A Death in Norfolk

Chapter Seventeen

I debated what to do. I walked along the ridge path a little way, but I soon found that the mud and pelting rain would defeat me.

I'd left my horse at the vicarage. I began my trudge back there, raising my hand to the shepherd as I passed. All I saw of him was the flash of lifted flask.

The rain became a gray curtain, obscuring the world. I bent my head to the wind, keeping my eyes on my feet. Pools of wet lined the path, which ran across a little rise of ground. If I stepped off the path, I would be knee-deep in boggy mud.

I knew that the path the shepherd had pointed to led to nothing. Or at least, twenty years ago, it had led to nothing. I had to remind myself I'd been away that long. Estate holders could have added outbuildings, and windmills continued to be erected. I hadn't walked that way in a long time.

And I would not today. I was thoroughly drenched by the time I reached the vicarage. Mrs. Landon, watching worriedly for me, wanted to fill me with hot coffee. I accepted a brief cup, but I needed to return to Easton's.

Before I departed, a carriage drew up and deposited Reaves at the front door. I recognized the carriage and the other man inside it. Grenville.

Reaves looked at me in surprise as the vicarage maid hurried forward to take his things. "Captain Lacey? What are you doing here?"

"I am equally surprised to see you," I said. "Has Lady Southwick ended her house party?"

"Pardon? No, some guests are remaining for a time. But it is Saturday, and when I enter the pulpit tomorrow, everyone will expect me to have something to say. I find this house quite conducive for composing sermons."

"Much quieter here," I agreed. And more restful. The vicarage was an old-fashioned cottage with flagstone passages and plain, polished wood that lined whitewashed walls. "What will be your theme, if I may ask?"

"I have not yet decided," he said. "I might work in the camel and the eye of the needle, in light of recent arrivals to our part of the world. Not meaning you, Captain."

No, I was hardly wealthy enough to worry about riches barring me from the kingdom of heaven. But if he meant Denis, I doubted Denis would care. Denis was not bothered by heaven and hell as far as I could discern. Nor would Denis likely attend the service. Easton's house was in a different parish anyway.

I could have pointed out the irony of a man who obviously loved the comforts of soft living lecturing on the sins of wealth, but I refrained. I wasn't certain Reaves would see my point.

I said good-bye to him and to Mrs. Landon and stepped back out into the rain.

Grenville's groom opened the carriage door for me, and Grenville called to me to get in. The groom would return my horse for me, he said.

I accepted. I'd had enough of the rain.

"You are exceedingly wet," Grenville said as my greatcoat spilled water onto the landau's floor.

The lanterns at our feet flickered as the groom shut the door. The welcome warmth of the coal boxes began to seep into my bones.

"I beg your pardon. I've been tramping about the marshes in the pouring rain. It is wet work."

Grenville drew his coat together under his chin. "Norfolk is lovelier than I thought it would be, but damp. Quite damp."

"Unlike London, which is only damp."

"You are in an interesting mood, Lacey."

"Exhaustion," I said, shutting my eyes. The carriage bumped hard over a hole in the road, and pain spiked in my cramped leg.

When I opened my eyes, Grenville was watching me. "Are you certain exhaustion explains everything? How goes the search?"

Grenville was canny. He'd learned the signs of my melancholia over the past year and a half, and he'd learned how to keep me from falling into it.

"Oddly," I said. I told him what the shepherd had said. "It is too foul to search today, but as soon as this lifts, I'll take a horse and go out there."

"With me," Grenville said. "Despite my performance as a soft-living dandy these past few days, I am a hardy sort."

"I know." I kept my tone light, still trying to banish the anguish of what Buckley had told me. "You've rowed on the Nile and across rivers in Canada, you've tramped across deserts and over the highest mountains."

Grenville shook his head. "Flippancy does not become you, Lacey."

"So Lady Breckenridge tells me." Donata. I'd sent her away, and I was happy I had, but at this moment, I longed for her warmth.

"Has something else happened?" Grenville asked me.

I debated what to tell him. I was still sifting through Buckley's confession and his revelation that my mother had carried his child, the miscarrying of which had led to her illness and death. Emotions chased through me-anger, shock, sadness, guilt. I could not fix upon one.

"Discovering things about one's own past is a jolt," I said.

Grenville nodded. "I know that well, my dear Lacey. I have told you of one or two of the shocks I've faced in my life, including discovering I had a grown daughter. You've found something out that has upset you. I understand. You may keep it private if you like."

"Thank you," I said.

"I have a healthy curiosity, but I will not pry into your darkest secrets." He held out a silver flask. "But you look like a man who needs sustenance."

His flask was free of rust and sand. I lifted it to my lips and gratefully downed the brandy inside.

I handed it back to him. "What troubles me has nothing to do with finding Cooper, or the paintings Easton hid, or Miss Quinn," I said.

"I did not think so. However, I am curious about what you've discovered regarding all three of those."

I was grateful to Grenville for bringing my mind back to the immediate problems. I told him what I'd learned since we'd spoken yesterday, and he listened without interrupting.

"So the hand was indeed Cooper's," Grenville said when I'd finished. "We must wonder-was it he the shepherd saw on the marsh? Or the murderer? And did the same man kill Mr. Ferguson?" He glanced out the window at the farmland we passed. "I must say, the idea of a nameless, faceless killer stalking about your marshes unnerves me."

"It unnerves me as well, and I know it unnerves Denis. I have been thinking that we are up against someone who wants Denis dead. One of his rivals. The woman who calls herself Lady Jane is cold enough and ruthless enough to send people after him."

"I would think that she'd send someone directly to the house to kill him," Grenville said. "Not pick off his servants in the wilderness one by one."

"But Denis guards himself carefully. He knows how many enemies he has. The way to reach him is to remove his guards, even one at a time. Thin the ranks. Or else, be hired on into the heart of his household. The killer might be residing with him even now."

"And you are taking me to sleep there. Thank you very much." Grenville took another pull from his flask. "I'd think that Denis would be careful enough to screen any who works for him. An assassin infiltrating his household takes a great risk. They'd not survive the mission."

"I wonder if Ferguson, the newest member, was sent to kill him," I mused. "Perhaps Cooper found out, fought him, and killed him."

"And then Cooper vanished. Perhaps. But why not rush back to Denis and proudly proclaim his deed? I have the feeling that the death of Ferguson and the disappearance of Cooper are unconnected."

I was not so certain. I'd learned to keep my mind open to possibilities, because in the past I'd gone wrong by fixing on a solution too soon. Ferguson, a big man and an experienced fighter, hadn't gone down easily.

I told Grenville about interviewing Denis's men and their thoughts about Ferguson and Cooper. We agreed that any of them might have killed Ferguson for their own reasons. We also agreed that Denis employed an interesting lot.

Grenville eyed Easton's square brick house uneasily as the carriage pulled to a halt in front of it. "Another adventure," he said. "I pray I do not regret it."

Denis, of course, wanted me to report to him immediately, and I found myself in his study once more, relating the events of the day. He listened as attentively as Grenville had, but with less animation in his eyes.

When I put forth my idea that one of his rivals was trying to kill him, either by taking out his bodyguards one by one or infiltrating his household, Denis shrugged.

"That is always a possibility, one against which I take constant precaution. Ferguson was not an assassin. I investigate people thoroughly before they are allowed anywhere near me."

I leaned on my walking stick, neither of us having bothered to sit down. "Should I be flattered that you allow me near you?"

"Not at all. Notice that I have you watched at all times."

I did. Only recently had he begun speaking with me alone, and even then, I knew that one of his bodyguards had been within shouting distance.

"About this mysterious man walking about the marsh," Denis said. "I take it you will explore that?"

"Tomorrow, after chapel. Hopefully the rain will have lessened. I'll go on horseback and comb the area."

Denis's brows lifted. "After chapel?"

"I want to attend the morning service in Parson's Point. The Laceys have a pew there." For some reason, I was curious to hear what Reaves had to say. "Perhaps you would like to attend with me?"

Denis's eyes flickered. I'd surprised him. He studied me sharply, wondering what I meant by it, then he surprised me. "Of course," he said.

In spite of Grenville's uneasiness, we spent an uneventful night. When I woke the next day, Sunday, the sound of bells drifted on the wind, filling the morning. The rain had stopped and the air was cold and crisp with autumn.

Denis provided his carriage for the ride to Parson's Point. Because he went nowhere without at least one bodyguard-today deciding to bring three, one riding inside-the carriage was crowded.

We reached the church at Parson's Point a few minutes before the service was to begin. Grenville studied the unadorned, twelfth-century church with an approving eye. "Quite a good example of Romanesque architecture," he said as we went in.

The church was rather full this morning, perhaps because the weather was good, or perhaps because of curiosity about whether I would attend. The church, large for the community, was mostly full.

Heads turned and people stared as, for the first time in many years, a Lacey opened the small wooden door of the pew at the front of the church and stepped inside. Grenville and Denis sat down with me, and Denis's bodyguards squeezed into the end of a pew behind us.

The service of morning prayer progressed, the familiar words read in Reaves' rather pompous voice. I found the murmured responses of the congregation somehow soothing. The church had no organ, and anything we sang was led by Mrs. Landon with a pitch pipe.

Denis read the responses with the rest of us, his voice rich and strong even through the confession of sins. We have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep; We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts; We have offended against thy holy laws

… His bodyguards behind us said the same, and got through the Apostle's Creed and Lord's Prayer without stumbling.

Reaves mounted the stairs to the pulpit to read the lessons for the day then remained there for the sermon. He did indeed speak about the follies of wealth.

"And then Jesus said, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. "

Grenville's lips twitched once. Denis remained smooth-faced. Most of the congregation did too, as they listened to Reaves, a man who loved the finer things in life, drone on about the evils of wealth.

People glanced at me as Reaves started to go on a bit, but they were not connecting me with the sermon. The Laceys had forsaken their wealth long ago, in any case. The villagers and farmers were simply curious about me, about why I'd returned and whether I intended to stay.

Buckley sat in a pew on the left side of the church and studiously did not look at me. Next to him was his plump wife and his son Robert, who had an equally plump wife and a sturdy-looking toddler. A respectable country family.

Robert was staring at the altar, his lips parted slightly. I looked in the direction of his gaze and saw that Reaves-or more likely, Mrs. Landon-had restored the silver candlesticks, well polished, to the front of the church.

The platen and cup were nowhere in sight, probably shut away in the sacristy. Parson's Point was decidedly low church, and communion was offered only at Christmas, Easter, and on a person's deathbed. Even then, most of the villagers refused it.

Reaves finished at last, and another village man passed around the offering plate. I put in my dutiful coins, and Grenville and Denis dropped in an extravagant five gold guineas each.

Mrs. Landon's eyes widened when she saw what they'd given. No doubt she'd be badgering me to make certain Mr. Denis and Mr. Grenville attended often.

After the service, we filed out and shook hands with Reaves, who waited at the door. I broke from Grenville, and stopped Robert Buckley, who was about to walk to the village for his Sunday dinner with his father and mother.

I shook Robert's hand and greeted his wife and child. Seeing I wanted to talk, he told his wife to take their son and go on with his parents.

"I'm afraid I've found nothing for you, Captain," Robert said. "No sign of the man."

I hadn't thought he would. "I want to speak to you of another matter," I said. "It's about my father."

Robert looked surprised. "Oh, aye?"

"I understand that you looked after him before he died."

Robert shrugged. "Not so much looked after as took him dinner that Dad sent."

"Even so, it was kind of you and your father to look out for him. I imagine he had no one else?"

"There was Mrs. Quinn, on occasion."

" Mrs. Quinn? The vicar's wife?"

"Aye. She went with me to see him sometimes. Plumped his pillows and the like. He'd talk to her."

The Mrs. Quinn I had known had been a bit of a valetudinarian, finding any excuse to stay home and not go about in bad weather. Mrs. Landon had taken over many of the duties of a vicar's wife, while Mrs. Quinn served tea in china as delicate as she was and smiled kindly on her husband's flock. As fragile as she appeared to be, she'd outlived her robust husband.

"Do you remember when Miss Quinn eloped?"

Robert's face creased with a smile. "That I do. I was potty in love with Miss Quinn. I was ten years old and thought she was an angel."

"But she ran away with someone else."

His grin became a chuckle. "And was I jealous? A bit, I suppose. I had dreams of her waiting for me to grow up, but at heart, I was a practical lad. She was a gentleman's daughter, I was a publican's son, and I knew she'd go off with the flash bloke. And she did."

"Did you help her go off with him?"

Robert lost his smile. "What are you getting around to, Captain?"

"I know she was to meet Mr. Braxton in the copse a little way from my house the night she went. I found a dress that was likely hers in my mother's sitting room. The house was little used, I understand, once my father shut himself up in his sickbed in the last years, the servants gone. You went up there most days, from what I hear. Did you help Miss Quinn meet her lover that night?"

Robert started to put a hand on my shoulder then seemed to recall that he was below me in social standing. "A bit of advice, Captain," he said. "The less you ask about Miss Quinn, the better. Her eloping is still a sore point around here. Mrs. Quinn hasn't gotten over the heartbreak of it, and young Mr. Quinn is still angry."

"I assure you, I have no wish to make the Quinns unhappy," I said. "But I want to know what happened in my house."

Robert glanced behind me, at the villagers still filing away, at Grenville and Denis now entering Denis's carriage. "They'll be waiting for you," he said.

"Tell me."

Robert heaved a resigned sigh. "All right-aye, they used me as a go-between. I'd have done anything for Miss Quinn, I told you. The night they were to have gone, Miss Quinn and I went to your house, as though she were helping me take dinner to your dad. I'd hidden a bundle of clothes for her there. She changed out in your mum's rooms, and then I walked with her to the copse. It was dark by then, and I didn't want her going alone. She meets Mr. Braxton, and that's the end of it."

"What about the candlesticks?"

Robert blinked. "The what?"

"The silver candlesticks and the chalice stolen from the church. The ones you were gaping at this morning. They were stolen at about the same time."

"She never stole them," Robert said hastily. "Everyone thinks Miss Quinn took them away with her, but there they are in the church-which proves she don't have them."

But someone had stuffed them up the chimney at the Lacey house. "You seemed quite surprised to see them this morning."

"Well, 'course I was. I didn't know they'd been found."

"A shock," I said in a mild voice.

He nodded, his grin trying to return. "Aye." He stuck out his hand. "They'll be holding my dinner, Captain, and mum gets right cross when anyone's late. My invitation to see my farm still stands, sir. We're a bit pressed just now, but come after dark and my wife will serve you a fine supper."

He looked proud of her, a woman he seemed fond of. The fantasy of the angelic Miss Quinn falling in love with him had been left in the past.

I shook Robert's hand, assured him I would visit, and let him rush after his family to the safety of the village pub. Closed today, as it was Sunday, but not to the Buckleys.

Sunday dinner at Easton House meant Grenville and me sitting in the dining room, eating rather fine food served by Denis's hulking men. Denis never had female servants in his house.

Afterward, horses were saddled for me and Grenville, and we rode northward to the marshes to follow the path the shepherd had pointed out to me the day before.