“Well, not now, not at this moment, but the matter is there, beneath every conversation we ever have about him. Him or any single man of your acquaintance.” She spread her arms to indicate the loveliness all around them. “Look at this,” she said, waving a hand at the sparkling river, the trees drooping with blossom, the sky of Wedgwood blue, the handsome buildings of the Bishop’s Palace and the cathedral reflected in the water. “The world is full of just such beauty, Hecate. Full of things that make your spirits soar and your heart sing. Does John make your heart sing?”
“Oh, really, Clemmie, you are straying from the point. I didn’t ask you here to talk about John, or any other possible husband. Why must you always take our conversations in the same direction?” Hecate was about to say more, feeling the need to explain how her own opinion of John had altered, how their friendship was starting to deepen, how she had, in fact, begun to regard him as someone more than a friend, but something in her friend’s expression, some small change in the way she was looking into the distance, indeed the way that she was not entirely present, gave her pause. She stood up and peered at her more closely. “Clementine, has something happened?”
She grinned. “Not something, but someone!”
“You’ve met someone new?”
She nodded energetically. “He was at the ball, but I don’t suppose you even noticed him, with all that was going on. You were dancing with Phileas when I danced with him and then later, after you had left, we danced again. And much later, when Mama was occupied with seeing off the last of the guests, he and I took a turn about the rose gardens, and oh, Hecate, he is the most wonderful man!” she insisted, spinning around, arms akimbo, laughing.
“I have never seen you so … lit up. For pity’s sake tell me who he is.”
Clemmie grabbed both her hands and held them close. “His name is Wilhelm von Kessler and he’s the most handsome, most charming, most amusing man I’ve ever met.”
“Not English, then? Does your mother mind?”
“Of course not, he’s a count.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Everyone knows counts are two a penny in Austria but a title is a title and Papa is already planning hunting trips. Oh, Hecate, I’m in love!”
“And does Count…?”
“Von Kessler.”
“Does he feel the same way?”
“Yes! We got along famously almost at once. By the end of the evening I was certain. We spent Sunday together and by teatime he had declared his feelings to be the same! His poor father died last year, so he inherited the estate and the castle and everything, even though he is not yet thirty. He is only here visiting an uncle or we might never have met. And now we have, and he is perfection!”
Hecate had known Clementine all her life but had never seen her look more radiant, more beautiful. Was this what falling in love did to a person, she wondered. Was this transformation what everyone underwent when they found the right person?
“I am so happy for you,” she told her again, and meant it. “Now, will you send the carriage on Friday afternoon? Once I have been to Brockhampton and seen to the cathedral business, then I shall be free to hear more about your romance.”
“Very well, I shall do as you ask. As soon as you have done with your fusty old maps you can come to Holme Lacy and meet Wilhelm. Oh, I hope you will like him!”
“When he makes you so happy, how could I fail to?”
21
The morning of Mrs. Colwall’s funeral saw a marked drop in temperature, the sunny spring weather choosing that very day to falter. Instead of the sharp light of the previous weeks the sky was smudged with grubby clouds. Hecate had traveled the short distance to the village of Mordiford with John, as he was to officiate at the service. They made a somber pair sitting in the gig, he in his dark vicar’s robes, she in the black dress and matching bonnet kept for just such occasions. He had dropped her at the Colwalls’ cottage, where she was to meet Mrs. Tribbet and accompany her to the church. She found the sister of the deceased composed but weary from grief. Her small, neat form seemed even more petite and more frail enveloped in black.
“’Tis so good of you, Miss Cavendish, to make time for me.”
“I am pleased to be of use. With there being no other relative close by, well, we could not see you walk to the church unaccompanied now, could we?” she said, waiting while the elderly woman shut and locked the front door. They walked to the end of the garden path and stood at the gate to wait for the hearse. Hecate noticed one or two villagers emerging from their cottages. A funeral precession would always draw onlookers, most stepping out to pay their respects to a deceased neighbor, some eager for the social interaction such an event, however small, would offer. In this case, however, there was the added excitement of a murder in their midst. She fervently hoped there would not be obvious gawkers.
“There will be tongues wagging,” Mrs. Tribbet declared, as if knowing the direction Hecate’s thoughts must be taking. “And there will be those who disapprove of the way I have seen fit to do things.”
“She was your beloved sister. Decisions about her funeral were yours to make.”
The old woman took a lace handkerchief from her cuff and fretted with it. “But not to have had her at home…”
“Please, do not distress yourself.”
“I could not bring her back here,” she was at pains to explain. “I could not! After what had happened to her…” She turned to look at the charming little house, her expression showing that she saw only violence and sorrow there. “I shall be pleased never to set foot inside the place again, as soon as everything is done.”
“The Chapel of Rest at Mr. Ford’s funeral parlor has about it a dignity and modesty of which I am certain your sister would have approved. You have no cause to reproach yourself.”
The old woman straightened her shoulders and put away her handkerchief. “Well, she will go from her house to the church. I insisted upon that much at least,” she said, and as she spoke they could hear the sound of a carriage approaching.
The open wagon carrying the coffin was so plain it was more cart than hearse, but the pair of black horses pulling it sported plumes atop their bridles, and the driver and the undertaker were smartly turned out with tails and toppers. They halted at the cottage gate and the undertaker jumped down, removing his hat to bow low to the chief mourner. Mrs. Tribbet greeted him somberly and stepped forward to inspect the lilies on the casket. She reached out to make a minor adjustment to the flowers, though it was impossible to detect a difference in the arrangement afterward, and Hecate knew the poor woman had simply given in to the impulse to place her hand upon her sister one last time.
They presented a meager and pitiful cortege. The single carriage moved at a level pace so that the undertaker, cane in hand, could walk in front of it, and the two women could follow behind without unseemly haste. Neighbors came to their doors or gates, the men doffing their caps, the women signing the cross over their hearts or lobbing single flowers onto the coffin as it passed. Hecate was relieved to see they were sincere in paying their respects and knew this was a comfort to Mrs. Tribbet. Mordiford being a small village, they arrived at the church in no time at all. John was waiting for them at the lych-gate, prayer book in hand, his white cassock disturbed by the breeze that had got up. The verger, the sextant, and a local man, all in their cleanest black jackets, stepped in to join the undertaker as pallbearers and carried the coffin into the church.
Inside, Hecate was surprised to see quite a number of people. They filled at least half a dozen pews. Beside her, holding her arm, she felt the chief mourner grow and strengthen just the smallest bit, heartened by the turnout, as they followed John down the aisle and made their way to the front pew. Hecate nodded a quick greeting at Inspector Winter, and another at Dr. Francis. The service was short and simple. There were prayers and two hymns, both sung with sweetness, particularly “Abide with Me,” which provoked several among the congregation to tears. John spoke of Mrs. Colwall in a speech that fell short of being a eulogy, but gave thanks for her life and acknowledged the good she had done with it.
The service moved on to the burial. Mrs. Colwall was laid to rest in a quiet corner of the churchyard just beyond the shadow of the ancient yew tree. Hecate held tight to Mrs. Tribbet at the graveside, as the elderly woman seemed on the point of crumpling. John did not rush through the burial rites, but neither did he linger, sensing perhaps that the living were more in need of his care than the dead.
At last it was over. A large woman in a profusely beribboned hat declared herself to be a forgotten school friend of both sisters, and led Mrs. Tribbet back into the church where John had said he would find a glass of sherry in the vestry to revive them both. Hecate experienced a sense of relief at no longer having to be both physical and emotional support to the grieving woman. A calm presence beside her made her turn and she found Inspector Winter raising his bowler hat to her.
“Miss Cavendish,” he said slowly, his somewhat lugubrious manner for once perfectly fitting the setting and occasion. He replaced his hat on his head. “A good turnout, all things considered,” he observed.
Hecate nodded. “I doubt Mr. Colwall will be afforded the same level of respect.”
“I anticipate the congregation will make up in numbers what they lack in sincerity,” he said, referring to the fact that there were likely to be more gawkers and sensation seekers than friends or acquaintances.
She noticed a tall, well-dressed man in his middle years. He stood out as being cut from a different cloth to the rest of the gathering.
“Who is that? Do you know?”
“That is Desmond Thurston.”
“Sir Richard’s son?”
