Chapter Four #2
“Come up to the house and make a statement, so that we can get this unpleasantness sorted out.”
Kate’s skin began to prickle. A carriage bearing the Chadbon arms trotted past. Through the windows, she glimpsed His Lordship and Dr. Paxton.
“Certainly,” Rupert replied. “When would be convenient for you?”
“Why, now, if you have the time,” Remington said.
Kate held her breath, though she couldn’t quite grasp the cause of her anxiety.
Rupert shrugged. “Why not? I have a family to visit in that direction this afternoon—tenants of yours, I believe.”
“Hop in, then,” Remington said genially, opening the carriage door. “Lady Ambrose, forgive me for stealing your escort.”
Kate laughed, the slightly foolish one she had cultivated for her come-out that had never happened. “Not at all, sir! The matter is easily resolved.”
She thrust out her hand to Rupert, whose eyes began to dance, almost like the old Rupert of childhood. While Remington’s mouth opened and closed like a surprised fish’s, Rupert handed her up into the coach and leapt in after her.
Remington had to shuffle up the bench to make space for her, while Rupert lounged on the one opposite with his back to the horses. The magistrate was frowning—this clearly wasn’t the arrangement he had wanted—but he could think of no civil way to be rid of her.
The horses had already begun to pull forward when he said testily, “I’m sure Lady Chadbon will miss you.”
“Oh, not until teatime,” Kate said. She smiled brilliantly at him, and his eyes widened.
“Well, well,” he muttered, “I daresay my wife will be glad of the company.”
On the opposite bench, Rupert smiled sleepily, and yet his eyes still twinkled. If he sensed danger, he gave no sign of it.
Kate whiled away the journey in conversation with Mr. Remington.
“Have you always been the magistrate here, sir?”
“Since my father died. He was magistrate before me, and my grandfather before him. My family has always taken its public duties seriously. My grandfather even installed a prison cell in the basement of the house to keep the miscreants who appeared before him under lock and key. It’s still made use of occasionally—usually on a Saturday night, or market day. ”
“Does your wife not object to such creatures about the house?”
Remington smiled indulgently. “Bless you, no. They are kept quite separate from my family, who never even know they are there. And it saves the parish the expense of a gaol.”
“But what of serious crime? Like last night’s murder?”
Remington shifted his shoulder, unhappy to be reminded of that particular reality. “Then the accused would be bound over for the assizes and sent to the gaol in Maidstone pending his trial.”
“And this arrangement is convenient for you?” Ahead of them, on the open country road now, was another carriage. It took the left-hand fork in the road. So did Remington’s horses.
“Indeed,” the magistrate replied. A few moments of silence ensued.
Then, “Ah, here are the gates to Oak Manor. The posts have been there since the fifteenth century, you know. Not grand by Chadbon standards, perhaps, but the Remingtons were here even before they were, and not so long after the Carvers…”
In this case, Kate thought with alarm, Chadbon was ahead of him. She was sure that was His Lordship’s carriage she saw being walked out of sight around the side of the solid manor house, just as the magistrate’s vehicle drew to a halt at the front door.
An unliveried servant ran from the house to open the carriage door. The magistrate lumbered down the steps and gallantly gave his hand to Kate. When she had descended, he patted her hand and placed it on his arm.
She wanted to scream, “Run, Rupert!” But of course she couldn’t. And shouldn’t. She was his only protection, and just as she’d feared, it was Remington’s intention to banish her.
“Show Lady Ambrose up to Mrs. Remington in the drawing room,” he instructed the servant, “and have tea brought up…”
Kate’s stomach dived.
“Mrs. Remington isn’t at home, sir,” the servant said. “She and Miss Cora went to the market and to have tea at the vicarage.”
Remington scowled and flapped a hand, clearly flustered. “Drat the—”
“No matter,” Kate said brightly, tightening her grip on the magistrate’s arm. “I am just as happy in gentlemen’s company. I have grown used to it since my marriage.”
For an instant, Remington stood still, apparently undecided on what to do. Then some movement toward the darker back of the hall caught Kate’s attention. Lord Chadbon stood there among the shadows.
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.”