Page 66 of The Case of the Curate

“But that still leaves us with the problem of the original murder. If Grande didn’t do it, who did?”

Kate suddenly realized she was shaking. She stood abruptly. “That is what we must discover. I suggest an early call on the magistrate. I will accompany you, of course, to give my statement about this evening’s attack.”

“There is no need to so discommode yourself, Lady Ambrose,” Chadbon said hastily, also rising to his feet. “I shall relay—”

“I would like to,” Kate said. “It is my duty.” She sounded self-righteous and stuffy to her own ears, and Chadbon clearly didn’t want her with him at the magistrate’s, which made her all the more determined to go. “But for now, I shall bid you goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he replied mechanically. Only when he reached the door did he appear to arouse himself to say what he ought to. “My dear, I cannot apologize enough for what has happened to you here. I feel it as a personal shame. I am only grateful the outcome is not worse.”

“You are not responsible, my lord,” she replied, equally mechanically.

But he could have been. He was up, and if his study did not overlook the side of the house, he could easily have moved rooms without being seen.

But then, so could anyone.

*

Rupert must have been growing used to his hard pallet bed, for he didn’t wake the following morning until the constable kicked open the outside door to bring in the tray of breakfast.

Two small tin mugs of ale, a chunk of dry bread for each of the prisoners. Salter was already sitting on the edge of his own pallet, head in hands and glowering in the constable’s general direction. Rupert imagined the old soldier had a very sore head.

Throwing off his blanket, Rupert stood up, stretched, and yawned.

Constable Boyle unlocked the cell door and dumped the tray so unceremoniously that the ale slopped onto it.

“Five minutes,” he growled. “Then you’re up before the justice of the peace. Both of you.”

“Uh-oh,” Rupert murmured. Bending, he took up a chunk of bread from the sopping tray and lifted one of the tin cups before using his foot to ease the tray toward Salter.

“Never tell me they’re going through with this nonsense,” Salter said in clear disgust. “What are they thinking of? Sending down a man of God!”

“Worry about your own case,” the constable advised, plonking himself down on the chair by the door.

“Floods receded, have they?” Rupert asked, and took a bite of the now-ale-flavored stale bread.

“Not fully.”

Then either the magistrate had decided he couldn’t wait any longer to move Rupert…or Kate had sent word to Winster as soon as he was locked up, and the old gentleman was here chewing out Remington’s heart. Neither seemed a good outcome. The younger Kate wouldn’t have blabbed against Rupert’s wishes. But her first loyalty could no longer be to him. It was to her husband. Which caused a very odd twinge of regret.

Time changed everything, good and bad.

Although Salter clearly had no appetite, he was systematically consuming the bread and ale. A soldier never had any idea when his next meal would be, so he was used to eating at every opportunity. As, Rupert supposed, were vagrants.

Constable Boyle stomped across the room, his keys clanking. His colleague had entered from the inside stairs.

“No trouble now. This is important,” Boyle said sternly as he unlocked the cell door. “Out you come.”

Rupert drained his cup and set it on the tray before slouching into his coat and sauntering out of the cell after Salter. They were marched up the inner staircase between the two constables, and like some stage comedy, they all walked up each other’s heels when the lead constable stopped suddenly outside the magistrate’s room. Rupert wanted to laugh, although it wasn’t really funny. Not if Winster was here—Don’t be here, don’t be here—nor even if he was not.

Rupert wasn’t sure how he would fare in a real gaol. Not well, he suspected, although it would certainly be an experience, and an opportunity. He focused on that opportunity.

“You first,” Boyle said, pushing Rupert forward. He thumped the door once and stuck his head in. “Ready for us, your honor?”

“Yes, yes, bring him in,” came Remington’s impatient reply.

Boyle opened the door wide and stood aside, waving Rupert in.

“Good luck, sir,” Salter muttered.