by Amy Corwin
Instead, Lord Glanville and Grace spent most afternoons working with Flossie, who was learning an alarming number of tricks under Lord Glanville’s firm but kind tutelage.
When almost two weeks had passed, Grace belatedly remembered poor Mrs. Wolstenholme. Lord Glanville had already informed Grace that he had business to attend to and could not visit her as usual, so with a distinct fear of “too little, too late,” she put on her bonnet, wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and walked to the vicarage.
While the house was meticulously maintained, there was an air of forlorn abandonment about it when Grace walked up the front walkway. The flowers along the walk were brittle and brown, going to seed without a caring hand to manage them. A few weeds had invaded the hollyhocks and were doing far better than the cultivated flowers.
Although the window panes sparkled in the sun, behind the glass the drapes were drawn, giving them a withdrawn, closed-up appearance. Grace cast worried glances at the house, hoping to see the twitch of a curtain to indicate a touch of life and human curiosity, but there was nothing except that dismal air of hopelessness.
Maybe it was just a reflection of her own uneasy mood. She took a deep breath and knocked at the front door. The sound seemed to echo hollowly behind the door. A second knock elicited no response, either. Biting her lower lip, Grace tried the door knob. The brass knob turned easily.
She pushed open the door. “Mrs. Wolstenholme?”
Her voice drifted eerily down the narrow hallway. Dust motes sparkled in the sunshine streaming in from the open door, which seemed to highlight the frayed edges of the worn, green rug covering the center of the wooden floor.
Grace stepped inside, the oak boards creaking under her feet. “Mrs. Wolstenholme? Are you here?”
Despite the oppressive silence, she thought she could hear a muffled sound. She tilted her head. Following the soft noise, she moved down the hallway, passing the dreary formal drawing room, dining room, and finally coming to the kitchen door.
A long honey-colored maple table took pride of place in the center of the room, with cupboards and counters ringing it along the walls. Seated in the chair at the head of the table, Mrs. Wolstenholme stared down at some papers she held in her right hand. Her face was so pale it appeared to be carved from ivory, and her eyes were set in dark holes in her bony face.
When Grace stepped into the room, Mrs. Wolstenholme looked up, her gray eyes black with some harsh emotion.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Wolstenholme,” Grace said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” She gestured in the direction of the front door. “The door was open.”
Mrs. Wolstenholme just stared at her, her gaze devoid of comprehension.
“What has happened?” Grace stepped around the table to place a hand on the older woman’s shoulder. The bones felt sharp and fragile beneath her palm, and she loosened her grip for fear of hurting her. “Is something wrong?”
“I…” Mrs. Wolstenholme lifted her hand, still gripping the papers. Her gaze sought Grace’s face. “It wasn’t wrong, was it? It was addressed to Mr. Blyth, but he is…” She swallowed with difficulty. “I thought… If it was church business—I didn’t want Frank bothered. He has so much on his mind these days… The money for the organ… He so wanted me to play it again…” She dropped the papers and pressed her fingers to her mouth. Her gray eyes filled with tears before she blinked, took a deep, shuddering breath and clutched the papers again. She looked at Grace with swollen, reddened eyes. Her lips trembled, but she forced a smile. “I had not realized… He must have made the arrangements before… Before it happened.”
Grace pulled out one of the chairs and sat down, gripping one of Mrs. Wolstenholme’s hands. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Her gaze flickered to the papers. “Did you receive some bad news? Something unexpected?”
“Unexpected?” Mrs. Wolstenholme laughed harshly, rising abruptly before she cut it off, her gaze fixed on Grace. “Unexpected? Yes. Yes, indeed. It seems that our Mr. Blyth got his own parish at last. A very rich parish. Very well-to-do.” She waved the papers. Her eyes burned feverishly. “They wrote to tell him that his application had been selected.” She paused dramatically, her hands pressing the papers against the scarred table. “To be a vicar in his own parish.” Her gaze bored into Grace. “Don’t you see what that means? Our Mr. Blyth was not a rich man. And yet, he must have had funds we did not know about to acquire such a wealthy parish.”
“Well, he was betrothed,” Grace offered awkwardly, patting one of Mrs. Wolstenholme’s tense, claw-like hands.
“Betrothed!” Mrs. Wolstenholme barked another rough laugh. “Do you truly believe that would be enough? We trusted him! Frank was so sure… The organ fund was his responsibility, and now that is missing, and Mr. Blyth has acquired a lucrative living that even Frank could not aspire to!”
“There must be some explanation…”
“Yes. There must, mustn’t there?” Mrs. Wolstenholme pressed her fists against the table and stood. “I—”
“I understand.” Grace rose hastily and pushed her chair under the table, preparing to leave her in peace. “The shock… I’m sure there is a simple explanation.”
“Simple?” Mrs. Wolstenholme stared as if Grace had started capering around and gibbering. “Do you not understand? The funds are missing! And Frank went to get an explanation from him that very night!”
“That night?” Grace echoed, pulling out her chair and sitting down again. Her limbs would hardly support her. “But Mr. Blyth—no. You must be mistaken. He was so kind, so thoughtful. He would never have done anything so…” Dreadful? Reprehensible? Devious? Nothing seemed to fit her image of the young curate.
Mrs. Wolstenholme pressed her mouth shut, her eyes hard as she examined Grace. “Yes, he could seem very kind. Certainly, the ladies in the parish had no complaints when he attended to them.” Her tone suggested that those ladies were either foolish in the extreme or that the curate had acted in an unseemly manner. “But our Mr. Blyth was ambitious, as well. There were one or two times when I feared…” Her lips thinned, and she shook her head. “Well, he was unsuccessful in taking this parish for himself, no matter what rumors he spread about Frank.”
“Yes, but you cannot seriously believe that Mr. Blyth took the money intended to replace the organ?” Grace asked, trying not to think about what ugly remarks the curate may have made about the Wolstenholmes. Unfortunately, looking back, she could remember several offhand comments that had made her laugh—and wince—at the time.
“Frank believed he had. He went to speak to him. That night. He was furious.”
“Nonetheless, Mr. Wolstenholme returned home, is that not so? So, nothing happened. Everything was all right.”
Mrs. Wolstenholme’s fixed gaze made Grace squirm in her chair. “All right? He said he had cut his hand.”
“He? Who—”
“Frank.” Mrs. Wolstenholme’s hand slashed impatiently through the air. “There was blood all over his sleeve. And waistcoat. I had difficulties removing it.”
Grace’s face felt stiff as she gazed at her. “But… Did he cut his hand?”
“Oh, yes. The palm of his right hand.” Her gaze drifted to some remote point in the room as her fingers smoothed creases out of the letter on the table in front of her. “He said he’d injured it while trying to open the strong box in his office. He thought he might find the misplaced funds there. The box is metal and has a rough corner.”
“Then surely…” Grace forced a smile. “I’m sure he told you the truth. That must be how he cut his hand. It is reasonable, if he was searching for the missing funds.” He couldn’t have cut it on a jagged edge of the chunk of marble used to bludgeon Mr. Blyth, could he? She looked at Mrs. Wolstenholme’s gray face and shadowed eyes. He could not have done it. Not the vicar.
“So much blood…” Mrs. Wolstenholme whispered, gazing at nothing.
Gazing at nothing except the horrors of an uncertain future if her husband…
&n
bsp; Grace refused to accept that conclusion. Mr. Wolstenholme was stuffy and inclined to preach at the worst possible moments, but he was basically a good man. A man who knew the right course and was determined to follow it, regardless of how awkward it might be. It was one of the most annoying things about him, and it was that trait that now convinced Grace of the vicar’s innocence.
Or nearly convinced her. The fact that his own wife had doubts worried Grace. Maybe she was a less capable judge of character than she imagined. She glanced at Mrs. Wolstenholme’s rigid shoulders and tired face and realized something else: Grace had thought Mr. Blyth was a fine, honorable man, as well. She’d only lately discovered that he was not at all who she thought he was. Instead, he’d proven to be one of those men who let their ambition drive them, regardless of the consequences to those around him. She’d been completely wrong. With that thought, a misty curl of relief seeped through her. She shouldn’t have felt it, but she did.
Mr. Blyth’s death saddened her, but when she looked into her heart, she realized she felt none of the deep, tearing grief that she ought to feel if she loved him. At some point, her attachment to him had died, and she hadn’t even noticed it.
The clear eyed insight revealed something else, as well. Her certainty concerning the vicar’s innocence was shaky at best. If she could be so wrong about Mr. Blyth, then who was to say that she wasn’t equally wrong about Mr. Wolstenholme’s innocence?
She needed to talk to Lord Glanville. He’d been at the inquest, and he was so sensible that she was sure he could help them. He’d probably laugh at her concerns and bring peace to both Grace and Mrs. Wolstenholme.
Pressing her hands against the table, Grace got up once more. She gave Mrs. Wolstenholme’s stiff figure a hug and promised to return the following day.
But Mrs. Wolstenholme caught her hand. Gray-faced and eyes pleading, she begged Grace to forget their conversation. Patting her shoulder, Grace temporized and finally escaped. She needed Lord Glanville’s advice, and she was sure he would not spread any rumors. He was a safe confidant.
And she had the niggling feeling that she’d forgotten something, or knew something, that she didn’t realize she knew. The answer was there in the shadows, waiting.
She simply had to find the truth.
Chapter Eleven
Glancing at the letters on the hall table, Glanville felt a surge of impatience. His inquiries would take at least one more day, and all the frustrated pacing in the world would not make the answer to the missive he’d sent come any faster. However, that realization failed to prevent him from checking the post once more, or questioning his butler—who was too well-trained to show exasperation, but couldn’t refrain from one long suffering sigh—about misplaced notes. Nothing had arrived except two letters, one for him and one for Lady Lenora. Both missives were from their great-aunt and nearly identical in their content. Their great-aunt demanded their presence at her ninetieth birthday in two weeks, and in the last paragraph, described the weather in Bath in tempting detail.
Glanville’s lips twitched into a smile as he replaced his letter on the table. Not a request either he or his sister could ignore.
Besides, he wouldn’t miss the party for any reason. He liked the old lady. She had an unholy, acerbic tongue and wasn’t afraid to indulge it at the expense of her relations, making any social occasion exceptionally exciting. Despite that, she enjoyed life and made sure her nieces and nephews did, as well. One could never be bored around Aunt Emma.
However, unless he could get confirmation of his suspicions, in the form of a return letter, he was reluctant to abandon Miss Stainton to her fate. Even without Dutton’s odd defense of her, Glanville had finally decided that she was innocent.
Most likely innocent, at any rate.
The true irony was that, over the last few days, Glanville’s confidence in Miss Stainton grew in direct relation to the constable’s belief in her guilt. Sadly, Constable Gribble had a brief flurry of excitement when he discovered that the vicar had a deep cut on his hand, but once again, Dutton inserted himself into the investigation and convinced Gribble that Mr. Wolstenholme was innocent.
It seemed the vicar had cut his hand on a metal box used for securing church funds. Having gone to the church, Dutton had witnessed the accident, and had stated that he’d seen Blyth alive when Wolstenholme had returned to the vicarage to bind his wound.
So that avenue of inquiry had petered out, leading nowhere.
Gribble had even questioned Glanville and his sister, but both of them had managed to convince the constable of their innocence. So Gribble was left with his original suspect, and there was no doubt that it was the strongest case still. Most magistrates and juries would be convinced.
Well, pacing the grand hallway of Laurelwood House, waiting for the late post, wouldn’t resolve a thing. Grabbing his hat, Glanville went to visit Miss Stainton. The excuse of wishing to see how Flossie’s training was progressing served very well as a reason. Unfortunately, when he arrived at Hornbeam Manor, Constable Gribble was there ahead of him.
Gribble stood in the hallway. The investigation had long ago quenched the amused twinkle in his eyes, and his complexion had grown gray from sleepless nights and long days. At the moment, though, anger had given his face a rich, carmine color.
Brows beetling and a frown tightening his mouth, Gribble fixed his gaze on Sir Horace. Sir Horace was dithering and taking nervous steps forward and back as his hands pushed down into the pockets of his straining jacket.
“I tell you, she is not here!” Sir Horace exclaimed. He cast a helpless glance at his wife. “Is she?”
Lady Branscombe shook her head. “No. I don’t know where she could have gone.” She turned and noticed Glanville for the first time. Startled, she pressed a hand over her heart. “I must apologize, Lord Glanville, I did not notice you.” Lips compressed, she gave Rathbone a stern look for his failure to announce Glanville, but she refrained from berating the butler. Instead, she asked, “Did you notice if Miss Grace went out this morning, Rathbone?”
“Alice took a tray to Miss Grace very early this morning. As the tray was later returned with the contents mostly consumed, I can only assume she was present at that time. That would have been approximately seven, this morning,” Rathbone replied in his most correct and precise voice. “I have not had the privilege of serving her this afternoon.”
“Well, she was here long enough to write this.” Miss Martha Stainton picked up a letter from the hall table. “It’s addressed to our sister in London, Lady Arundell. I know it wasn’t here last night, and she mentioned to me before she went to bed that she intended to write to Dorothy this morning.”
“Yes,” Rathbone intoned sonorously. “The morning post had already come before the missive was ready. That would be today’s post, my lady.”
“Can’t be that far ahead of us, then,” Constable Gribble concluded with a grim, satisfied smile. His eyes glittered with the exciting thought of chasing a murderess across the length and breadth of England.
“On the contrary, sir,” Rathbone intoned, his nose in the air. “The morning post went several hours ago.”
Amusement sparkled to life in his gaze as Gribble studied the butler. “Miss Stainton was the subject of our discussion. Miss Grace Stainton.”
The butler remained silent, staring at some invisible spot above the constable’s head.
“Has her cousin been visiting her?” Glanville asked abruptly.
“Who?” Miss Martha Stainton looked at him, her brows rising above the wire frames of her glasses. “Oh, you mean Stephen.” She said it with all the warmth and interest one uses when mentioning possession of a spare handkerchief. She grimaced and pushed her glasses against the bridge of her nose with one finger. “Yes. He has been visiting nearly every morning. I haven’t seen him today, yet, but I suppose he will arrive shortly.” She sighed and exchanged glances with Lady Branscombe.
Staring thoughtfully at one of the magnificent landscape
s gracing the manor’s hallway, Glanville considered this tidbit of news. Then he straightened.
Polkinghorne had been present, as usual, at Laurelwood’s breakfast table this morning. However, instead of his usual stream of inconsequential conversation, the young man had been subdued. Distracted. The change was evident enough to make Glanville ask him if he was feeling well.
Polkinghorne had hurried to reassure him before lapsing once more into even deeper silence.
When the meal was done, instead of rattling around Glanville’s library and generally making a nuisance of himself following Glanville from room to room, he’d simply disappeared.
Glanville looked up when Gribble jammed his hat onto his head. “Well, it’s clear enough to me. No point in wasting any more time. Begging your pardon, Miss Stainton, but your sister’s run away.” He gave her a serious look. “As good as admitted that she murdered poor Mr. Blyth by doing that. Frightened of the consequences, no doubt. I can only hope she did not do so upon your advice.”
“My advice!” As Miss Martha gaped at him, her face flushed and then paled. “I would never give such ridiculous advice. Grace is innocent, and I cannot imagine where she has gone! She may be hurt… Ill…” She stopped and gave Lady Branscombe a pleading glance.
Lady Branscombe slipped an arm around Miss Martha’s waist and gave her a squeeze. “I am sure she is quite well, my dear, and we will find her soon.”
Gribble stepped closer to the door. “I’m sorry for you, Miss Martha. Howsomever, I know my duty and my duty states that I can’t let her escape.”
“Well, let me state here and now that Miss Grace Stainton’s disappearance is not an admission of guilt, nor should it be construed as such!” Sir Horace stepped up, his previous confusion giving way to magisterial calm. If he’d donned his wig and robes, he could not have exhibited a more awe-inspiring sense of authority. “She’s a frightened girl, after all, and therefore prone to behaving in hysterical and ill-advised ways. We must all remember that and treat her accordingly.”
