A Christmas Secret (14 page)

He would be here for Christmas—that much he was certain of. What could he say that was passionate and honest and caught the glory of what Christmas was truly about? It was God's greatest gift to the world, but how could he make them see that? There would be Yule logs and carols and bells, mulled wine, gifts, decorated trees, lights across the snow. They were the outer marks of joy. How could he make just as visible the inward ones?

He wanted Clarice to be proud of him; he wanted it with a hunger close to starvation. He must give her the gift she most wanted, too—finding the best in himself for both of them.

Of course he said nothing to her of what Sybil Towers had told him, and he found that a hardship. He would have liked her advice, but he never considered breaking the trust.

Instead, over luncheon, Clarice told him that Mrs. Wellbeloved had been in that morning, bringing yet more onions and another rock-hard cabbage, which with a strong wrist and a sharp knife she would be able to slice. Mrs. Wellbeloved was full of gossip about the poor vicar's death, and the fact that John Boscombe had had a terrible quarrel with him shortly before. The village was buzzing with the news, but no one had the faintest idea what the argument had been about.

“His marriage, or lack of it, I should think,” Dominic replied. Since it was Clarice who had discovered it, that was not a confidence between the two of them. “Poor man.”

“You sympathize with him?” Clarice said in surprise.

“Don't you?”

“I do with Genevieve, if she didn't know. Very little if she did,” Clarice responded.

He smiled. “If I had been married unhappily, and met you, I might have done the same.”

“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?

“You seem inexplicably angry at the thought, Sir Peter,” Dominic said gently. “It does not threaten either your inheritance or your title, and it is no more than a remote possibility. I told you, in case you yourself were in some danger. Your flash of temper makes one wonder if perhaps this same suggestion was the cause of your difference with the Reverend Wynter, and you did not forgive him for making it.”

Peter stared at him, and slowly the awful meaning of what he had said dawned on him. “God in heaven, man! Are you saying you think I murdered poor Wynter because he believed it was true my father begot this … this child? You can't!” He dragged in his breath, gulping, painfully, and then he started to laugh. It was a terrible sound, wrenched out of him with pain.

Dominic was appalled. He wanted to run away, leave this scene of naked emotion, but he must stay, find the truth, and then face it.

“Is that really absurd?” he said when Peter had gained some small measure of control.

“Yes! Yes, it is absurd!” Peter's voice rose to near hysteria. “My father could never have had an illegitimate child. Would to God he could have.”

The words made no sense at all. Yet in the small discrepancies in what Peter had said of his parents a tiny glimmer of light appeared. “Why would you want that?” Dominic asked.

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.”