Anne Perry - A Christmas Secret

Peter leaned forward, his face beaded in sweat, eyes dark. “You know, don’t you? Did Wynter leave something that you found? He swore to me he wouldn’t, but what is his word worth, eh? What is yours worth, Reverend?”

“Why do you want your father to have begotten an illegitimate child?” Dominic asked again, his voice perfectly steady now. He was still trying to untangle the confused threads in his mind. “Do you want this woman to be your sister? Do you know who she is? Did she kill Wynter?”

“I’ve no idea who killed Wynter, or why!” Peter said, forcing the words between his teeth. “And my father did not beget her. At least Sir Thomas Connaught didn’t. He was sterile. God knows who my father was. I don’t.”

Dominic was stunned. Was that why Peter was so defensive of his mother, the beautiful woman who had died tragically somewhere in the East? Had Thomas found out her infidelity, and killed her? No, that was impossible. If he knew he could not have fathered a child, then he would have killed his wife when he knew she was expecting, not after the child was born. It still made no sense. “He killed her?” he said, struggling for some kind of logic in it.

“You fool!” Peter shouted at him. Then he covered his face with his hands. “Of course he didn’t! He never even knew her. I was an orphan, one of thousands of children who live in the streets. I was good looking, intelligent. Sir Thomas found me stealing and lied to the police to save me. He had no children, and knew he never would have. No wife, either. He adopted me. I am quite legally and honorably his heir. But I am not of his blood. I am no more a Connaught of Cottisham Hall than you are. I am illegitimate, unwanted. I have no father and no mother that I remember. Either she died, or she gave me away. It hardly matters now. I don’t belong here. Wynter knew. That’s what we quarreled over. He wanted me to stop boasting about my heritage.” He lowered his hands slowly. “I hated him because he knew. But he was my friend, and I would never have harmed him, that I swear on the little honor I have left.”

Dominic spoke slowly, weighing each word. “Did the Reverend Wynter not tell you that it was the pride of blood that was wrong? A man is great, or petty, because of who he is, not who his father was. Sir Thomas Connaught gave you the opportunity to be his son and carry on the tradition of service that his father gave to him. If you have done so, then your actions have earned you the right to be here. The respect and love of people is earned; it cannot be bequeathed by anyone else.”

“You know your father!” Peter said with a raw edge of pain in his voice, almost of accusation. “You were part of him, whatever you did. That is a bond you cannot make with all the wishing in the world.”

“You have no idea whether I knew my father or he knew me,” Dominic said. “Actually I looked like him, so I reminded him of all that he disliked in himself.” The words were still hard to say. “He greatly preferred my brother, who was fair and mild-featured, like my mother, whom he adored.” He was surprised that he remembered it even now with a sense of exclusion and strange, inexplicable loss.

“I’m sorry,” Peter stammered. “My arrogance is monumental, isn’t it? As if I were the only one in the world who feels he does not belong in his own skin, his own life. Do you know who this woman is, the mother? Perhaps I could do something to help her. You could attend to it, discreetly.”

“It isn’t your responsibility,” Dominic pointed out.

“Haven’t you just been telling me that that is irrelevant?” Peter asked, smiling very faintly for the first time.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I have,” Dominic agreed. “You understand me better than I understand myself. By all means, help her. She has little in the way of possessions. Even sufficient fuel to keep her warm would be a great gift.”

“Consider it done. And the others in the village who are in any need. The estate has plenty of wood, and certainly no better use for it.”

“Thank you.” Dominic meant it profoundly. He smiled back. “Thank you,” he repeated.

W hile Dominic was at the manor house, Clarice took a lantern and went down into the cellar again. Though Mrs. Wellbeloved had swept the steps, Clarice knew which one had the splinter on it that had frayed the Reverend Wynter’s trouser leg, as well as where he must have landed at the bottom.

Carefully she continued on down the stairs, holding the lantern high. No one could come down here without a light of some sort, and a candle would be blown out by the draft from the hall above.

If he had tripped and fallen, he would have dropped the lantern and it would have broken. What had happened to it? Had someone swept up all the shards and hidden them? And what had they done with the metal frame? She should find out from Mrs. Wellbeloved if there was a lantern missing or not.

But whom would the Reverend Wynter go into the cellar with? What excuse had they given? To fetch coal for him, on the pretext that it was heavy? No it wasn’t, not very. Mrs. Wellbeloved normally did it herself. She was strong, but not like a man. And where was the coke scuttle to carry it in?

Whoever it was had dragged the Reverend Wynter’s body from the bottom of the steps across the floor and into the other cellar, leaving the marks in the coal dust. Why? They had tried to scuff them out, but hadn’t entirely succeeded. Why make them in the first place? He was an old man, light-boned, frail. Why not carry him?

Because the killer had not been strong enough to carry him. A weak man? Or a woman? Genevieve Boscombe? It was a sickening thought, but Genevieve had much to lose. A woman would do almost anything to protect her children. A bear, to protect her cubs, would kill indiscriminately.

She turned around slowly and started climbing back up again, glad of the light from the hallway at the top. She reached it and was facing Mrs. Paget.

“Sorry to startle you,” Mrs. Paget said with a smile. “I took the liberty of coming in. The door was unlocked; the Reverend Wynter always left it unlocked, too. And it’s bitter outside. That wind is cruel.”

“Yes, of course.” Clarice felt as if she should apologize for being less than welcoming. After all, in a sense the vicarage belonged to the whole village, and Mrs. Paget had obliquely reminded her of that. “Please come in. It’s warmer in the kitchen. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“That’s very kind of you,” Mrs. Paget said. “I brought you a bottle of elderflower wine. I thought it might be pleasant with your Christmas dinner. The vicar was very fond of it.” She held out a bottle with a red ribbon around its neck, the liquid in it shining clear, pale gold.

“How very kind of you,” Clarice said. She blew out the flame in the lantern and set it on the hall shelf, then took the bottle. She led the way into the kitchen and pushed the kettle over onto the hob to boil again. Thank goodness today she had cake. She must not get the reputation for having nothing to offer visitors.

Mrs. Paget made herself comfortable in one of the kitchen chairs. “I see you were down in the cellar again,” she remarked. “Not to get coal.” Her eyes wandered to the full coal and coke receptacles by the stove, then back to Clarice. “Hard for you that it happened right here.”

Clarice was taken aback by her frankness. “Yes.”

“I suppose you’re working out what happened?”

Should she deny it? That would be pointless. It was obviously what she had been doing, and Mrs. Paget knew it. That, too, was clear in her bright brown eyes.

“Trying to,” Clarice admitted.