Anne Perry's Christmas Mysteries: Two Holiday Novels Read online

  She was glad the vicarage had been designed for a family, and was large enough that they had not needed to use this room. It belonged to the Reverend Wynter, and he should not have to move his belongings to make way for them. She looked around it with pleasure, amazed that she could feel such a liking for a man she had never met. People spoke so well of him, he was obviously a man of great compassion. But that might not be personal so much as part of his calling. It was the delicacy, the simple grace of his drawings, that showed his nature. He saw extraordinary beauty in a bare branch, the tiny twigs against the light, the strength of a trunk stripped of its summer glory, powerful in its nakedness.

  She gazed around the walls at the other pictures. Each was different, and yet all had the same inner qualities. She wondered if he was busy now creating more. Was he out walking in the snow somewhere in East Anglia, selecting just the right scene under the wide Norfolk skies? Perhaps he would draw the bare coastline and the sea grasses, the wind-riven skies, clouds dragged out in long streamers above the line of the waves.

  Reluctantly she made certain the windows were fastened securely and then went back downstairs. She was tidying the study when she came across a carefully sharpened soft-leaded pencil sitting on top of the chest of narrow drawers near the window. Her first thought was that Dominic had unintentionally sharpened one of the vicar’s pencils before realizing what it was.

  She should put it away. Perhaps it belonged in one of the drawers. She opened the top one to see, and found a dozen more pencils there, all sharpened. There were also charcoals of various thickness, white pencils, erasers, and a sharp blade—in fact, all one needed for drawing. Were they extras?

  She closed the drawer and opened the one below. It was full of unused blocks of watercolor artist’s paper. He must have a great deal if he had this much to leave behind! Without thinking she pulled open the cupboard door. With a sudden chill she saw an easel, neatly folded. How could he not have taken it with him? This, and his pencils, were the tools of his art!

  Mystified, she went back up to his bedroom and shamelessly opened the wardrobe door. There were only four pairs of boots inside: smart black boots for Sundays; a pair of brown boots; a second pair of black boots, definitely older; and stout walking boots for country wear, up to the ankles, thick-soled such as one would choose on a day like this.

  There were winter clothes hanging on the rail as well, including an extremely nice woolen overcoat—not city wear, more casual—with a collar to turn up against the worst weather. It was just the sort of coat a man would like for walking in the country or by the sea.

  Why had he not taken it with him? And the boots? And for that matter, the stout walking stick leaning against the wall in the corner? To forget the Bible might be an oversight, even the pencils, or paper, but not the winter clothes as well! There was something wrong. He had left in haste, and not for pleasure as he had said. Was it some family emergency, or bereavement? Would he be gone until the situation, whatever it was, had been resolved? Had he a brother or sister in some kind of trouble? Possibly it was a sudden and serious illness?

  When Dominic returned home, late and cold to the bone, she started to tell him, then realized he was not listening to her. He heard her words, but not their meaning. He was too deep in his own fear that he could not find something new and powerful to say to the people of this village for him to hear the anxiety within her. And it would be Sunday in two days, and his first sermon here.

  “They are good people,” he said, standing in the sitting room with his back to the fire, which burned brightly, thawing the cold that chilled and numbed his flesh. “They know their scriptures at least as well as I do. The vicar has preached to them with passion and eloquence not only at Christmas but all through the year.” There was a shadow in his eyes, a tightness across his cheeks. “What can I say to them that will be anything more than an echo of what he has already said?” he asked her. “Any one of them could stand up in the pulpit and tell the Christmas story as well as I can. Clarice, what can I say to make it new?”

  She saw the spark of fear in his eyes, the knowledge that he might not be equal to the task that mattered to him so much. This village was old, comfortable, and secure in its habits. It was not conscious of any hunger that needed filling, any ignorance or darkness waiting for light. The townspeople wanted to stay as they were and be reassured that all was well. Anyone could do that: pass and leave no mark at all, like wind over water.

  She ached to be able to help him. She was seeing for the first time the need in him: not desire to do a job or fulfill a duty, but a hunger to succeed that would not let him rest or leave him free from pain if he failed.

  “What’s the best thing about Christmas?” she asked, trying to strip away the trite, all the things that had already been said. “What does it really mean to us? What…what is it for? It’s not goodwill, a brief time of peace or generosity. It has to be more than that.”

  “It’s the beginning of our faith,” he replied. “Christ coming into the world.” He said it as if it were obvious.

  “I know.” She felt crushed. “But what for?” she insisted. “Why was everything different afterward?”

  The fire was scorching him, and he stepped away from it. “I’m not exactly sure how to answer that,” he replied. “It sounds…it sounds too much like an academic answer, and that’s not what they need, Clarice. I need a spiritual answer, a joy in the soul.”

  She could think of nothing better to add. She was failing him, and, feeling empty, she turned and went into the kitchen.

  Clarice woke to find a white world, silent, deep in snow. The air was motionless, and when she opened the back door into the garden to let Harry out, the bitter cold of it was sharp in her lungs. She drew in her breath in amazement at the beauty of it. The old apple tree was laden like an extravagant blossom. Other trees, soaring upward, were naked, too thin to hold the snow, shining against an enamel sky.

  But it was a dangerous beauty, a cold that paralyzed, a depth of snow that soaked heavy skirts and exhausted old or fragile limbs. The low winter sun was almost blinding.

  She closed the door and turned to find Dominic standing behind her, a rueful smile on his face.

  “You’re going out,” she said, more as a statement than a question. She wished he did not have to, but if he had found excuses to stay at home she would have been even more deeply disappointed. What use was preaching or praying if one was not willing to act?

  “I’ll try not to be long,” he answered. “But there’ll be people who shouldn’t go out in this, even to fetch wood, never mind to get bread or milk.”

  “I know.” She gave him a quick kiss, hugging him tightly for a moment, then going back to the kitchen to tidy up. It was warm in there and she had hot water, which made her more fortunate than many.

  However, in the middle of the morning she found with surprise that the coal bucket beside the stove was empty, and the coke scuttle as well. She would have to go down to the cellar to fetch more. What was left would not last her until Dominic returned.

  She picked up the scuttle and went to the hall. The cellar door was locked, but she had the key on the big household ring, and it opened with ease. A rush of chilled air engulfed her immediately, making her shiver and step back. There was a swish past her ankles, and Etta disappeared down the steps into the darkness.

  “Mice!” Clarice said in disgust. “I suppose it’s your job, but you really are a nuisance. Well, I’m not taking a candle down there. It’ll blow out and then I’ll not even find my way back.” She put down the coke scuttle and went to look for a lantern. She knew there was one in the scullery by the back door. She found it, lit it, settled the glass to protect the flame, and then returned. Etta was nowhere to be seen.

  It was no more than a ten-minute job to fill the coke scuttle, take it back up to the kitchen, and then fill the coal bucket for the sitting room fire as well.

  “Etta!” she called encouragingly. “Come on, Etta! There�
��s a nice warm fire for you up here, and I’ll give you some fresh milk! Better than mice.”

  The only sound was Harry’s feet on the hall floor. He came padding through, looking interested at last, his head on one side, eyebrows cocked.

  “She’s gone down there after mice,” Clarice explained, then thought how absurd she was being, talking to the animal as if he understood. Actually she was ridiculously pleased that at last he was taking more notice of her. He went to the door, slithered through the opening, and disappeared down the steps. “Fetch her back up,” Clarice called after him. “I’m not leaving this door open all morning. It’s far too cold.”

  She stood hopefully for several minutes, but neither of them reappeared.

  “Drat!” she said fiercely. She was now thoroughly chilled and rapidly losing patience, but she really did not feel as if she could close them in. This was their home; she was the interloper. Impatiently she picked up the lantern and went down the steps again.

  Neither Harry nor Etta was visible. She held the light higher and up near the far corner, which was where she found the rather narrow entrance to the second cellar. They must be in there. More mice, no doubt. She had not known that dogs ate mice, too. Or perhaps he was just curious.

  She went through the doorway, her skirts brushing against the sides. Now she would be covered in coal dust. Perhaps it would brush off without staining, but then it would still need sweeping up. “Harry!” she said sharply. “Etta!” She held the lantern forward and saw them immediately, standing side by side; Etta’s tail was up and bristling, Harry’s tail down unhappily. He let out a long, low wail.

  Then she saw the crumpled heap beyond them, dark but quite definitely not coal. Her stomach clenched and her hand shook so the light danced unevenly. She moved forward until it was all horribly clear. An elderly man lay faceup on the rubble remains of an old coal heap. His eyes were closed; his gaunt features smeared with dust and dark with what might have been bruises. A gash was scored across his nose, but any blood had long since dried and darkened.

  Clarice breathed in shakily, gasping. The heat drained out of her body as if sucked away. The cat and dog were so close they seemed to be touching each other, as though for comfort. She did not need to question if that was their master; the dog’s repeated low howl of grief was answer enough. Anyway, who else could it be? Even smeared with coal dust, the white of his clerical collar was clearly visible.

  There was no question if there was anything she could do for him; it was perfectly obvious there was not. Slowly, her knees wobbling, the lantern swaying, she fumbled her way back up the steps again and then stood gulping air at the top. She grasped the door lintel in the gray daylight. She must report the death. The poor old man had probably had a heart attack or something of that sort. Everyone thought he had gone away, so no one would have missed him and gone to look. What a bitterly sad way for a vicar, of all people, to die. From everyone’s account, he had been a fine man, and deeply and justly loved.

  She could wait for Dominic to return, but in this weather he could be a long time doing all that was necessary. She did not want to stay here alone, knowing what was downstairs. She was perfectly capable of putting on boots and a cape and going to find the doctor herself. She knew where he lived; that was one of the things Mrs. Wellbeloved had told her. It was a stiff walk, but along open road all the way. She would make it in half an hour, even in the snow, and he might have a pony and trap for the way back.

  Extinguishing the lantern, she left the cellar door wedged open so Harry and Etta could come out if they chose, or stay and mourn if that was their nature. Perhaps that was more fitting anyway. She rather hoped they would. Then she put on the boots, wrapped herself around in her cloak, and set out, her mind so filled with pity she scarcely noticed either the cold or the way the deep snow dragged at her feet.

  “Heart attack I expect, poor man,” Dr. Fitzpatrick told her, coming back up the steps and closing the cellar door behind him. The cat and dog had come upstairs again, persuaded with some difficulty, and were now sitting side by side in front of the kitchen stove. “Only comfort is he probably felt very little,” Fitzpatrick went on. He was a fussy man with a large mustache. “Are you all right, Mrs. Corde? Horrible experience for you. What on earth were you doing down there?”

  She had already explained to him, or she thought she had. Perhaps she had been more incoherent than she supposed. “I went to fill the coke scuttle, and the cat came, too, and then I couldn’t find her.”

  He nodded. “Smelled something, I suppose. Or perhaps just after the mice.” He held up his coal-smeared hands.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized quickly. “Please come into the kitchen and wash, and perhaps you’d like a cup of tea?” She glanced down at his trouser legs, sodden where the snow on them had melted in the warmth of the house, then her own heavy, wet skirts.

  “Yes,” he said with alacrity. “Thank you.”

  She busied herself with water in the kettle, warming the teapot, fetching milk from a very chilly pantry, and offering him a slice of cake, which he made an excuse for accepting as well.

  “I’ll take care of the arrangements,” he said with his mouth full. “I daresay they won’t be able to hold a funeral for a few days, considering the weather and what the bishop might care to do, but I’ll have the body removed and all the appropriate registrations dealt with. You don’t need to concern yourself, Mrs. Corde. I will take care of it all. And I would be obliged if you would speak of this to no one yet. There is a proper order of things, which we must observe.”

  “Thank you.” She felt relieved, but more than a little sad. It was a lonely and undignified way to go. Not that she supposed he was more than briefly aware of it. He had lived well, very well, and in the end that was all that mattered. “Thank you,” she repeated. “No doubt my husband will be in touch with the bishop. He may…he may wish us to remain a little longer.” She realized as she said the words how much she hoped that he would—a lot longer, perhaps always.

  It was ten minutes later with the doctor on his second cup of tea when Dominic came in, slamming the front door behind him and striding down the hall, shedding snow everywhere. “Clarice!” he called urgently, fear edging his voice sharply. “Clarice!”

  She came to the door immediately and almost ran into him. His coat was wet, his face whipped red by the cold, his eyes frightened. As soon as he saw her he was flooded with relief. “Someone told me you sent for the doctor urgently. What is it? Were they wrong?”

  She could not help smiling. It was wonderful, and still faintly surprising to her, that he should care so intensely. “I’m perfectly well,” she said, almost all the shiver gone out of her voice. “I went for coke in the cellar and the cat got into another cellar beyond. I found the vicar’s body. The poor man must have gone down there and had a heart attack. I felt the doctor was the best person to inform.” She met his eyes, looking to see if he understood what she had done.

  He was momentarily shocked. “Dead? The Reverend Wynter? You mean he has been down there all the time?”

  “Yes. Don’t look like that,” she added gently. She touched his hand. “There was nothing we could have done for him.”

  The doctor drank the last of his tea and came into the hall.

  “Fitzpatrick,” he said, introducing himself. “You must be the Reverend Corde. Sad thing to happen. So sorry your poor wife had to be the one to find him.” He shook his head. “But I’ll take care of all the details. Perhaps you’d just give me a hand to carry the poor old man up the steps, then I can fetch the blacksmith’s cart and have him taken away. My trap is rather too small, you know.”

  “Yes, of course,” Dominic replied quickly, beginning to take off his heavy outdoor coat.

  It was an awkward job up the cellar stairs, and required both men, so Clarice walked in front of them with the lantern. On the way back up she moved ahead and laid a clean blanket on the kitchen table so they could put him down gently on it. As so
on as it was accomplished, the doctor went to find the blacksmith.

  “I think I should clean him up a bit,” Clarice said very quietly. Her throat ached, and she found it hard to swallow.

  Dominic offered to do it, but she insisted. Laying out the dead was a job for women. She would wash the coal dust from his head and face and hands. She did it with hot, soapy water, very gently, as if he could still feel pain. He had had fine features, aquiline and sensitive, but they were hollow now, in death. There was a bad scrape on his nose, as if he had struck it falling—and yet they had found him on his back, and to reinforce that fact, there was a deep gash in the back of his head. He must have gone down hard.

  In straightening his legs, Clarice also noticed that his trousers were slightly torn at the shins, and the skin underneath abraded and bruised.

  “How did he do that?” she said curiously.

  “It happened before he died,” Dominic said quietly. “People don’t bruise after the heart stops. He must have stumbled as he went down the steps. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling very well even then.”

  “I wonder why he went down at all,” she said thoughtfully, pulling the fabric straight. “The buckets of coal and coke were all full.”

  “I expect Mrs. Wellbeloved filled them,” he pointed out.

  She looked at him almost apologetically. “If she’d gone down there, and he had the buckets with him, then why didn’t she find him?”

  “What are you suggesting, Clarice?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just wondered why he went down there, and nobody knew.”

  “They thought he had gone away on holiday,” he answered. “We all did.”

  She frowned. “Why? Why did the bishop think he was going on holiday?”

  “Because he wrote and told him,” Dominic said.