The Swordmaster's Mistress: Dangerous Deceptions Book Two(50)
The vicar made a vague gesture with a thin, blue-veined hand. ‘May I be of assistance to you?’
‘Can you tell me the source of the quotation on this stone?’
The old man fumbled in his pocket and produced a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles which he balanced precariously on the end of his nose. ‘Ah yes. A strange choice and incorrect, but the stone mason was adamant that was what had been ordered. It is an inaccurate quotation of part of Genesis, chapter four, verse ten, taken out of context.’
‘Thank you, sir. Who paid for the stone to be erected?’
‘I do not know that.’ The vicar took off his spectacles, dropped them and almost trod on them as he searched. ‘Thank you, sir, you would not believe how many lenses I lose.’ He took them from Jared and absent-mindedly put them back on. ‘The stone mason told me that he received a letter with the instructions and a very adequate payment for what was required. It replaced the wooden cross with a small brass plaque with the name that Lord Northam had requested.’
‘Given that Francis Willoughby died in an accident, does the wording not strike you as strange, sir?’
‘Strange? Killed, you mean? Yes, if I had been consulted I would have advised against it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Jared took a bank note from his pocket book. ‘For the poor box.’
He strode away through the graveyard with the vicar’s thanks faint behind him and this new information turning and twisting in his brain. Willoughby had a sister who had paid for his gravestone, who considered him to have been killed and to whom his blood cried for revenge. Now all he had to do was find her and he would surely have the twisted mind behind the attacks on Guinevere. Easier said than done from a remote village, unless Allerton Grange had a library with a copy of the Landed Gentry in it. And that assumed the Willoughbys had land enough to be included.
He would send a letter to Dover, put him on the task and hope that he would write soon with what he had gathered on Theo. A fine scandal that was going to make if it turned out that he had murdered his own uncle for the title, but somehow he couldn’t believe it. Nor could he see any reason for Willoughby’s vengeful sister Elizabeth to want to murder Northam. Unless she saw him as saving Guinevere from the gallows and thus deserving of punishment as well…
Jared untied the horse and walked across the green to the inn. It was a substantial building, very plain, and probably sixty or seventy years old. Its one claim to any distinction was the window that rose almost the full height of the west gable and was clearly intended to light the staircase, for the horizontal line of each landing was visible through the glass. Such showpiece windows were a speciality of the area and Whitby had several houses with them, his aunt’s for one.
The landlord, Mr Grantham according to the sign over the door, was more than ready to discuss the Dreadful Occurrence, as he repeatedly called Willoughby’s death. He seemed to feel it gave his inn some distinction, being the site of such a dramatic event, resulting in the intercession of none other than the Viscount Northam.
‘He who has bought Allerton Grange now, which is a good thing for the village,’ he confided as he drew a pint of ale for Jared. The story spilled out fluently, obviously a regular tale to entertain customers. ‘Those Quentens who used to live there never had any money, not that they spent hereabouts, that’s for certain sure. Kept themselves to themselves they did and they were always late paying their bills.’ Grantham mopped the bar down with a cloth, stuck it back under his belt and leant on the worn oak. ‘Lord Northam’s a distant relative of theirs from what I hear, but not like them at all.’
It seemed that the news of the murder had not yet reached these parts and Jared did not want to divert the landlord by telling him. He drank some ale and made appreciative noises. ‘Good ale. Your own brew?’
‘Aye, sir. It is that. I win prizes at Scarborough Fair with that, most years. Are you from around these parts, sir? Only there’s something familiar about you, if you don’t mind me mentioning it.’
‘This village is new to me,’ Jared said easily. Any kind of evasiveness would only arouse suspicion. ‘My mother’s mother was from round about here somewhere – perhaps I’ve some distant relatives. It’s strange how resemblances pass down.’
‘It’s just the colouring. And your profile, sir. Can’t quite put my finger on it.’ The man shrugged. ‘Would you like to have a look at the scene of the Dreadful Occurrence, seeing how you are interested?’
So I have to dye my hair and get my nose broken to ensure anonymity, do I? Jared thought with an inward curse and a smile and a nod for the innkeeper. I’m damned if I will. I like my nose just the way it is. ‘I would indeed. I imagine it is quite a talking point around here. No doubt the poor gentleman’s family all came to the funeral.’
He knew they hadn’t, but it was a useful prompt for Grantham to say if he knew the Willoughbys. ‘No sign of them, sir. Not a local family, I suppose, or there’s none of them living. Though Mr Willoughby who died, there was something about him that rang a bell with me.’ He shrugged as he began to climb the stairs, the great expanse of glass making the best of the late afternoon light and sending their shadows spilling across the walls.
‘The wife would say I’m getting fanciful – first you, sir, and then Mr Willoughby looking familiar. Here we are. That’s the window he fell from and that’s the room he and his lady were staying in, just next door. Coroner’s jury decided he got fuddled with drink and fell through, right down to the pavers below. Nasty mess it made of his head, sir. A very nasty mess what with the brains and all. We covered him up, soon as we found him, didn’t want his lady seeing that. Doctor tidied him up a bit before she identified him.’