Anne Perry - Anne Perry's Christmas Mysteries

“Oh.” She did not know whether to smile or disapprove. She tried both, with singular lack of success.

He saw the conflict in her face and laughed.

“And you think I would have lived with you anyway,” she said hotly. She took a deep breath and speared a carrot with her fork. “You’re probably right.”

He smiled more widely, with a little flutter of warmth inside him, but he was wise enough not to answer.

At almost two o’clock he set out to go up to the manor. There were one or two favors he wished to ask Peter Connaught with regard to villagers he knew were in need, but more than that he wondered if perhaps Peter’s father could have been Sybil Towers’s lover. If the Reverend Wynter had known that, was it a secret worth killing him for? Did it even matter now, so many years afterward? It would be a scandal, and Peter was inordinately proud of his family and its heritage of honor and care in the village. It was not his fault, of course, but the stain would touch him. Was he protective enough of his father’s name to have killed to keep it safe?

What if Sybil’s daughter were known to him? She was illegitimate and had no possible claim in law, even if her heritage could be proved-which it probably could not. But in a small community like Cottisham, proof was irrelevant; reputation was all.

The weather had deteriorated. The wind was rising. Clouds piled high in the west, darkening the sky and promising heavy falls of snow that night.

He was welcomed at the hall, as always, and in the huge withdrawing room the usual log fire was blazing. The afternoon was dark and the candelabra were lit, making the room almost festively bright.

He accepted the offer of tea, longing to thaw his hands on the warm cup as much as he looked forward to the drink. They addressed the business of the village. Help must be given with discretion; even the most needy did not like to feel they are objects of charity. Many would rather freeze or go hungry than accept pity. Food could be given to all, so none felt their poverty revealed. They arranged for the blacksmith to go after dark and add a few dozen logs to certain people’s woodpiles.

The butler came with tea and hot toasted tea cakes thick with currants and covered with melted butter. The two men left not a crumb.

Finally Dominic had to approach the subject of Sybil Towers. He had thought about it, considered all possibilities, and found no answer that pleased him fully, but he could not break Sybil’s confidence.

“I have to ask you a very troubling question,” he began. He was awkward. He knew it, and could think of no way to help himself. “I have gained certain knowledge, not because I sought it, and I cannot reveal any more to you than that, so please do not ask me.”

Peter frowned. “You may trust my discretion. What is it that is wrong?”

Dominic had already concocted the lie carefully, but it still troubled him. “Many years ago a young woman in the village had a love affair with a man it was impossible for her to marry. There was a child. I believe the father never knew.” He was watching Peter’s face but saw in it only sympathy and a certain resignation. No doubt he had heard similar stories many times before.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said quietly. “If it happened long ago, why do you raise it now?”

“Because the Reverend Wynter may have known of it,” Dominic said frankly, still watching Peter’s face. “And he was murdered…”

“Did you say murdered?” Peter demanded, his voice hoarse. “That is very far from what Fitzpatrick told me!”

“I know. Dr. Fitzpatrick does not want to face the unpleasantness of such a thing. But I believe the Reverend Wynter was a fine man, and his death should not be treated with less than honesty, just for our convenience. He deserved better than that.”

“What makes you think it was murder, Corde?” Peter reached for the poker, readjusted his grasp on it, and drove the end into the burning embers. The log shifted weight and settled lower, sending up a shower of sparks. He replaced the poker in its stand and added another log.

Dominic found himself shivering despite the heat. “He fell at the bottom of the cellar stairs,” he replied. “There were marks of being dragged, and he was found in the second cellar, with injuries both to his face and the back of his head. The cellar door was closed behind him, and he had no lantern.”

There was silence in the room. Beyond the thick curtains and the glass, even the sound of the wind was muffled.

“I see,” Peter said at last, his face somber in the firelight. “I have to agree with you. As an accident, that does not make sense. How tragic. He was a good man: wise, brave, and honest. What is it you think this unfortunate woman has to do with it? Surely you are not suggesting the Reverend Wynter was the father of this child? That I do not believe. If he had done such a thing-which of course is possible; we are all capable of love and hate-then he would have admitted it. He would not have lied or disclaimed his responsibility.”

“No,” Dominic agreed. “But I think he may have known something of the truth, and someone could not bear the thought that he would reveal it. Perhaps the vicar even wished the father to honor his responsibility in some way he was not prepared to.”

“How very sad. What is it I can do to help now? I presume you cannot tell me the names of either the woman or her child?”

“I cannot tell you the name of the woman,” Dominic agreed. “It has to be confidential. The name of the child I do not know, but I fear it may be someone who has returned to the village with a certain degree of retribution in her mind.”

“Oh, dear! And killed poor Wynter because he was the vicar at the time, and did not do as she would have wished, or thought fair?”

“It seems possible,” Dominic replied. That at least was true. The more he considered it, the more likely it became. The missing money and Wynter’s quarrel with John Boscombe had already been explained.

Peter was waiting for an answer to his first question.

“You must be very careful,” Dominic said softly. “If it is this woman who kills, then she does it with stealth, and skill. I think it may be someone nobody suspects.”

“Why should she wish me any harm?” Peter’s eyes widened. “When Wynter first came here, I was a child myself. In fact, I wasn’t even in England. That is when my parents were living in the East, before…before my mother died.” He looked down, and a faint color touched his cheeks.

“Did your father not return to England at all during that time?” Dominic asked.

Peter looked up sharply. The whole air of their conversation had altered. There was pain in his face, and anger. His body was stiff in the chair. “Exactly what is it you are asking, Corde?”

“She could not marry him because he was far beyond her social station,” Dominic told him. “It seems in Cottisham that that’s most likely to have been your father.”

Peter’s face paled to a sickly yellow, as if the blood had drained out of his skin. He was shaking when he spoke. “My father was devoted to my mother! It is monstrous that you should make such a revolting suggestion! Who is this woman? I demand to know who has…no…I apologize. I know you cannot tell me.” His hands gripped the arms of his chair. “But she is a liar of the most vile sort. It is not true!”

Dominic was startled by the vehemence of his denial. It was not so very unusual that a man of wealth and position should produce a few illegitimate children. It made Dominic wonder if perhaps Peter himself might have quarreled with the Reverend Wynter over it. Was it conceivable that, charming as he was, generous, diligent in his duties, still his family pride was such that he would have struck out in rage at the suggestion that his father had begotten any child other than himself?