Anne Perry - A Christmas Secret

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 vicar 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.

He asked after her day: how she was finding the house, and if the work was onerous. He knew she would say it was not, whatever the truth of it. He admired her for that, and was grateful, but it only increased his sense of guilt that he could not give her the standard of comfort she had been used to before they were married.

“Oh, very good,” she said wearily. “It’s a lovely house.” She drew in her breath to add something, then changed her mind. He knew what she had been going to say—that she wished they could stay there. It was far nicer than the grim accommodation they had in London. Of course Spindlewood and his wife had the vicarage. In the back of Dominic’s mind he was always aware of how callous he had been to his first wife in the long past. He had not thought of it as a betrayal at the time, but it had been, deeply and bitterly so. Perhaps if he had been loyal to her, with or without love, she would not have been murdered.