Page 82 of The Case of the Curate

For the first time since Waterloo, Sam Salter felt as if he had a purpose, a use that was almost familiar. Patrolling the grounds immediately around Chadbon Court was a bit like picket duty. He still saw well in the dark, his ears were sharp as ever, and he was glad to be helping Mr. Grande, who had been so damned kind to him when he had lost nearly all of his friends in the battle, and the pain of his lost arm was almost as excruciating.

Someone had tried to shoot the young lady, which Salter particularly did not hold with. He refused to speculate on just what she was to Mr. Grande. He just knew he had to play his part in keeping her alive because she was important. So he walked constantly around the perimeter of the house, keeping to the shadows, to trees and undergrowth.

He saw no one, heard no one—except once, in the square, walled garden where he had once peered longingly over the wall at the glass orangery. Now he heard clattering through the door that led through one wall to the drying yard and into the house. He dived behind the garden door. But it was just servants chattering while they shoved an old tub or something similar out of the house. No one came through the door into the garden. Instead, the chatter faded and he heard the distant door to the house shut.

He let his breath out slowly and moved away from the garden door, along the wall toward the bushes and the trees that lined that corner. The scent of late roses lingered in his nostrils. A cloud drifted, releasing a sliver of silver moonlight that shone directly on the plain tree just in front of him.

His breath caught. He stopped in his tracks, gazing from the place where he had once loomed over the wall, hand and arm in agony, to the plain tree. He remembered the lurking shadow. He remembered everything. Even which side of the wall he had fallen on.

*

Thoroughly relieved to be away from Otteridge, Kate walked among the ladies to the drawing room. A couple of them peeled off to the retiring room.

“I’ll go to the ground floor,” Kate murmured to a distracted Lady Chadbon, and ran lightly downstairs.

At this stage of the evening, there were no servants in the entrance hall, all being needed for clearing up and serving wine or other demands to the gentlemen in the dining room. So Kate could slip unseen into the orangery.

It was darker than on the night of Dinah’s murder. She didn’t want to light a candle, or blunder about crashing into things, so she waited impatiently near the inside doors, where the light from the hall dimly penetrated the small panes of glass.

Would Rupert know to come and meet her here? He had on the night Dinah died, but then, he’d been expecting Dinah, not her.

The door opened and an instantly recognizable tall, lean figure moved inside, closing the door behind him.

“Rupert.”

“Kate. Go nowhere alone with Otteridge, whatever his excuse. He beats his wife and I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed Dinah just because she rejected him.”

Dear God… “Did Jane Otteridge accuse him?”

“She doesn’t know Dinah’s dead. She didn’t see her husband at all last night after she retired, until after the shot when she saw him with you.”

Kate nodded, frowning. “You think it was Otteridge? Not Newman?”

“Newman’s a philanderer, but I don’t think he’s stupid enough or violent enough to kill Dinah—or you.”

“You think Otteridge is stupid?”

“No, but he noticed her. He lashes out from temper, and I suspect someone like Dinah is nothing to him. And if he thought you were onto him—”

“That’s just it,” Kate interrupted. “I don’t think he cares enough to have bothered killing Dinah. If she eluded him, or refused him, he might be irritated but he would just move on—like dropping a sweetmeat on the floor and having to select a new one.”

Rupert blinked in the gloom.

“Miss Nye told me that she couldn’t imagine Otteridge noticing a maid servant,” Kate continued, “while Newman would only notice her femininity. But actually, it’s much the same thing. With Otteridge, it’s just more about him. His wife is there to take his temper out on. There would be no gratification at all in hurting a mere maid.” She gazed up at Rupert with a hint of anxiety. “You don’t agree?”

He stirred, his sleeve brushing against her bare arm. “I’m merely…adjusting. My other thought was Nye. Jane says women in his life keep dying. That’s why Otteridge is so against him—he thinks Nye is unlucky—but what if the man simply kills to get his own way? Whether that is discrediting Chadbon or being rid of an insolent maid? We need more information there.”

“I’ll ask Lady Chadbon—she knows everyone’s business, though she is normally so discreet. It’s time to inject a little urgency into our discussion.”

He nodded, reaching for the door behind him. “Good luck, but seriously, Kate, no more wandering about your own. Stick with Lady Chadbon.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the kitchen to speak to the boot boy. If someone shot at you from outside, they’ll have had muddy footwear.”

“Drat, why didn’t I think of that?”

His teeth gleamed for an instant. “Between us, we’ll get there. Come on.”