Betsy leaned closer and lowered her voice, her gaze very direct. “Is the rest of it true? About the inheritance? Everyone says that you will inherit land. Land, Cassandra!”
She nodded in response. “It’s in the will, but I must prove my identity. That, I cannot do. Not without Mr. Longham’s statement and the documents he possessed. Besides, I have no funds to pay a solicitor to assist me in the courts now. I fear the cause might be lost.”
As the day’s activity began to fade, Mrs. Pearson took Rachel and the other young volunteers to the vicarage for tea. Betsy and Cassandra and the rest of the women were left at the church to finish organizing the donations. Over time the others dispersed, and before long Betsy and Cassandra were alone in the church’s nave.
A glance through the window confirmed the hour was growing late. It would be dark soon, and Briarton’s carriage was waiting for them. She looked over at Betsy, who was fiddling with her cloak. “Hurry, Betsy! I promised Mr. Warrington that Rachel would be home by nightfall.”
And yet Betsy tilted her head to the side and made no steps to the door. An impish grin curved her lips. “I’ve never been in here by myself before.”
“That’s because everyone else has gone and it’s time to go.”
Even in the dimly lit space, her mischievous expression twinkled. “Didn’t you say you were searching for birth records or something of the like?”
“Mr. North already said they weren’t here. He looked.”
“And you’re not the least bit curious to see for yourself? I never trust what anyone says. Not unless I see it myself.”
Uneasiness wound its way through Cassandra. “I think it’s best we leave.”
Betsy stood firm. “I’ve heard the parish chest is in there, in the vestry.”
The wooden door to the small office stood ajar.
She had to trust Mr. North, didn’t she? He was her friend. He would not knowingly lie to her.
But the last several weeks had taught her the danger of being naive, and her interest was piqued. If she’d been born at Briarton, as Mr. Longham and Mrs. Hutton had claimed, her name would be there, for she’d been told she was baptized, and that would be one step closer to proof of her identity.
In an intentional flick of her wrist, Betsy tipped a basket on the stone floor, and the apples rolled through the open door. “Oh bother. We should pick those up.”
Her friend’s intentions were clear. “Betsy, I—”
“I’m only picking up the apples. Help me.”
With a sigh Cassandra put her basket down as well and began to retrieve the apples that had rolled onto the floor. She paused at the door to the office and watched helplessly as Betsy stepped inside. Betsy motioned for Cassandra to join her.
Against her better judgment, Cassandra cast a glance over her shoulder and joined Betsy to look around the narrow space. A desk stood in the middle along with two chairs. A tall wardrobe was against the far wall, and on the far end stood the parish chest.
She’d never been in this part of the church before, but she knew right away that this was the office Mr. North had referenced upon their first meeting. This little room was frigid and dark, with naught but light from one narrow window to brighten the space.
No wonder he had not wanted to meet with people in here.
But someone had been in here recently. A half-burned candle sat atop the table. Papers were strewn over the desk haphazardly.
Betsy hurried to the parish chest and tried to lift it. But it didn’t budge. “Locked.”
“It is a sign we shouldn’t be here.” Cassandra gaped as Betsy started to rifle through the papers on the desk. “What are you doing? Put those down!”
“I’m only looking.” She moved to the drawer and opened it. Then another. “After all, if these were truly private, this door would have been locked.”
Cassandra pressed her lips together. She was about to reprimand her friend when shuffling could be heard. “Someone’s coming!”
“Ladies!” Mr. North’s voice echoed in the tall room. “What is happening here?”
“I dropped a basket of apples.” Betsy emerged from the room with a congenial laugh. “How clumsy of me. We’re to put them with the donations that came in, but they fell and rolled in here. Miss Hale was helping me retrieve them.”
“Ah. I am sure the poor will be most grateful to receive them. I was about to lock up, but—”
“We were just about to leave,” Cassandra said hastily. “Then I was going to head to the vicarage to collect Miss Warrington.”
“Ah, then I will join you. I was hoping to speak with you privately anyway. If you don’t mind?”
Cassandra nodded nervously.
“Very good,” added Betsy. “I’ll finish up here and see you by the vicarage then.”
* * *
Cassandra’s nerves tightened as she fell into step with Mr. North when they exited the church.
One sideways glance at him confirmed he seemed quite calm and unsuspecting of their snooping.
Even so, his customary good-natured smile was absent. His jaw clenched with unusual solemnity before he spoke. “I’ve battled my thoughts on this matter, but I cannot remain silent. So I’ll just say it. I had a most distressing encounter with Mr. Warrington last night at the Green Ox Inn.”
She stiffened as they drew to a stop on the path. She had not been aware that Mr. Warrington had gone to the inn last night. But why would she? “A distressing encounter with Mr. Warrington?”
“Yes. He seemed quite out of sorts. And bluntly, I’m concerned.” He turned to face her directly. “Men like him, with position and power, are used to having their way.”
Surprised at his grim opinion of Mr. Warrington, Cassandra studied Mr. North a little more closely.
He, too, seemed a bit out of sorts.
His thick hair, which was normally so tidy, was ruffled and windblown, and his cravat was uneven and hung slightly askew. A strange tension coiled around his mouth.
But as quickly as she made these observations, he continued, his words rushed. “Has he said anything or made any suggestions to you regarding your father’s will?”
Her shoulders tensed at the question. “Why?”
At this, he reached out, touched her arm, and then dropped his hand. “I hope by now you know I’m not a suspicious man, but you must keep one thing in mind. There is no one in the area who would benefit from owning Linderdale more than James Warrington. Personally, I know you to be good. Kind. Trusting. Be wary, my dear, dear Miss Hale. Be wary of who you trust. Men like him are clever and not what they seem.”
Her blood iced in her veins as the meaning behind his words sank in. She had no idea how to respond. She would never speak ill of Mr. Warrington. Why would Mr. North have reason to do so?
She needed clarity. “Are you accusing Mr. Warrington of being involved with Mr. Longham’s death?”
“No, nothing like that. I don’t think him involved at all. But I think he might take advantage of the situation.”
She could not let this go. “Then who do you think is involved in Mr. Longham’s death?”
“Unfortunately, I think the answer to that is very clear. I’d confess my thoughts on this to no one else besides you, but by now you know that Peter Clark is a volatile man. Normally I pay no heed to gossip, but then again, never have I felt that someone I cared for was in danger. His groom reportedly gave a very different account of that night than he or his wife did. Very different.”