Page 9 of Murder in Matrimony
Mr. Dougal nodded, perhaps relieved to clear up the misunderstanding. “I understand your question, but maybe the thief left through the vicarage. Maybe Mr. Cross caught him fleeing.”
Amelia agreed it was a possibility. “The police know the time of death?”
Mr. Dougal nodded. “The clock read ten minutes to ten. Mr. Cross lay there until this morning, when I found him, and called for the constable.” He choked on the saliva lodged in his throat. “I cannot get the image from my mind. I think it will be there always.”
Amelia understood. Death was the most ordinary thing inthe world until it entered one’s sphere. Then it was extraordinarily cruel and unkind, offensive even. And surely never forgotten. “When was the last time you saw him, before this morning?”
“Yesterday, before I left, around five o’clock. He had a late tea and returned, planning to work into the night.” His forehead creased with consternation. “It’s why I am here. I almost forgot.” He pulled an envelope out of his great coat pocket. The coat was tight and ill-fitting, and the envelope was badly wrinkled. “He asked me to make sure you received this. Not to send it in the post.”
On the envelope, Amelia recognized her name in Mr. Cross’s excellent penmanship, the loop of the L in Lady distinct in its perfection. Her fingertips lingered over the ink, a message from a friend now gone.
Mr. Dougal stared at the envelope. “I assume it has something to do with your sister’s wedding …”
Amelia turned it over, slipping a finger under the seal. She glanced up at the curious sets of eyes upon her, then opened it.
She expected a letter, some sort of explanation of what had happened. A priest would portend his own death. He would know what was about to happen and why. Somehow, he would make sense of it for her. But it wasn’t a letter; it was a newspaper clipping that appeared to have nothing to do with him. A notice from the Accidents and Offenses column told of a young woman, Rose Rothschild, who had a fatal and lamentable accident, falling from a ladder to her death at the Baker Biscuit Factory. A verdict of accidental death had been given at inquest and the girl’s death mourned by the people who loved her.
Amelia turned over the clipping, frustrated. There was nothing of value on the other side. No writing, no address, no secret message. What use was it to her? What was she to do with it? She knew nothing of biscuit factories, let alone the girl. Why had he left it for her? And why had he given it to Mr. Dougal to deliver instead of giving it to her himself? They’d met only yesterday. He could have given it to her then.
“What is it?” Simon finally asked.
“How should I know?” Amelia snapped, frustrated. “I have no idea what it means. Do you?” She directed the question at Mr. Dougal.
Mr. Dougal leaned over to look at the paper clipping. “I do not know the name Rothschild, but the society met at St. George-in-the-East. It might be near the factory. For whatever reason, the church was a favorite of his. The members had no respect for him or what he was trying to accomplish. One week, they put tacks on his kneelers. The next week, he asked to be transferred there.” Mr. Dougal shrugged. “He could not be deterred.”
Amelia imagined the clipping had something to do with his work in the East End. She returned it to the envelope. Why give it to her though? Perhaps he wanted her to investigate the girl’s death. He, like Amelia, was always on the alert for employers with bad behaviors.
It was just like him for his last concern to be for someone else and not himself. The longer she considered the missive, the angrier she felt. She had wanted an explanation of last night’s events. What she received was a newspaper clipping that, while sad, was an ordinary occurrence in London. This girl meant nothing to her, and he’d meant so much.
She sat staring at the envelope, willing it to take on a new meaning. For the letters to rearrange themselves into a secret message, one that would make sense of the senseless act of murder. But nothing changed except the sadness she felt, seeping from her heart to the rest of her body. It took hold and began to make her numb to her surroundings.
Simon must have understood, for he interceded in her lapse of conversation. “Did Cross have any unexpected visitors yesterday? Do any conversations stand out as peculiar?”
“He had a busy morning, but that was not unusual. Lady Amesbury and her sister’s wedding was at the forefront of his mind. He wanted it to go as smoothly as possible.” Mr. Dougal lifted his chin in Amelia’s direction. “He said my lady had enough to deal with and to come to him with questions. He called it an opportunity for me to learn.” He smiled, his gaze trailing to the window. “He had great faith in me, more faith,perhaps, than I deserve.” He sniffed. “I’m not a gifted orator, and I often fumble my words or their meaning. No one wants a preacher who cannot give a decent sermon.”
“I’m sure you can,” Kitty put in enthusiastically. “I can tell that from talking to you.”
“Thank you.” He smiled. “But I’m a buffoon in front of a congregation.”
Simon gently cleared his throat. “I take it you can recall no specific conversations then.”
“No …” Mr. Dougal frowned. “There is one thing. It may be nothing, but I did note it. He had an appointment with someone after hours. It was the reason he dined early.”
“Do you know whom the appointment was with?” asked Kitty with new enthusiasm.
“I’m afraid not. He didn’t say.” Mr. Dougal’s face was open and honest and reflected exactly what he was thinking. He looked as if he regretted mentioning the occurrence. The room was too eager for details that might be irrelevant. “As I say, it might not be important.”
“Or it might be very important,” Amelia countered. “It might have been the last appointment Mr. Cross kept.”
Mr. Dougal’s breath hitched.
“Do you know if the appointment was with a man or a woman?” pressed Amelia.
Mr. Dougal sat silent for a moment, trying to recall the information. “A man,” he finally revealed. “He referred to the person ashe, but as I said, Lady Amesbury, Mr. Cross gave himself to the church wholeheartedly. He met with persons at all hours of the day. If they needed him, he was there. He did not keep usual hours.”
The appointment might not have anything to do with Mr. Cross’s demise; still, the meeting was too clandestine for Amelia’s taste. The curate seemed to know everything that happened in the church, but he had no information on the appointment, the reason, or the man. Those details themselves made the appointment noteworthy, and she determined to find out the man’s name inside that office. He might have information about Mr. Cross’s last moments on earth.
When no one spoke for several seconds, Simon filled the silence with an appreciative nod. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Dougal. I’m sorry about Mr. Cross, truly sorry.”
