Page 18 of The Case of the Curate

I don’t like death, he had said.

Who did? Even so, a memory surfaced from deep in the past—Rupert as a boy of about twelve, in the stables, denying he was weeping because his old pony had died. And then a few years later, he had vanished for a whole day after his favorite dog died. The search parities hadn’t found him till well after dark. Dinah was no pet, although Kate could not help wondering, again with that same twist of unease, exactly what their relationship had been.

Rupert had certainly not mended his rakish ways upon ordination. She knew that from her eldest sister Amelia, who seemed to find him much more amusing as an adult than as a boy.

But it wasn’t just Rupert that made her uneasy. There was something not right about this whole situation. The outside door was closed now. Kate suspected the body had been brought in quietly that way, along with the coroner and a jury discreetly rounded up no more than hour ago.

The coroner called the inquest to order and the members of the jury were hastily sworn in.

“So,” the coroner said briskly, “inquest into the death of Dina Fenn, spinster, housemaid, aged twenty years. Is her identity confirmed?”

Chadbon half rose. “Yes, sir, she is employed in my household at Chadborn Court.”

“And you are Lord Chadbon?” It was a formality. The coroner was already writing it down.

“I am.”

“Who found the deceased?” snapped the coroner.

“Mr. Grande,” Chadbon replied, “who was a guest in my house at the time.”

“Mr. Grande?” The corner swept the front row with his impatient gaze and Rupert rose to his feet. “State your name and occupation.”

“Rupert Grande, temporary curate at St. Swithin’s Church, Chadleigh.”

At least his voice was clear and steady, which was a small relief to Kate.

“How and when did you discover the deceased?” the coroner asked.

“I was leaving Chadbon Court by the orangery door when I saw her on the ground. It was probably around twenty minutes to eleven.”

“What did you do?”

“I went to find out what was wrong, saw that she had been stabbed, and called for help. There was no sign of life.”

“Yes, yes, the doctor will establish that,” the coroner said impatiently. “Sit down. Dr. Paxton!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Cause of death?”

“She had been stabbed through the heart with the blade before you.”

Awkwardly, the coroner passed the dagger to the cramped members of the jury, who handled it very gingerly. “Would death have been immediate? Did you find signs of any struggle?”

“I believe it would have been quick if not immediate,” Dr. Paxton replied. “And no, there were no signs of struggle on the body. No blood to speak of either, outwardly, at least. She bled internally.”

“So her killer would not have betrayed himself with bloody hands or clothes?”

“Not necessarily. There was very little on the victim’s clothing.”

The coroner shifted restlessly in his high-backed chair. “Could she not have called out for help?”

“I could not say, sir. The wound was severe.”

The coroner fixed him with a stern glare. “Was it self-inflicted?”

Kate held her breath. Was this how they would avoid the blame? Claim it as a suicide and let the poor girl be buried at the crossroads instead of on holy ground?