Anne Perry - A Christmas Secret

“The accounts are not right!” Clarice said firmly. “There are inconsistencies in the last seven months or more.” Her voice was low and tense, and she was staring at him, demanding his attention. “Someone was stealing tiny amounts from the church collections. Just pennies quite often, never more than a shilling or two. The Reverend Wynter was putting the amount back from his own money. His own ledgers were balanced to the farthing, except for those amounts. If you look carefully, they tally up.”

He frowned, trying to understand. “Why?”

“I don’t know, and neither does John Boscombe, but there is something bigger behind it, something they really care about. The Reverend Wynter was hiding it for a reason, until he could find what that is. John Boscombe didn’t say so, exactly, but I saw the moment in his face when he knew it. I will be careful, Dominic, I promise, but we have to find out what it is. How could we stay here and just pretend this hasn’t happened, or that we don’t know? We do know!”

“But maybe…” He stopped.

Her look was withering. “If there really is a God—and I can’t bear to believe that there isn’t, despite anything Mr. Darwin says—then He knows that we know. In the end that’s all that counts, isn’t it?” Now she needed an answer, not just to that question but to all that was wrapped within it, for all of their lives.

He closed his eyes for a second, two seconds, and three. She had a way of smashing through pretense that left one nowhere to hide. “Yes, of course that’s all there is,” he answered her. “We must find the truth and deal with it. But please be careful, Clarice. Whoever it is has a secret, which to them is so terrible they will kill a priest to keep it. It could be anything—even another death we don’t yet know of. Or something that to us seems trivial, but to them is so grave, they cannot bear it. If anything happened to you, it would be unbearable to me. I love you so much I don’t know how I would be any use without you, to myself or to others. I might once have worked alone quite well, but not since I’ve known you. I’ve known something too good to forget.”

She smiled, and her eyes were full of tears, but shining tears. “I’ll be careful,” she promised, sniffing and blinking hard. “I’m much too happy to let anyone take it away from me, either.”

T he morning was bright, with a cold, hard wind. They had been in Cottisham little more than a week. It seemed longer. Clearing away breakfast dishes and wondering if Mrs. Wellbeloved would come today or not, or if Mrs. Paget would still consider, after the Reverend Wynter’s death, that they should cook for a Christmas party, Clarice felt as if it were months ago that she and Dominic had first walked into this comfortable hallway and she had been so immediately at home. There had been not the slightest shadow of tragedy then. The whole vicarage had been warm with the memories of generations of families living here. They would have had their joys and griefs like everyone, but also a security of faith in this small community, under the shadow of the church and the sound of its bells.

How could she have imagined that below there, in the darkness of the cellar, the vicar himself was lying alone, growing colder and colder each day? Would it ever get really warm again? Not until they had found the truth and faced it.

Dominic had gone out again to see Dr. Fitzpatrick. It was not a duty he was looking forward to, but there were many issues to be dealt with. The village must be told officially of the Reverend Wynter’s death. Dominic would have to remain silent while the doctor passed it off as natural. He had written to inform the bishop, of course, but whether the letter had reached him depended on the snow not being too deep for a horse and trap to get out of the village. Even the main roads could be impassable if it had drifted, and he might have to hold the funeral regardless.

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.