Page 75 of The Case of the Curate

Rupert nodded. “Plus, Remington saw no sign of anyone on the road the night Dinah was killed. I’d agree we have to dismiss Carver and Elizabeth. But what on earth could have motivated the others?”

“According to Lewis, Dinah was frightened of someone. It could have been of Kemp finding out about the baby and dismissing her. Or one of the other three who could have been obsessed with her. She’d worked at the London house, too, as you know. Otteridge and Newman would definitely have seen her there, perhaps even waylaid her. Perhaps she threatened them with something if they didn’t leave her alone.”

“With what? Telling Her Ladyship? It’s Dinah who’d have been dismissed for that.”

Kate sighed. “I know. I’m clutching at straws. Killing me to shut me up in case I find out the truth makes sense. Killing Dinah in the first place does not.”

“Love and obsession do odd things to people,” Rupert remarked.

“But it isn’t consistent,” she argued. “To kill Dinah in a moment of passion and then be calculating enough to kill me to keep me quiet. I’m not no one in Chadbon’s circle, so it’s social and political idiocy, even for Nye.”

“Back to the madman theory,” Rupert said, refolding the papers and handing them back to her. “I have to go, catch up on my sick-visiting. I hear the river level is dropping. You should be able to leave tomorrow.”

“Without solving the mystery?” she demanded, genuinely outraged.

“It’s my turn. I won’t leave it alone.”

“Fine if I’m right and Kemp is our culprit. What if it’s one of the guests who will likely leave tomorrow anyway?”

“And run into you in London,” Rupert said. “I never thought of that. Then we have to solve the whole wretched business before tomorrow morning.” He stood abruptly. “Perhaps I’ll just drop in on Lady Chadbon and get myself invited to dinner.”

Chapter Fifteen

From past habits of carelessness with his allowance, Rupert was adept at obtaining dinner invitations from people—usually females—who had not previously been aware how much they wanted him there. But in this case, it was Lord Chadbon, who appeared to feel genuinely guilty about his part in Rupert’s incarceration, who invited him to dine at Chadbon Court that evening.

Five minutes later, Rupert was striding down the drive when a hiss reached him from the trees on his left. Salter stepped out from behind the nearest elm, still dressed in Rupert’s spare clothes, which would have looked rather smarter on the sergeant had they fit better. As it was, the sleeves were pulled back and the pantaloons held up with string, as well as what looked like Salter’s old military belt.

“Good man,” Rupert said. “See anything?”

“People wandering about the gardens or sitting jawing away. One or two faces at windows, but no weapons in sight. If you ask me, we need someone inside the house to be sure.”

Rupert nodded. “You’re right, we do. I’ll be there for dinner later. But in the meantime, I’m sure Lady Ambrose is under threat from one direction or another, so do your best, Salter.”

“Where you off to now?” Salter demanded.

“Sick-visiting.”

*

None of the parish’s sick flock turned out to have died in Rupert’s enforced absence from his post, though for some, he knew it was only a matter of time. He gave what cheer and comfort he could, hurting that it was not more.

“Do you need anything?” he always asked, of the sick as well as of their families.

The eldest son of the Grigsbys, one of the more notorious families who lived on the edge of Chadbon land, said mournfully that they had no coin to pay the doctor for his dying father’s treatment.

Rupert, who had no coin either at this point, replied, “I’ll speak to Dr. Paxton. When did he last visit your father?”

“Him?” said one of the daughters with undisguised contempt. “Never bothered his shirt after the first time when he saw how we lived.”

Which was shabbily enough. The one-room cottage was more like a hut. The furniture was sparse and rickety, even old Grigsby’s ancient bed. Cobwebs hung from most corners, and it smelled of damp and neglect and body odor, mingled with, incongruously enough, recently cooked meat.

“I expect Dr. Paxton is too busy to make follow-up visits without being asked,” Rupert said placatingly. “Do you never see him driving about the area? I know he’s out and about visiting patients at all hours of the day and night.”

Rupert had only known these people a matter of weeks, and he was still regarded as very much a stranger. Outright questions about the Chadbon household or the squire’s would have earned him no more than blank faces and expressions of ignorance, even from this reprobate family. His one hope was to elicit information by mundane comments about other “incomers.”

“Only for the likes of His Lordship,” young Grigsby said. “Saw the quack galloping up there fast enough in the dark, just a few days ago.”

“Did you?” Rupert said. “I didn’t know you could see the court from here.”