Page 62 of The Case of the Curate

Kate felt her eyes widen. “Did you always notice such things?”

“Must have.”

“Is the curate your played part?” she blurted.

He looked away. “I don’t seem to be very good at it.” His smile, never far away, broke out again. “You, on the other hand, against all the odds, seem to be the perfect parliamentarian’s wife. And you do it all without appearing remotely stuffy.”

“I can be stuffy,” she assured him. Which perhaps proved his point about acting parts. It didn’t necessarily make one guilty. She sighed. “I’m not doing very well with my investigations. I thought it would be easy to prove your innocence by finding who really killed Dinah. But the only clue is the murder weapon, and anyone could have taken that from the study. Even Elizabeth, if she took it from Carver or her own father.”

“Perhaps it comes down to character.”

“Well, if they can accuse a clergyman, they can accuse anyone.” She focused on his thoughtful face, a frown tugging at her brow. “Rupert, did you really see and hear nothing at all from the orangery that night? Are you hiding something from me?”

She expected a laugh, or a startled denial. Instead, his gaze dropped to the flask in his hands.

She leaned forward. “Were you truly so deep in thought, gazing only at the stars?”

His lips twisted. “I really was.”

“Why?” she demanded. “What were you thinking about?”

He didn’t answer, merely raised the flask to his lips.

Something tightened inside her. “Dinah?”

At that, quite unexpectedly, he did smile, although it was fleeting. “No, not Dinah.”

“I need to know, Rupe.”

The intensity of her voice must have finally reached him, for he raised his gaze back to hers.

“What stole your attention that night?” she asked. “What were you thinking about or worrying about so assiduously?”

Something changed in his eyes, something she couldn’t read in the flickering candlelight. Another secret he would never tell. Except, he did.

“You,” he said. “If it matters.”

Her breath vanished. It matters. Quite how, she had no idea, and it was suddenly dangerous to contemplate. “Who do you think killed Dinah?”

He shook his head. “I really don’t know. It has to be more than the result of a temper spat or irritation. Someone lay in wait and murdered her, brutally and deliberately. I can’t think of anyone capable of such a thing.”

“Perhaps we never met them,” Kate said, still clutching at straws. “Perhaps, as Mrs. Thornfield said, it was just a passing madman, a vagrant…” A homeless, returning soldier, for example, used to bloodshed and violence and frustrated by his suddenly pointless life.

Her gaze drifted beyond Rupert to the untidy and malodorous bundle that was Sergeant Salter. A returning soldier committing such a crime at Chadbon Court would hardly suit His Lordship’s purposes right now. Sympathy and support for the bill would wane. Was that enough to blame it on Rupert? Was Chadbon really so callous, so calculating?

And even more lowering, would Gilbert approve? After all, it was his bill they had taken up.

“It wasn’t Salter,” Rupert said.

She jerked her gaze back to him. “How do you know?”

Rupert held up his hands. “One hand to keep her quiet, the other to hold the knife. He’s one short. He couldn’t even climb over the garden wall, although he did see over it, briefly. He saw someone lurking in the bushes, but not Dinah. This person was too tall and didn’t wear a maid’s cap. Dinah was wearing hers when she died.”

“Then the killer?” Kate said excitedly. “Did he see who it was?”

“It was only a glimpse, and he was pretty jug-bitten at the time. He couldn’t even tell if it was male or female.”

Kate scowled. “We can hardly rule anyone out! It could have been Kemp or one of the lower servants, though I doubt the latter because they were all needed at the time and anyone’s absence would have been noted. It could have been Newman or Otteridge or Nye or Carver or Elizabeth Gibb. Or Remington himself. Of them all, surely only Carver or Elizabeth had real motive.”