“Did she come here again yesterday, to sketch the church?”
The Reverend walked with his dirty hands held awkwardly out at his sides. “She did, yes. In the morning.”
“You saw her?”
“I did. When I was on my way to visit old Jeff Cook. He’s not well, I’m afraid.”
“What time did she finish? Do you know?”
“Sorry, no. She was gone by the time I returned.”
“And when was that?”
“About half past eleven, I should think.”
“Did you speak to her at all?”
“Yesterday morning, you mean? Only briefly. I believe I called out, ‘Lovely day now that the rain has cleared!’ and she looked up and smiled.” The Reverend shook his head and let loose another of his soulful sighs. “She was such a charming, polite young woman. Not at all forward or fast in the way one might expect, given the somewhat unorthodox nature of her reason for visiting the village.”
“Her sketching expedition, you mean?”
Underwood pulled a face. “Yes. Not the sort of thing I’d care to see one of my own daughters doing—if I had daughters, which unfortunately I do not.”
“Did she ever say anything to you about her family?”
The Reverend looked thoughtful. “Not that I recall, no. Although she may’ve said something to Mrs. Underwood.”
“Your wife spoke to her?”
“Oh, yes. She came to the vicarage for tea.”
“Did she happen to mention where in London she lived?”
“Was she from London? I don’t believe she ever said, actually. We mainly spoke of the village. She was most interested in the history of the place. It makes sense, I suppose, given her interest in our historic structures.”
Sebastian stared up at the heavy stonework of the church’s ancient Norman tower. “Did this used to be part of the old monastery?”
“Oh, no, St. Thomas’s has always been a simple parish church. What’s left of the old Benedictine priory lies to the west of the village, beside the stream that now feeds the millpond. It was quite a magnificent place in its time, and the ruins are well worth a visit, if you’ve the chance.” The Reverend hesitated. “You’re certain . . . I mean, you’re quite certain it’s murder?”
“I’m afraid so.”
The vicar sucked in a pained breath. “Well, for the sake of Emma Chance’s soul I must be grateful to know that she did not take her own life. But the realization that someone living amongst us—one of our own—killed her . . . Well, I can’t deny it’s disturbing. Most disturbing. Although I suppose it’s always possible she was killed by someone passing through?”
Sebastian doubted it, given the elaborate way Emma Chance’s body had been arranged to give the impression of suicide. But all he said was, “I suppose it’s possible.”
“Here we are,” said the vicar as they paused beside a weathered mausoleum engraved with the name BALDWYN. “It was the Baldwyns who built Maplethorpe Hall, to the east of the village. They died out toward the end the last century.”
Sebastian studied the lichen-covered, neglected tomb. According to the inscription, the last burial was of a middle-aged man, John Baldwyn, who died just three weeks after his wife, Alice, in 1788. Their daughter, Marie, had died six months earlier at the age of eighteen. Was it simple curiosity that had drawn Emma Chance to this tomb? Sebastian wondered. Or something more telling?
He glanced over at the vicar, who was now surreptitiously wiping his dirt-covered hands on a handkerchief. “Do you know an elderly woman named Heddie Kincaid?”
The vicar’s eyes widened slightly. “Yes, of course; she’s one of my parishioners. Although not,” he added ruefully, “as devout as one might wish.”
“Where does she live?”
“She has a cottage up the road from the Blue Boar—right before you come to the millstream and the footpath that leads to the priory ruins. She’s blind, you know—has been for years. Although until this spring I’d have said she was in fairly good health.”
“What happened in the spring?”
“Her grandson died down in London. He was something of a favorite with her, and his death hit her right hard.” The vicar tucked away his handkerchief. “Surely you don’t think Heddie could have something to do with this killing?”
“No, not at all. My interest in her is purely personal. I knew her grandson, and I’ve brought her something he wanted her to have.”
“Ah. Well, she’ll be glad to receive it, no doubt. She’s had a hard life, I’m afraid. Buried three husbands and a good half dozen children—not to mention a shocking number of grandchildren.” The vicar paused, his lower lip bunching and protruding as he stared thoughtfully at Sebastian. “You say you knew Jamie Knox?”
“Yes. Why?”
The vicar gave a nervous laugh. “I didn’t know him well myself, mind you—he took the King’s shilling as a lad not long after I was given the living here in Ayleswick. But . . .” He broke off and colored faintly.