Page 79 of The Case of the Curate

Bancroft smiled tolerantly. “I could never make up my mind if it was a perk or a mere duty of the post. After all, I owe my living to His Lordship.”

“You must know some of his current guests quite well by now. Marcus Otteridege, for one.”

“Yes, I have met him several times.”

The inflection in his voice caught Rupert’s attention. “You don’t like him?” Which was rare. The vicar liked everyone.

“I have no reason to dislike him,” Bancroft said mildly. “Like Chadbon, he was very focused on matters that I could not affect, so he barely noticed me.”

“Whom did he notice?”

“Powerful political figures. And pretty women.” Bancroft smiled apologetically. “Merely straying eyes, you understand. Nothing scandalous that I ever saw. But his wife noticed.”

Rupert waited, holding his gaze, but the vicar was silent. “Sir, I need to know. It concerns Dinah Fenn and possible danger to others.”

Color seeped into Bancroft’s pale cheeks. “There is nothing I can accuse him of, either to his face or to you. I would not impugn a man’s reputation over a misunderstanding.”

“What misunderstanding?”

Bancroft sighed again. “Look, I shall tell you, but it goes no farther, Grande. My feeling is doubtless without reason—it stems only from bruising I once saw on his wife.”

Rupert’s breath caught. “You blame him?”

“I have no such evidence. There was a bruise on her temple, covered quite artfully by the styling of her hair, but close up it could still be seen. I heard her tell Lady Chadbon that she had foolishly walked into an open door while woolgathering. But I sat beside her at dinner, and when she reached for her shawl, her gown moved and I glimpsed another ugly mark on her shoulder. If she hit a door, it was with some force.”

“As if she was shoved, or struck into it?” Rupert said slowly. Men did beat their wives. It wasn’t even a crime. But it was violence against someone who could not fight back. Like Dinah.

Bancroft spread his hands. “I have no such proof, and to the world it is none of my business. Or yours. But I confess it did give me a distaste of the man.”

Distaste was one thing. Fear was another.

*

Kate, trying to balance urgent investigation with her own safety, went downstairs early for the predinner gathering in the salon, in the hope of encountering one of her chief suspects or someone who could shed light on their whereabouts. Andrew, the first footman, was at the salon door.

“Am I late?” she asked him, to ensure he noticed her.

“No, my lady, you’re first,” he replied, opening the door for her.

She took up position on the sofa by the window, from where she might see Rupert arriving, and drew a copy of the Ladies’ Magazine toward her. She had not long to wait.

Marcus Otteridge walked in, also alone, and this time Andrew left the door ajar.

Otteridge’s little eyes lit up at the sight of her. He even sped up and sat down next to her. “Lady Ambrose, just the person I wished to see. How are you after last night’s shocking incident?”

“Perfectly well, as you see. But you know we have agreed for the good of the party not to talk about it.”

“Not to anyone else,” Otteridge said, as though shocked. “But between us, it is different. I for one am delighted to see you well enough to come to dinner this evening.”

His smile lingered. Had she ever noticed before how lascivious his eyes were beneath their bushy brows?

“But then,” he continued, “you were not exactly unwell yesterday evening either. What were you doing outside at that time of night?”

She hadn’t planned on being the one answering the questions. “Taking the air, as I said. Even when it seems a good idea, one feels cooped up in one’s room for so long…”

“But you weren’t cooped up, were you, my dear? The rain had been off for half an hour, and yet you were soaked.”

Her stomach lurched but she forced herself to meet his gaze, eyebrows raised. She was hardly required to answer him and so she did not.