"Did you?" Terrance filled the doorframe, preventing me from looking past him. "I do not see you hobbling around to pay your respects to other men's mothers."
"I was fond of your uncle. I heard about his demise and wanted to give my best to his family."
Terrance scowled. "You're a lying bastard, Lacey. You came to pry. Do you think we don't know what you've been getting up to in London since you came back from the war? In thick with magistrates and the Runners. Chasing murderers. You've turned thief taker."
"Not quite."
"I think quite describes it. You scent a whiff of scandal about my family, and here you come to pay your 'respects.'"
I could not say he was wrong. The dress I'd found had intrigued and worried me, and yes, learning of Helena's flight had made me uneasy.
"Perhaps we should not argue about it on the high street," I said.
"Why not? Our neighbors know all our business. Ask them."
Terrance started to close the door. I put my shoulder against it. "Listen to me," I said, my voice low. "Your cousin was my friend, and at one time, you were too. I want to help you find her."
Terrance opened the door, grabbed me, and hauled me inside, his one-handed grip amazingly strong. He slammed the door, and I righted myself before I could unbalance on my bad leg. We made a sorry pair.
"My mother and aunt have gone to Norwich," Terrance said. "The cook and maid are taking their day out, so no one is here to stop me beating the devil out of you."
"You'd find it a tough fight," I said. "I am not as feeble as I appear."
"Neither am I." Terrance's face was red.
I gestured with my walking stick to his empty right sleeve. "How did that happen?"
"How do you think? Fighting the Frenchies at Waterloo. A ball went right through it. The surgeon said I'd have to lose it or die of gangrene, so I let him take it. I should have told him to shoot me in the head."
I tapped my bad knee with the stick. "This was French deserters amusing themselves with a lone prisoner. The only reason I lived was because of the kindness of a Spanish woman and her small children. I, the brave soldier, was reduced to begging for water from a six-year-old boy."
Terrance looked at my injured leg with a little less belligerence. "I suppose we both have harrowing tales. I thought my family would welcome me back with joy, but they've let it be known that I would have brought them more honor if I'd stayed and died. What good is half a man to a poor family?"
"Which is why I make myself useful by prying into other people's affairs."
"And now you've come to pry into ours. To hell with this, Lacey. Helena ran off with a man. She went to Cambridge. That is all."
I debated whether to tell him about the gown, but I decided not to. Terrance was unhappy and volatile, and I was by no means certain the gown had been Helena's.
"Arguing is thirsty work," I said. "Step with me to the pub, and I'll stand you a tankard."
I thought for a moment he might accept, for old time's sake, but Terrance shook his head. "I have things to do before my aunt and mother return. I'll tell them you called."
"Fair enough." I made for the door. "Send for me anytime you wish to jaw, or drink, or argue. A message to the old Lacey house will reach me."
"Do not wait for it," Terrance said.
I gave him another half bow and stepped out of the house. He slammed the door before I could turn and walk away.
*** *** ***
I made my way down the southwestern road to the Lacey house. When I reached it, I found that Denis's two men had returned to continue the search for the stolen artwork, but no Cooper.
Bartholomew was there, as well as Matthias, the two brothers helping one of the men break up the debris from the bonfire. Bartholomew had found nothing in the windmill, he said, as I stopped to speak to them.
A sudden shouting from the house startled us all. It was Denis's man, who had gone below stairs to continue demolishing the servants' passages and the kitchen.
Matthias and Bartholomew raced to the house, and I followed as quickly as I could. We found the second man in the kitchen, he having torn half the mantelpiece from the fireplace. I do not now what I expected him to show us--the skeletal remains of Miss Quinn?--but I was fully prepared for horror.
What he held, pulled from the fireplace, was a piece of canvas folded around things that clanked.
As we all hurried in, he spread the canvas open across the massive kitchen worktable, the one piece of furniture still whole.
"There, guv," he said. "What do you think of that?"
I stared down at four silver candlesticks, a wide and deep silver chalice, and a small silver plate, tarnished now, but the metal shimmered here and there in the sunlight from the high windows.
These dishes had never graced the Lacey household. The plate and chalice had been made to hold a host and wine, and I'd stared at the silver candlesticks on the altar of the chapel at Parson's Point all my young life.
Someone had robbed the Parson's Point church and stuffed the booty up the chimney of the Lacey kitchen.
* * * * *
Chapter Nine
The man who'd found the stash hefted one of the candlesticks. "Nice silver there. Fetch a good price."
"Put it down," I said. "I know where these things belong, and I will return them."
The man looked astonished but stood the candlestick upright on the table. "Why, guv? We know they're nicked, but none but us know they're here, eh? I have just the chap to sell them to, and we split the take. Stands to reason. I found them, but it's your house."
A fair-minded thief. "They came from a parish church that is by no means well off," I said. "I am taking them back."
The man still had his hand on the candlestick. He eyed me in confusion then sighed and stepped away. Denis must have ordered him to obey me no matter how daft my commands.
Bartholomew stared at the silver. "But what is all that doing here?"
A very good question. I laid the candlesticks and communion dishes in the middle of the canvas and folded the cloth over them again. "Someone robbed the chapel, stashed the things in an empty house, and did not have a chance to return for them."
I could see that Denis's lackeys thought I'd lost my mind. Perfectly good nick, me with no money, and I wanted to return it?
"I'll ride up to the village now," I said. "But I agree about keeping it quiet."
I picked up the clanking bundle, balanced it over my shoulder, and leveraged myself up the stairs with my walking stick. Bartholomew came out with me and brought my horse to me.
"Keep an eye out," I said as he helped me into the saddle then handed up the bundle. "I'll return directly."
"Aye, sir," Bartholomew said, and I rode away.
I clattered into Parson's Point not long later, which had filled with cooking smells for evening meals. I went through the village, past the flint houses that looked very much like those in Blakeney, and out the other side of the village to the church, half a mile beyond.
The Parson's Point church had been built at least seven centuries ago, and repaired yearly by its congregation ever since. It had very little in the way of ornamentation, having been constructed before the wild gothic fantasies of pointed arches, flying buttresses, and gargoyles.
The church's only decoration was frescoes painted high on the walls above the altar. They were pretty pictures, faded with time, depicting the holy family on their flight to Egypt and the young Jesus teaching in the temple. I'd always envied the boy Jesus as I'd studied the paintings during the learned but dull sermons of Dr. Quinn. He'd done what he pleased while his parents looked on in astonishment. Christ's story might have ended differently had Joseph been anything like my father.
The rest of the church was whitewashed, and the rows of polished pews for the masses were a fairly recent addition. Until twenty-five years ago, the villagers had stood for their worship. My family and other prominent members of the community had always had enclosed pews in the fro
nt.
Preston Reaves was not at the vicarage. Of course not--he was picnicking with Lady Southwick and her guests at Binham Priory. Likely he was looking at the ruined splendor of the priory and regretting he hadn't been born before the advent of Protestant frugality.
The vicarage housekeeper, Mrs. Landon, a bit more faded than I remembered her, answered the door and peered up at me without surprise.
"I heard you'd returned, young master Lacey. And about time too. Come in and shut the door. Mr. Reaves is not here, if that's who you've come to see. He isn't much for tending his flock, is Mr. Reaves. Not like dear Dr. Quinn. But come to the kitchen, and I'll fix you a bite."
Mrs. Landon's son, still working here too, took my horse away to the tiny stable behind the house. I hefted the bundle of silver and followed Mrs. Landon down the hall to the large kitchen.
She fetched a cup from the kitchen dresser and poured steaming coffee into it. "They say you're opening the house again," she said. "And getting married. Happy times, happy times. Now, what are you carrying there all secretive?"
I cleared a space on her table, extracted the items one by one, and set them out. Mrs. Landon's eyes widened, and she sat down hard on a chair.
"Good Lord." She stared at each piece in turn. "I never thought to see these again."
"Then I am correct that they're from the chapel?"
"That you are. Wherever did you find them? At a pawnbroker's somewhere? Is that why you came back to Norfolk, to return them?"
I touched a candlestick. "I found them stuffed up the kitchen chimney in my house a mile away. I imagine the thief thought an empty house a good hiding place."
Mrs. Landon gave me an odd look. "But the house wasn't empty when these went missing."
My brows rose. "No?"
"No, indeed, dear. They went missing about the same time Miss Quinn ran off. Everyone was convinced that Miss Quinn and her young man took them away with them."
I sat down at the table, my hand tight around my coffee cup. Helena Quinn had run away nine or ten years ago. What might or might not be her gown had been left in my mother's sitting room. At the same time, someone had robbed the chapel and hidden the stash up the chimney. My father had been still living in the house, growing poorer, sicker, and more alone as the years went by.
"They could not have been put in the kitchen chimney then," I said. "It would still have been in use. Someone would have found it."
Mrs. Landon gave me a pitying look. "You weren't here for your father's last years. Not your fault--you were off with the fighting. My nephew was there, you know, in the war, and we didn't hear from him for years and years. He came back right as rain, cheerful as ever, but a bit deaf from all the canons. Not like young Mr. Quinn, poor soul. And for Mr. Quinn to find his cousin had eloped out from under his nose. They were to have been a match, you know." Mrs. Landon paused to pour out more coffee. "Mr. Quinn thought Miss Helena would wait for him. They grew up so close, and everyone thought they'd marry and settle down right here."
"My father," I prompted when she stopped to drink.
"Oh, yes, I was telling you about him. Old Mr. Lacey, he started letting the staff go a few years before he died. He knew he was ill, poor lamb, and understood he wasn't long for the world. Not much money left, either. When I was a girl, the Lacey estate was a big, fine house with a big, fine farm. All gone now. The world changes. Anyway, he let go the cook and took his meals at the public house. When he got weaker, he had a local lad come and do for him, bring him food and so forth. No hot meals anymore, though I sometimes went and brought him a bit of dinner. And he'd be so angry, not liking to take charity. A proud man, was your father. So you see, someone could have hidden the silver there with no one being the wiser."
"Who was the local lad that brought him the food? Perhaps he saw something."
"Robert Buckley, the publican's boy. Robert's grown up now, got a farm of his own down by Letheringsett. He didn't much like your father, but he'd deliver the food, make sure Mr. Lacey wasn't too ill or hurt, and leg it again. He wouldn't have nicked the silver, though. He's a good lad."
I believed that Robert probably hadn't stolen it. If he had, he'd have had plenty of opportunity to go back and fetch it from the kitchen chimney. "How does young Mr. Buckley have his own farm? Did he inherit it? Come into some money?" I did not think the business at the public house ran to buying land.
Mrs. Landon chuckled, her faded blue eyes showing amusement. "He married it. She's the daughter of a farmer who didn't have a son to leave anything to. Farmer fixed it up so his daughter and her husband could get the lot. Robert was lucky. The wife is a sweet thing too, and now they have a little boy of their own. I always say that marrying money is much easier than grubbing for it yourself. But you know that. I hear your lady is quite plump in the pocket."
I took another sip of the good coffee. I should be offended, but I'd always liked Mrs. Landon. She spoke her mind but had no resentment in her.
"Does everyone in Parson's Point suppose I'm marrying for money?"
"Of course, dear. Your father left you nothing, and your lady has plenty to go around. One of the aristocracy too. You played your cards well."
I gave her a severe look. "Please put it about that I am very fond of Lady Breckenridge."
"Fondness never hurts. Mr. Landon and I were very fond of one another, rest his soul. I'm sure you and your lady will get on well. Not like that frivolous chit who was your first wife. I'm sorry she passed on, of course, but it was not a good choice. You were only a lad yourself at the time. You weren't to know."
My first wife, Carlotta, was not, in fact, deceased, but living in France with the French lover for whom she'd deserted me. My marriage to her had been legally ended, thanks to James Denis, but to save reputations all around, we'd agreed that Carlotta Lacey would be deceased, and Madame Colette Auberge would return to France with her husband.
"The follies of youth," I said. "Miss Helena made a bad choice too, do you think?"
Mrs. Landon gave me a dark look, then she rose and moved about the kitchen, bringing out a loaf of bread, slicing it, and putting pieces on a toasting fork. "Miss Helena Quinn needed a swat on her behind, in my opinion. Twenty-two she was, old enough to know better." Mrs. Landon showed her disapprobation by thrusting the toasting fork hard into the fire. "Young Mr. Quinn was off to war, and she was acting virtuous about waiting for him. Then in comes a bloke from Cambridge. Well dressed, swanning about, turning Miss Quinn's head. After that, Terrance Quinn was as nothing to her."
When the bread had toasted to her satisfaction, she plopped the pieces onto a plate and scooped a hunk of creamy yellow butter onto the toast. The hot bread melted it, spreading rivulets of yellow across the blackened surfaces. Mrs. Landon shoved the pile at me and sat down again.
"Who was he?" I asked. I wiped my hands on my handkerchief and dug into the buttered toast, feeling ten years old again. The bread was chewy and nutty, the butter creamy light.
"A man called Braxton. Let me see. His Christian name is Edward, I think. That was it. Edward Braxton. A solicitor by trade. He'd come to settle the estate of a Cambridge gent who owned a farm near Binham Priory. Braxton adored the sea, and he liked to come up and walk along it when business didn't press him. He met Helena on one of these walks. We knew nothing about it, or about him, until someone saw her with him. And they weren't simply walking, if you take my meaning. Well, her father was a bit put out, as you can imagine. Scolded her something horrible. Next thing you know, Mr. Braxton has returned to Cambridge, and Miss Helena has disappeared. Up and gone with him."
"You are certain of that? Did she leave a note, tell anyone?"
Mrs. Landon shrugged. "Not that I hear. But she was gone, with a change of clothing, and Mr. Braxton was gone too. And we all suspected she'd crept into the church and stolen the plate--to set herself up in housekeeping maybe. But now you say it was in the chimney at your house all this time? Why would she have put it there?"
"Miss Qu
inn might not have stolen the plate at all," I said.
"Well, that's true, dear. You finding this lot puts a different view on it. Mr. Reaves will be happy to see it again. Though the villagers never liked the fancy chalice and platen. Communion is not something we have truck with here. Mr. Reaves needs to remember that."
Parson's Point had always been very low church, I remembered. The chalice had been locked away--lovely to look at but rarely used.
"Did no one go to Cambridge to find Helena?" I took another bite of the heavenly toast while Mrs. Landon refilled my cup.
"To be sure. Mrs. Quinn and her sister-in-law had word of Helena--I am not certain from where--but they learned she was right as rain, but not exactly where she was. Mrs. Quinn was content to let the matter go. She was ashamed of her own daughter, never wanted to speak of her. Young Mr. Terrance went out to Cambridge when he came back, but too much time had passed. Mr. Braxton was no longer at the house Terrance found. Neighbors said he'd gone north somewhere, with his lady wife. And that was that."
"If everyone here thought Helena or Mr. Braxton had stolen the silver, why did the magistrates not try to find her?"
"We kept it quiet. The Quinns were so heartbroken. They didn't want anyone chasing after Miss Helena and silver plate no one wanted. They begged us all to keep it quiet. Oh, everyone knew what happened, but we pretended not to, do you see?"
I did see. The plate belonged to the church, not the Quinns, and if Helena had been arrested for stealing it, she would have been tried and possibly hanged or transported, and her solicitor husband along with her. Better to be silent about a chalice and candlesticks no one used than watch a beloved daughter be carted to Newgate. My discovery showed she hadn't taken the things away with her, in any case.
"No one has tried to find her since?" I asked.
Mrs. Landon shrugged. "Let bygones be bygones. Miss Helena broke her parents' heart, and Mr. Terrance's. Best not to bring it up." Mrs. Landon creaked to her feet. "I'll put this lot in Mr. Reaves's study. He'll be surprised to see it, that is if he ever comes back from wooing the gentry."
A Death in Norfolk Page 8
