Page 21 of The Case of the Curate

She was right. This was an ambush.

Chadbon stepped farther into the light. “Ah, there are you are, Remington! Paxton and I came up to discuss the inquest. But I see we have ladies present.”

“Oh, I was at the inquest, too,” Kate said. “You needn’t mind me. To help in my husband’s work, I inure myself to subjects some ladies find unfitting or distressing.”

Chadbon smiled. “Your presence is always welcome, Lady Ambrose. And, of course, you are aware of what occurred last night.”

“Well, well, let us go in and be comfortable,” Remington said.

She dared not glance at Rupert, who sauntered along beside them down the hall and into a good-sized room that was furnished as a comfortable study, with an imposing desk in the center.

This must be where he conducts his business as magistrate. This is not good… Or was she making too much of a casual visit? He had asked Rupert to make a formal statement for his inquiries, so this was a natural place for it to be done. Dr. Paxton, who sprang to his feet from a comfortable chair by the fireplace, was no doubt here for the same reason. And Chadbon, of course, had an interest in the proceedings.

“Sit down, sit down,” Remington said genially. “Tea, Lady Ambrose? Brandy, gentlemen? Wretched inquests are thirsty work, what?”

Kate accepted the offer of tea, in the hope of binding the magistrate up in the rules of hospitality. Rupert took a glass of brandy from his host—it looked a very generous one, though Kate doubted it would go to his head. He had been pilfering brandy from his father’s decanters since he was fourteen and, according to Amelia, had a notoriously hard head among the rakehells of London.

He certainly lounged quite at his ease on the hard chair by the side of the desk. Glass in hand, windswept hair falling forward over his forehead, with his lazy smile and knowing eyes, he looked more like a spoiled, debauched youth than a poor clergyman.

That isn’t good, either.

“Just a few questions, Grande, before I ask you to write it all down,” Remington said easily. “How well did you know the dead girl?”

“Not as well as I should.”

Remington leaned forward. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean I never suspected she was in such danger.”

Remington grunted and sat back again. “Did she go to church?”

“I never saw her there. But then, I have only conducted two Sunday services at St. Swithin’s.”

“Then how did you meet her? How did you make your assig—appointment with her?”

“She spoke to me when I called at the court on church business earlier in the week.”

“And that was the first time you met her?”

“Not exactly.”

“So you admit you met her in Chadleigh last week and walked through the town with her?”

Oh Rupert, you idiot, what have you done?

“It’s not a matter of admission,” Rupert said easily. “But certainly, I met her in the square and walked with her a short distance. It was her half day and I was on my way to visit the blacksmith.”

“My constables asked around the market,” Remington said, “and your meeting with the maid was noted by several people.”

“It’s a small town,” Rupert said, as though excusing the gossips.

“It was their impression that you and she already knew each other. That your greeting was one of old friends.”

Rupert smiled and sipped his brandy.

“Well?” Remington barked into the silence. “Were you?”

“Was I what?” Rupert asked. “An old friend of Dinah’s? I’d met her before, yes. In London last year.”