Page 14 of Murder in Matrimony
Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, harbor the harborless. Amelia knew Mr. Penroy wasn’t thinking of the corporal works of mercy. He was thinking of his own ambitions, which had nothing to do with the poor or downtrodden. “Have the police shared any information about his death?”
“Only that it must have been a vagrant, perhaps one who followed him from Wapping. The poor box is gone.” He shook his head. “Money is the root of much evil.”
Easily said by someone who has money.
Still, it raised a question in her mind. If the vagrant lived in Wapping, it would have made more sense for him or her to kill Cross in that area, where crime ran rampant. The deed wouldn’t have been as noticed as it was in Mayfair. Then again, the poor box might not suffice in that neighborhood, or perhaps the church didn’t keep one. She’d never been to St. George-in-the-East and made a vow to go as soon as time allowed. First, however, she must secure the details of her sister’s wedding at this church.
“I pray the police find the criminal and bring him to justice, as I’m sure, do you.” She glanced around the nave. “Until then, I’d hoped to speak with the curate. He has the details about my sister’s ceremony, which I hope may still proceed.”
“It is best you speak to me since I am to be the new vicar.”Even though the promotion had come by violent means, Mr. Penroy was pleased with his new position. His lips turned up at the statement in a way they never did.
She forced herself to remain calm. Mr. Penroy was too severe to be a vicar—too everything, for her taste. He had been an assistant priest for a short while, yet he acted as if he had the life experiences to run the church. Certainly he had the will and motivation, but in Amelia’s opinion, it took more than willpower to make a positive change. “My sister’s wedding—”
“Shall be performed by me,” Mr. Penroy finished.
“Oh.” Amelia swallowed her disappointment and tried a smile. “Right, of course.”
“I understand your sister and Captain Fitz were swift in their decision to marry.” He tsked. “So many young people today make promises with little thought of the consequences.” He said this as if he wasn’t young himself, and the notion was ridiculous to Amelia. “Which is why I’d like to spend some time with the couple before the wedding, if I may. To be certain they are ready to commit to one another.”
“My sister is preparing with my family in Somerset. She will not be back until the week of the wedding.” She tried to keep the incredulity out of her voice. The idea of Mr. Penroy knowing whether a young couple could commit to one another, the wedding hanging on his word, was absurd.
“A few hours will suffice.”
Amelia blinked. A few hours with Penroy would not end in a happy ceremony, but what was she to do? He wasn’t exactly asking. He was telling her what must happen for the wedding to take place.But Madge and Mr. Penroy together for hours of reflection? God help me. It was truly in the Almighty’s hands now. “I will inform her and Captain Fitz of your request.”
“Let us make the arrangements while you are here.” He stepped toward the vicarage, and she followed. “It will be one less task for the happy couple later, and as you said, she will be in Somerset until the wedding.”
One good thing would come of the demand, and that was Amelia’s entrance into the vicarage. She could use theopportunity to inspect for clues to Mr. Cross’s murder. The Metropolitan Police had decided upon the crime and criminal, and when they did, they forewent other possibilities. But Amelia hadn’t. From the start, the location of Mr. Cross’s murder hadn’t made sense to her. Now she would have a firsthand look at the scene of the crime.
Mr. Dougal stood in the vestibule doorway, staring at nothing. His mind was somewhere else, perhaps on Mr. Cross, and he did not notice their approach. When Mr. Penroy said his name, he jerked his head. “Oh! I am sorry. Excuse me. It’s Mrs., or rather, Lady Amesbury.”
Amelia greeted him warmly, understanding his earlier statement about fumbling his words. When distraught, it might be easily done by anyone.
Mr. Penroy showed him no similar sympathy. He scowled, his nose seeming to grow longer. “We have no time for woolgathering, Dougal. I need Mr. Cross’s schedule. We are behind already.”
“Behind?” Mr. Dougal asked.
“Behind, yes.” Mr. Penroy’s voice was clipped, and the last word came out like a hiss. “We have a funeral and wedding to host, not to mention myriad tasks to complete that Cross deferred in favor of his Society for the Greater Good.”
“Right.” Mr. Dougal cast a furtive glance in Amelia’s direction. “Of course. The schedule. It’s in his office. On his desk.” He took a step in that direction, and they followed.
Not only was Mr. Cross’s office open, but it was in use. Mr. Penroy breezed inside as if he’d used it for two years instead of two days. He’d assumed Mr. Cross’s role, and, although Amelia shouldn’t, she had to wonder if it was by design.
Mr. Penroy had profited a position from Cross’s death, and while Cross’s belongings remained intact, a new stiffness permeated the room, a stiffness named Penroy. He owned these things now, possessed them. He perched on Cross’s old chair as if he didn’t want to soil his trousers, touching the papers in front of him lightly with his fingertips. “I have a great deal to sort out here, in due time. There has been no time to speak of yet. Cross was focused on making a name for himself inthe East End and let matters lapse here.” He thumbed a few errant papers. “Dougal, where is the calendar?”
Mr. Dougal opened and shut his mouth like a fish. “I suppose it might be, it could be, in the parish.”
Mr. Penroy stood up, a stern look on his face, and Amelia had the idea Mr. Dougal was about to be scolded. “One moment, if you please.”
Amelia nodded, biting her tongue. She wanted to defend Mr. Dougal, but their absence would give her the opportunity to peruse Mr. Cross’s desk. A moment might be all she needed to gain a clue from the night of his death.
When it was silent, she glanced over her shoulder at the door, then back to Mr. Cross’s desk. The smattering of papers closest to her concerned the Society for the Greater Good. Seven priests, according to the names on the paperwork, had pledged to help the poor and displaced not only in Wapping but in other poor areas of London. They convened every month at St. George-in-the-East.
A pen, a paperweight, a prayer request for a parishioner. A tin of his favorite treats. Amelia saw nothing of consequence. Her eyes lifted from the desk, to where the clock had once graced the mantel. Now an empty space met her glance. She perused the rest of the fireplace for clues to the altercation. Near the hearth was a statue. She rose and went to it, bending down to examine the nameplate. St. Anthony of Padua, the patron of the poor. It didn’t surprise her that he kept it in his office. His work, his passion, involved the poor. She examined the fireplace box, littered with ash, checking the stone for stains, but she saw no blood or other marks that revealed clues to Mr. Cross’s murder. If she didn’t know the story, she would have assumed the clock fell to the floor and had been taken away for repair. If only that had been the case …
“Lady Amesbury, what are you doing?”
She glanced at the door.
