Page 65 of The Case of the Curate

“No, no!” Otteridge exclaimed. “Her Ladyship is quite right. This is beyond the pale, Kemp. His Lordship must be informed immediately. Immediately!”

Kate inclined her head while surveying the smooth hang of his coat. She doubted he carried a firearm in his pocket. Kemp, now leading the way upstairs, was also his usual dapper self, with no unsightly bulges to his coat.

But then, she had no idea if the shot had come from a window, or from outside the house. If the culprit was either Kemp or Otteridge, they could easily have abandoned their weapon in a nearby room—even the reception room Kemp had tried to usher her into, and Otteridge had cooperated in keeping her out of… Was that significant?

She forced herself to take Otteridge’s proffered arm to climb the stairs, and again caught sight of Grissy’s frightened, questioning face. She smiled reassuringly, all irritation with the maid forgotten in the chilling realization that of everyone in this house, Grissy was the only one she could trust not to have murdered Dinah and not to have shot at Kate.

“One moment, if you please,” Kemp said, pausing outside Lord Chadbon’s study door. And such was the dignity of the butler that Otteridge actually held Kate back when she would have barged in after him.

Which at least reminded her of his presence.

She bestowed a smile upon him, trying to make it as natural as possible. “I have to thank you, sir, for coming so quickly to my aid. I shall not forget it.” And she wouldn’t.

“There, there, I only wish I could have been of more service. It’s too much, my dear, too much. Something dashed havey-cavey is going on in this house, which I never thought I’d say, but His Lordship needs to hear it!”

“He does indeed, sir. So you will allow me to speak to him alone?” She made it a question, although she was quite prepared to be more bullish about it if necessary.

Otteridge looked taken aback, even disappointed. He harrumphed and frowned, and Kate patted his hand in gratitude as though he had agreed.

“Thank you, sir. I must tell him all. Grissy, you may wait in my bedchamber. I shan’t be—”

The study door opened again and Kemp bowed. “His Lordship will see you, my lady.”

Kate swept past him and closed the door on Otteridge, who was giving a last, slightly forlorn, “Harrumph.”

Chadbon strode around from his desk, both hands held out. His face seemed rather white. “My dear Lady Ambrose! I cannot believe what Kemp tells me! I did hear something—thought my crystal had been dropped on the kitchen floor!”

“No, my lord, it was definitely a gunshot,” Kate said, allowing him to take her hands. “It missed me by inches, only because I bent down suddenly, and it shattered the lantern I still held high in my other hand.”

“But why?” Chadbon asked blankly. “I cannot believe it was poachers so close to the house, and we are not much plagued by robbers and thieves around these parts—”

“No, I don’t believe it was either robbers or poachers,” Kate said, rather admiring her own calm. “To be frank, I am no threat to either. The only reason I can think of for anyone to shoot at me is that I am asking too many questions and frightening someone.”

“Frightening whom?” Chadbon asked, clearly bewildered.

“Whoever killed Dinah.”

From the expressions chasing each other across Chadbon’s face, it took him a moment to place Dinah. “Oh, I hardly think… There is no possible connection between you and the maid! And Remington already has the culprit under lock and key. Oh, do sit down, my dear, you must have had a terrible fright. Perhaps a little brandy, in the circumstances…”

“No thank you,” Kate said, sitting in the visitor’s chair by the desk and watching Chadbon pour himself a substantial glassful from the decanter. She waited until he faced her again. “Unless you have a sudden plague of random violence at Chadbon Court, don’t you think it likelier that both attacks were by the same person?”

Chadbon took a sizable gulp of brandy and lowered himself back into his usual chair at the opposite side of the desk. He frowned with consternation. “But…but…”

“As you say, Mr. Grande is confined. He did not shoot at me.”

“No, but he could still have killed the maid.”

“In theory,” Kate allowed. “But then, what reason does anyone have to shoot me? Just outside your house and risking scandal, as well as the failure of all the opportunities we have been working for here. The only answer is that I have been asking too many questions, and the murderer has noticed.”

Chadbon’s lips parted as uneasy understanding dawned. He closed his eyes. “Oh, dear God, if this gets out…”

“I shan’t go blabbing it to anyone,” Kate assured him. “And neither will Kemp, although a word with Mr. Otteridge as soon as possible might be a good idea. However, we must go to Mr. Remington first thing in the morning and tell him what happened. Mr. Grande must go free. Thank goodness the matter went no further.”

Chadbon began to nod worriedly. He had not meant to have an innocent man condemned, she thought. But his need for discretion had fitted too easily with the convenience of a stranger, a nobody—as he thought—to carry the blame.

“If you are right, then Grande has been treated abominably. How the deuce do I make that right?”

“I believe you might leave that to me,” Kate said. “He will no doubt return to the vicarage and carry on as if nothing has happened.”