Page 79 of The Curse of Penryth Hall
Joseph Chenowyth had no heirs. None that were acknowledged. None known.
It could have been a servant’s child.What had Tamsyn said? That George told her that Edward wasn’t the heir. What if George was right andthatwas what the vicar knew and was blackmailing Edward over? A baronetcy—even an impoverished one—might be worth killing someone for. My breath trembled in my chest. Surely an aftereffect of my illness.
Look to the heir, Pellar. Look to the heir. The woman at the crossroads had given us the answer and it had nothing to do with Jori. There was something else—someone else—at play here.
Slowly I stood, testing my unsteady legs on the cool wooden floor. I stretched for a moment, bracing a hand on the bedpost to keep myself from toppling over.
He glanced at me over the rims of his spectacles. “Dare I risk telling you that you should stay abed for at least a fortnight until we are certain you’ve recovered?”
“You might. But you know good and well I never listen.”
He gave me a slightly worried smile. “Don’t overtax yourself or else I will never hear the end of it. And drink water. No alcohol for a month.”
I wasn’t about to argue on that score. My stomach, while steady at the moment, felt a bit like someone had run it through a wringer and stuffed it back inside my belly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Where are you headed, then?”
“To the vicarage.”
“Are you mad, Ruby?”
Most certainly. “I have to go through the parish register. The births, deaths, marriages. The answer is there. I’m convinced of it.” I bit my lower lip for a moment, weighing the thought.
His eyes widened and he reached out to steady me, but I waved him off. “I’m fine.”
“Well, as I don’t have any prayer of making you remain here, absent tying you to the bed, I suppose I’ll tell you to go with God then.”
I grinned at him. If my supposition was correct, God had nothing to do with any of this.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOURGodless Men
ISAIAHBishop was an appropriate name for a curate. I studied the reason for the vicar’s most recent trip to London, and couldn’t say I was terribly impressed with the man before me, though a holier, more brimstone-looking fellow, I’d never met in all my years. We sat in the cramped snug of the vicarage, he, Mr. Owen, and myself. While I hadn’t intended to rope the old man into my visit this morning, I was rather glad he’d insisted on coming along.
Mr. Bishop wore a pinched expression as he looked down his aquiline nose at Mr. Owen. “Why, no, Reverend Fortescue is out for the day. I’m afraid I don’t know when he’ll be returning.”
The vicar’s absence might provide just the chance we needed to look through the register as I doubted he’d allow me within a mile of the thing if he were here.
“A shame. A terrible shame as I’ve come all this way to speak with him,” Mr. Owen said with a sad, low shake of his head. He paused before looking up at the curate. “But perhaps you could help me in his place.”
Sometimes the ease with which Mr. Owen obfuscated the truth frightened me. But today was not one of those times.I kept my face as emotionless as possible, a shockingly easy feat as I was bone-tired. Perhaps Dr. Heinrich was right and I should have tied myself to the bed and slept for a month, but then how were we to find Sir Edward’s killer, especially as Ruan was now distracted with Nellie’s recovery?
“Oh, how unfortunate. Are you in town long? I am certain he’ll be available tomorrow. Perhaps even later this evening.”
Mr. Owen frowned deeply. “No, you see, I’ve been ill since I’ve arrived and I must be back to Exeter in the morning. But as you are the new curate, perhaps you can aid me with this?”
Mr. Bishop leaned forward, arms resting on his bony knees. “Of course, my dear sir. Though I don’t know how much assistance I can provide as I just arrived two days ago.”
“So soon? And with all the dark business going on in Lothlel Green. Oh, good heavens, lad.” Mr. Owen summoned an overwrought expression and sighed. “This is a great deal of pressure on your young shoulders then. But you look like the sort of fellow to rise to the occasion. Why, this tragedy might be the making of you, Mr. Bishop!”
The young curate preened at the compliment, and I found myself remembering why I adored Mr. Owen as much as I did. Wily old thing.
“I was hoping to see the parish registry, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Suspicion instantly clouded Mr. Bishop’s features as he leaned ever more forward, precarious on the edge of his chair. “What could you possibly need with the registry? Vicar is very particular about who can see it.”
Interesting.
Mr. Owen’s eyes dropped to the floor between them, giving him the distinct appearance of a forlorn hound. “You see, it’s my poor daughter. She married in this village some years ago,before the war, you see.” Mr. Owen took this moment to sniffle loudly. The cad. He dabbed at his eye, and for half a second I wondered if he was unwell, except I knew good and well he wasn’t. “You see, her husband was killed in Gallipoli…”Yes, yes of course he was… Just as the old man was in possession of about seven great-aunts.He never even had a daughter, only sons, all of whom were killed during the war—though not a one at Gallipoli. The Marne, Jutland, and his youngest on a hospital ship on the way back home. Yet the old man took in a haggard breath and continued his sorry tale. “And the War Office. Bloody fools—pardon me, my lad—but they won’t give her his pension without proof that they were legally wed. Doubting my girl’s honor.” His voice grew louder and more rattled with every word. “Can you believe the audacity of those popinjays? Questioning my sweet darling in her moment of need and grief? What good does poor Gilbert’s pension do them, I ask you!”
