They were in the parlor at the vicarage; Crispin perched at the edge of a chair beside the empty hearth, a glass with a hefty measure of the Reverend’s Scotch in one hand.
“Who was she?” asked Archie, leaning against the sill of a window overlooking the churchyard.
“She was—until a few months ago—a parlor boarder at Miss Rowena LaMont’s Academy for Young Ladies in Tenbury.”
Archie and Sebastian exchanged glances. Parlor boarders were a special classification of boarding school students. Living at a school the year around, they typically enjoyed their own bed and were granted the privilege of sharing the headmistress’s parlor in the evening. Such students were frequently wealthy orphans or motherless children of men posted overseas.
But sometimes they were the illegitimate, hidden offspring of a wealthy family.
“What happened a few months ago?” asked Sebastian.
“She turned twenty-one and came into her inheritance.”
“How did you happen to meet her?”
Crispin looked up from the brooding contemplation of his Scotch. “My two sisters attend Miss LaMont’s academy. Last winter, I inherited a small manor house nearby from a great-aunt. It was in a shocking state of disrepair, and I spent some time there setting it to rights. Emma—Miss Chandler—was my sister Georgina’s particular friend, and often came with her to see me.”
“Were you in love with her?”
Crispin pressed his lips together into a tight line and nodded as if he didn’t trust his voice.
“Who were her family?” asked Archie. “They should be notified.”
Crispin stared at him. “But I don’t know who they are. She didn’t know who they were.”
“Why was she here?” asked Sebastian.
“I don’t know.”
“But you did know she was here.”
“No!” The vehemence of the denial took Sebastian by surprise. “I was on my way back from leaving my sisters and the Bonaparte girls with my aunt in Windermere when I heard that a young woman named Emma Chance had been killed in Ayleswick. She sounded so much like my Emma that I . . . I . . .” He paused to take a long gulp of his drink. “She used that name sometimes, you see—Emma Chance. Like it was a joke, although I never thought it very funny.”
Chance child. It was a polite euphemism for a bastard.
Sebastian studied the young man’s bowed head and rigid frame. His grief was real. But Sebastian couldn’t shake the suspicion that the young lord was being less than honest about something.
“Who do you think killed her?” Sebastian asked.
Crispin glanced up, his face blank. “I’ve no notion. Why would anyone want to kill her?”
“Who knew of your interest in Miss Chandler?”
“No one.” Crispin thought about it a moment, then added, “Well, my sister Georgina, I suppose. And Louisa. But they would never tell anyone.”
“Your mother didn’t know?”
Crispin surged to his feet, his face white, his fists clenched. “What the bloody hell do you mean by that?”
“You didn’t tell her?”
“Not yet, no, damn you! And if you’re suggesting that my mother would—that she would hire someone—”
Sebastian hadn’t actually suggested it. But he found it more than interesting that Seaton’s mind had instantly leapt to that possibility.
“Take a damper, Crispin,” said Archie Rawlins.
Crispin turned his head to glare at his childhood friend.
Archie said, “Someone killed her, Crispin. She told everyone in the village that she was a twenty-eight-year-old widow on a sketching expedition. Now we find out she’s someone else entirely. That changes everything; don’t you see?”
“You can’t be suggesting she was killed because of me!”
“No,” said Sebastian. “Although I suspect she was here because of you.”
Crispin stared at him, his jaw slack. “But why would she come here and pretend to be someone else? It makes no sense.”
“Where has she been living since she left the school?”
“In Little Stretton. It’s a village to the north of here, near the Long Mynd. There’s a teacher who used to be at the school—Miss Owens is her name; Jane Owens. She has a cottage there. Emma was very fond of her.” He paused, his lips quivering. “She had this scheme of the two of them opening a school together.” It was obvious from the way he said it that Seaton had not been in favor of the idea.
“Can you tell us anything—anything at all—that might shed some light on what happened to Miss Chandler?”
“No. You think if I knew anything, I wouldn’t tell you?” Seaton drained his Scotch and set the glass aside with a hand that was far from steady.
Sebastian exchanged glances with Archie.
An already puzzling investigation had just become considerably more complicated.
“So the Reverend decided to bury only Hannibal Pierce?” said Hero.