Anne Perry's Christmas Mysteries: Two Holiday Novels (19 page)

Looking at him, Clarice was suddenly aware of how deeply fond of the Reverend Wynter he must have been, and that perhaps he was more hurt by the rift between them than he admitted.

“You have no idea where else he goes?” she pressed. “I could at least write a letter; if he writes back, I shall know where to send the Bible. I must not risk losing it.”

“No!” He leaned forward. “You must keep it safely. Please, don’t risk it unless you are absolutely certain where he is. Family Bibles matter intensely. So many memories. Could you not be mistaken about this hotel?”

“No.” She had no doubt about it. She had been sorry and inconvenienced to find it changed herself. She told him of her experience. She did not mention that it had been the vicar’s personal Bible, not a family one.

A shadow flickered across his face with its delicate lines.

“I see. No, there seems to be no room for error. I’m sorry; I really don’t know where else he might have gone. I wish I could offer help.”

The branch of the tree burning in the grate settled a little, and a shower of sparks flew up the vast chimney. She looked around at the age and beauty of the room and wondered how many generations of Connaughts had sat here, hearing the stories of the village, helping, protecting, disciplining, governing, and probably using and taxing as well. Walls like these had seen England’s history unfolding since before the Spanish Armada had sailed in the time of Queen Elizabeth. Perhaps even Henry VIII had visited here with one of his six wives. Or Walsingham had sent out his spies. There would be a priest hole behind that fireplace for fugitive Catholics when they were hunted and burned. Which side had the Connaughts been on in the Civil War? Or the Bloodless Revolution?

Sir Peter was smiling at her, his eyes bright again in the firelight. “Would you like to see the house?” he asked. “It would be my pleasure to show you.”

“I’d love to,” she said sincerely.

He guided her through it all with a kind of gentle pride she found endearing. He did not boast except once, and then immediately apologized for it as though it had been a breach of good manners.

“You have a right to be proud,” she said honestly. “It is so beautiful, and obviously it has been loved over the centuries. Thank you for your generosity in showing me.”

He looked pleased, even a little self-conscious. “Are you sure you wish to walk home alone? It is now quite dark.”

“Oh, certainly,” she said with confidence. “It is only a mile or so.”

“Still, I would rather accompany you, at least as far as the village green. I would be happier.”

She did not argue. When she was within sight of the vicarage lights, which were already familiar to her, he bade her good night and turned back toward the manor. Clarice went another few yards, then saw the dark outline of a figure coming toward her, leaning into the wind and huddling a shawl around her. It was so small and walked with such tiny, hurried steps, it had to be a woman.

“Good evening,” Clarice said clearly, thinking the woman had not seen her and was in danger of bumping into her unless she moved off the path into the snow.

“Oh! My dear, you gave me a fright!” the woman exclaimed. “I was quite lost in my own thoughts. Since I don’t know you, you must be the new vicar’s wife.”

“Yes, I am. Clarice Corde.” Clarice held out her hand.

“How do you do,” the woman responded. Her voice was husky and a little cracked, but it must have been rich in her youth. “My name is Sybil Towers,” she went on, holding out a small hand in a woolen mitten. “Welcome to Cottisham. I am sure you will be happy here. We all love the Reverend Wynter, and we will make you comfortable, too.”

“Mrs. Towers,” Clarice said impulsively. “You don’t know where the Reverend Wynter went for his holiday, do you? I have found something he left behind, and I would very much like to send it after him, but the only address I have is not for this year.”

“No! I’m afraid I have no idea,” she responded. “In fact, I didn’t even know he was going away. I’m so sorry.”

It would be inexcusable to keep the old lady standing outside in the rising wind any longer, so Clarice dismissed it, wished her good night, and hurried on to the vicarage.

Dominic was at home and intensely relieved to see her—so much so that she found no suitable opportunity to tell him about the Bible, or the fact that she could find no one who knew the vicar’s holiday address.

T
he morning was milder, and thick wet snow blanketed everything. Even the air swirled in white flurries, blocking out the village green so that the houses at the farther side were all but invisible. It was a world of movement and shadows seen through a haze.

Dominic left to go visit the sick and the lonely, and Clarice began the necessary duties of housework. There was no point in thinking of doing laundry, beyond shirts and underclothing. Nothing else would dry.

She should air the vicar’s bedroom. Closed rooms, especially in this weather, could come to smell stale. She did not wish him to return to that stuffy, unoccupied feeling. The cat pattered around behind her, poking her nose into everything and giving her the uncomfortable suspicion that there could be mice here after all. Harry had gone back to sleep in front of the range in the kitchen, as if he was still sulking. He had been outside first thing with Dominic, but now he refused to wag his tail or in any other way respond.

The first thing she noticed in the bedroom—after opening the windows briefly, just to let the cold, sweet air circulate—was a stark drawing of bare trees in the snow. There was no color in it at all, and yet there was a grace to the lines that held her attention. She stared at it so long, she grew cold, then realized the window was still open. She shut it quickly and returned to the picture. It was another of the vicar’s own drawings. She had begun to recognize his style even before she read his signature in the corner.

She was glad the vicarage had been designed for a family, and was large enough that they had not needed to use this room. It belonged to the Reverend Wynter, and he should not have to move his belongings to make way for them. She looked around it with pleasure, amazed that she could feel such a liking for a man she had never met. People spoke so well of him, he was obviously a man of great compassion. But that might not be personal so much as part of his calling. It was the delicacy, the simple grace of his drawings, that showed his nature. He saw extraordinary beauty in a bare branch, the tiny twigs against the light, the strength of a trunk stripped of its summer glory, powerful in its nakedness.

She gazed around the walls at the other pictures. Each was different, and yet all had the same inner qualities. She wondered if he was busy now creating more. Was he out walking in the snow somewhere in East Anglia, selecting just the right scene under the wide Norfolk skies? Perhaps he would draw the bare coastline and the sea grasses, the wind-riven skies, clouds dragged out in long streamers above the line of the waves.

Reluctantly she made certain the windows were fastened securely and then went back downstairs. She was tidying the study when she came across a carefully sharpened soft-leaded pencil sitting on top of the chest of narrow drawers near the window. Her first thought was that Dominic had unintentionally sharpened one of the vicar’s pencils before realizing what it was.

She should put it away. Perhaps it belonged in one of the drawers. She opened the top one to see, and found a dozen more pencils there, all sharpened. There were also charcoals of various thickness, white pencils, erasers, and a sharp blade—in fact, all one needed for drawing. Were they extras?

She closed the drawer and opened the one below. It was full of unused blocks of watercolor artist’s paper. He must have a great deal if he had this much to leave behind! Without thinking she pulled open the cupboard door. With a sudden chill she saw an easel, neatly folded. How could he not have taken it with him? This, and his pencils, were the tools of his art!

Mystified, she went back up to his bedroom and shamelessly opened the wardrobe door. There were only four pairs of boots inside: smart black boots for Sundays; a pair of brown boots; a second pair of black boots, definitely older; and stout walking boots for country wear, up to the ankles, thick-soled such as one would choose on a day like this.

There were winter clothes hanging on the rail as well, including an extremely nice woolen overcoat—not city wear, more casual—with a collar to turn up against the worst weather. It was just the sort of coat a man would like for walking in the country or by the sea.

Why had he not taken it with him? And the boots? And for that matter, the stout walking stick leaning against the wall in the corner? To forget the Bible might be an oversight, even the pencils, or paper, but not the winter clothes as well! There was something wrong. He had left in haste, and not for pleasure as he had said. Was it some family emergency, or bereavement? Would he be gone until the situation, whatever it was, had been resolved? Had he a brother or sister in some kind of trouble? Possibly it was a sudden and serious illness?

When Dominic returned home, late and cold to the bone, she started to tell him, then realized he was not listening to her. He heard her words, but not their meaning. He was too deep in his own fear that he could not find something new and powerful to say to the people of this village for him to hear the anxiety within her. And it would be Sunday in two days, and his first sermon here.

“They are good people,” he said, standing in the sitting room with his back to the fire, which burned brightly, thawing the cold that chilled and numbed his flesh. “They know their scriptures at least as well as I do. The vicar has preached to them with passion and eloquence not only at Christmas but all through the year.” There was a shadow in his eyes, a tightness across his cheeks. “What can I say to them that will be anything more than an echo of what he has already said?” he asked her. “Any one of them could stand up in the pulpit and tell the Christmas story as well as I can. Clarice, what can I say to make it new?”

She saw the spark of fear in his eyes, the knowledge that he might not be equal to the task that mattered to him so much. This village was old, comfortable, and secure in its habits. It was not conscious of any hunger that needed filling, any ignorance or darkness waiting for light. The townspeople wanted to stay as they were and be reassured that all was well. Anyone could do that: pass and leave no mark at all, like wind over water.

She ached to be able to help him. She was seeing for the first time the need in him: not desire to do a job or fulfill a duty, but a hunger to succeed that would not let him rest or leave him free from pain if he failed.

“What’s the best thing about Christmas?” she asked, trying to strip away the trite, all the things that had already been said. “What does it really mean to us? What…what is it for? It’s not goodwill, a brief time of peace or generosity. It has to be more than that.”

“It’s the beginning of our faith,” he replied. “Christ coming into the world.” He said it as if it were obvious.

“I know.” She felt crushed. “But what for?” she insisted. “Why was everything different afterward?”

The fire was scorching him, and he stepped away from it. “I’m not exactly sure how to answer that,” he replied. “It sounds…it sounds too much like an academic answer, and that’s not what they need, Clarice. I need a spiritual answer, a joy in the soul.”

She could think of nothing better to add. She was failing him, and, feeling empty, she turned and went into the kitchen.

C
larice woke to find a white world, silent, deep in snow. The air was motionless, and when she opened the back door into the garden to let Harry out, the bitter cold of it was sharp in her lungs. She drew in her breath in amazement at the beauty of it. The old apple tree was laden like an extravagant blossom. Other trees, soaring upward, were naked, too thin to hold the snow, shining against an enamel sky.

But it was a dangerous beauty, a cold that paralyzed, a depth of snow that soaked heavy skirts and exhausted old or fragile limbs. The low winter sun was almost blinding.