Page 76
“I certainly hope so, but regardless of whether or not we are successful in that endeavor, we must send for the undertaker right away.”
It was one of the first things done after any passing, but when the death was caused by a disease that might yet spread, there was even more urgency to the task. Allowing his father a few moments to assimilate the tragic news, Benedict stepped into the hall and called for Stokes. The butler appeared immediately.
“We need a man sent to fetch Mr. May from the village,” Benedict said.
Stokes’s training notwithstanding, he flinched. The butler knew full well what a message such as that meant. “Where would you have me send Mr. May, my lord?”
“To the steward’s cottage. Inform him that Mr. Rowe succumbed to the smallpox and to take whatever precautions he deems necessary. Rowe’s maid will let Mr. May into the house.”
“I shall see to it immediately, my lord,” Stokes said, his voice grave. “And may I offer my personal regrets.”
“Thank you, Stokes.”
The butler’s clipped footsteps crossed the entrance hall, and Benedict returned to the study. Rowe’s letters now lay strewn across the desk. His father had taken one from its envelope and was reading it. As Benedict drew nearer, his father lowered the piece of paper.
“I looked for an envelope addressed in a feminine hand. This was the first one I tried.” He offered it to Benedict. “Is Rowe’s sister named Agnes?”
“That’s what Rachel thought.” Benedict glanced at the signature at the bottom of the letter. Agnes Blyton. He froze. “Her last name is Blyton?”
“So it would seem.” There was a hint of anger in his father’s voice. “Which leads me to wonder whether it is her husband or her father-in-law who goes by the name of Geoffrey.”
Benedict dropped into the nearest chair, his mind reeling. Geoffrey Blyton and Sons. They already knew that Rowe had been making money on his business interactions with that mill. Was his sister in on it, or was she innocent of the scheme?
“It seems that my visit to Gloucester has just taken on even more importance,” he said.
“Yes,” his father said grimly, reaching for another envelope on the desk. “And for that reason, I think it would be prudent to acquaint ourselves with the contents of all Rowe’s sister’s recent correspondence before you go.”
* * *
“Look, Mama!” Meg entered the kitchen with three hops in a row.
Given that it was the first time Meg had shown such enthusiasm in over a week, Caroline gave her her full attention. “What do you have?” she asked.
Meg waved a cream-colored envelope above her head. “A letter. Mr. Giles left it with the milk. Nora said I’m to give it to you.”
Nora followed Meg into the kitchen, a full crock of milk in her hands. “I’m afraid I missed talkin’ to Giles meself, Miss Caroline,” she said. “But it ’ad to be ’im. The letter were tucked behind the milk crock.”
“Has he ever left anything before?”
“No. ’E stops by every Friday afternoon fer the farm’s payment. Yer father knows it an’ always ’as the money ready, so Giles don’t even leave us a bill.”
Meg had gone from excitedly waving the letter to studying the words on the envelope. She thrust it at Caroline. “What does it say, Mama?”
Caroline took it from her. The two short lines were written in strong, even strokes. She read them aloud:
Mrs. Caroline Granger
The Vicarage
“That’s you.” Meg skipped. “Perhaps Mr. Giles wants to show us another baby cow.”
“I suppose that is possible.” In truth, Caroline thought it extremely doubtful that the envelope contained information about an animal at Farwell Farm. Or that it was actually from Giles. She’d seen the precise penmanship before. On an envelope and in a letter inviting her and Meg to a sailboat regatta. With feigned calm, she set the envelope down on the table beside her teacup. “I shall read it after breakfast.”
Meg’s face fell. “Why not now?”
“Because now it is time for you to finish your porridge.” Caroline pointed to the half-eaten bowl on the other side of the table. “You were excused from the table only long enough to help Nora bring in the milk. I see the crock on the counter, so it is time to resume your eating.”
Meg’s pout lasted only until she put the first spoonful into her mouth, and then memory of how hungry she was must have returned, because she was soon fully engrossed in finishing the food. Knowing the distraction would not last long, Caroline slid the letter off the table and into the pocket of the apron she’d donned to make breakfast. It rustled against the fabric, sending her nerves skittering.
