Lady Rights a Wrong Page 15

  “I saw her, you know,” Cora whispered. “Last night. Standing in the doorway. She wanted to tell me something, but she couldn’t. Then she just faded away.”

  Cora saw Mrs. Price’s ghost? Cecilia was startled, but before she could ask more about such an extraordinary sight, Cora’s eyes drifted shut and Nellie returned with the tea tray. Cecilia realized she needed to say goodbye to Anne and return to Danby before her mother became too angry. She paused at the top of the stairs, looking down at where Amelia Price had landed after her fatal fall. The space was narrow and dark, and the staircase itself was old and rickety. Could Cora really have stood here and watched her friend fall to her death? Then keep it a secret until today?

  When Cecilia made her way back to the high street, she saw that the crowd around the Crown and Shield had thinned out considerably. To her relief, she didn’t see her parents or their car anywhere, so hopefully they had long since returned home. She needed someplace quiet, where she could sit down and write some notes about what she’d learned at the inquest to tell Jane later.

  The Moffats’ tea shop looked rather busy as she peeked in the pink-draped window, and Mr. Hatcher’s bookshop was locked. Disappointed, she studied the street and decided to go back to the Crown. She’d never been there by herself, but it was 1912, not 1712. Surely, no one could be scandalized if she had a ginger beer and sat in the snug for a few minutes. It was a bit of a thumb in the eye to men who were afraid women would take over the pubs, men like Lord Elphin. And then she could try to find out if Georgie Guff had indeed spent the whole evening drinking unpaid-for pints.

  She marched across the street and into the pub, her head high with a boldness she didn’t quite feel yet. It was quiet after the inquest, with just a few customers whispering together over their ale. Mr. Perkins and his daughter Daisy were working behind the bar.

  “Lady Cecilia,” Daisy said in surprise. She was almost the same age as Cecilia, though she had been working at the pub for years, a pretty girl with lustrous brown hair and a shrewd gleam in her hazel eyes. “We thought you had all gone back to Danby.”

  “I had a few errands to run first,” Cecilia answered. “And I do find myself quite thirsty from all the excitement. Could I have a ginger beer, please?”

  “Of course, my lady,” Mr. Perkins said. “Maybe a sandwich as well? We have some nice tomatoes today, probably the last left of the season. Or Daisy could cook you up some fish.”

  Cecilia’s stomach rumbled at the suggestion, and she remembered she had been too nervous to eat much breakfast. “Thank you, a sandwich would be most welcome.”

  She found a quiet seat, half-hidden from the rest of the common room. She took her notebook and pencil from her handbag and tried to recall everything she would have to tell Jane. Cora’s confession, the ghost sighting, Mr. Guff and the ring . . .

  Daisy brought her drink and sandwich and arranged them on the table in a careful way Cecilia imagined the more regular customers didn’t always get. “Thank you very much, Miss Perkins, that looks lovely.”

  “Ma makes the bread herself, Lady Cecilia,” Daisy said. “It’s always very popular, fresh every day.”

  “I would imagine so. Do you run out of food quickly on busy evenings?”

  Daisy laughed. “Five minutes flat sometimes. I’m always run off my feet in the evenings.”

  “Do you remember, Daisy, if it was very busy on the night of the rally? The night Mrs. Price died?”

  Daisy frowned in thought. “It was, yes. Lord Elphin and his group had been in earlier; they’re always a handful. They never want to pay up all they owe at the end, and they do get handsy sometimes.”

  Cecilia cringed, imagining that rough crowd who pushed Mrs. Price on the Guildhall steps grabbing for her. “That sounds terribly unpleasant.”

  Daisy laughed. “I know how to slap them down quick enough. But it’s a nuisance when we have lots of customers to serve and not a moment to lose.”

  “Do you remember Mr. Guff here that night?”

  Daisy glanced back at her father, who was talking to a customer as he pulled a pint. “The one they say is a thief? The tall man who smells a bit skunkish?”

  “I think that would be him, yes.”

  “I do remember him early on, but it got so busy later I’m not sure. Dad might remember.”

  Cecilia recalled that Mr. Perkins had said Guff was indeed there, in the snug. But if it was busy, surely Mr. Perkins wouldn’t have noticed him from the bar? “Was your father here all evening, too?”

  “Oh yes. Nowhere else to go on nights like that. He did go down to the cellar for a while; there was a problem with one of the barrels. Ma pulled the pints then.”

  Cecilia wondered if Guff had left then. “Did you see anything strange at all? Maybe people you didn’t know coming in, or something on the street when you were closing?”

  “I went straight to bed when we closed, too tired to do anything else. I glanced out the windows upstairs, but everything was quiet. The only light I could see was above Mr. Hatcher’s shop, but he often stays up all hours.” She tapped her blunt fingernails on the table. “There was someone here that night, a toff sort. Tall, had a goatee. A fancy coat.”

  “Was his name Mr. Winter, by any chance?”

  “I’m not sure, but he did order an expensive port and still owes us for it, I think. Dad said he saw him at the inquest today.”

  “Daisy!” Mr. Perkins called out. “Those glasses won’t wash themselves, and Lady Cecilia needs to eat.”

  “Coming, Dad! Hold on to your horses, then,” Daisy shouted back to him. “Anything else I can get you, my lady?”

  “No, everything looks lovely, thank you.” As Daisy walked away, Cecilia considered what she had discovered. Georgie Guff had been at the Crown but could have left while Mr. Perkins was seeing to the barrels. And how did he get the ring? And the Winters were in the village on the fateful night. If Monty Winter was at the pub, then Mary was alone. Before or after they called on Mrs. Price? Then there was the letter Mary said she wrote to her mother, which didn’t correspond to the fragments left on the table at Primrose Cottage. Who had written it, then? And what was it about? As she ate her sandwich, she took her notebook and jotted down a few thoughts to share with Jane.

  The clock over the bar chimed, and Cecilia looked up, startled that so much time had already passed, over an hour. She would be missed at Danby soon, surely. She gulped down the last of the ginger beer, jotted one more idea before she tucked her notebook away, and rushed out of the pub, waving to Daisy. The high street was crowded at that hour, people finishing their shopping and hurrying home to start their tea.

  “Lady Cecilia!” someone called, and she turned to see Mr. Brown hurrying toward her. His brown, glossy hair was rumpled by the wind, as he took off his hat to keep it from blowing away, and he looked quite handsome that way. Less polished than he did in the pulpit, younger. He smiled and waved.

  “Mr. Brown,” she said. “How nice to see you again today. Are you on your way to evensong?”

  “Oh no, my curate has agreed to take the service today. I was invited to tea at Danby by your mother and just saw you walking past. Can I escort you home?”

  Was her mother matchmaking again? “Oh, I just had some errands here in the village I’m finishing up. I wouldn’t want to take up your time . . .”

  He shook his head, his smile widening. For the first time, Cecilia noticed he had rather an adorable dimple in his cheek when he did that. “Believe me, Lady Cecilia, it is hardly an onerous chore. A walk on a lovely autumn afternoon, now that the rain has cleared, is a treat.”

  Cecilia had to admit it would be nice to have the company on the walk home, with everything so uncertain in the village. “Then—thank you. It’s most kind.”

  They made their way out of the village, talking of the bazaar, of village matters, of books and music. Once out
on the mostly empty lane toward Danby, she relaxed a little more, free of the watching eyes looking at them strolling together, the gossipy interest she knew would follow and make its way to her mother.

  Mr. Brown, too, seemed easier with just the trees and hedgerows to watch them. He laughed more, talked more freely. They climbed the slope of a hill to study the landscape around them, the patchwork of dark stone walls and fields, the curl of smoke from chimneys in the distance.

  “How beautiful it is here,” he said as they paused to take in the view. “I never get used to it, no matter how long I’ve been here. It always catches me by surprise somehow.”

  Cecilia remembered the stir of excitement when he first came to St. Swithin’s. The previous vicar had been elderly, set in his ways. A new, handsome young man was something quite different, something to energize the village. And so he had, in his gentle way. “Where was your last parish, Mr. Brown?”

  “Not in a lovely place like Danby. I was in Manchester, quite in the city’s center near mills and factories.”

  “Manchester!” Cecilia exclaimed. “How interesting that must have been. We must seem terribly quiet and dull to you here. Just church bazaars and flower-arranging committees, things like that.”

  He laughed, and it made him look younger, more carefree. “I like the church here, and the people. My last place was a poor parish, and I did feel I was starting to do some good there. I was surprised when the transfer order came from the bishop. When I was at university, I imagined I might be a missionary one day.”

  “A missionary?” Cecilia tried to imagine him in the dust and the heat. She wondered if his viscount uncle put paid to that, sent him to a proper country living.

  “Doing good works in India or Africa. I was ridiculously idealistic, quite insufferable. When I didn’t want to be a missionary, I thought I would be a poet! Can you imagine? But good works must be done everywhere, and I am liking my place in Danby more and more every day.” He gave her a gentle smile. “And it hasn’t been so very quiet here lately, has it?”

  “Indeed not, I’m afraid.” Cecilia took his proffered arm, and they walked on. “May I ask you something, Mr. Brown?”

  “Of course, Lady Cecilia. Anything.”

  “Lying is quite wrong, I know.”

  He looked rather discomfited. “Er—yes, indeed.”

  “But what if it was meant to be kind, to—well, to save another person, in a way?”

  “I imagine that often a lie does begin in such a way. I do believe most people want to be kind, want to avoid injuring another’s feelings. Yet the lies almost always end badly.”

  Cecilia nodded. She thought of Cora and her protective instinct for Mrs. Price—and how that instinct might hinder finding the real culprit. “By inadvertently covering up something worse? Or accidentally protecting someone who doesn’t deserve our kindness?”

  “Considering that I don’t know the specifics of what you speak, I would rather tend to agree. Lies usually don’t end with the first one spoken, but pile in upon themselves. With unfortunate, unforeseen consequences. There’s a reason for that hoary old saying ‘honesty is the best policy.’ But I also think God sees the truth in our hearts and forgives our kindly meant mistakes.”

  “I do hope so, since I am quite sure we all make them.” They came to a low, crumbling stone wall, and he took her hand to help her climb over it. His touch was warm through their gloves, strong, and Cecilia felt a rather surprising little thrill at the feel of it. How extraordinary, she thought.

  His smile turned shy, and he ducked his head under the brim of his hat. “Things have seemed rather topsy-turvy here of late, with poor Mrs. Price and the inquest and all,” he said. “I hope you know I am always here to listen, if you need assistance with anything at all, Lady Cecilia.”

  “That is very kind, Mr. Brown. Thank you.”

  They turned through one of the side gates into Danby’s park and made their way along the pathway in silence, but it was a comfortable sort of silence, companionable. Cecilia found she quite enjoyed his steady, quiet presence next to her, his certainty in things she could never feel certain about herself. She still was rather doubtful she could make a good vicar’s wife, but if she had to marry a clergyman, she could certainly do far worse than the handsome, kind Mr. Brown.

  Redvers opened the door before they even reached the marble steps of the front portico. His expression was, as always, unreadable. “Lady Cecilia. Mr. Brown. Her ladyship is expecting you. Tea is being served in the White Drawing Room. I do hope you are still joining us, Mr. Brown? Mrs. Frazer sent up your favorite raspberry curd with the scones.”

  “How kind of her,” Mr. Brown exclaimed. “I do seldom get such treats in my bachelor rectory, Redvers.”

  Cecilia bit her lip. The White Drawing Room. They seldom used that grand chamber for family tea, preferring the cozier music room, or even the terrace on nice days. What was her mother planning now? “Thank you, Redvers, we will go there directly. You can join us as planned, Mr. Brown? I haven’t kept you too long from your duties?”

  “Not at all. I couldn’t miss Mrs. Frazer’s raspberry curd, could I?” he said with a flash of that dimpled grin.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was a somber group that set out from Danby to the memorial service at the Guildhall. The car was filled with silence as they jolted along the lane. Cecilia and Jane were joined by Bridget, who was allowed the afternoon off to go with her aunt, Mrs. Palmer, to the service. Their dark clothes matched the gray day outside, and even Jack stayed in his basket and was quiet, after his clamoring to go with them. Jesse, who sat up front with Collins, had also come along to assist them.

  The day seemed stage-set perfect for mourning, the sky low and heavy with rain, the air full of a strange, electric tension. Cecilia smoothed her black suede gloves and wished it was over and she was back home in front of the fire with a good book. On the other hand, this was possibly her last chance to see all the suspects in Mrs. Price’s death in one place.

  The village was quiet as they drove to the Guildhall, the shops blank behind their closed windows, only a few intrepid walkers on the rainy green. Cecilia knew many of the Union ladies had already left the village, but there were still several gathered on the Guildhall steps, handing out black-bordered copies of Mrs. Price’s eulogy. Their white dresses and purple, green, and gold sashes were bright against the dismal day, except for the black bands on their sleeves and their tear-streaked faces. Whatever Mrs. Price’s private shortcomings may have been, her inspiration would be so much missed.

  As Cecilia stepped from the car, she noticed a few people gathered on the walkway, watching the proceedings. One of them was Lord Elphin, who seemed strangely shrunken and gray. No disdainful laughter today. He held his hat in his hands, and she didn’t see any of his bullyboys backing him up, so hopefully he had come to make some peace.

  “Isn’t that the unpleasant fellow who was here on the night of the rally, my lady?” Jesse asked quietly.

  “Lord Elphin. Yes.” She remembered how he and his men had behaved on that night, when one of them shoved Mrs. Price and the anger ran high. “He seems quiet enough today, I think.”

  “He doesn’t have his gang to back him up,” Jesse said, watching Lord Elphin with narrowed eyes. “Do you think he had something to do with Mrs. Price’s death?”

  She had wondered the same thing, many times. Would such anger, such hatred at the thought of women living their own lives cause him or one of his ilk to lash out like that? “I don’t know. He certainly seemed furious that anyone not a landed, white male might demand rights. Perhaps he followed her back to Primrose Cottage to argue with her?”

  “Shall I talk to him, then? See what he says after a pint or two at the Crown?” Jesse asked. “I’m not landed, but I am a white male. Maybe if I hinted that I might share his views . . .”

  “How clever, Jesse! It�
��s quite true that he’d be sure to tell you things he would never tell someone like me.”

  Jesse nodded grimly, and strode off toward Lord Elphin, who watched him warily for a moment. But when Jesse spoke to him he finally nodded, and the two of them headed to the pub.

  “What is Jesse up to, my lady?” Jane asked, lifting up Jack’s basket in her arms. He peeked out with his bright-green eyes, as if studying the scene.

  “He’s going to buy Lord Elphin a pint and see what the old ruffian might have to say,” Cecilia answered. “Just as we have to find out what Mrs. Price’s family and coworkers might have to say.”

  Jane tilted her head as she studied the ladies in white arrayed on the steps. “So you don’t think she fell?”

  “I do think it rather unlikely. Where’s the torn scrap of her sash? How did her ring get into Guff’s possession, if he didn’t take it himself? And why would Cora make such a confession?”

  “To protect Mrs. Price’s reputation, surely,” Jane said. “Mrs. Price is a martyr for suffrage now; that’s what the newspaper said. If she was remembered as just a clumsy drunkard . . .”

  “Quite.” Cecilia remembered her conversation with Mr. Brown, about kindly meant lies. “I am sure Cora does want to protect Mrs. Price. But is Mrs. Price the only one she is protecting? Maybe Cora knows someone else did it and is covering up for them?” She shook her head in confusion.

  One of the ladies in the doorway rang a bell, a slow, mournful pattern, and Cecilia took Jane’s arm to turn toward the Guildhall, where Bridget was just going in with Mrs. Palmer. Mrs. Palmer looked rather pale in her dark gray suit, but dry-eyed, and Cecilia remembered the rumors that Mrs. Palmer was not entirely happy with how Mrs. Price ran the Union. Could she really want to take it over for herself? How far would she go to do that?

  Inside, all was hushed and solemn, except for one lady in white who played a long, slow, soft passage from the Mozart Requiem on her violin atop the dais. The platform was draped not in black, but in white with magnificent wreaths of white carnations and blue irises from Mr. Smithfield’s florist’s shop. Anne greeted guests at the head of the aisle, and she smiled as she saw Cecilia.