Page 93 of The Case of the Curate

Well, it seemed this thin, bony lady was the enemy.

With determination, Salter pulled himself together, steadying his hand and his rifle.

The lady’s right hand flapped as she spoke to the rev, but the left remained at her side, her hand hidden among her skirts. Many people were left-handed, and the very stillness of that hidden hand made Salter suspicious.

He found himself praying that the night and a day without booze had returned his reflexes to their former speed…

*

Grissy—she had been Grissy for so long to all the Hynde girls that she actually thought of herself by this name now—was torn by competing needs to obey her mistress and to protect her. For an instant, she hesitated between staircases—to follow Miss Kate, or to go to Lord Chadbon as ordered?

Then, with a breath that sounded like a sob, she flew along the passage to the servants’ stairs and hurtled down one floor at breakneck speed. She flew along the landing to His Lordship’s study, where, once more, nerves almost prevented her knocking.

Her fist froze in midair. In this house, no one disturbed His Lordship in his study when the door was closed. Even Kemp hesitated. As did Lady Chadbon herself. His Lordship’s voice within was quiet enough that Grissy could recognize it without hearing the words. Her heart thundered.

Then she thought of Kate charging in on an armed madwoman as if she were still playing some childish game with Lord Rupert, and she rapped sharply on the door, barging in even before she was granted permission to enter.

The sight before her pulled her short with horror. From one side of his large desk heaped with papers and weighty books, Lord Chadbon glared at her with the expected outrage. He probably didn’t even know who she was. But what threw her far more completely than that was his visitor, who sat with his back to her.

The newcomer glanced around to see what the disturbance was. And there was no doubt that he recognized her.

His nibs, the master, Sir Gilbert Ambrose.

Chapter Nineteen

“You startled me, Mr. Grande!”

Rupert had no doubt that Miss Nye’s startlement was genuine when she found him and not Kate facing her. Just for an instant, the twittery appearance of a confused bird vanished, but if he’d blinked, he would have missed the change. The bird was back almost immediately.

“I think I must have stumbled into the wrong room,” she confided. “Although…we all thought you had gone home, Mr. Grande.”

“No, I’m still here. Lady Ambrose thought I could help with your trouble. Being a clergyman.”

Miss Nye blinked rapidly behind her spectacles. “Am I in trouble?” she asked tentatively.

“Oh yes,” Rupert said. “You really shouldn’t have killed Dinah, you know. If you hadn’t done that, you wouldn’t have needed to shoot at Lady Ambrose.”

Her skirts twitched on the left-hand side, where her hand was hidden. But she held her character. “My dear young man, are you quite well? I don’t even know a Dinah, and as for Lady Ambrose—”

“We can help you,” Rupert said earnestly, “if you just tell us the truth. I want to help you.” Oddly enough, it was true. He wanted to help all the world’s damaged creatures. He didn’t begin to know what the damage was with Miss Nye, but he was certain it existed.

“Sir, I think it is you who needs help,” she said timidly. “You should talk to the vicar. Mr. Bancroft is a fine and gentle man.”

“He is,” Rupert agreed.

“If only he hadn’t married that fright of a woman…”

Of course, the Nyes had grown up near here and must have known Bancroft since he was young. But whatever Miss Nye’s marital hopes had once been, he couldn’t let her distract him.

“Was Lady Nye, your sister-in-law, a fright of a woman, too?”

Slowly, her eyes changed again, the birdlike expression fading and vanishing as she realized what he suspected. “Silly and clinging, and quite in my brother’s way.” She smiled, still kind, still amiable. “I wasn’t sorry when she died—of a fever, you know. You would be foolish to accuse me of such a thing.”

“I certainly have no proof,” Rupert allowed. “But Dinah is another matter.”

“A dead maid. It happens all the time. No one cares.” It was offhand, supremely callous.

“I care,” Rupert said. “How do you know she is dead?”