Page 76 of The Case of the Curate

“Was out visiting meself,” came the response, which Rupert suspected meant he had been out poaching. Hence the cooked-meat smell.

Rupert merely smiled and continued his way to the door.

“Heard a maidservant at the court collapsed,” the daughter said, bolting to open the door for him, her eyes avid for gossip.

“I heard that too,” Rupert said.

“Magistrate was there.”

“Was he?” Rupert asked without obvious interest. “I expect a lot of people were out and about that evening. It was lovely and bright.”

“It’s the dark nights you need to watch for,” young Grigsby said ominously.

“Like last night.”

“Someone was poaching on His Lordship’s land.”

Someone who was not a Grigsby, judging by the self-righteousness of young Grigsby’s voice.

“What makes you say that?” Rupert asked.

“Heard a shot, didn’t I? Nearer the house than a sensible poacher would go.”

“Who would be that daft?” Rupert wondered.

“Couldn’t see, could I?”

It had been a faint hope, and Rupert let it go as he departed.

*

It was teatime before he returned to the vicarage, but although he hoped he had spread a bit of comfort, he hadn’t learned a great deal more, except that the Gibb family were despised by most of the community for their origins, though some grudgingly allowed that Miss Gibb, who was to marry the squire, was kind enough. Despite the fact that a Carver might have been expected to do better for himself.

It had been a disturbing few days, and Rupert was undeniably tired as he joined Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft in their drawing room for tea. Had it not been for his sense of urgency over Kate’s safety, he might have sought his bed. As it was, it had struck him that Bancroft might be a good source of general information about some of the people concerned in Dinah’s death. Kate had had the same idea, though perhaps they now had a better idea of questions to ask.

First, however, he had to negotiate the hostility of the vicar’s wife, who sniffed audibly at his polite greeting and looked him up and down with increasing outrage.

“You’re still here, then. I suppose you’ve thought better of leaving the vicar in the lurch.”

Rupert smiled winningly. “I would never willingly leave Mr. Bancroft in such a state. I am very glad to be back.”

“The bishop is not pleased,” she intoned.

So much for Chadbon’s discretion, Rupert thought sardonically. No one thought of the vicar’s wife blabbing about his absence to the bishop, who might have blabbed in turn to anyone. Thank the Lord he wasn’t acquainted with Winster.

“I’ll write to the bishop,” Rupert said.

“Let the boy sit down, Barbara,” the vicar said in his mild way, and his wife waved somewhat irritably toward a chair.

Rupert sat, and she poured him a cup of tea, which he rose again to take from her.

“Is this considered suitable dress in the Church these days?” she asked acidly.

“Why not?” Bancroft said. “I daresay you’re all the crack, eh, Grande?”

Rupert grinned. “I doubt it, sir. My other clothes seemed to have suffered in my travels. Mrs. Dale is taking care of them for me.”

“She’s taking care of some vagrant, too,” Mrs. Bancroft accused.