Anne Perry's Christmas Mysteries Read online

  He looked pleased, as if the prospect excited him. Obviously he was enormously proud of his heritage and loved to share it, to entertain people, fill them with laughter and a little awe as well. He looked at Dominic. “I see you have moved the chessboard. You do not play?”

  Dominic glanced around. He clearly had no idea where the chessboard had been.

  “You didn’t?” Sir Peter said quickly. “It was already gone when you came?”

  “Yes. I haven’t seen one.” He looked at Clarice questioningly.

  “I haven’t seen it, either,” she said. “Did the Reverend Wynter play?”

  A look of pain burned deep in Sir Peter’s eyes; with an effort he banished it. He swallowed the last of his tea. “Yes. Yes, at one time. He had a particularly beautiful set. Not black and white so much as black and gold. The black was ebony, and the gold that extraordinary shade that yew wood sometimes achieves, almost metallic. Quite beautiful. Still…” He rose to his feet. “It hardly matters. I just noticed because it was such a feature in the room. The light caught it, you know?”

  “It sounds wonderful,” Clarice responded, because the silence demanded it, but her mind was filled with the certainty that his reason for asking was nothing like as casual as he had said. There was a depth of emotion in him that could not be explained by the mere absence of an artifact of beauty. What more had it meant to him, and why did he conceal it?

  She still wondered as she also rose to her feet and followed him to the door, thanking him again for his kindness in coming.

  ***

  Mrs. Wellbeloved arrived after luncheon, carrying a large bag of potatoes, which she set down on the kitchen table with a grunt of relief. “You’ll be needin’ ’em,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Clarice accepted, telling herself that Mrs. Wellbeloved meant it kindly and it would be most ungracious to tell her that she would rather have gone to the village shop and bought them herself. Three weeks was such a short time to get to know people so she could help Dominic. “Thank you,” she repeated. “That was very thoughtful. We had a visitor this morning.” She carried the potatoes into the scullery, followed hopefully by the dog, who was ever optimistic about something new to eat.

  “Come down here, did he?” Mrs. Wellbeloved said, her round eyes wide with interest, wispy eyebrows high. “Well, I never.” She picked up the long-handled broom and began to sweep the floor.

  Clarice returned to the kitchen, Harry still on her heels.

  “He said his family has been in the village for years,” she added, tidying one of the cupboards and setting jams, pickles, savory jellies in some sort of order.

  “Years!” Mrs. Wellbeloved exclaimed. “I should say centuries, more like. Since the Normans came, the way he tells it.”

  “The Normans! Really?”

  “Yes. Ten sixty-six, you know?” Mrs. Wellbeloved looked at her skeptically. How could she be the lady she pretended if she did not know that?

  Clarice was amazed. “That’s terribly impressive!”

  “Oh, he’s impressed.” Mrs. Wellbeloved bent awkwardly and picked up the modicum of dust from the floor, carefully pushing it into the dustpan. “Come over with William the Conqueror, so he said, an’ bin in this village since the year twelve hundred. Everyone knows that.” She made an expression of disdain then concealed it quickly, reaching for the bucket, putting it in the low, stone sink, and turning on the tap.

  “He didn’t tell me that.” Clarice felt a need to defend him, although she had no idea why.

  “Well, there’s a surprise then.” Mrs. Wellbeloved turned off the tap and heaved the bucket out. She looked at the floor skeptically. “Don’t seem too bad.”

  “It isn’t,” Clarice replied. “We haven’t been here a whole day yet. I really don’t think you need to do it.”

  “P’raps you’re right. I’ll just do the table then. Got to keep the table clean.” She took the scrubbing brush off its rack, along with a large box of yellow kitchen soap. “Knew his father, Sir Thomas. He was a real gentleman, poor man.”

  “Why? What happened to him?”

  “Went abroad, he did.” Mrs. Wellbeloved began scrubbing energetically, slopping water all over the place, wetting the entire surface of the table at once. “Foreign parts somewhere out east. Don’t recall if he ever said where, exact. Fell in love and married.” She poked loose strands of hair back into their knot. “Then she died, when Sir Peter was only about five or six years old. Wonderful woman, she was, from all he says, an’ very beautiful. Sir Thomas were so cut up by it he came home and never went back there, ever. Raised Peter himself, teaching him all about his family, the land, all that. Very close, but never got over her death. I s’pose Sir Peter didn’t, either. He never married.”

  “There’s time yet,” Clarice said quickly. “He looks no more than in his forties. He’ll want to keep the line going, the family, surely?”

  Mrs. Wellbeloved put her weight into the scrubbing, her lips tight, soapsuds flying. She stepped sideways and nearly fell over the dog. “It’s his duty,” she agreed. “But he isn’t doing it, for all that. Maybe that’s what it was all about.”

  “What what was all about?” Clarice asked unashamedly.

  “Used to come here often,” Mrs. Wellbeloved replied, wringing out a cloth with powerful, red-knuckled hands. “Twice a week, most months. Played chess with the vicar reg’lar. Loved their game, they did. Then he stopped all of a sudden, about two years ago. Never came here since, except it were business, or with other folk. Vicar never said why, but then he wouldn’t. Could keep other folks’ secrets better than the grave, he could.”

  “You mean they quarreled?” Clarice felt a stab of disappointment. It seemed such a sad and stupid thing to do. “What quarrel could be so bad, and last so long?”

  Mrs. Wellbeloved jerked upright, banging her elbow on the bucket, which was still on the table. She winced. “Well, it wouldn’t be the Reverend Wynter’s fault, an’ that’s for certain. He was the best man that ever lived in the village, whether his family went back to the manor or the workhouse! Forgive anybody anything, he would, if it were against himself. Tried over and over to make it up with Sir Peter, and Sir Peter weren’t having any of it.” She grunted fiercely. “But the vicar would never say a thing were right if it weren’t. Fear o’ God’s in him like a great light, it is. Mr. Corde’s a very lucky man to be allowed to step in for him over Christmas.” She nodded several times. “Walk a few miles in the reverend’s footsteps an’ he’ll be the better man for it, mark my words.” She savagely wiped half the table dry, lifted the bucket onto the floor, and wiped the other half, wringing the cloth out several times.

  Clarice felt defensive of Dominic, but bit her tongue rather than say anything; she needed Mrs. Wellbeloved on their side. She took a deep breath. “He seems to be a very remarkable man, even for a vicar,” she said with as much humility as she could manage.

  Mrs. Wellbeloved’s face softened. “That he is,” she agreed more gently. “Man o’ God, I say. He deserves a holiday. Go off an’ do more of his paintings an’ drawings, that’s what he needs.” She looked Clarice up and down, and then turned away so her face was out of sight. “Obliged you could come.” She sniffed, choking off the emotion in her voice. She picked up the bucket and threw the dirty water into the sink so hard it splashed up and a good deal of it went out again on either side, waking the cat. Etta shook herself angrily and then curled up again, nose in her tail.

  Clarice considered whether to wipe the water up for Mrs. Wellbeloved, and decided against it. Better to pretend she hadn’t noticed. Instead she fetched Etta a dry towel for her bed and put the kettle on for another cup of tea, and then went to dust the hall, not that it needed it.

  ***

  There was a sharp drop in the temperature that evening and another heavy fall of snow. Dominic banked the fires high, hoping they would stay burning most of the night, so there would be at least some warmth left in the air by morning.

  At da
wn he looked out of his study window and saw the bleak beauty of the pale light, but he knew it meant that no one could plow through the deep drifts to leave the village-and some would find it hard even to leave their home to fetch food. This was where his ministry could begin. He had no knowledge yet at which houses he would be welcome, however, and he could not afford even one mistake. He was an outsider, temporarily taking the place of a man he realized was deeply loved.

  So far he had only one source of information, Mrs. Wellbeloved. Clarice’s exact words had been: “She has opinions about everything, which she’ll share at the drop of a hat. Be busy about something else, and even if she’s talking complete nonsense, for heaven’s sake don’t argue with her. Local knowledge is her great achievement.”

  Clarice was probably right. Dominic had not had to deal with maids before; he’d never even considered them.

  It was time he did so. He rose and went to find Clarice, who was busy in the kitchen warming two flatirons on the top of the range, ready to iron his shirts, which she had washed the day before. Cat and dog were squashed into one basket together by the stove. Dominic looked at Clarice with a deep stab of guilt. She was not beautiful in the traditional sense, except for her eyes, which were wide, clear gray with dark lashes. There was far too much character in her face, too much readiness to laugh or lose her temper. She was quick with her opinions and far too candid for a vicar’s wife, and much too perceptive of the truth. He could no longer count the times she had embarrassed him. But she was also generous and swift to forgive. She was without arrogance, and he had never known her to make a promise and fail to keep it.

  She could have married a man able to give her a large house and maids to look after her every need. She could have had a carriage, fashionable clothes, and invitations in society. Could she really be as happy as she seemed, face flushed, apron around her waist, testing the flatirons for temperature?

  She looked up at him and smiled.

  “I’m going to see Mrs. Wellbeloved,” he told her. “I need her advice as to whom I should call on in this weather. She’ll know.”

  “Excellent idea,” she said approvingly. Then she frowned. “Do be tactful with her, won’t you? She’s a funny creature.”

  He bit his lip to keep from laughing. “I had noticed that, my dear.”

  “Wrap up well,” she advised. “It’s bitter outside.”

  “I’d noticed that, too.” He kissed her quickly on the cheek, and before she could catch his arm he turned and went into the hall.

  He put on his heavy boots, a thick, woolen scarf around his neck, then his overcoat, gloves, and a hat. Even so he was unprepared for the blast of cold as he opened the front door. Instead of yesterday’s chill in the air, there was a slicing wind with the cruel edge of ice on it, and the glare of light off the snow caused him to narrow his eyes. He stepped out and heard the crunch of his own footsteps. It would be very nice to change his mind and go back inside, but he could not afford to. Part of being a vicar was not listening to the tempting little voice that told you another day would do, or that there was somebody else to perform the task. He was the man people looked to here to do the work of God, and he must not fail.

  He crossed the village green, seeing only a few other footprints in the snow. The pond was partially iced over, the bench beside it deserted. The air was gray. The houses seemed to huddle down, roofs pale; thin trails of smoke smeared up against the sky. Only the blacksmith’s glowing forge looked inviting. Beyond the village, the woods were tangled branches of black, here and there denser where the evergreens clustered, pale-patched where the snow clung.

  He passed an old woman with a bundle of sticks and called “good morning” to her, but her reply was mumbled and he could not make out her words. He increased his pace and finally felt the warmth return to his body.

  Ten minutes later he was knocking on Mrs. Wellbeloved’s door, and was relieved when she opened it and invited him in. He stepped over the threshold into a dark, warm hallway smelling of floor polish and smoke.

  “Well, now, Mr. Corde,” she said briskly. She refused to call him vicar. “What can I do for you? ’Fraid you’ll have to manage the housework yourselves today. Got company coming, like I said.”

  “I need your advice, Mrs. Wellbeloved,” he replied, watching her expression change immediately and guarding himself from smiling.

  “Ah, well, that I can do, Mr. Corde. What is it you need to know? Come in an’ sit a moment; it’s my duty to spare you that long.” She led the way into a neat front parlor where a fire was just beginning to burn up. Mr. Wellbeloved, a sturdy man with a weathered face and a shock of gray hair, was sitting whittling a piece of wood into a whistle. There was a pile of shavings on a piece of brown paper on the floor in front of him. Painted blocks were neatly stacked beside him.

  When introductions were made, and he had explained that he was carving Christmas presents for the grandchildren, Dominic asked Mrs. Wellbeloved for advice about whom he should visit. He wrote down her answers, with addresses, in the notebook he had brought with him.

  “An’ you’d best ask Mr. Boscombe to add to that,” her husband put in helpfully. “Lives at the end o’ the lane as you come in from the south. A big house with three gables. He was vicar’s right hand till about six months ago. Knew everything there was, he did.”

  Mrs. Wellbeloved nodded her agreement. “That he did, an’ all. Good man, Mr. Boscombe. He’ll see you right.”

  “Until about six months ago?” Dominic questioned.

  Mr. Wellbeloved glared at his wife, then back at Dominic, his knife stopped in midair. “That’s right.”

  “What happened then?”

  Again they looked at each other.

  “Don’t know,” Mrs. Wellbeloved answered. “That’d be between Mr. Boscombe and the vicar. Give up all his church duties, he did. But still a good man, an’ very friendly. Nothing whatever you could take against. You go ask him. He’ll tell you all as I can’t.”

  And Dominic had to be content with that. He thanked them and made his way reluctantly out into the bitter air again. With the directions they had given him he walked briskly the half mile against the wind to the large, thatched house where John and Genevieve Boscombe lived with their four children.

  He was welcomed in shyly, but with a gentle warmth that made him immediately comfortable. John Boscombe was a lean, quietly spoken man with fair hair, which was thinning a little. His wife was unusually pretty. Her skin was without blemish, her smile quick, and the fact that she was a little plump and her hair was definitely untidy seemed only to add to a sense of warmth.

  Dominic heard happy laughter from upstairs, and at least three sets of feet running around. A large dog of indeterminate breed was lying on the floor in the kitchen in front of the range, and the whole room smelled of baking bread and clean linen. There was a pile of sewing in a basket, the bodice of which was obviously a doll’s dress.

  “What can we do for you, Vicar?” Boscombe asked. “A cup of tea for a start? It’s turned cold enough to freeze the-” He stopped, coloring faintly at a sharp look from his wife. “Tea?” he repeated, his blue eyes wide.

  “Thank you very much,” Dominic replied.

  Genevieve hastily moved a pile of folded laundry from one of the chairs and invited him to sit down at the kitchen table. He did not need the explanation that this was the only warm room in the house. People careful with money did not burn more fires than they had to. He knew that with sharp familiarity.

  There was the sound of a shriek and then giggles from upstairs.

  “I need your advice,” he said. “Mrs. Wellbeloved tells me you were very close to the vicar and could advise me as to all the people I should keep a special care for: those alone, unwell, in hard or unhappy circumstances of any kind. I’m not asking for any confidences,” he added quickly, seeing the look of anxiety in Boscombe’s face. “Only where I should begin, and whom I must not overlook.”

  Boscombe frowned. “Did the vi
car not tell you those things?”

  At the range, Genevieve turned to look at him, the kettle still in her hand.

  “No,” Dominic said regretfully. “I never actually met him. The bishop directed me here. I assume the Reverend Wynter advised him rather late. Perhaps his need to take a holiday arose very suddenly-a relative ill or in need? I was given no details. I was happy to come.”

  “Oh!” Boscombe looked surprised, and oddly relieved. “That was very good of you,” he added hastily. “Yes, of course we’ll both do anything we can to help.”

  “Thank you. I’d like to talk to you a little about the vicar’s sermons, particularly past Christmases. I don’t want to repeat his words, or his exact message, but I’d like to be…” Suddenly he was uncertain exactly what he meant. Familiar, but original? Encouraging and new, but not disturbing? That was nonsense. He needed to make up his mind, decide between the safe and the daring. Was Christmas supposed to be safe, comfortable? Nothing more than the restating of old beliefs?

  “Yes?” Boscombe prompted.

  Dominic smiled self-consciously. “Appropriate.” This short time in Cottisham mattered so much, and he was making a mess of it, being trite.

  Boscombe seemed to relax. “Of course. Anything I can tell you. But I haven’t been…in the vicar’s confidence for the last few months. At least, not as closely as I used to be. But I’m sure I can help. What advice did Mrs. Wellbeloved give you? I’ll see what I can add. I’ve been here awhile, and Genevieve was born here.”

  And indeed he did, giving Dominic the color and flavor of the village life, and in particular those who might have a need-or the reverse: be willing and able to help. He spoke of them all with kindness, but a clear-eyed view of their vulnerabilities. He also summarized several of the vicar’s more notable sermons.

  But when Dominic sat beside his own fire with Clarice that evening, hearing the wind moan in the eaves, rising shrill and more insistent, and Harry snoring gently next to the hearth, it was Boscombe’s anxiety that came to his mind. He tried to explain it to her, but put into words it sounded so insubstantial-a matter of hesitations that could as easily have been shyness, or even a matter of discretion-that he felt foolish to have remembered it at all.