“A Mrs. Catherine Currey?” Richard added.
“Catherine Currey,” Mrs. Moorshead repeated, pressing her eyes closed only to open them so suddenly, Richard’s heart jumped and collective gasps echoed in the parlor.
“I remember now. It was the oddest thing, but as the rector, my husband’s duties called on him to sit on the magistrate’s bench besides seeing to the births and deaths within our parish. He was called to the magistrate, let me see … it must have been a week or so after Nicholas showed up in a basket. Our own Baby Moses, as I have fondly referred to him over the years, although my husband preferred to think of him as Jonah. He was a faithful prophet who suffered a moment of weakness…”
Richard hated to force the elderly woman’s conversation to the topic when she clearly wished to reminisce, but if his cousins were to have any peace, they needed to get to the bottom of theunsettled affair. “You said it was odd about the magistrate and Mrs. Currey?” he prompted her.
“Yes, the strangest thing. Mrs. Currey was the only traveler in the midday post coach. It was scheduled to be full—I remember, my husband checked that detail—but the other travelers never claimed their seats. She was traveling alone,” she repeated, her voice softening the way it did when one must sharpen a memory. “Not too strange for a woman of her age and profession, but she carried no reticule. Had my husband not inquired at the ticket office, he never would have learned her name from the register. And, even then, he would not have known to pick that name from the other travelers who were supposed to be in the carriage. We never could find any of them to ask why they had changed their plans at the last minute. I supposed they were so relieved not to have been in the carriage when it tumbled down the embankment, they praised the Lord for saving their souls and lived better for it.”
A carriage accident? With a lone traveler?
“It is strange your husband and the magistrate could not find even one person to speak to,” Darcy commented, echoing Richard’s sentiments.
“It made it more difficult to identify Mrs. Currey, that is certain. I only guessed that was her name because she had a CC stitched on the handkerchief in her pocket.”
“That was clever of you,” Miss Rothschild said.
“Not clever enough to find her family. I put anadvertisement in several papers, but after a week had passed, we had little choice but to bury her in the common graveyard.” She looked down at her hands and sighed. “It pained me to lay her to rest without so much as one friend to grieve her loss. It was not until another week had passed that I received word from her employer. She was greatly agitated. Her nurse had disappeared, and she feared the worst. I showed her Mrs. Currey’s handkerchief, shawl, and bonnet.” She looked up sheepishly. “I had held on to them in the hopes of such a meeting. Really, the shawl was plain gray wool, nothing spectacular or else I would have buried it with her.”
Richard nodded at her. “You do not need to explain yourself, Mrs. Moorshead, when you and your husband had done more for an unknown deceased than many do for their living relatives.”
“A sad commentary on our society, but true, nonetheless, Colonel. I imagine you have seen more than your fair share of the darker side of humanity. As a rector’s wife, I have learned that the best way to manage the injustice and disappointment is to actively look for the good. And in Mrs. Currey’s case, I found it in her employer. She recognized the items I had saved immediately. She arranged for a proper, engraved headstone. There was no detail too small for her attention. You can see the gravestone yourself, if you wish. I prune the weeds away and put fresh flowers on the grave when I can. But I only have so manyflowers, and there are so many neglected graves…” Her gaze settled on the flowers she had picked for Miss Rothschild, and Richard imagined she would pluck more beautiful blooms from her garden to take to the cemetery as soon as her guests had departed.
“Do you remember the employer’s name?” he prodded, helping her along when her brow furrowed. “Perhaps a Mrs. Finchley?”
Miss Rothschild leaned forward at the mention of the midwife’s name.
Mrs. Moorshead grinned. “Yes! That was her name. She was deeply aggrieved, them being old friends besides working together. You know, it is strange that you ask me about the two women. I have not thought about them these past twenty years … yes, since the last time someone else asked me about them.”
Richard practically felt his ears perk, but Nick beat him to the question. “Someone else asked about her? Who? When?”
“Well, like I said, it was about twenty years ago. She was a young woman with sharp features, pristine, very nice. She said she was a nurse, and she looked like one. You know, the sort who reminds you to straighten your apron and pat down your hair.”
Miss Rothschild’s posture had straightened even more. If she leaned forward any more, she would topple over like a stiff board. “What was her name?” she asked, the strain in her tone increasing the tension in the room.
Mrs. Moorshead twisted her hands. “Oh dear, I seem to have caused some upset.”
Miss Rothschild forced a smile. “It is only that the woman you described sounds familiar to a description I heard recently. Do you remember her name?” She bit her lips together, and Richard had to bite his to keep from chuckling when he saw her knee bob up and down impatiently.
“Well, as it happens, I do,” Mrs. Moorshead said. “I remember thinking that someone so clean and particular ought to be named Mrs. White, not Mrs. Brown.”
Miss Rothschild leaned back in her chair, chin up, eyes flashing. “Mrs. Brown was Mrs. Finchley’s nurse.”
First, Mrs. Currey. Then, Mrs. Brown. “Have you spoken with Mrs. Brown?” Richard asked Miss Rothschild.
She scowled rather prettily. “She died five years ago. Of natural causes … or so they say.”
“You suspect she was … helped along?” asked Darcy.
Perhaps someone in Mrs. Finchley’s employ? Richard could not imagine the kindly woman harming anybody.
“I hardly know what to think. Mrs. Brown was of a sturdy constitution, never sick a day in her life, according to my other sources, and yet she supposedly died of a weak heart. The last lady I talked to mentioned you, Mrs. Moorshead, which is why I am here. She said that Mrs. Brown had traveled to Devon where she apparently concluded somebusiness which allowed her to live more comfortably. I came here in the hope of learning more.”
Mrs. Moorshead reached over the table to place her hand on top of Miss Rothschild’s. “I am sorry I know nothing of any business she might have done here. I only spoke with her once. I have told you everything I know.”
Miss Rothschild turned her palm, lifting the elderly woman’s hand to her cheek and kissing it. “But it has been significant. Thanks to you, we have learned there is a connection between Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Currey of which we were previously unaware.”
Richard wanted to ask what she meant, to see if she had the same suspicions he did, but the floor creaked outside the parlor and another woman appeared in the doorway. “The reverend is agitated, Madam.”
