Light streamed through the stained-glass windows, reflecting bright colors on the vestibule floor of St. Bartholomew’s Church. The thorns of the dead flower pinched through her gloves. “Thank you so much for seeing me, Mr. Carthew.”
“Regretfully, I have a parish meeting in a moment, but I am happy to assist if I can.” The young curate tugged a pocket watch from his coat, as if her time was already waning. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you might tell me anything about this.” Georgina outstretched a dried yellow rose, the edges fringed in a dull pink. “I have been discovering them at my father’s grave…among other places.”
“I am certain they were probably placed in goodwill.”
“Yes, but—”
“Mr. Carthew?” A woman in a white mobcap leaned around a doorway in the vestibule. “Very sorry to disturb you, sir, but the two Surveyors of the Highways and Bishop Eldred are awaiting you in the nave.”
“I shall be with them presently.” Mr. Carthew sighed. “I am very sorry to end this so abruptly, Miss Whitmore. Perhaps we can discuss the matter another time?”
“That will not be necessary.” What a fool she must seem for questioning dead flowers in the first place. “I am sorry to have bothered you.”
“Inconsequentially, have you spoken with the sexton?”
“No.”
“Mr. Grubb is rather absent of mind, but if anyone would know answers to your questions, it would be him.” The curate nodded to the woman still waiting in the doorway. “Alfreda, do take Miss Whitmore to my study and then go in search of Mr. Grubb. And make certain he cleans his boots before traipsing mud throughout the entire church.”
“Yes, sir.”
With a last word of best wishes, the curate hurried away and Georgina was led to a small study with open windows. The scent of rain drifted in, and beyond the white-blossoming branches of a dogwood tree, Georgina had a view of the graveyard.
This entire matter was insanity. No one visited Papa but her. No one cared enough.
Not even Mamma.
Three years after his death, why would some elusive stranger leave flowers at the forgotten grave? Why slip into her town house bedchamber? Why leave evidence of his presence like some sort of message?
More than anything, she wanted to imagine it was nothing. A silly game, an inconsequential mistake. Perhaps she could have only—
He left the flowers in the library.A chill ran through her body, as she leaned closer to the window and breathed in the midmorning air. Everyone assumed Papa had died in bed.
No one knew about the rows of books in the flickering candlelight.
The shadow on the rug.
The overturned chair, the silhouette of his body dangling from the ceiling, with his neck twisted and his eyes void—
The study door whined open.
Georgina forced in a composing breath, squared her shoulders, and turned. “Mr. Grubb…” The words trailed as recognition slammed her in the chest.
Him.
The man from the graveyard.
Greasy black hair stuck to his stubbled cheeks, and crinkled lines spread from his eyes and mouth. His suit was black, expensive, but the silver buttons were tarnished and the fabric seemed damp and rumpled.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He pressed the door shut behind him. A sense of panic shook her, as his stricken eyes fell to the flower in her hand, then back to her face.
“You left this.” She tossed it to the floor between them. “You visited my father’s grave. You entered my chamber.”
The accusations did not affect him. He took another step closer, mouth open, as if the sight of her was baffling to him.
