Page 53 of Murder in Matrimony
“You have your own belongings to consider, which I assume will be transferred to the vicarage in time.” Amelia selected the chair across from Mr. Penroy, and Simon took the one next to her.
“I moved in my personal belongings immediately.” He pulled open a desk drawer. “This is my home now. I must make it so.”
Amelia had noticed. Although the books hadn’t been touched, the desk was cleared, and Mr. Cross’s favorite tins and particular prayer requests were removed. His newspapers were also gone, including the serial stories he followed so passionately. She glanced at the box of the fireplace, where ashes littered the floor. Thankfully it hadn’t been cleaned.
“I am of the same mind.” Oliver was still scanning the bookshelf. “I cannot feel comfortable without my things. Books, primarily. I especially enjoy a good novel. Have you readTheMill on the Floss? It came out in April in threevolumes.” He pulled out one of the deep copper-colored volumes from the shelf.
Mr. Penroy’s lip curled, showing his distaste for the comment. “I have no preference for sensational novels. That was Mr. Cross’s area of indulgence, not mine.”
Amelia remembered the fact with a smile. “He said if he didn’t read for pleasure, he wouldn’t be able to survive his line of work. He was fond of saying reality must be balanced with a healthy dose of fiction. It inspired him.”
“If I am in need of inspiration, I turn to the Bible.” Mr. Penroy said it as if it was the only thing one could do. “I cannot understand why the vicar would need any other book to occupy his time.”
Amelia could think of several reasons but kept them to herself. Oliver was a bookworm and must have a reason for bringing up the work by George Eliot, so she encouraged the conversation. “I myself enjoy many types of fiction by various authors.”
“I know you do,” Oliver added. “Dickens is one of your favorites, and I wonder if he was one of Mr. Cross’s as well from this collection of his work.”
“He was. He followed several of Dickens’s serials religiously.”
Mr. Penroy hiked a brow.
“Excuse me, not religiously,” Amelia corrected. “Regularly.” It was one of the reasons she’d felt comfortable telling him about her secret pseudonym. He did not frown on penny weeklies or any magazine people read and enjoyed. “Life is a cornucopia of choices, Lady Amesbury,” he used to say. “That kind of bounty is godsent.” And oh, how she believed it, too. Her letters were as abundant as stars in the sky, each one with its own voice. She didn’t have to like every one to know she was glad they existed.
“Books are expensive, and I do not believe in squandering money,” said Mr. Penroy.
Amelia thought no money could be squandered on a book. Even if she didn’t enjoy it, she usually learned something from it, and from that itself she gained enjoyment. But Mr. Penroy was correct about cost. Although the price of books hadreduced dramatically over the course of time, they could still be expensive, which is one of the reasons Mr. Cross cherished the books he did have, rereading them many times over. In fact, she was surprised at the new book on the shelf.
“Some people think of books as an investment.” Simon’s tone relayed his belief in the statement. “They think books give you something more precious than money in return.”
“I am not one of those people.” Mr. Penroy glanced at his timepiece. “Now to the registry.” He smoothed the paper on his desk. “If we may?”
Though it was a question, Amelia understood they had no option of declining. He covered the registry briefly, and when he was finished, Kitty was there with the curate, who looked fatigued. Amelia imagined that Kitty had him circling the church like a dog after his tail.
“Thank you, Mr. Dougal,” said Kitty. “You have been entirely helpful.”
“It was my pleasure.” Mr. Dougal was audibly winded, and his cheeks were as flushed as the roots of his ginger-colored hair. He was a man who did his due diligence, however, and none could accuse him of shirking his duties.
Simon and Amelia thanked Mr. Penroy, and Kitty and Oliver did likewise. After another round of thank yous to the curate, they were gone and only waited to be seated in the carriage before asking Oliver for the results of his subterfuge.
Amelia had rarely seen Oliver so pleased. He was a distracted man with attention for only a book or his wife. Rarely did he draw attention to himself and could disappear from a party—most likely to glance at a library—without anyone noticing his departure.
But now, he smiled at their rapt attention, and Amelia thought he even delayed the telling of events to savor the moment, his efforts, or the information.
“Well?” Kitty pressed. “Did you find anything of importance?”
Still smiling, Oliver said, “You heard me mention the book titledTheMill on the Floss?”
Kitty waved away the comment. “This is not the time for one of your book reports. Lady Amesbury and Lord Bainbridge need to know what was found.”
“Itiswhat I found. Three new books among very old tomes. It must be important.”
Kitty tapped his knee. “But the fireplace, Mr. Hamsted.”
Oliver pulled a singed scrap of paper out of his coat pocket. “A handwritten note. I can make out the wordour.”
Simon, Amelia, and Kitty leaned closer, and Amelia could indeed make out the word also. “It’s Cross’s handwriting. But what does it mean?”
“It could be a reference to the church,” Simon put in.
