Page 14 of The Case of the Curate

“It’s bad,” Rupert said. “His Lordship doesn’t want it talked about, so I’ll say no more for now. Except the situation is…delicate.”

Bancroft looked serious. “Can you cope?”

“Oh, yes,” Rupert said, rising to his feet. “I believe I’ll just step round to Dr. Paxton’s house. I look forward to your company at tea.”

He called in at the church first, since he made himself available there at various times. Not that many troubled souls came to him there. Few in the parish took him seriously as a clergyman yet—he was too young, he didn’t look the part, and they were used to Mr. Bancroft—but he persevered.

He pottered about the empty church, which dated back to the twelfth century in parts and boasted a particularly fine window of stained glass depicting St. Swithin. He sorted out a pile of damaged prayer books and tried not to think about Dinah’s dead eyes. Or anyone else’s.

He heard the door clattering open but didn’t turn immediately. A feminine giggle sounded, followed by whispering and more giggling.

Rupert turned to face the two young women who were swaggering up the aisle arm in arm, eyes wide in their rosy faces. Pretty country girls whom he didn’t know by name. He doubted they had been to any of his services, but word had clearly got around about the new curate and they had come for a gawp. They weren’t the first.

“Ladies,” he said amiably, “may I be of assistance?”

The darker-haired girl giggled again. The blonde dipped a curtsy that dragged her friend down with her, causing them both to stagger. Their eyes gleamed with fun and interest, and there had most definitely been a time when Rupert would have happily obliged them with a little flirting. At the very least.

“We just come to make your acquaintance, sir. We live over by Ridgeton and don’t get to church most Sundays. I’m Penny Troy, and this here’s Fanny Smith.”

“How do you do?” Rupert said gravely. “My name is Grande, the curate currently standing in for Mr. Bancroft. I hope you can manage church this Sunday, but you are welcome now and any time.”

They beamed at him, and he took the damaged prayer books into the vestry for later repair. When he reemerged, the girls were still there, huddled together on a middle pew gossiping.

He sat at the front, bent his head, and concentrated on prayer. For all the dead and the suffering in the world, and for Dinah and those who would miss her. And, oddly, for Kate Hynde, now Lady Ambrose. He hadn’t set out to pray for her, and he wasn’t quite sure why she needed it, but it seemed the right thing to do. He finished, as usual with thanks and a plea for his own strength.

When he rose, the girls were still gawking at him. He began to feel like a debutante on display at her first ball. And he was as sure as he could be they were not here for spiritual guidance. Though perhaps they needed it, now was not the time.

He inclined his head and left by the vestry door to collect his hat.

*

James Remington, the Chadleigh magistrate, called early on Dr. Paxton, whom he regarded as a good fellow and a decent physician. Still, he wasn’t the man to rock a steady boat, and this incident up at the court was—to continue his metaphor—a ship that needed to sail on.

Paxton’s housekeeper showed Remington into the doctor’s consulting room.

“Good morning, sir.” Paxton rose from his desk, where he had been busily writing, in order to greet his visitor.

“Hard at work already, I see,” Remington remarked, waving vaguely at the desk as he lowered himself into the chair opposite. “Does this mean you’ve completed your examination of the body?”

“I have,” Paxton said with a hint of grimness, “and I doubt His Lordship will like it.”

Remington grimaced. “Damn it, why not? What did you find?”

Paxton reached to the shelf behind him and brought down a thin-bladed dagger, which he tossed on the desk between them. “This, for one. Recognize it?”

“Yes,” Remington said with distaste. “It was sticking out of the girl’s body.”

“Before that. It didn’t register with me either at the time, though the hilt did seem vaguely familiar. I finally remembered this morning where I’d seen it before. In His Lordship’s collection.”

“The devil!” Remington peered more closely at the object that had ended the maid’s life. “No, he won’t like that. Don’t care for it myself. But Chadbon’s not under suspicion, man. He was with his guests all evening until the servants summoned him after the body was discovered.”

“I would never for a moment suggest such a thing,” Paxton said with dignity. “But the collection is not under lock and key, is it?”

Remington rubbed his chin. “No, that’s true… Anyone in the house could have taken the dagger. Any of the servants, any of the guests… Tell me, could the girl have done this to herself?”

“She would have to have known exactly what she was doing, avoiding the ribs and the sternum. So I seriously doubt it. The blade is wickedly sharp, so it would have gone in easily enough. But why would she do such a thing? And if she did, wouldn’t she be more likely to use a kitchen knife rather than one stolen from her master?”

Unless she was making a point… Remington shied away from that thought. A man’s household was his own affair.