Anne Perry's Christmas Mysteries: Two Holiday Novels (22 page)

S
unday morning was awful. Dominic was so anxious, he barely spoke to her as he ate breakfast before church. He picked up books and put them down again, found quotes, then discarded them. One minute he wanted to be daring, challenge people to new thought; the next to be gentle, to reassure them in all the old beliefs, comfort the wounds of loneliness and misunderstanding, and say nothing that might awaken troubling ideas or demand any change.

A dozen times Clarice drew in her breath to say that he had no time, in three short weeks, to stay within safe bounds. No one would listen; certainly no one would remember anything about it afterward.

She nearly said so. Then she saw his slender hand on the back of the chair, and realized that the knuckles were white. This was not the right time. But she was afraid there never would be a right time. The next sermon would be for Christmas. One pedestrian sermon now, safe and colorless, might be all it would take to lose the congregation’s sympathy, and their hope.

“Don’t quote,” she said suddenly. “Don’t use other people’s words. Whatever they are, they’ll have heard them before.”

“People like repetition,” he said with a bleak smile, his eyes dark with anxiety and the crushing weight of doubt Spindlewood had laid on him.

In that moment Clarice hated Spindlewood for what he had done with his mealy mouth and grudging, time-serving spirit. “Do you remember how terrible it was when Unity Bellwood was murdered, and how the police suspected all of us?” she said quietly.

“Of course!”

“Tell them what you said to me about courage then, and how it’s the one virtue without which all others may be lost,” she urged him. “You meant it! Say it to them.”

He did so, passionately, eloquently, without repeating himself. She had no idea whether the congregants were impressed or not. They spoke politely to him afterward, even with warmth, but there was no ease among them. She and Dominic walked home through the snow in silence.

O
n Monday, the wind sliced in from the east like a whetted knife. Straight after breakfast Dominic set out to make his calls.

Clarice started where she had traditionally been told lay the root of all evil, although actually she thought it was far more likely to find its roots in selfishness—and perhaps self-righteousness, which was not such a different thing when one thought about it. Still, money was easier to measure, and she had ready access to the vicar’s ledgers both from the church and from the household.

She had barely begun examining them when she was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Wellbeloved carrying two hard white cabbages and a string of very large onions. She looked extremely pleased with herself, stamping her feet and shedding snow everywhere.

“Said as it would be cold. Tree fell over with the weight of it an’ the road south’s blocked.” She announced it as a personal victory. “’Less you want to go all ’round Abingdon an’ the like. An’ there’s no saying you can get through that, either. Could all be closed.”

“Then we are very fortunate to have coal and food,” Clarice replied warmly.

“Onions.” Mrs. Wellbeloved put them on the table. Not that anyone could have mistaken them for something else.

“Thank you.” Clarice smiled at her. She already knew from the brief glance at the accounts she had taken that Mrs. Wellbeloved had done all the shopping for the vicar. She wanted to tell her of their discovery of the body in the cellar, but Fitzpatrick had asked them not to, and his implication had been clear enough. Still, Clarice felt guilty saying nothing. “That’s very kind of you,” she added.

Mrs. Wellbeloved smiled, her face pink. She began to take off her overcoat and prepare to scrub the floor.

It was half past eleven before Clarice could return to the ledger and read through it carefully. She had gone through it twice before she noticed the tiny anomalies. They were sometimes of a shilling or two, but more often just pennies. The mistakes seemed to be in the Reverend Wynter’s own money, which he accounted very carefully, as anyone on a church stipend had to. Clarice herself knew where every farthing went. The expression
poor as a church mouse
was not an idle one.

The church accounts, including the donations signed for by John Boscombe until a few months ago, and more recently by a man named William Frazer, were accurate, then inaccurate, then accurate again. The final sum was always as it should be.

Clarice could understand how people ended up chewing pencils. It made no sense. Why on earth would anyone steal tuppence, or even less? She was convinced it was not carelessness, because the same figures kept recurring in what she realized was a sequence. She placed them side by side, according to date, and then she saw the pattern. The few pence went missing from the church accounts, then from the Reverend Wynter’s personal account. Finally the church accounts were correct again. Someone was taking tiny amounts from the collection for the poor box, irregular and always very small. The Reverend Wynter was replacing them from his own money.

But why? Would it not have been the right thing to do to find out who was the thief—if that was not too serious a word for such petty amounts? Might it be a child? Perhaps he did not want to have such an accusation made if it could become uglier than a simple question of family discipline.

Whom could she ask? Perhaps William Frazer, who had taken over the bookkeeping, would know, or have an idea? He lived next to the village store, and even in this weather she could walk there quite easily. Of course she would not go across the green. One could barely see where the pond was, never mind avoid treading on the ice beneath the snow, and perhaps falling in.

But Frazer had no idea. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Corde,” he said earnestly as she sat in the small, crowded room by his parlor fire, still shivering from her journey in the snow. The wind seemed to find its way through even the thickest cloak, and a hat was useless to protect the neck or ears. Now she was almost singeing at the front, and her back was still cold from the draft behind her.

“Your records are immaculate,” she said as flatteringly as she could. “At the end of the day the money is always correct, but somewhere along the way a few pennies disappear, and then turn up again. It looks as if the Reverend Wynter made up the difference himself.”

Frazer looked startled, his thin, bony face pale with anxiety. “Why on earth would he do such a thing?” he demanded. “John Boscombe never said anything to me, and he’s as honest as the day. Ask anyone. If there’d been any irregularities, he’d have told me.”

“Perhaps if the Reverend Wynter knew who it was, he might have asked Mr. Boscombe not to say anything,” she suggested, puzzled herself.

“Why would he do that?” Frazer’s voice was sharp, his big hands were clenched in his lap. “More like the old gentleman lost a few pence here and there.” He nodded. “Can happen to anyone. Got the wrong change by mistake, p’raps. Or dropped it in the street and couldn’t find it. Done that myself. Only pennies, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry about it. Daresay you’ll keep better books yourself, being younger and seeing a good bit clearer. Should have had spectacles, maybe.”

“Perhaps.” But she did not agree. She thanked him and went out into the bitter wind to walk all the way to John Boscombe’s house. In the summer there was a shortcut through the woods, when the stream was low and the stepping-stones clear. But the current was strong and deep now, and would pull a person under its dark surface like greedy hands.

It was a long walk, but she found the man at home, kept from his work in the fields by the smothering snow.

“Come in, come in!” he said warmly as he almost pulled her into the hallway and slammed the door against the wind behind her. “What a day! It’s going to be a hard Christmas if it goes on like this. You must be frozen. Let’s dust the snow off you before it thaws and gets you wet.” He suited the action to the word without waiting for her to agree, sending snow flying all over the hallway. Fortunately the floor was polished stone, so it would mop up well enough. “Come into the kitchen,” he invited, satisfied with his work and turning to lead the way. “Have some soup. Always keep a stockpot on the simmer this time of year. The children are out playing. They’ve built a snowman bigger than I am. Genny! New vicar’s wife is here!”

Genevieve Boscombe stood in the middle of the kitchen with her hands in a big bowl of flour and pastry. She was smiling, but she did not make any move to stop what she was doing. “Welcome,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll not shake your hand or I’ll have you covered. John’ll get you a dish of soup. It’s just barley and bones, but it’s hot.” There was a faint flush of defiance in her cheeks, from more than just the exertion of rolling the pastry.

One was not defensive unless one was vulnerable. Clarice knew that from experience. She was conscious of her own clumsiness, where her sisters and her mother had been graceful. The comparison, even made in what was intended as humor, had sometimes hurt her sharply. Once or twice when she had fancied herself in love, she had felt it even more.

She smiled at Mrs. Boscombe, deliberately avoiding looking around the kitchen, though she had noticed that the good linen sheets over the airing rail had been carefully cut down the worn-out middle then turned to be joined at the sides—to give them longer life. The china on the dresser was good, but a few pieces were chipped, one or two even broken and glued very carefully together. They had had money and were now making do and mending. Even Genevieve’s dress indicated the same thing. It was of good quality but had been up-to-date ten years ago.

“Thank you. I would like that very much.” She thought of adding something about barley being very light and pleasing, and decided not to; it would so easily sound patronizing. “Actually I called because I hoped Mr. Boscombe might be able to help me with a little of the church bookkeeping,” she said hastily. “I do so much wish to be accurate. I tried Mr. Frazer, but he was unable to offer any assistance.”

“What is the difficulty, Mrs. Corde?” Boscombe said with concern.

Boscombe served the barley soup into a blue-and-white bowl and set it on the table in front of Clarice, who thanked him. Suddenly she realized how difficult it was to explain her problem without lying, at least by implication.

Boscombe was waiting, eyes wide.

She must speak. “I…I was going through the Reverend Wynter’s account books and I found certain…”

He was staring at her, something in his look darkening.

She could think of nothing to excuse what she had done, except the truth. Fitzpatrick had no authority to order her silence. Everyone would have to know at some time, perhaps even by tomorrow. She plunged in. “The Reverend Wynter is dead,” she said very quietly, sadness overwhelming her. “We found his body quite by chance…in the second cellar. I went for coal and the cat followed me down. I…” She looked at him and saw the shock in his face, followed immediately by a terrible regret. He turned to look at Genevieve, then back at Clarice.

“I’m so sorry,” he said a little huskily. “What happened? I…I hadn’t heard.”

“No one has,” she said quietly. “Dr. Fitzpatrick asked us not to tell anyone until the bishop has been informed, but…” This was the difficult part. “But we disagree upon what happened. However, I would be grateful if you would not let people know that I told you, at least not yet.”

“Of course not,” he agreed. “That is why you were going through the account books?” He still seemed puzzled, but there was an inexplicable sense of relief in him, as if this wasn’t what he had feared.

“Yes.” She knew she had not yet said enough for him to understand. It was unavoidable now. “You see…” What she had planned sounded ridiculous.

“Yes?”

Genevieve also had stopped her work and was listening.

Clarice felt the heat burn up her face. “You see, I don’t believe he died by accident,” she said. She hated the sound of her voice. It was wobbly and absurd. She cleared her throat. “I think someone hit him. He had injuries both on his face and on the back of his head. They may not have meant to kill him, but…” She was telling them too much. “…but there was someone else there, and they didn’t tell anyone.” She turned from Boscombe to Genevieve. “He was lying all by himself in the second cellar, but he had no lantern,” she went on. “Who’d go into a cellar without a lantern?”