Page 17 of The Case of the Curate

To reach the driveway to the gates and the road into the village, she had to first walk back toward the house. She was torn as to what to do next—walk into town to find Rupert as she had originally intended, or ask some questions among the servants and guests to establish who had seen what? The latter was the work of the magistrate and his constables, of course, but she strongly suspected Lord Chadbon’s desire to keep the matter quiet would hamper such investigations.

Undeniably, it hampered Kate too. She was here to facilitate an alliance of disparate interests in support of Gilbert’s returning soldiers bill, which was to be presented in the House of Commons next spring. Chadbon was vital to these efforts, and to Gilbert’s rising career as a whole. Which was a consideration. Plus, it was a good bill that she honestly and wholeheartedly believed in. Which was not necessarily the case with other matters she had aided.

Against those facts, a young woman, little more than a girl, was dead, her life stolen from her by shocking violence. The perpetrator of that crime should not walk free just to make His Lordship’s life—or Kate’s—easier. Someone had to stand up for Dinah, not bury her in a cloud of silence.

However, she should at least give the authorities the chance before she barged in, stirring everything up and alienating Gilbert’s friends…

Having reached that decision with some difficulty—waiting and doing nothing had never sat easily with her—she noticed Lord Chadbon himself hurrying toward the side door into the house. He was dressed for shooting and still carried his fowling piece over his arm.

Chadbon rarely did or said anything without a reason, and she wondered if he had taken a shooting party out to create deeper bonds or gone alone in order to leave the various factions unhindered by his hostly presence.

Although Kate half expected him to avoid her—he had not been best pleased by her presence last night, after all—he actually paused and greeted her, waiting for her to catch up.

“Lady Ambrose, good morning. I trust you had a good night, despite all the unpleasantness?”

“Such a tragedy,” Kate murmured noncommittally. “Is there any news?”

Chadbon grimaced. “The inquest will be held this afternoon at one. I shall have to go and identify the girl.”

“This afternoon! That’s rather quick, is it not?”

“It is supposed to be within a day. Gets it over with. I hope to be home again by three. I’m pretty sure Nye will work with us. Our main trouble now is to stop Otteridge walking away just because Nye is involved.”

“It’s like nursery politics,” Kate said unguardedly.

Chadbon blinked at her, clearly taken aback, and she mentally kicked herself for not watching her tongue. She was too distracted. If she had offended him…

He let out a bark of laughter. “Never thought of it like that before, but dash it, you’re right. Ha! Nursery politics!”

Chapter Four

Kate was surprised to find that Chadleigh—always referred to by her hosts as “the village”—was, in fact, a small town with a busy market square. As she wandered around, she overheard a lot of gossip, scandalous and otherwise, but none of it was about Dinah, Chadbon Court, or inquests. Some of it was about the new curate—referred to disparagingly by some as “that boy they’ve sent to the vicar,” and by others as the charming new man whose sermons they could actually understand.

The idea of Rupert’s preaching any kind of sermon was so completely novel that Kate almost giggled.

Having a vague memory of an inquest several years ago—a nasty accident with a scythe on the home farm had proven fatal—being held at a local inn, Kate walked into the hostelry at the end of Chadleigh’s square. It was just before one o’clock. She could hear a lot of noise coming from the ale-fumed taproom, though none of it sounded terribly official. The coffee room, occupied by a few farmers and their families, was clearly not hosting an inquest either.

Perhaps it’s in a bigger town and I’ve missed it.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” asked a plump, cheerful woman, hurrying past with a tray of rather delicious-smelling food that made Kate’s tummy rumble in a most unladylike fashion.

“I’m not sure,” Kate replied. From instinct, she kept her voice low and discreet. “Is there an inquest held here today?”

“Private parlor at the end, ma’am,” the woman said, nodding to the back of the room, where there was a closed door.

This was odd. The whole point of using inns for inquests was their space, for they had to accommodate the curious public as well as witnesses, officials, and the corpse itself. Private parlors of country inns were not notoriously large.

Kate murmured her thanks and made her way toward the indicated door, which she opened without knocking—and immediately found herself in a press of people and chairs.

In fact, a row of chairs had been lined up almost against the coffee room door, as if this entrance had not been intended for use. Instead, another door opposite led outside to the inn’s yard. Between seemed to be chaos.

In the middle stood the coroner’s desk and chair. Behind that, the body of Dinah Fenn lay on two tables pushed together. She was covered to the neck by a sheet, which was at least some concession to dignity. However, even as the thought drifted through Kate’s mind, a group of about a dozen men—shopkeepers and tradesmen, by their appearance—began to file past the body while some functionary pulled back the sheet for them.

Presumably these men were the jury who, by law, had to view the body of the deceased—and in particular, Kate imagined, her fatal wound.

Kate sat by herself in the chair nearest the coffee room door. The jury took up their seats in a squashed huddle of two rows to one side of the coroner’s table. A fussy-looking little man in a dapper coat, with a balding head and long, dark side whiskers, took his place at the front desk. Presumably this was the coroner himself.

As everyone climbed over everyone else to take a cramped seat, Kate saw Lord Chadbon in the front row before the coroner. Dr. Paxton sat beside him, and yes, there was Rupert. She could only see the back of his head, for he didn’t turn. Was he staring at the poor corpse? He had known the girl, in whatever capacity, and had been undeniably rattled last night.