Page 92 of The Case of the Curate

As she flitted down the stairs, Sophie made out a dim glow showing beneath the parlor door. She paused only a moment outside it, reasserting her kind, twittery expression behind her spectacles.

Now, Kate Ambrose, show me what you know…

She pushed open the door and went in.

It was so unexpected that the blood sang in her ears. Had she got the wrong parlor? Misjudged the writing on the note? But no, it had been a feminine hand…

“Oh,” she exclaimed. “You startled me, Mr. Grande!”

*

“She went to the gun room, miss,” Grissy said in a frightened voice as she reentered Kate’s bedchamber. “Came out with a pistol! One with two barrels, too!”

Kate caught her breath. “Did she see you?”

“No, I don’t think so, but—”

“Drat him!” Kate fumed. “What does he think he can do against a gun? Pray?” And yet he must have suspected, as she had, that this was exactly what Miss Nye would do. Protect herself.

“You’re not to go after her, miss,” Grissy said firmly. “Lord Rupert’s always looked after himself just fine.”

Yes, in the past, but then, who was truly going to hurt a mere boy? Let alone a marquis’s son. In the old days, he had been protected by his privilege. Here, he was a nobody, a mere dispensable curate. If Chadbon and Remington could have him charged with murder for their convenience, then Miss Nye could just as easily shoot him as Kate.

Abruptly, she said, “We need people, witnesses. Enough people have to be there to convince her there is no point in shooting Rupert.”

Grissy looked even more alarmed. “What about discretion?”

To the devil with it! But no, Grissy was right. “Where is Lord Chadbon?”

“In his study, closeted with a new visitor. A messenger, the staff think.”

“Then go to the study and bring His Lordship to the parlor—drag him there if you have to. It’s up to him to dismiss his messenger. Maybe you should bring Sir Colin too. I left him in the library, so he’s probably asleep there.” As she spoke, she was already striding across to the door.

“But where are you going?” Grissy demanded, clearly agonized.

“Don’t ask silly questions, Grissy—go!”

*

Salter, having received his succinct instructions from Mr. Grande, thought idly that “the rev” would have made a decent officer. Apart from his empathy with the men. That would have hampered him.

Squatting amongst the bushes, he watched Mr. Grande lope back into the house via the side door. A few moments later, a light flared in the window next to it. The curtains were open, and Salter could easily see into the room, including Mr. Grande’s face at the window. Salter lifted his hand in acknowledgment and received a salute in return.

He swung his pack off his good shoulder. It contained his own, freshly laundered clothes, his bedding roll, and a few useful items from his army days, all tied up in oilskin. After unwrapping it all, he took his old rifle and powder horn from the center.

The rifle felt like an old friend to his first touch. But he had begun to think of it instead as a new friend, while he’d taught himself to load and aim with one hand, using his shoulder and the short stump of his lost arm to steady the weapon. Of course he didn’t have the speed he’d had in the old days, but his hand was steady as he systematically set about loading the rifle with powder from the horn, which he attached to his belt just like the old days, and one of the precious balls from the pouch in his pocket. He attached that pouch to his belt too, for easy access, and crawled forward to get the best position.

By then, the light inside the room was brighter. Neither the rev nor anyone else in there would be able to see Salter very easily, but the whole room was perfectly clear to him. The rev stood by the fireplace, opposite the parlor door. Salter eyed him through the sight and grunted with satisfaction. Then he settled to await the enemy.

The enemy was, apparently, a dotty old lady unafraid of firearms, a novel target for a veteran sharpshooter who hadn’t held with harming women or children in war. However, he was only to shoot if she threatened, and Salter was confident he could hit to disable rather than kill. Although Mr. Grande seemed to think he could talk the woman into cooperation, Salter was prepared, and in spite of himself, he felt a thrill of old battle excitement. Perhaps it was the familiarity of the rifle, or just the novelty of being useful again.

Involuntarily, his lips twisted into a smile, but he never took his gaze off the glowing room.

The door opened and a thin woman came in, almost hopping like a bird with untidy feathers. Spectacles glinted on her face but didn’t interfere with Salter’s sight. Nevertheless, something about her made his grip slacken so that he almost dropped the rifle.

Familiarity. He had seen her before. Not clear, like this, in the glow of light, but her shape among the dark shadows of tree branches, the quick, birdlike movement of her head… He almost felt again the screaming ache in his arm as he’d failed to scramble over that wall to the glass building.

The drink had caught up with him then, and he’d fallen back to the ground on his own side of the wall. The jolt had kept him conscious and he’d loped away, imagining he was still a silent scout among the enemy.