Page 80 of The Curse of Penryth Hall
Gilbert?Of all the names for a false husband. I wouldn’t marry a Gilbert any more than a Humbert. Or Humphry or Jeremiah. Not that I was inclined to wed at all, nor was I certain whether the curate believed me to be this wretchedly unlucky widow, but in the event he did, I dabbed at my eyes dutifully for poor dead Gilbert. God rest his soul.
I cast a surreptitious glance to the curate beneath my lace-edged handkerchief. The young man was clearly affected by the tale. Cheeks pink with rage on my… her… someone’s behalf. “Oh, that is abominable of them.” The curate’s frown deepened. He offered an arm to Mr. Owen, who stood slowly with a stooped stance. “Come. Let me take you to his study, perhaps you can find what you need there and compose yourself. It is a terrible burden for a father to bear. I’m sure Vicar would agree were he here.”
Mr. Owen’s damp eyes blinked away his crocodile tears, and he allowed the young man to lead him through the house. His step enfeebled and unsteady as they went into a dark paneled room. Books stacked high on the walls. Spines in exacting lines, not a one taller or shorter. With gradual gradations in shade. The man who organized these was clearly a monster. Who else would be as exacting? My own shelves were stacked whimsically based upon whatever mood struck. Horizontal, vertical. Sorted by interest rather than topic. Truth be told it was a wonder I found anything at all back home. And me a bookseller! A grave failing, indeed.
It wasn’t until the door closed and the curate’s footsteps retreated down the hall that I finally spoke. “All right… where to first?”
Mr. Owen went to the desk, trying the drawer. Locked. “You’re pale, Ruby. Sit, use your picks, and I’ll check the shelves.”
I made my way across the room, pulled the rolled parcel from my crimson handbag, and selected my tool of choice.
“We’re looking for December 1892, possibly January 1893,” I said softly. “For the baptism of a Chenowyth child. November possibly if he died. But my guess is he lived. Is still alive, perhaps even somewhere in the village.” My voice was scarcely over a whisper as I stooped down in front of the drawer and set to work on the lock. There were only a handful of men the right age, not a one of them was likely to be the long-lost heir.
Mr. Owen went to the bookshelf, his hand running skillfully over the titles, as he skimmed them, lips moving as he read each one. Within seconds I managed to unlock the drawer and began carefully perusing its contents. Paper. Pen. Some coins. Nothing terribly incriminating. I turned over a small enameled snuffbox in my hand and popped it open. Empty. My headswam and I paused, closing my eyes for a moment to right myself.
Mr. Owen on the other hand appeared to have had success. He lumbered over to me, setting a large book down on the desk. It landed with a thump, rustling the papers, and I cast a worried glance to the door before his dark eyes met mine. He appeared years younger now, with a vitality he hadn’t possessed back in Exeter, and I had a suspicion it was the adventure that had brought on this effervescence.
“I found the baby.”
Greedily I grabbed the book from him, skimming down the baptismal record.
Blackwells, Burns, Carson, Cartwright… my finger ran down the page until I landed on it.
George Chenowyth b. Nov. 12, 1892. To Sir Joseph Chenowyth Bt and Lady Elizabeth Chenowyth.
I looked up at Mr. Owen.
“You don’t suppose. This George is…”George Martin.
“There are no coincidences, my girl, I taught you that. Right age. Right village.”
I ran my tongue over my teeth going back over what I knew thus far. Both Joseph Chenowyth and his wife were killed by the curse. But no one.No one—had mentioned the existence of a child. Surely Mrs. Penrose would have known if there were a baby.
Well, that certainly complicated matters. Sir Edward had every reason to kill George. Not only had he stolen his wife and placed a cuckoo in his nest, he was the legitimate heir to the baronetcy. It also made it quite clear, at least to me, that the vicar was the blackmailer. But that still didn’t explain who killed Edward, or why? It would suit the vicar to leave Edwardalive and continue his tidy little income stream. There had to be something I was missing, another piece that hadn’t quite fallen into place. I pinched the bridge of my nose, thinking, when I heard voices from the hall.
Both Mr. Owen and I froze in place.
“I’ve only come to pick up a few items. I have an appointment in town, which should take some time.” The vicar had returned. This was bad. Very bad. I looked to Mr. Owen and scrambled to my feet. We had to get out of here, and it certainly wasn’t going to be by the same means we entered.
The vicar wasn’t going to look too kindly on us snooping around his office. I should have thought this out more carefully. What a muddle. I hurried to the door and slid the lock into the latch.
Mr. Owen raised his white eyebrows in confusion before quickly understanding my plan—bad as it was. He hurried to the window and threw open the sash, climbing out first and offering me a hand.
I scrambled out the window after him, sliding the sash back closed. The vicar would piece together what we’d done, but hopefully by then we would be better prepared to deal with him. Mr. Owen and I hurried through the shadowed churchyard, past the tilting gravestones, into the woods. The same wood where the boys had met the wraith earlier in the week. It seemed so long ago. A lifetime even.
Out of breath from the excitement I paused, leaning against a tree, and shut my eyes tight, trying to catch my breath despite the stitch in my side.
“I told you, you should have stayed in bed,” he chided. With his forefinger he slid his wire-rimmed spectacles up his nose. The man baffled me. Of all the things,thatwas the first thing he had to say to me.
I opened my eyes long enough to glare at him.
“You aren’t well, Ruby. You should rest.”
There was no time to rest. We were close to the killer. I felt it. But I needed help. “We need to find Ruan, see what he makes of all this.” And I hoped… hoped between the two of us we could make it clear, because at this point, hope was all I had left and I was running short on the stuff.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVEThe Final Piece
WALKINGfar slower than I would like, Mr. Owen and I left the village and headed for Nellie Smythe’s cottage in hopes that Ruan was still there. Perhaps it was the aftereffects of my near-death experience slowing my thoughts, but I could not figure out what the two dead baronets, George Martin, Nellie Smythe, and I had in common.
