Page 83 of Miss Devoted
Helmsley’s brows rose. “Let’s have no talk of consigning innocents to death. The will Delancey has might well be a forgery, and Arbuckle also claims to have a properly witnessed will.”
“Where is it?” MacKay asked. “If yonder saint’s intention was to rescue his orphaned little ward from the clutches of a kidnapper, why not bring the one document that would prove a crime has been committed?”
Michael generally found the Scottish burr pleasant on the ear, but MacKay’s question presaged serious violence.Had the infant indeed died at the poorhouse, the genuine will was also the one document that could prove Arbuckle had committed the next thing to murder.
Arbuckle might well have burned the original, or it might yet repose in the vicarage safe. Michael could not afford to gamble Bea’s happiness on that question.
“Wills prove nothing,” Arbuckle said. “Anybody can hire a forger to create any official document he pleases. London is rife with criminals, and Delancey has had ample time to make the acquaintance of such scoundrels.”
“Let’s take this discussion into the nave,” Papa said. “Might be a bit warmer.”
Psyche led the procession, with Papa and MacKay at the rear. That left Arbuckle little alternative but to face the physical trappings of his purported faith.
“I have another document,” Michael said, and though they were out of the wind, St. Mildred’s on a weekday was nearly as cold as the street. “This second document is, in its way, more official than a will and more significant.” He withdrew Dermot’s drawing, which had turned out very well indeed. “This print will go to the engraver’s unless Arbuckle desists from his accusations against me.”
He passed Dermot’s little masterpiece to Helmsley. Thanks to Psyche, Arbuckle’s face had been easily caricatured. He was portrayed in clerical robes, money bags hanging at his ample hips as he plucked a bundle from the steps of the church and flung it over his shoulder toward the waiting arms of Death.
Cloven feet peeked from beneath the hems of Arbuckle’s robes, and the end of a forked tail brushed the cobbles.
Dermot had once again depicted an affluent and indifferent parade of passersby and a silent chorus of downtrodden shadows. Running hard across the middle of the scene, though, was a handsome, vigorous man in clerical black, his hands outstretched to save the child from the fate Arbuckle had thrown her to. The baby, swaddling clothes unfurling like banners, extended her arms toward her rescuer, while the little dog—every London satire needed a little dog or two—lifted his leg on Death’s ankles.
“It’s good,” Psyche said, peering over Helmsley’s arm. “Very good. Half of London will pay for a copy of such—”
Arbuckle snatched the sketch and tore it to shreds, tossing the pieces to the church floor.
“That is slander,” he thundered, stalking up the church aisle. “Blasphemy in a house of God directed at a man of God.”
“It’s satire,” Michael said mildly as the last of the pieces floated to the flagstone floor. “Humorous entertainment and thus immune from the laws of defamation.” The laws of sedition were another matter, though Arbuckle was hardly a government figure, such that ridiculing him imperiled the safety of the realm.
Psyche sank to the end of a pew and began rummaging in her reticule.
“I don’t care what you call the vile scribblings of some penny-press hack,” Arbuckle retorted.
“London thrives on such scribblings,” Michael said, though without that drawing, he was arguing in the hypothetical. “Prinny himself collects them, as does half the peerage. You’ve seen the flower girl series? The same artist who drew those images has the connections and consequence to ensure that your face becomes just as well known as those flower girls, Arbuckle, and not nearly as well liked.”
Helmsley began pacing the central aisle, halfway to the altar and back. “Delancey, there’s no need to turn this matter into the scandal of the year. You were mistaken. You thought Arbuckle directed you to take the girl to the poorhouse, but he did not.”
“He did,” Michael retorted, “and not for the first time. Shortly after I arrived in Yorkshire, he sent another innocent to that fate, and the baby lasted less than a fortnight. I am through with consigning girls into his pious care. Talk to his former curates, to the many housemaids who lasted less than six months in the vicarage.”
“And yet,” Helmsley said, with apparent consternation, “you’ve said nothing to anybody in authority about any of this.”
“Until today,” Papa observed mildly. “Though it appears Michael himself took appropriate steps to contain the evil he witnessed. He’s telling you now, Helmsley. What do you advise?”
Helmsley looked from Papa to Arbuckle. MacKay was lounging against a pillar, not an apparent care in the world, despite a gleam in his eyes that said he was measuring Arbuckle for a shroud.
“Give Arbuckle the girl, and nothing more need be said about the matter. You may even continue your post at Lambeth.”
Michael said one prayer for patience, another prayer for forgiveness.
“To blazing, bedamnedhellwith your post at Lambeth, Helmsley. The Church, if not you yourself, knew Arbuckle ran through curates like water. He could barely tell one parishioner from another unless that parishioner was a wealthy, attractive widow, and the Church knew that too. A glance at his household expenses would have told you he could not keep female staff under his roof, though there, too, every candidate had to be young and comely. You knew what a disgrace he was, and you enabled his perfidy to continue for decades.”
Helmsley, who’d made a career out of behaving with probity at all times, glared at Michael.
“We cannot look over the shoulder of every vicar in every parish, Delancey. Hand over the girl, or Arbuckle will see you arrested.”
“And you embroiled in scandal,” Psyche muttered, rising from her pew, “along with your half-blind superiors.” She flourished a piece of paper at Helmsley. “Your precious vicar sends children to their death, molests females employed under his holy roof—half of whom were doubtless minors—and disports with grieving widows the better to pick their pockets. This sketch is just the beginning of what you’ll see in every shop window, bookstall, and newsstand if you do not leave Mr. Delancey and his children in peace. You will find your church engulfed in a plague of satire, a plague that reaches to Yorkshire and beyond.”
In moments, Psyche had re-created Dermot’s sketch. Some of the details were merely hinted at, but the general themes—venery, callousness, an imperiled child—were rendered vividly.
