chapter Fourteen
It was not a good night. He knew that after supper he would have to go see John Boscombe and ask him if what he had been told was the truth, because he felt sure that was what the Reverend Wynter was doing before he died. He had racked his brains to find another alternative, all the time knowing that there was none. Clarice had offered to come with him, and he had refused. She had no part in it, and no chaperone was necessary. She would worry, he knew that, imagining all kinds of anger and distress, but that was the burden of a priest's wife, and she did not ask to be relieved of it.
It was a hard walk to the Boscombes' house. He did not dare take the shortcut through the woods, even if the stream was frozen. His arm ached from carrying the lantern and trying to hold it against the wind. He was welcomed in. The house was warm, although not as warm as the vicarage where they could afford to burn a little more coal.
"How nice to see you, Reverend Corde," Boscombe said immediately. "It's a terrible night for visiting. What brings you? No one ill or needing help?"
Dominic almost changed his mind. Maybe this was something the bishop should deal with, or whoever was given this living permanently. But if he evaded it, Clarice would despise him. Even now he could imagine her disappointment in him.
He followed Boscombe inside to the parlor, where Genevieve was sitting sewing. She was patching the sleeves of a jacket. She put it away quickly as if to welcome him, but he saw from the quick flush in her face that she was ashamed. Were they really paying blackmail to someone? The vicar? Please God, no.
Or to anyone else, perhaps from Boscombe's home village? Even Mrs. Paget? But it was the Reverend Wynter who was dead. Mrs. Paget was very much alive.
"Genny, please get the vicar a cup of tea, or soup," Boscombe requested. "Which would you like?"
How could Dominic accept the man's hospitality, given out of their little, with what he had come to say? Guilt almost choked him. And who was he to blame a man for doing what he might so easily have done himself, had the temptation been there? Sarah was dead, however, and he was free to love Clarice as he wished, but due to luck, not virtue.
"No thank you, not yet," he prevaricated. "But I would like to speak to you confidentially, Mr. Boscombe. I beg your pardon for that, on such an evening."
"Don't worry, Vicar," Genevieve said quickly. "I have jobs to do in the kitchen. You just call when you'd like the soup."
"What is it?" Boscombe asked as soon as the door was closed and they were alone. "You look very grave, Vicar. Not more money gone, is it? Or did you find out who took it? I think the Reverend Wynter was inclined to let it go, you know. He could always see the greater picture, the one that mattered."
"Yes, I imagine he could," Dominic answered. "It seems to me he thought past today's embarrassment and saw the grief that could come in the future if present sins, however easy to understand, or even to sympathize with, were not put right."
Boscombe's face paled. His eyes were steady on Dominic's face.
"I'm sorry," Dominic said gently. "There is no record of your marriage in this parish. If I ask the bishop, will he find it in some other place?"
Boscombe's voice was husky, his eyes wretched. "No, Vicar. Genevieve is the wife of my heart, but not of the law. The Reverend Wynter knew that, and he wanted to find a way for us to make it right, but I couldn't stay on in office in the church once he knew."
"But you could stay until then?" The moment the words were out of his lips, Dominic wished he had not said them. It was a criticism Boscombe did not need, however justified.
Boscombe blushed and looked down at his big hands. "I wasn't the one who told him. I couldn't bring myself to. I wanted to be happy," he said softly. "That was the coward's way, I suppose, but he asked me to help with the money and other tasks in the church. I couldn't refuse without telling him why." He twisted his fingers together, crushing the flesh till they were white. "I didn't think you'd find out so quick."
"Did you kill the Reverend Wynter?"
Boscombe's head jerked up, his eyes wide. "No! God in heaven, man, how can you ask such a thing? He was my friend! He wanted us to put it right, and I told him I wasn't leaving Genevieve for anything, church or no church. And I wasn't going back to my first wife, either. If God sent me to hell, at least I'd have a life first. But go back and it would be hell now. And who would support Genny and my children?"
"Who supports your first wife?" Dominic asked.
"She had money of her own and no need of mine," Boscombe said bitterly. "As she often reminded me."
"If she divorced you for your adultery and desertion, you would be free to marry Genevieve and make your children legitimate," Dominic pointed out. "In the law, if not in the church. Wouldn't it still be better?"
Boscombe gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Do you think I didn't ask her to? She's not a woman to forgive, Reverend Corde. Not ever. As long as she lives she'll hold me to bondage. My only choice is to live in sin with Genevieve, the best and gentlest, most loyal woman I know, or live in virtue cold as ice with a woman who hates me, and will make me pay every day and night of my life, because I don't love her. The Reverend Wynter wanted me to make it right, for Genevieve's sake, and my children's. He told me they'd get nothing if I die, and I know that's true." He blinked several times. "I'll just have to pray I don't die. He was looking for a way for me to make it right with God, but he never found it before he died. I don't know who killed him, but I swear to you before the Lord who made the earth and everything in it, it was not me. I loved the Reverend Wynter, and I've got enough on my soul as it is without adding violence to it."
Dominic believed him. It fit with what Mrs. Paget had told him, and what he had come to know of Wynter. Boscombe might have thought, in a moment's desperation, that if Wynter were dead he could continue to live in peace. But he must have known that it would only be a matter of time before he was exposed. With murder on his hands and his heart, there would be no happiness ahead for him, or for the woman and the children he loved so deeply. Could Dominic find an answer for him? If Wynter, with a lifetime in the church, could not, then how could he, a novice? "I'll try to find a way for you to sort it out," he promised rashly. "Thank you for your honesty."
"If there were, we'd have found it by now," Boscombe said miserably. "What are you going to say to the bishop?"
"Nothing," Dominic replied, again rashly. He stood up. "I'm concerned with finding who killed the Reverend Wynter. Anything else is between you and God. Living with a woman to whom you are not married may be a sin, but it is not against the law. We will address that problem later. Perhaps after Christmas they will move me somewhere else. I hope not, but I cannot choose." He heard the roughness of grief in his own voice and was angry with himself. What had he to grieve over, when he was returning to the woman he loved, with no shadow over them or between them, except whatever he might create himself by being less than she believed of him? "First let us celebrate the birth of Christ, and leave other things until after that."
Boscombe held out his hand, blinking rapidly again. "Thank you."
Dominic gripped him hard. "But if I stay here, we will have to seek an answer one day."
"I know," Boscombe replied. "I know."
***
The morning dawned bright. The sky was a pale, wind-scoured blue, and the ice crust on the snow was hard enough to support a child's weight. The few ducks out, eager for bread, paddled across it without making a crack. Someone had been thoughtful enough to put out water for them, but it would need thawing every hour or two.
Clarice had baked bread, a skill she was very proud of because it had not come naturally to her. Dominic took a loaf to old Mr. Riddington and found him frail and hunched up in his chair. He was grateful for the bread, but even more for the company in his chilly and almost soundless world. Dominic brought in more wood and coal, making them both a cup of tea. He found it was more than two hours before he could decently leave the old man.
He went next door to check with Mrs. Blount and thank her for her kindness. Then he set out for home.
He was close to the green again when he was aware of footsteps behind him. He heard every crack and crunch of the ice. He turned to see the small figure of Sybil Towers struggling to catch up with him. Her mittened hands were waggling awkwardly as she tried to keep her balance, her cape was trailing lopsidedly, and her hat was a trifle awry.
It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he started back toward her. She looked so frantic and lonely, he had no choice.
"Good morning, Mrs. Towers. Are you all right?" He offered her his arm. "It isn't weather for hurrying, you know. Where are you going? Perhaps I can accompany you and see you don't fall."
"You are too kind, Reverend Corde." She grasped his arm as if it were a lifeline in a stormy sea. "Those poor ducks. I know Mrs. Jones is putting out bread and a little lard for them, such a nice woman."
"Which way are you going, Mrs. Towers?" he asked again.
"Oh, over there." She gestured vaguely with her free arm, nearly losing her balance again. "How are you settling in? Is Mrs. Corde finding the vicarage to her liking? A home matters so much, I always think."
"We both like it very much indeed," he answered.
"A good garden," she went on. "Old trees make a garden, don't you agree?"
"Yes." He nodded. "I expect in spring they are beautiful."
She told him how many blossom trees there were, then the various other flowers in season, all the way through to the tawny chrysanthemums, the purple Michaelmas daisies, and the offer of an excellent recipe for crab apple jelly. "One of my favorites, I confess," she said with enthusiasm. "I prefer the tart to the very sweet, don't you?"
They were now well across the green and into the lane at the far side. They had passed several cottages; the way through the woods lay ahead, winding between the trees. Presumably it led eventually to open fields and perhaps a farm or two. He had realized half a mile ago that she was not actually going anywhere. She needed to talk to him, but could not bring herself to come to the subject easily. His hands were numb and his feet so cold he was losing sensation in them also, but he felt her need as sharply as the wind rattling the bare branches above them. Did she know something about the Reverend Wynter's death? Was that what she was struggling to say?
"Of course, we will probably not be here for very long," he prompted her, surprised again by the regret in his voice. "Once the bishop finds a permanent replacement for the Reverend Wynter, we will return to London. From everything I hear, he was a most remarkable man, one whose shoes it will not be easy to fill."
"He was," she said eagerly. "Oh, he was. So kind. So very patient. One knew one could trust him with anything." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "But I think perhaps you are the same, Reverend Corde. It seems to me you are a man who has understood pain." She looked away from him, and he knew she was afraid she had been too bold.
He hastened to reassure her. "Thank you. That is a very fine thing to say, Mrs. Towers. I shall endeavor to live up to it. At least I can say that I understand loneliness, and the grief of knowing that you have done something ugly and wrong. But I also know there is a path back."
They walked in silence for several yards. Crows wheeled up in the sky, cawing harshly, then circled back into the lower branches again.
"I was going to speak to the Reverend Wynter," she said at last. "I wanted to make a confession, but..."
"I think he knew that," Dominic said for her, still holding her arm. "Let's turn back, or we will have too far to go. All the earth is God's house. You do not have to speak in a church for it to be a sacred trust."
"No, no, I suppose not. I kept doing little things wrong, you see, to find out if he would forgive them, before I...before I told him the real thing."
He walked a few moments, perhaps thirty or forty yards along the path, and then he prompted her again. "Was it you who took the pennies from the collection for the poor?"
She drew in her breath with a little cry. "It was only pennies! I made it up, always! I gave extra..."
He put his other hand over her arm, holding her more tightly. "That doesn't matter. The books were never short. I know that. But you wanted to speak to him, and never quite found the resolve." He did not use the word courage. "Perhaps now would be a good time?"
She gulped again. "I...I committed a...a terrible sin when I was young. I'm so ashamed, and it can never be undone. I wanted to confess, but...but I...he was such a good man, I was afraid he would despise me..."
"Then tell me, Mrs. Towers. I am not so very good. I understand very well what it feels like to sin, and to repent."
"I do repent, I do!"
"Then cast it on the Lord, and be free of it."
"But I must pay!"
"I think that is not for you to decide. What is it you did that is so heavy for you to bear?"
"I had a love affair," she whispered. "Oh, I did love him. You see, I am not Mrs. Towers. I never married. And...and..." Again she could not find the words.
He guessed. "You had a child?"
She nodded. "Yes." She took a few more steps. "I only saw her for a few moments, then they took her away from me. She was so beautiful." The tears were flowing down her face now. In moments the wind would freeze them on her cold skin. She must have been nearly seventy, and yet the memory was as sharp as yesterday.
He ached to do anything that would take away the pain. Could the compassion in his own heart speak for God? Surely God had to be better, greater than he was?
"Is that all?" he asked her.
"Is that not enough?" she said incredulously.
"Yes. And the penance you have already paid is enough also. More than enough. God forgave you long ago. And the Reverend Wynter would tell you that, were he here."
"I wish I'd had the courage to tell him," she said, swallowing hard.
"Did he not guess?" he asked.
"Oh, no. He knew I wished to say something, but he did not know what it was." She sounded certain.
"He knew many people's secrets," he went on. They were now almost back to the far side of the village green. "Do you not think perhaps the father could have told him?"
"Oh, no, indeed not. The father...never knew. It would have been quite impossible for him to marry me. There was no purpose in my telling him about it. I simply went away. It is what girls do, you know."
"Yes, yes. I do know." He did not say any more. It was an age-old story of love and pain and sometimes betrayal, sometimes simple tragedy. It had happened untold times, and would happen again. Had it been here in this village?
Whoever the father was, she had protected him all these years. She would not betray him now, and it was not part of her penance that she should.
Dominic was still holding her arm, and he gripped it a little more tightly as they stepped into the rutted road, icy where wheels had pressed it down, deep between ridges.
"Thank you for speaking to me," he said sincerely. "Please don't think of it any further, except with love, or grief, but never again with guilt."
She nodded, unable even to attempt words.
He left her at her door and turned to walk back toward the vicarage. He was quite certain that he had said to her exactly what the Reverend Wynter would have, and his admiration for the old man's wisdom and compassion grew even greater.
How would Dominic follow in his footsteps and guide and comfort the people of this village-be strong for them, judge wisely, know the hearts and not merely the words?
He would be here for Christmas-that much he was certain of. What could he say that was passionate and honest and caught the glory of what Christmas was truly about? It was God's greatest gift to the world, but how could he make them see that? There would be Yule logs and carols and bells, mulled wine, gifts, decorated trees, lights across the snow. They were the outer marks of joy. How could he make just as visible the inward ones?
He wanted Clarice to be proud of him; he wanted it with a hunger close to starvation. He must give her the gift she most wanted, too-finding the best in himself for both of them.
***
Of course he said nothing to her of what Sybil Towers had told him, and he found that a hardship. He would have liked her advice, but he never considered breaking the trust.
Instead, over luncheon, Clarice told him that Mrs. Wellbeloved had been in that morning, bringing yet more onions and another rock-hard cabbage, which with a strong wrist and a sharp knife she would be able to slice. Mrs. Wellbeloved was full of gossip about the poor vicar's death, and the fact that John Boscombe had had a terrible quarrel with him shortly before. The village was buzzing with the news, but no one had the faintest idea what the argument had been about.
"His marriage, or lack of it, I should think," Dominic replied. Since it was Clarice who had discovered it, that was not a confidence between the two of them. "Poor man."
"You sympathize with him?" Clarice said in surprise.
"Don't you?"
"I do with Genevieve, if she didn't know. Very little if she did," Clarice responded.
He smiled. "If I had been married unhappily, and met you, I might have done the same."
"Oh." She did not know whether to smile or disapprove. She tried both, with singular lack of success.
He saw the conflict in her face and laughed.
"And you think I would have lived with you anyway," she said hotly. She took a deep breath and speared a carrot with her fork. "You're probably right."
He smiled more widely, with a little flutter of warmth inside him, but he was wise enough not to answer.
At almost two o'clock he set out to go up to the manor. There were one or two favors he wished to ask Peter Connaught with regard to villagers he knew were in need, but more than that he wondered if perhaps Peter's father could have been Sybil Towers's lover. If the Reverend Wynter had known that, was it a secret worth killing him for? Did it even matter now, so many years afterward? It would be a scandal, and Peter was inordinately proud of his family and its heritage of honor and care in the village. It was not his fault, of course, but the stain would touch him. Was he protective enough of his father's name to have killed to keep it safe?
What if Sybil's daughter were known to him? She was illegitimate and had no possible claim in law, even if her heritage could be proved-which it probably could not. But in a small community like Cottisham, proof was irrelevant; reputation was all.
The weather had deteriorated. The wind was rising. Clouds piled high in the west, darkening the sky and promising heavy falls of snow that night.
He was welcomed at the hall, as always, and in the huge withdrawing room the usual log fire was blazing. The afternoon was dark and the candelabra were lit, making the room almost festively bright.
He accepted the offer of tea, longing to thaw his hands on the warm cup as much as he looked forward to the drink. They addressed the business of the village. Help must be given with discretion; even the most needy did not like to feel they are objects of charity. Many would rather freeze or go hungry than accept pity. Food could be given to all, so none felt their poverty revealed. They arranged for the blacksmith to go after dark and add a few dozen logs to certain people's woodpiles.
The butler came with tea and hot toasted tea cakes thick with currants and covered with melted butter. The two men left not a crumb.
Finally Dominic had to approach the subject of Sybil Towers. He had thought about it, considered all possibilities, and found no answer that pleased him fully, but he could not break Sybil's confidence.
"I have to ask you a very troubling question," he began. He was awkward. He knew it, and could think of no way to help himself. "I have gained certain knowledge, not because I sought it, and I cannot reveal any more to you than that, so please do not ask me."
Peter frowned. "You may trust my discretion. What is it that is wrong?"
Dominic had already concocted the lie carefully, but it still troubled him. "Many years ago a young woman in the village had a love affair with a man it was impossible for her to marry. There was a child. I believe the father never knew." He was watching Peter's face but saw in it only sympathy and a certain resignation. No doubt he had heard similar stories many times before.
"I'm sorry," Peter said quietly. "If it happened long ago, why do you raise it now?"
"Because the Reverend Wynter may have known of it," Dominic said frankly, still watching Peter's face. "And he was murdered..."
"Did you say murdered?" Peter demanded, his voice hoarse. "That is very far from what Fitzpatrick told me!"
"I know. Dr. Fitzpatrick does not want to face the unpleasantness of such a thing. But I believe the Reverend Wynter was a fine man, and his death should not be treated with less than honesty, just for our convenience. He deserved better than that."
"What makes you think it was murder, Corde?" Peter reached for the poker, readjusted his grasp on it, and drove the end into the burning embers. The log shifted weight and settled lower, sending up a shower of sparks. He replaced the poker in its stand and added another log.
Dominic found himself shivering despite the heat. "He fell at the bottom of the cellar stairs," he replied. "There were marks of being dragged, and he was found in the second cellar, with injuries both to his face and the back of his head. The cellar door was closed behind him, and he had no lantern."
There was silence in the room. Beyond the thick curtains and the glass, even the sound of the wind was muffled.
"I see," Peter said at last, his face somber in the firelight. "I have to agree with you. As an accident, that does not make sense. How tragic. He was a good man: wise, brave, and honest. What is it you think this unfortunate woman has to do with it? Surely you are not suggesting the Reverend Wynter was the father of this child? That I do not believe. If he had done such a thing-which of course is possible; we are all capable of love and hate-then he would have admitted it. He would not have lied or disclaimed his responsibility."
"No," Dominic agreed. "But I think he may have known something of the truth, and someone could not bear the thought that he would reveal it. Perhaps the vicar even wished the father to honor his responsibility in some way he was not prepared to."
"How very sad. What is it I can do to help now? I presume you cannot tell me the names of either the woman or her child?"
"I cannot tell you the name of the woman," Dominic agreed. "It has to be confidential. The name of the child I do not know, but I fear it may be someone who has returned to the village with a certain degree of retribution in her mind."
"Oh, dear! And killed poor Wynter because he was the vicar at the time, and did not do as she would have wished, or thought fair?"
"It seems possible," Dominic replied. That at least was true. The more he considered it, the more likely it became. The missing money and Wynter's quarrel with John Boscombe had already been explained.
Peter was waiting for an answer to his first question.
"You must be very careful," Dominic said softly. "If it is this woman who kills, then she does it with stealth, and skill. I think it may be someone nobody suspects."
"Why should she wish me any harm?" Peter's eyes widened. "When Wynter first came here, I was a child myself. In fact, I wasn't even in England. That is when my parents were living in the East, before...before my mother died." He looked down, and a faint color touched his cheeks.
"Did your father not return to England at all during that time?" Dominic asked.
Peter looked up sharply. The whole air of their conversation had altered. There was pain in his face, and anger. His body was stiff in the chair. "Exactly what is it you are asking, Corde?"
"She could not marry him because he was far beyond her social station," Dominic told him. "It seems in Cottisham that that's most likely to have been your father."
Peter's face paled to a sickly yellow, as if the blood had drained out of his skin. He was shaking when he spoke. "My father was devoted to my mother! It is monstrous that you should make such a revolting suggestion! Who is this woman? I demand to know who has...no...I apologize. I know you cannot tell me." His hands gripped the arms of his chair. "But she is a liar of the most vile sort. It is not true!"
Dominic was startled by the vehemence of his denial. It was not so very unusual that a man of wealth and position should produce a few illegitimate children. It made Dominic wonder if perhaps Peter himself might have quarreled with the Reverend Wynter over it. Was it conceivable that, charming as he was, generous, diligent in his duties, still his family pride was such that he would have struck out in rage at the suggestion that his father had begotten any child other than himself?
"You seem inexplicably angry at the thought, Sir Peter," Dominic said gently. "It does not threaten either your inheritance or your title, and it is no more than a remote possibility. I told you, in case you yourself were in some danger. Your flash of temper makes one wonder if perhaps this same suggestion was the cause of your difference with the Reverend Wynter, and you did not forgive him for making it."
Peter stared at him, and slowly the awful meaning of what he had said dawned on him. "God in heaven, man! Are you saying you think I murdered poor Wynter because he believed it was true my father begot this...this child? You can't!" He dragged in his breath, gulping, painfully, and then he started to laugh. It was a terrible sound, wrenched out of him with pain.
Dominic was appalled. He wanted to run away, leave this scene of naked emotion, but he must stay, find the truth, and then face it.
"Is that really absurd?" he said when Peter had gained some small measure of control.