Page 50 of The Case of the Curate

“Oh, no, he is not local, although I have met him many times at Chadbon Court.”

“Can I ask what you think of him?”

“In what way?”

Kate hesitated. Clearly, the vicar was not comfortable with gossip, so she decided on the shock approach. “Is he capable of violence?”

The vicar’s jaw dropped. “Violence? How much trouble is Grande in?”

Kate rose. “Nothing that should concern you. Please get well, and don’t worry. He always lands on his feet eventually. I hope you know his position here means a great deal to him. More than anything.” She held out her hand and the vicar took it, his grip gentle but firm, his eyes old and perceptive and suddenly uncomfortable. “Goodbye, Mr. Bancroft. I’ll call again, if I may.”

“Please do.”

She smiled and left him. She wasn’t entirely surprised to see his wife hovering in the doorway across the hall.

“Thank you for your consideration, Lady Ambrose,” Mrs. Bancroft said stiffly, walking with her to the front door.

“Convalescing men can be difficult to manage,” Kate said, remembering the summer of her brother’s broken leg. “I quite understand. Goodbye, ma’am.”

“My lady.”

*

For Rupert, idleness had only ever been bearable in company, the more riotous the better. Confinement with nothing to do except reread the law treatise that the magistrate had lent him—in jest, Rupert could only assume—was beginning to weigh on him.

Even the gloating constable, whose name was Boyle, would have been better company than none. But he had only seen Boyle twice that day, briefly, when the man brought him bread and weak ale for breakfast, and bread and cheese and more weak ale at midday. Rupert at least had hope of enticing the man into a game of cards if he came back, but as the hours dragged on, he suspected the constable was busy collecting evidence against him.

Or making it up.

It was interesting being on the powerless side of Society for a change. Not fun, but a salutary lesson that deepened his understanding. Though it hardly helped Dinah or anything else about his current situation.

He had been touched by Kate’s visit last night. The sight of her breaking into his prison had made him want to laugh and hug her. Even when she departed, he had been left with a feeling of warmth that he had no real right to in present circumstances, and he had slept for the first time since being locked up. However, waking only an hour later to the sounds of rain battering the ground and the plants outside, he had been extremely worried for her.

The magistrate had not been near him either. Rupert had more than half expected to be summoned again and bound over until the assizes. In which case, he’d have been moved to a much more crowded—and less salubrious—prison to await his trial.

Several things bothered him right now, including letting Mr. Bancroft down and worrying what Kate was up to, even if she and Grissy had made it safely back to Chadbon Court last night. But the worst thing was that if the authorities were convinced Rupert had killed Dinah, the chances were that they weren’t looking for anyone else. Which meant Dinah had no justice, and a murderer was still loose.

A murderer who might not be best pleased with Kate’s poking around. And she had always been a determined and inquisitive little thing. And deeply loyal, bless her. He knew that as soon as he was committed for trial, she would tell his father. And Winster would get him out, whatever the cost.

The cost, of course, apart from Winster’s trouble, would be all Rupert’s treasured hopes for the future. His penance. His admittedly recent determination to make a difference to people’s earthly lives. Instead, he would have some nominal role in Lambeth Palace and be earmarked for preferment before he could say, “I’m free!” He wouldn’t be, of course, in any way that mattered, but most probably, Dinah’s killer would be.

Pacing the cell—which was very unsatisfactory for such a purpose, being barely large enough to stretch in—he felt both frustrated and helpless. Each time he turned, he saw the key to his cell hanging on its hook, tantalizingly out of his reach. It seemed to get bigger as he stared at it.

He even began to hear strange things, like distant singing outside his prison. He halted his pacing to listen. A rich baritone grew louder, belting out a somewhat questionable song that sounded vaguely familiar. The scuffling of feet outside mingled with another voice issuing irritable instruction, and that was Constable Boyle.

A key turned in the heavy outside door and two constables entered, holding up a staggering figure between them. One of the constables released the prisoner in order to close and lock the door again.

The prisoner, swaying in the grip of his other guard, stopped singing to peer owlishly around the room. “Very fine quarters, constable. Commendable.”

“I’ll be sure to pass your compliment on to the justice of the peace,” replied Boyle with heavy sarcasm. He found the requisite key and waved Rupert back from the door with a glare. Meekly, Rupert obeyed. “Now if you’ll step into your boudoir, general, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the godly company. Whether the reverend enjoys yours is another matter. Like a singsong, do you, Mr. Grande?”

“Love ’em,” Rupert replied, somewhat distractedly, for the new prisoner looked and sounded very familiar.

The second constable shoved his charge into the cell and Boyle immediately slammed and locked the door again. The prisoner lurched, and Rupert instinctively caught him by the arm. His hand closed around an empty sleeve, and that gave him the clue.

Though it couldn’t have been much support, his new cellmate gazed up at him with wide-eyed pleasure. A string of foul and largely blasphemous words issued from the prisoner’s mouth.

“’Ere!” Boyle said, clearly shocked. “None o’ that. He really is a parson, even if you ain’t a general. Mind your mouth.”