The appearance of the man who faced Henry and Eleanor also confirmed this impression. Shorter than Henry, he had a spare figure, fair hair with a touch of bronze when the sun caught it, and pale blue eyes. His narrow face was also that of a scholar with fine, aesthetic features. He had an easy smile that made them welcome as he offered refreshments. Yet Eleanor felt uneasy in his company. She thought there was a slyness in his gaze, which did not sit and linger on anything for long. And his lips, which smiled so readily, were too thin.
The priest rang the bell beside the fireplace and the door was immediately opened by a young girl, as if she had been close at hand and awaiting the summons.
‘Molly.’ Julius Broughton addressed the girl. ‘We have, as you see, visitors. Be so good as to bring brandy for his lordship and ratafia for the lady.’
She bobbed a curtsy, casting a sharp eye over the guests. A village girl, Henry presumed by her simply cut blouse and skirt, very pretty with dark curls under her white cap and attractive curves not in any way disguised by the white apron that enveloped her. Her smile revealed a dimple and she was not averse to a flirtatious glance from beneath long dark lashes. She had an air of smugness and her smile a hint of sly. Henry would wager that Mistress Molly was a most competent housekeeper, if surprisingly young for the position. He suppressed a sardonic gleam as he found himself remembering the innkeeper’s enigmatic comments on their priest’s interests. They were not difficult to understand,
The refreshments were dispensed, with graceful skill and concern for their comfort, and then as Molly departed with a final swing of shapely hips the visitors were free to turn to business.
‘We are looking for information, sir,’ Henry repeated, wondering fleetingly if Mistress Molly was listening at the door.
‘So I understand.’ The Reverend indicated that they should make themselves comfortable in the charming room. ‘I will try to help. Is it something that occurred within my holding of the living here?’
‘Yes. The first event less than four years ago.’ From his pocket, Henry took a number of gold coins, which he placed, without a word, on the desk beside him.
The Reverend’s eyes fixed on them for more than a second, a flush mantling his cheeks. He pressed his lips together. It was, Henry knew, a gamble, based purely on first impressions. It crossed his mind that the priest could see it as an insult to his pride and standing in the community, and so refuse all co-operation with sharp words. Justifiably so if he were an honest man. But he did not. He answered, his eyes still on the money being offered so blatantly, ‘Of course, my lord. As I said, I will do what I can.’
Lord Henry had read his man well.
‘A marriage. At which you officiated. Between Octavia Baxendale and one Thomas Faringdon. Can you remember such a marriage?’
‘Dear Octavia.’ The clergyman took his seat behind his desk, resting his hands before him on the polished oak, fingers spread. His lips curled in a smile—or perhaps it was not. ‘She is well known to me. A most beautiful girl. Indeed I officiated at her marriage. I remember it. A handsome couple.’
‘Were you aware,’ Henry asked carefully, ‘that the groom was the Marquis of Burford?’
‘No, I was not. Before God, a man’s title has no relevance. And the law merely requires his name. You hinted, sir, that the matter concerned a member of your family.’
‘I did. Thomas Faringdon was my brother.’
‘Was he now?’ A strange little smile again flirted with the cleric’s lips. ‘Now I begin to understand. Can I help you further in your search for truth, my lord?’
Henry frowned, but continued. ‘I understand that Lady Mary Baxendale, who was a witness to the marriage, has since died.’
‘She has. She is buried in the Baxendale tomb here in the crypt. I myself conducted the service.’
And Sir Edward Baxendale. He, too, was present at the marriage ceremony?’
‘He was present.’ Julius Broughton bowed his head in acknowledgement. Eleanor’s brows arched a little. Was it her imagination, or were those clerical fingers suddenly clenched together?
But the Reverend was in no manner disturbed by the questions. His voice remained calm and assured. ‘Why do you ask? There was nothing illegal or unseemly about the marriage of Octavia. I have known her, as I said, for many years.’
‘And the birth of her son?’
Now there was the slightest hesitation, but the answer was forthright enough.
‘You must mean John. I certainly baptised the child John in this church. He will be about two years old now, I surmise.’
‘Yes.’
‘And the image of his mother! I am sure she is very proud of him. He must be a great solace to her in her time of grief.’
Henry glanced again at Eleanor who shook her head. It was difficult to see where the conversation was leading.
‘I presume that you know the Baxendale family well.’
‘Indeed I do. You must know that the living here is in their gift. I have every reason to be grateful to Sir Edward for his Christian charity.’ The lips that smiled at them were now drawn tight against his teeth. ‘He has assured me of his continued benevolence, to the parish and to myself. I have always found him to be a man of his word.’
‘If you will forgive me, sir, I hesitate to push the point but—this is a difficult question to ask—have you ever found reason not to trust Sir Edward? To question his honesty?’
‘A strange question, if I may say so, my lord.’ The Reverend continued to smile, but there was no humour in his pale eyes. ‘Let me answer it like this. Octavia is as dear to me as any member of my own family. And I know nothing of Sir Edward that would make me question his integrity. Does that suffice, my lord?’
‘Yes.’ Henry stood and inclined his head. ‘I must thank you for your time and patience, sir.’
They left the room, leaving the little pile of coins on the edge of the desk, glinting brightly and enticingly in the sun.
‘I do not like him. I don’t know why, but I would not trust him, clergyman or no.’ Eleanor spoke her doubts as soon as they were out of sight and sound of the vicarage. ‘He smiled like a snake.’
‘I have never seen a snake smile, but I take your point. A wily character, I make no doubt. But equally without doubt, he confirms all we knew and feared.’ Henry’s expression was bleak as he replayed the conversation in his mind. ‘Thomas married Octavia. And a son, John, was born.’
Eleanor could make no reply. After all, it was the truth.
The sun still shone. The sparrows still chirruped in the churchyard. And Eleanor’s life, as she had feared, lay in pieces at her feet.
During their brief interview the heavy rain-clouds had begun to gather on the horizon and the evening drew close. Seeing the threat of poor travelling weather, Henry made a decision.
‘We stay here tonight. I have no mind to be drenched before we arrive home. Let us see if the Red Lion can provide us with some suitable accommodation.’
The landlord at the Red Lion, by the name Jem Abbott, welcomed the return of the lord and lady to his inn with a greedy eye to their generosity. Yes, he could provide them with accommodation. Perhaps not what they would be used to, but comfortable enough. There was a private parlour they could make use of and an adjoining bedroom. Would that be sufficient for their needs? They would not be disturbed. He surveyed them with mild interest. There did not appear to be the stuff of scandal here, but you never knew with the Quality. A law unto themselves, they were! No matter how confident and assured his lordship might be in the settling of his affairs, no matter how elegant and composed the lady. Whether the lady was his lordship’s wife was open to debate. But it was none of their concern,