so he knew someone was taking bits and pieces. But I didn't object to his dealing with it in his own way."
"Did he know who it was?" she asked.
Boscombe smiled. "He didn't tell me."
She knew he was speaking the literal truth, but there was a real truth, a more whole and honest one, that he was concealing. "But he knew," she insisted. "As you did?"
"No, I didn't. But even if I had, Mrs. Corde, I'm not sure that I would be free to tell you."
She leaned forward a little across the table, her elbows on its pale, scrubbed wood. "I think the Reverend Wynter was killed by someone, Mr. Boscombe. They may not have set out to, but they hit him, and when he was dead, or dying..." She saw him wince, but she went on. "...they dragged him into the farther cellar and took the lantern to go back upstairs, leaving him alone there in the dark, for days. It may not have anything to do with the money-it's so small it's meaningless. But it has to do with something!"
Genevieve shivered. "If that's true, John, then an awful thing has happened. Perhaps you should tell the Reverend Corde, even if you can't tell Mrs. Corde."
He looked at her at last. "The Reverend Wynter knew," he admitted. "At least I believe he did, but it was something else, something bigger behind it, and he wanted to know what that was. The greater sin."
"Do you suppose he found out?" Clarice asked him.
He bit his lip. Now his face was pale. They were talking about something so dark it had caused the death of a good man, and perhaps the damnation of another.
"I prefer to think not," he said slowly. "At least for as long as I can think it."
"But, John..." Genevieve began, and then her voice trailed away.
"I don't know," he said again. "And that's the truth."
Clarice could draw no more from him. She thanked them both and left as the children trooped in from the garden, bright-faced, eyes dancing, skin glowing from the exertion. In the sudden confines of the warm kitchen with its scrubbed table and floor, its familiar, precious, but mismatched china, and the smell of drying linen and herbs, their voices were louder than they realized. Violence seemed like an offensive word-and utterly inappropriate.
***
It was early afternoon when Dominic decided to call again at the manor house. He had to put his trust in someone, or else simply abandon the idea of finding out exactly how the Reverend Wynter had died. It still seemed an absurd idea that anyone could have killed him.
It was below freezing, even at this hour, and his feet crunched on the snow. He walked as quickly as he could, his mind also racing. The decision he made now could affect the rest of his life, and-of more urgent importance to him-Clarice's life also. She had given up much to marry him, and he wanted passionately that she should never regret that. He found to his surprise that as he learned to know her better with each passing month, he loved her more. She had an honesty of mind that was brighter, more translucent than any he had imagined. He kept thinking he knew her, and then she said or did something that surprised him. She made him laugh, even when he did not want to. She never complained about the lack of money, or about the small, grubby accommodations she had to make to poverty or Spindlewood's petty officiousness.
Then she would blow up with temper over an injustice, and put into irretrievable words exactly what he had been thinking, only been wise enough not to say. Or was that cowardly enough? Or was he simply older and more acquainted with the infinite possibilities of failure?
He did not want to disappoint her. She was still so much in love with him. He could see it in her eyes, the sudden flush to her skin if she caught him looking at her with his own emotions too naked in his face. Could he ever live up to what she thought of him? Sometimes being handsome was not a blessing. It led people-women-to hope for more from one than one could live up to; it ignited dreams that were too big for the reality of what any man could be.
The manor house loomed up ahead, rising out of the virgin snow as the dark trees of the driveway parted. That was a dream in stone. Did Peter Connaught ever feel the weight of past glory crushing him? Did the ghosts expect too much?
Was Clarice building a drama of murder out of a simple domestic tragedy, weaving together facts into a picture that would create sorrow and injustice, not solve it?
Dominic thought again with a shiver of his earlier acquaintance with her family, and the murder of Unity Bellwood. He had been a curate staying in her father's house to further his studies. The Reverend Ramsay Parmenter had been a good mentor, but a conventional man of passionately orthodox views. When Unity Bellwood, modern-thinking, pregnant, and unmarried, was pushed down a stairway to her death, the Reverend Parmenter became a major suspect.
But it was Clarice's beautiful, selfish, and deadly mother who had been at the core of it with her obsessive fantasy that Dominic was as much in love with her as she was with him.
It had been a time of grief, shock, and fear for the whole family. Clarice had been the bravest of them, the most willing to see and face the dreadful truth, whatever the pain, or the price.
He lengthened his stride. He would believe her this time. Better to have pursued it and been proven wrong than to run away into blind comfort. That would lie between them always.
He reached the great oak front door and pulled the bell. It was beginning to snow again, huge white flakes falling like petals.
The door opened, and the butler welcomed him in. Sir Peter was in his office, but he appeared within moments, smiling, offering tea and crumpets, apologizing because he thought there was almost certainly no cake.
"We should have mince pies," he said, shaking his head. "I'll make sure we have them next time you come."
"Just tea would be excellent, thank you," Dominic answered, following Peter's elegant figure into the huge withdrawing room. "And a little of your time." The warmth engulfed him like an embrace. The dog in front of the hearth stood up and stretched luxuriously, then padded over to see who he was and make sure he should be allowed in.
"What can I do for you?" Peter asked when they were seated. "How are you settling in?"
"I'm afraid I have very hard news indeed," Dominic replied. "I have been told not to break it yet, but-"
"You are not leaving?" Peter said in alarm.
"No. Not in the foreseeable future. I would like not to leave at all, but that is up to the bishop." Dominic was startled by how passionately he meant that. He longed to stay here, to be his own master, free to succeed-or fail-on his own beliefs, not Spindlewood's.
"I don't understand," Peter replied, confusion clear on his dark face.
As briefly as possible, Dominic told him what had happened, including Fitzpatrick's admonition to tell no one yet, and his own reasons for not obeying.
"Oh, dear," Peter said quietly. He looked crushed. "I liked him enormously, you know."
Dominic believed him; he did not even have to weigh it in his mind. The sorrow in Peter's face was real-a pain one could sense in the room almost like a third presence.
"The more I learn of him, the more I realize how much he was loved," Dominic said gently. "I feel a loss myself, and I never even met him. That is why I intend to find out what happened. I don't know whom to trust, or where to begin." He smiled ruefully, a trifle self-conscious. "I have a brother-in-law who is a policeman, a detective. Suddenly I appreciate how appallingly difficult his job is. I have no real authority to ask anyone questions. I am an outsider here, no matter how much I want to belong, but I feel a duty to find the truth of how the Reverend Wynter died."
Peter frowned. "Do you not think perhaps it was an accident more than deliberate, and someone panicked, felt guilty for provoking a quarrel, and so denied it, even to themselves?" His voice dropped to little more than a whisper. "We can be at our ugliest when we are frightened. I have seen men act quite outside what one had believed their character to be."
"Certainly," Dominic agreed. "But there is a cowardice in that, and a certain brutality in allowing him to lie there undiscovered, which speaks of a terrible selfishness. I don't intend to allow that to go unaddressed. It...it would seem as if I were saying it doesn't matter, and it does."
"Of course it does." Peter lifted his eyes and met Dominic's levelly. "What can I do to help? I have no idea as to who could or would have done such a thing."
"Or why?" Dominic asked.
Peter's mouth pinched very slightly. "Or why," he conceded. He drew in his breath as if to add something, and then changed his mind and remained silent.
Dominic wondered what he had been going to say. That it must be a secret the Reverend Wynter had learned, possibly even by accident, but that someone cared about so passionately, with such fear of loss, that they had killed rather than risk it being known? It was the obvious thing, if a priest was murdered. Could Peter have failed to say this for any reason except that he knew, or feared, it was true?
His own secret, or someone else's?
What secret could the elegant, charming, and secure Peter Connaught care about enough to commit murder? Or who was the friend for whom he would condone such an act?
Anything? Anyone? The most ordinary countenance could hide stories of pain the outsider would never imagine. Peter had quarreled with Wynter himself to the point that, despite their very real affection, he had suddenly stopped calling at the vicarage, and Wynter had put away the chess set and apparently never played again.
Dominic considered challenging the man but decided not to, at least not yet. "I might be able to narrow it to some degree by knowing who called on him after the last time he was seen alive," he said aloud.
Peter relaxed fractionally. The difference in his posture in the big chair was so slight, it was no more than an easing in the tiny wrinkles in the way his jacket lay. But Dominic was aware of it.
A log settled in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. Peter stood up and added another, then waited a moment to make certain it was balanced. The flames reached higher to embrace it.
"That seems like a good idea," he said, taking his seat again. "If I can help, I should be happy to. I might even be able to make some discreet inquiries myself."
"I should be most grateful," Dominic replied. He had no idea how far to trust him, but sometimes one could learn as much from a lie as from the truth. Even omissions could tell a person something. "Thank you," he went on with warmth. "I hope that, as you say, it may turn out to be no worse than a grubby accident someone failed to report."
Peter smiled. "A weakness not easy to forgive, but not impossible."
Dominic remained another fifteen minutes, and then took his leave out into a fading afternoon, now even more bitterly cold. Some of the clouds had cleared away, and it had stopped snowing. The light was pale, with the amber of the fading sun low on the horizon. Shadows were growing longer. The edge of the wind cut like a blade, making his skin hurt and his eyes water.
His feet slipped a little on the ice as he trudged down the drive. Other than the thud of the mounded snow on the evergreens overbalancing onto the ground below, there was silence in the gathering gloom.
Beyond the trees the village lights shone yellow, making little golden smudges sparkling against the blue-gray of twilight. Someone opened a door onto a world of brilliance. A dog scampered out then back in again, and the light vanished.
Dominic's hands and feet were numb. Hunching his shoulders from the cold, he stopped for a moment to retie his scarf.
That was when he heard the footsteps behind him. He swung around, his breath catching in his throat from the icy air in his lungs. The figure was there, crossing the village green only a few yards away. She was bent, shivering, and very small. She stopped also, motionless, as if uncertain whether to try running away.
But who could run in the deep snow? And like Dominic, she was probably too stiff with cold even to try.
Dominic took a step toward her. "Are you looking for me?" he asked gently.
"Oh...Reverend Corde...," she began.
"Can I help you?" he asked gently.
"No! I was just...well..."
"Mrs. Towers?" He was almost certain it was the elderly woman he had met in about this same spot a few days ago. He recognized the small hands in their woolen mittens.
"Yes...er, yes. No, I am just on my way home." She did not move.
"Perhaps I could walk with you?" he offered. "Just to make sure you get home safely. It's a terribly cold evening."
"Well...that's very kind of you." There was an eagerness in her slightly husky voice. He could barely see her face under the shadow of her hat and the scarf wound around her neck and shoulders, but he thought she might have been smiling.
He crossed the short distance between them and offered her his arm. She took it, pulling at him very slightly to direct him the right way. Walking at her pace was hard. There was no briskness to keep the blood flowing.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Towers?" he asked, trying to guess why she had seemed to be following him. "Do you need some wood brought in? Or coal?" The moment he had said it he wondered if he had been clumsy. Possibly she had none, and that was the real issue.
"Oh, no thank you," she said, shaking her head and shivering. "Really, I have everything. Very kind of you, but a hand not to slip is all I need." As if to emphasize it she clung to him harder.
He walked in silence for several minutes, still believing that there was something she wanted to ask him if she could work up the courage. He ought to be able to guess it and help her if it was difficult. Surely a good minister would see needs, understand them before they were voiced?
Perhaps she was just lonely. Hardly anyone would say that. Please, Vicar, talk to me, and break the silence I live in. It doesn't matter what I say or think, but please pretend for half an hour that it does. Listen to me, ask me; then when you go again I shall feel better.
Would she spend Christmas alone, too, apart from coming to church? He should ask her to tea. But he should invite her once before that, so the kindness wasn't so obvious. No one wanted to be asked simply for charity's sake.
"Mrs. Towers," he began, "I hope that one day soon when the snow is a little less deep, you will come to tea with us. My wife and I would be delighted to better make your acquaintance. You could tell us much about the village, its history, and the people who have lived here. Would you?"
"Oh!" She sounded thoroughly startled. "Oh, well!" She gripped his arm as if she was in very real danger of falling. "That would be very nice, I'm sure. When the weather is better, I should be very pleased to come. When there isn't so much snow, you know. Thank you so much. I am nearly home now. Just around the corner." She pulled her arm away. "Do have a nice evening. Good night, Vicar. Thank you for your kindness. So nice to see you." She doubled her speed and disappeared into the gloom, swallowed by the shadows of trees and garden hedges until she was indistinguishable from the other shapes in the night.
There was no point in standing here as if she might change her mind and come back. And yet Dominic had been certain that she had wished to say something more to him. Had he put her off by speaking? He had only asked her to tea at some time in the future.
Did she already know that the Reverend Wynter was dead, or did she perhaps fear it? Had he confided in her? Or perhaps living alone with little to do, and with no relatives nearby, she watched and listened in the village. It would not be snooping, just the instinct of a lonely person with time on her hands, but she might have seen or deduced all kinds of things for herself.
He should have asked her. Could she even be in danger herself?
He was freezing in the bone-deep cold. He was beginning to shake now that he had stopped moving. He turned and began to walk back across the snow toward the spires of the church, black against the first stars. He knew the vicarage lay to the right of it, invisible in the trees, its lights kept to a minimum for economy's sake.
When he opened the front door, the warmth engulfed him, and after a moment he smelled the hot pastry, oil lamps, coal, and lavender furniture polish.
"Clarice!" he called out eagerly. "Clarice?"
She was there a moment later, hugging him. She gasped when the ice on his coat touched her neck and throat, then ignored it and held him tighter.
After supper they sat by the fire opposite each other. Outside, the wind rose, whipping the branches, and now and then clattering small twigs against the glass. He told her about speaking with Peter Connaught.
"Did he tell you anything useful?" she asked, leaning forward, eyes intent upon his.
"I don't think so," he admitted.
She caught his hesitation. "You think, you aren't sure?"
He looked at her face with its large, tender eyes and vulnerable mouth. Had he brought her into the presence of murder again, into the violence and tragedy of human hatred? He remembered how much she had been hurt the last time, and how frightened he had been himself. She had never doubted him, no matter what the facts had appeared to be. He owed her honesty, but he also owed her protection. He did not wish her to be hurt, ever. And yet if he shut her out, he was alone. He could not tell her half-truths-not without destroying the thread between them that was so infinitely precious.
"It wasn't what he said so much as a look in his face," he said, feeling ridiculous.
"He believed you!" she said, understanding instantly. "You told him the Reverend Wynter was murdered, and he knew you were right!"
He felt a warmth inside deeper than anything the fire or the room could give him. "He believes someone has a secret, and that the Reverend Wynter could have learned it," he said in confirmation. Should he tell her the rest: the impression only barely formed in his mind?
She was waiting for him to finish. She had something urgent to say also. He could see it in her eyes, in the clenching of her hands in her lap.
"I think he was almost relieved," he said. "As if he had feared it, and now that it had happened it could be faced, and he was no longer alone."
"He isn't alone," she said quickly. "And I told John and Genevieve Boscombe as well. I couldn't help it. Dr. Fitzpatrick may be furious, but I couldn't ask their help and then lie to them. They wouldn't have helped me anyway, because I had no sensible explanation for what I'd done."
He was confused, then touched by a tendril of fear, just a tiny thing, but unmistakable. "What have you done?"
She blinked with guilt, lowering her eyes.
"I wasn't accusing you!" He leaned far forward enough to grasp her hand. "Clarice! I only meant..." What had he meant? He gulped, and then clenched his teeth. "I was afraid for you. If someone in this village really lured the Reverend Wynter to the cellar steps and then hit him so hard he died as a result, then it would be foolish to think we are safe if we go looking for the secret that provoked them to it. Despite the snow and the peace, the kindness, Christmas in a few days, there is still something very terrible here. Just because we haven't lived here all our lives doesn't mean we are safe from it. We have made ourselves part of whatever it is. I'm sorry!"
She took his hand, closing her fingers around it. "Don't be. The only way to be safe is not to be alone at all. I shall be very careful."
"No you won't!" he contradicted her sharply. "I know you! You'll go charging in, doing whatever you think is right. Safety, or anything to do with sense, will be the last thing on your mind!"
She sidestepped the issue. "I looked at the books," she told him. "Very carefully."
He was confused. "What books?" It appeared to be irrelevant.
"The ledgers!" she said impatiently. "The accounts!"
"Oh. Why? I'm sure we can manage until the bishop makes a decision." He heard the unhappiness in his own voice. He had not meant to allow himself to care so much, certainly not to let Clarice know. But he wanted to belong here, have his own church, his own congregation to teach, to care for, and to learn from. Already he dreaded going back to the Reverend Spindlewood and his gray, sanctimonious ways, his tediousness of spirit.
"The accounts are not right!" Clarice said firmly. "There are inconsistencies in the last seven months or more." Her voice was low and tense, and she was staring at him, demanding his attention. "Someone was stealing tiny amounts from the church collections. Just pennies quite often, never more than a shilling or two. The Reverend Wynter was putting the amount back from his own money. His own ledgers were balanced to the farthing, except for those amounts. If you look carefully, they tally up."