A Christmas Secret cn-4

by Anne Perry

  Clarice stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, towel in her hand, overtaken by surprise at how much she dreaded being replaced. It would be crushing. She wanted to stay here, not only because Dominic wanted it so much, but also for herself. Despite what she had found in the cellar, she wanted to live in this house, see spring come to this garden. She wanted to see the village pond unfrozen, and with the spring ducklings on it, their funny little flat feet on the new grass. She wanted to see the apple trees in blossom, and children flying kites. She wanted to be here for Easter, and summer, and Harvest Festival. It could be a fulfillment she had never known before, for both of them. There was good work to be done. Dominic would become as loved as the Reverend Wynter had been, and she would watch it, and help.

  First, though, they must learn who had killed the vicar, and why. They could not find the light if they had not the courage to explore the darkness. Everyone had secrets: it was within the nature of life, whether they were acts of wickedness or merely of foolishness. Guilt and embarrassment could look alike. But which one had provoked murder?

  She thought about her visit to the Boscombes yesterday as she put away the crockery and cleaned the top of the range. She restoked it and then started to warm the flatirons to press Dominic’s clean shirts, which were now rolled up damp in the scullery and awaiting her attention.

  The Boscombes’ was such a happy house, and yet she had sensed a fear there. Or was that too strong a word? Had it been no more than anxiety, and sorrow because a friend had died tragically? She knew she had not imagined the glance between them, so quick as to seem guarded, a communication they preferred not to put into words. Nor had she imagined the small but very clear signs of recent poverty.

  What was their sudden misfortune, and had the Reverend Wynter known about it? She had no idea, but it was very possible. One thing she was certain about, and that was that both John and Genevieve Boscombe were aware that the Reverend Wynter knew secrets, at least one of which was dangerous. They had understood instantly what the tiny thefts were, and why he had concealed them.

  Were they also protecting each other? Why did she ask herself that, when she was perfectly certain that they were?

  If the Reverend Wynter had known some secret about them, what could it be?

  She tested the irons on the hob. They were hot enough. She must pay attention to what she was doing. She could not afford to scorch Dominic’s shirts. Apart from the fact that she had too much pride in being a good wife, they were far too expensive to replace. They came from the days of his profession as a banker, long before he decided to be a minister.

  She kept a piece of extra rag to test the temperature before touching the iron to a shirt. She tried it now, carefully; only when she was satisfied did she begin to iron.

  If the vicar had known something about the Boscombes, it would have to be something they cared about passionately, and she did not believe that could ever be money. What was the most precious thing in the world to them? Not material goods of any sort. Not power or prestige. They had never had either, nor would they want them. They treasured warmth in their home, the laughter of children playing, the certainty of gentleness and companionship, and the good things that all people of true sanity want.

  What could jeopardize those things?

  The iron was getting hot in her hand. She snatched it off the collar and was flooded with relief that there was no brown mark on its white surface. The smell of warm, clean cotton filled the air.

  Could there be something wrong with the Boscombes’ marriage, and somehow the vicar had discovered it? Had Genevieve been underage at the time? She looked several years younger than John. Perhaps her father had not given consent, and they had run away to be married, and lied to obtain permission. Did that make their union illegal? Had she been from a wealthy family and promised to someone else? But that would not invalidate their marriage.

  Were any of their children conceived or born out of wedlock? That would be scandalous, but not irrevocable. Why would the Reverend Wynter concern himself with it? It might be a sin in the eyes of the church, but it was over and done with now. Surely a confession and absolution would deal with it.

  She could find out. She had only to go to the church itself, which was next door across the strip of grass and up the path through the graveyard. The church records would be there in the vestry: marriages, christenings, and burials. Boscombe had said Genevieve grew up here. She would have been married here, too.

  Very carefully she finished the final shirt. She put both irons to cool and carried the shirts upstairs. Clarice felt rather grubby, searching the parish records for someone else’s secrets, but sometimes one could feel grubby doing what was necessary to get to the truth. And if she found she was wrong, so much the better.

  She put on her outdoor boots again and her heavy cape, then picked up the keys and went out. The snow was almost up to her knees in places where the land was low and it had drifted. The bare honeysuckle vine on the lych-gate was sparkling with icicles, and the path through the gravestones was slippery. The sky was ragged now, with patches of hard light making the expanse of the village green difficult to look at. The snow glared achingly white. She wondered if someone had fed the ducks. She should make sure, should take them something herself.

  The church was bitterly cold inside. The stained-glass window with its pictures of Christ walking on the water cast patches of blue and green and gold light on the floor. The robe of St. Peter in the boat was the only warm color: a splash of wine. How many people down the centuries had brought their joys and their griefs here, made promises, prayed for forgiveness, or poured out their thanks?

  She hurried to where the parish record books were kept. She unlocked the cupboard and found the one most likely to contain the baptism of the Boscombes’ oldest child. She skimmed through a couple of years’ worth of entries before finding it. It was a swift job, since the village was small: just four or five hundred people. Then she started to go backward, looking for John and Genevieve’s marriage. She went through ten years but didn’t find it. Twenty-three years before the birth of their first child, she came across Genevieve’s own baptism. Even more carefully she moved forward. There were baptisms of two sisters of Genevieve, then the burial of both her parents. The sisters’ marriages were recorded, but not baptisms of any children. Presumably they had moved to wherever their husbands lived.

  Then Genevieve’s children were baptized, but Clarice could find no reference to her marriage.

  Of course they could have been married somewhere else, but the ugly thought kept intruding into Clarice’s mind that perhaps they had not been married at all. Why would that be? The only reason she could think of was that something had prevented it. The obvious thing would be that one of them was already married. If it were Genevieve, the whole village would probably know; therefore, it must be John.

  Had the Reverend Wynter somehow found that out?

  She closed the book and replaced it, locking the cupboard door. She walked back through the icy vestry and outside into the freezing world again. It glittered sharp on daggers of water from the earlier thaw, now hanging from every black branch.

  Her feet crunched on the surface. There were gray clouds looming in from the west, fat-bellied with more snow. Little shivers of wind stirred the topmost branches.

  W hen Dominic returned at lunchtime, she told him what she had found.

  “She could have been married somewhere else,” he said, taking a fresh piece of bread and another slice of cold mutton. “Perhaps in his village. He might have had elderly parents who couldn’t travel, for example.”

  She passed him the rich, sharp pickle. “Possibly. But the Boscombes are in some kind of hardship. There are lots of small signs of it, if you look.”

  He smiled with a touch of sadness, and she saw the mounting pain in his eyes. They were not in that situation themselves, but it was not too far ahead of them if he remained a curate much longer. She regretted having said it, yet she
could not deny the evidence she had seen in the Boscombes’ house. Perhaps avoiding the subject of poverty was in a way making it worse, as if it were a secret too shameful to acknowledge.

  “People do fall on harder times without there being a dark secret,” he pointed out ruefully.

  “I know.” She poured him more tea although he had not asked for it. One of her pleasures was to notice his needs and meet them before he said anything. “It’s just a little piece of information. But I think it fits in with the missing pennies in the ledgers, the fact that John Boscombe suddenly resigned from his position in the church, and that they are both afraid of something. None of which would matter if the Reverend Wynter were not dead. But he is, and at least for now, this is your village.” Then she corrected herself. “Our village.”

  He frowned. “Why would their not being married, and the vicar knowing that, have anything to do with financial hard times or the petty thefts from the collection? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  She struggled through the confusion in her own mind. “I think he knew about the petty thefts before giving up his job keeping the books. He was close enough to the vicar that they trusted each other. Then something happened, and John Boscombe left. They still go to church, as everyone does, but that’s all. Could mean their sudden tightening of circumstances dates from that time, too. With children you can go through sheets quickly. You’ll wash them every other week, perhaps give them a little rubbing. Middles can wear thin. Best to trim them before they actually tear.”

  “And what caused the hardship?” he asked. “The Reverend Wynter was blackmailing them, so they paid for half a year, and then they killed him?”

  She blinked. “No! No, I don’t believe that. But maybe if the Reverend Wynter found out, so did someone else. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

  He considered for a moment, staring at his cup, but without reaching for it. “Yes,” he said finally. “Who would that be?”

  “His first wife,” she said without hesitation. “Or, really, his only wife.”

  “Why didn’t she come forward and accuse him openly, if he deserted her?”

  “Oh, Dominic!” she said in exasperation. “Don’t be so otherworldly. Much better to ask him for money to keep quiet about it than admit to everyone that he ran away from her to be with someone else. Except that if Genevieve doesn’t know, or didn’t at the time, then he probably ran away just because she was ghastly.”

  He tried to hide a smile, and failed. “Clarice, you don’t just run away because your husband or wife is appalling, or there would hardly be a married person in England living at home.”

  She raised her eyebrows very high. “Thank you. I hadn’t thought of running away…yet.”

  He shook his head. “I’m so glad,” he said drily. “It’s cold out there. Do you really think the Boscombes have a secret?”

  She wrinkled her nose.

  “Yes. And I really do think it could have to do with their marriage. That is the only thing of sufficient importance to them that they might fight very hard to protect it.” She met his eyes and hoped he could see in hers that she understood the Boscombes perfectly. She, too, would have fought with every weapon she had to protect her marriage. For her, too, it was the most precious thing she had.

  He reached across the table and touched her fingertips gently. “I agree,” he answered. “And I am beginning to think that Sir Peter Connaught also has something about which he is less than honest.”

  She was startled. “Sir Peter? Are you sure? You don’t think he’s just…grieved? He seemed to be very fond of the Reverend Wynter, and they never made up their quarrel before he died. That makes people feel very guilty, you know.”

  He fiddled with his knife. “I thought of that, but it’s more a matter of little things that don’t fit: discrepancies in his stories about his parents. Perhaps they don’t even matter, but I noticed them.” He seemed about to add something further, then changed his mind. He looked unhappy.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What are you thinking?”

  He gave a slight shrug. “I don’t know. People do boast sometimes, exaggerate their abilities, or money, all sorts of things. But Sir Peter doesn’t seem in any need to do that. He is obviously a man of great wealth, or he could not maintain a place like the manor house. And it is superbly kept. He gives generously to the village; I know that from the Reverend Wynter’s remarks in the notes to his accounts. And the whole Connaught family is above reproach. Their history is pretty well public.”

  “They could still have secrets,” Clarice pointed out. “Almost every family does.” She bit her lip. “We certainly do, for heaven’s sake. I would go to great lengths to prevent anyone in Cottisham knowing about my mother.” She felt hot with shame even saying it to Dominic, who already knew everything about it. She understood what secrets could cost and what lengths people could be driven to by love, and fear. “Dominic, it is possible the Connaughts also have something they would pay a great deal to keep unknown,” she went on. “It is very hard to live with people prying through one’s affairs. Perhaps that was at the root of his quarrel with the Reverend Wynter. They used to be close; we know they played chess every week.”

  He looked at her unhappily. “The Reverend Wynter quarreled with Peter Connaught, and with John Boscombe. Are you saying that he was behind some kind of extortion or threat of exposure?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes ‘the wicked flee where no man pursueth.’ Maybe just his knowledge was enough.”

  He said what they were both thinking. “Or he used his special knowledge in the most appalling betrayal imaginable: to blackmail those who had trusted him, and even turned to him for help and forgiveness?”

  She gripped his hand across the table. “We didn’t know him,” she said urgently. “Perhaps we have imagined him the way we wanted him to be.”

  “Everyone speaks well of him,” he pointed out, closing his fingers over hers.

  “Well, they would!” she said, biting her lip. “He was a priest, and now he has died! Who is going to say he was brutal, a slimy betrayer of trust who blackmails the most vulnerable? They would only know it if they had been a victim themselves, and wished him dead, possibly murdered. Who would admit that?”

  “No one,” he said miserably. “Please God, I hope you’re wrong. We’re wrong,” he corrected himself.

  D ominic went out again to visit one of the old gentlemen who was too frail to leave his house in the snow, and afraid of what the deepening winter would bring.

  He stayed a little while, assuring Mr. Riddington of his care. Regardless of who the vicar of Cottisham should be, he would always have time for going to those who could not come to the church. Then after bidding him good-bye he walked along the lane toward the green in the dusk. Again he became aware of footsteps behind him. They seemed to be gaining on him, as though the person was keen to catch him up.

  He stopped and turned. He saw the brisk figure of Mrs. Paget hurrying toward him, her breath a white vapor in the freezing air. She was dressed rather smartly with a russet-brown cape, and there was a flush in her cheeks.

  “I’m glad to see you, Reverend Corde,” she said warmly as she reached him. “Have you been to see Mr. Riddington? Poor old soul can’t make it even to his front gate anymore. Afraid of slipping and breaking a leg. Very wise he stays in. Broken bone at his age can be nasty. Don’t let me hold you up. I’ll walk beside you.” Without waiting she started forward again, and he was left to keep step with her.

  “Mrs. Blount next door drops in every day,” he told her.

  “Not the same as having the vicar call.” Mrs. Paget shook her head. “No one else can comfort with the spiritual promises of the church.”

  “Believe me, Mrs. Blount is a far better cook than I am,” he replied, keeping his balance on the uneven path with difficulty. “And there are times when a hot apple pie is more use than a sermon.”

  “You may joke, Vicar,” she said seriously. “But there are dark
things to fight against, darker than most folks are willing to admit.”

  He was uncertain how to answer her. The wind was rising again. It whined in the branches above them, and little flurries of dry snow skittered over the ice.

  “I know the truth,” she went on, her voice quiet but very clear. “The Reverend Wynter was murdered, wasn’t he? Please don’t try to spare me by denying it. It doesn’t help to close one’s eyes. That’s how evil flourishes, because we want to be kind and end up being cruel.”

  He wanted to argue, but she was right. He asked her the question that filled his mind. “How do you know that, Mrs. Paget?”

  Now it was she who was silent. They were out of the lane and starting across the open green. The pond was almost invisible: just a smooth white surface a little lower than the slope of the grass. The air was darkening, color staining the west with fire and the shadows growing so dense the houses blended into one another. He began to think she was not going to answer.

  “The Reverend Wynter was here in Cottisham well over thirty years,” she said at last. “He knew a lot about people, sometimes things they’d rather no one did. He wouldn’t have told, of course. Priests don’t, do they.” It wasn’t really a question, but she stopped as if waiting for him to speak, her features indistinguishable in the shadows.

  “No,” he replied. Was she trying to find a way to tell him that the Reverend Wynter had done infinitely worse than use his privileged knowledge to manipulate and extort? The darkness felt as if it were inside him as well as beyond in the sky and the black lace of the trees.

  “But those that betray don’t trust anyone,” she said, looking straight ahead of her.

  “Is that why you believe he was murdered, Mrs. Paget?” he asked. “Just that he knew people’s secrets? All priests do.”