Page 91 of The Case of the Curate

As though he heard her thought, he shifted in his chair and gulped his brandy. “Sophie is a loyal sister,” he pronounced. But there was a hint of desperation in his certainty.

She rose to her feet. “Thank you, Sir Colin. Goodnight.”

As she walked across the room, he made no effort to stop her. Her questions had effectively dampened his ardor.

You were right, Rupert. You were right…

*

Sophie Nye entered her bedchamber with some relief. This was the last night she and Colin would have to spend here, and she was very much looking forward to shaking the dust—though more especially the mud—of Chadbon Court from her shoes.

She paused in the darkness, sniffing the air. She could smell brandy.

Colin must have been in here. At least if he wanted her help, he was not chasing Kate Ambrose. She went to the connecting door and found it locked. Whatever he had wanted, he had either found it or decided it was unimportant.

She sighed and lit the lamp and some candles from the one she carried. So difficult to decide what was important… Perhaps Lady Ambrose’s questions weren’t as significant as she’d imagined last night. But the woman had been making a shocking fuss about the dead girl when even their hosts were calling the incident a collapse. Sophie had overheard Lady Ambrose asking all sorts of questions, of the housekeeper and servants as well as of the guests. To say nothing about all her questions regarding who had left the drawing room and when. Sophie had made up some of her answers, for she had been away a long time herself, doing what had to be done. Shooting Lady Ambrose had seemed most sensible last night.

From the drawing room window, Sophie had watched her come home across the fields and lanes in the rain, when she was supposed to be too ill to come down for dinner. The girl had clearly been up to something. That lane led to the magistrate’s house.

But perhaps it was just as well Sophie had failed in last night’s attempt. Perhaps she had frightened the girl enough to make her stop. Should she make sure Lady Ambrose remained silent? Or take a chance?

Decisions, decisions…

Should she pack tonight? Or wait for Lady Chadbon’s servants to do it for her? She had hidden her muddy shoes in sudden fear, but who would actually care? No one suspected poor old Sophie Nye, who was almost invisible—even to her own brother, who would be utterly lost without her.

She sat down on the bed to think, weighing her options with arguments for and against.

Quite suddenly, she became aware of a sound in the passage, at her very door. She stared at it, but the handle never moved and the noise was quite different from someone trying the lock. And she had locked it. She always did.

No, the sound came from the polished wooden floor! A paper now lay there, pushed under the door.

Sophie sprang up and padded across the rug to pick it up—a folded note with her name on it in a ladylike hand. Hastily, she unlocked the door and peered out.

The passage was empty, though she could hear voices in the distance. No one moved.

She closed and locked the door again, then unfolded the paper.

Miss Nye, I must speak with you. I have found out something terrible that I beg you to help me with. It concerns Sir Colin. Please come to the parlor in the east wing, beside the side door of the house at 11 o’clock tonight. I shall be waiting for you. Tell no one!

Kate Ambrose.

Sophie’s heart beat faster. She had seen Kate’s writing before, on lists compiled at Lady Chadbon’s request. Sophie recognized it. But what had the girl discovered about Colin? That he had reason to kill the maid for her insolence and violence? Stupid chit. Colin would never kill for such a reason. Nor any other. He was all bluster, bless him.

More to the point, whom had Kate told? Not the magistrate, or he would have been here already. Probably not even Lady Chadbon. The fact that the letter had said tell no one was a good sign, but Sophie would have to be sure. This was all getting so complicated…

If she could be certain that Kate could harm neither Nye, then Sophie would let her live. But she would have to be prepared.

Sophie walked to the fireplace and fed the note to the flames, watching the paper curl and blacken into dust. She heard people talking quietly in the passage beyond her door—Mrs. Otteridge, she thought, and Mrs. Newman. Glancing at her watch, she saw that she had plenty of time, so she waited until the passage was quiet again before she emerged and crept along to the main staircase. No one saw her flit along the hall, past the orangery and the steward’s office to the gun room.

Even now, Chadbon hadn’t locked it. No doubt he’d refused to believe anyone would dare shoot at his protégé’s wife with one of his guns. Even though someone had dared to kill his maid with one of his daggers. He really was a stupid man.

A fowling piece, of course, was not the weapon for this occasion. But there were also several pistols, together with suitable ammunition. Sophie chose the one with two barrels. After all, last night had proven her aim was not infallible, even though Papa had claimed it was so when she was a mere girl.

She paused suddenly in loading both barrels, her flesh prickling with that feeling of being observed. She spun around but no one was there.

Holding the pistol pointed downward, hidden in the folds of her skirts, she walked out and along the passage, past the orangery and across the hall to the east wing.

Sophie had discovered the little-used parlor near the side door not long after she arrived at Chadbon Court. She always liked to know the lie of the land. The room was a little worn and neglected, perhaps used by the Chadbon children growing up.