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‘So, your place is in the church.’ Heir, army, navy, church was the usual order of career for the sons of the gentry. ‘How did you come to be in Norfolk?’
‘No family influence in the church,’ Will admitted, leaning one hip against the tomb. ‘I had hoped for a town parish, if I am to be honest, not three remote rural ones, but I found there is much to be done and that is satisfying.’
‘Three parishes?’
‘The Reverend Aldous Finch holds the livings – Fellingham, Hempbourne, where he lives, and Hempbourne Marish. This is Hempbourne Marish. The village vanished long ago, it seems, but there’s the folk at Smoker’s Hole and scattered farms all over the parish. I am his curate.’
‘And do all the work,’ Theo guessed.
Will shrugged ruefully. ‘That’s the way of it with well-connected rectors and vicars.’
‘And is there a Mrs Thwaite?’ He assumed not, or Will would look as though he had a square meal on a regular basis and his cuffs would not be fraying.
‘No, I have a way to go before I can look for a wife. Is there a Lady Northam?’
Theo shook his head. ‘Not yet. Look, Manners won’t mind me inviting guests – why not dine with me one evening? You can bring your rubbings of the tomb and your mouldering papers and we’ll ransack Perry’s library for armorial references. I’d suggest a date now, but I’m waiting to hear from Swinburn – he invited me to dinner when I met him and his sons this morning and he wasn’t certain of his wife’s commitments.’
‘You are a friend of Sir Walter?’ Was it his imagination or had Will withdrawn slightly?
‘Not at all. Only met him this morning. They were out riding, we introduced ourselves and I suppose he felt an obligation to a friend of a neighbour. Like an idiot I’d mixed my dates up and Perry’s away from home, but as I said, he’ll be happy to give me the run of the place. The Swinburns are not friends of yours then?’
‘Humble curates are not amongst their social circle,’ Will said, a trifle stiffly. ‘The Reverend Finch is Sir Walter’s brother-in-law. Mrs Finch was Annemarie Swinburn, by his father’s first wife.’
‘In that case I can confess that I did not warm to them, but it would not do to snub Perry’s neighbours. If you give me your direction I will send as soon as I know what dates are free, in the hope you can join me.’
‘I would like that a great deal.’ Will dug into his pocket and passed Theo a card. ‘I lodge with the Fellingham churchwarden and his wife. They are good people and need the rent, but Mrs Lubbock’s not the best of cooks, poor lady, not with her bad eyes.’
Which also explains the fraying cuffs, Theo deduced. ‘The other mystery around here is the smuggling,’ he said, as he strolled down to the gate, Will companionably at his side. ‘Does that still go on much hereabouts? We were invaded by the local Riding Officer yesterday. He gave our cellars a thorough inspection while he was at it.’
They’d reached the gate. Will held it open for Theo, closed it behind him, then leaned on it. ‘There are smuggling parsons and then there are curates who are regarded as in-comers, if not foreigners, from Suffolk. If I fell over a pony-train of brandy casks outside my front door they’d swear I had a brain fever rather than admit to it. But yes, it goes on and it’s a messy business – gold paid to the French, endless snippets of intelligence leaking out, huge profits in some pockets – and violence to protect the business.’ He put on the hat he’d been holding. ‘I would not hand one of my parishioners over to the law for it, but I would do my best to stop them, if I could put names to the smugglers. I preach against it, for what good that does with the local gentry supporting it.’
‘Then take care. I’ll send as soon as I know when I’ll be free.’ Theo shook hands and took the path down to the coast road again, his boot heels skidding on the loose pebbles, sending a cock pheasant flapping into the hedge with a cry of alarm. He thought he had just made a friend and that was a good feeling.
He took the coast road back towards Mannerton Grange. The sun was well up now, he’d been walking since breakfast and the thought of a pint of ale was powerfully attractive, even if he had to walk all the way to Fellingham to find an inn.
The road wound along, hugging the contours, a high hedge on the landward side and a drain and then the flat marshes spreading out towards the shingle sea bank on the other. Theo was so deep in contemplation of the mysterious tomb that the appearance around the next bend of a whitewashed, sprawling building took him by surprise. The walls, rising one storey, were made of the local flints, the roof with a few haphazard dormer windows, was of the typical red pantiles of the district and smoke curled from the chimneys.
A weathered sign on the other side of the road creaked in the wind, displaying a double-tailed mermaid with long hair admiring herself in a hand mirror. Theo looked up at her and shivered. This was no seaside seductress, this was a creature of the deep with an expression that boded ill for any sailor washed into her scaly embrace.
But the inn looked inviting enough and the thought of that ale was tempting. Theo pushed open the door and walked in to receive exactly the kind of reception he would have expected.
Chapter Four
The tap room fell silent as Theo entered the inn and seven pairs of eyes turned to survey him. Four of those pairs belonged to men sitting around a long table playing dominoes. They looked – and smelt – like fishermen. One spat into the sawdust that covered the worn boards at his feet, then they all turned back to their game.
A man was propping the bar up and, from his gaiters, sturdy coat and the spaniel curled up at his feet, Theo guessed he was a gamekeeper. He gave the newcomer an unsmiling, but civil, nod and returned his attention to his tankard. Another man, tall, dark and dressed in plain but good riding clothes, stared, put down his mug and walked out without a word. Theo felt as though the dark,
steady gaze had stripped him down to the skin in a few unsmiling seconds.
The final pair of eyes stayed fixed on Theo as he strolled across to the bar. The landlord was a big man, arm muscles straining his shirt beneath a leather waistcoat. He was sandy-haired, blue-eyed and looked to Theo as though he had Dutch, or perhaps Danish, blood in him.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’ He spoke pleasantly enough, politely moderating his Norfolk burr to a stranger, but his eyes were watchful.
Theo settled an elbow on the smooth old wood, glanced down at the spaniel as it gave his boots an exploratory snuffle, and smiled. ‘A pint of your best please, landlord. I’ve been walking and it has given me a thirst.’
‘Aye, sir. It would that.’ The man turned to the barrels propped up behind the bar and began to fill a pint pot. ‘Not from around here, sir?’
‘I’m staying with Lord Manners at the Grange.’ Theo lifted the tankard as it was slid along to him, admired the fine head on the brew for a moment, then took a deep draught. ‘You make a fine ale.’
