“Did she need much guidance?”
“She never came to me, no.”
“And Miss Risley?”
“I knew her quite well. We were friends. And of course she was betrothed to my curate, Caleb Rowland.”
“Were they happy? Any arguments?” He pushed with all the relentless obstinacy of a donkey.
“Well, I…I’m sure I don’t…” The vicar spluttered, his brows almost lifting to his hairline.
“Where were you before this living, Vicar? I believe you came on a recommendation?”
“I worked as a missionary, but after my wife died, I found I needed to return to the peaceful English countryside.”
“How did your wife die?” He saw the man’s fist clench hard.
“She died abroad, of fever. Almost thirteen years ago.”
“My condolences.”
The vicar nodded, his face rigid.
Lucas took out his pocket watch and flipped open the silver case. “Does the curate live here in the vicarage?” he asked, releasing his prey. He knew the answer to the question, but he had already bludgeoned enough. Besides, he’d been to hell once; he didn’t want to go back in the afterlife.
“No. There is a cottage in the village set aside for the curate.”
“Good. I’ll head there next. We will speak further, no doubt.”
“You didn’t like him,” Rosalind stated, matter-of-fact. So much for his gentle manner with the Risleys; she’d almost felt sorry for the vicar.
Almost, but not quite.
Once inside the carriage, Lucas removed his hat and ruffled fingers through his hair. “Hmm. Don’t like people that always blame gypsies: they saved my life once. Don’t like people calling women lambs and don’t like the way he looked at you.”
Rosalind saw the maid bite her lip and feign disinterest.
“I cannot disagree with you. I have little time for him either.”
“Why? He’s handsome, attentive and has a secure income.”
“Goodness, you make him sound like a prospective spouse. I presume you attend church?”
He nodded absently. Lucas always found it restful: the dark silence of a church, the coolness on his face, even on a hot summer’s day and the breezy tone of Vicar Daniels.
“Well, we shall see on Sunday if you still think he is such a catch. Why did you ask about his wife?”
“Maybe he hates women. Maybe his wife was unfaithful. Maybe he’s the killer?”
The maid gasped, and Rosalind sent Lucas a quelling look.
“Are you saying the vicar is a suspect?”
“Everyone is a suspect. You never know what people are hiding, omitting, or just plain lying about.”
Rosalind sat back in the seat, hoping the dark interior of the carriage hid her eyes. She was doing all three. “Am I a suspect? Have you a list?”
She watched Lucas’s eyes travel from the brim of her bright-blue bonnet with its jade-green feather, past her cinnamon day dress, and then over her open red pelisse with its fur trim and gold frogging.
