James stood from his chair. “Miss Hale, perhaps you should tell him what Mrs. Kent told you.”
Cassandra turned to face the magistrate. “Mrs. Kent confided that Mr. North’s uncle was the vicar before him, and Mr. North took over the office when he died. My mother told me that the vicar who had baptized me was named Edward Stricklin—the same vicar who had once loaned my father a great sum of money and who was named in the will. These men are related, Mr. Shepard. Mr. North is Mr. Stricklin’s nephew.”
Shepard rubbed his chin. “Yes, I’d forgotten that the vicars had been family.”
“I think Mr. North knew about the will and stands to gain if Miss Hale doesn’t inherit, so he is the one who tore the page from the record but did not destroy it in case he needed it at a later date. I also think he knew that Longham had paperwork to support Miss Hale’s claims and would do anything to keep it quiet.”
“Even kill the man?” prompted Shepard.
James leaned forward with his fists against the desktop and fixed his gaze on Shepard. “The land in question is very valuable. It depends on how far he would go to possess it.”
Shepard crossed the room and pushed the door to the Tobacco Chamber open once more and peered inside. He shuffled through some papers and opened a trunk, then turned again to James. “You do realize what you are saying, Warrington? What you’re accusing him of?”
James set his lips firmly before speaking. “He knows more than he’s letting on, Shepard. We need to find out what that is.”
“Very well.” The magistrate placed his empty glass on the table. “I think I’ll go have a little chat with North.”
“I’ll go with you.” James stepped around from behind the desk.
“And I should go as well,” Cassandra chimed in.
Both men looked to her as if they had almost forgotten she was there.
“What?” She jutted her chin upward. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
Mr. Shepard guffawed. “This is no task for a woman.”
“But it involved me.” She skirted the chair and drew closer. “I can offer assistance. I’ve talked with Mr. North since the day I arrived, and I—”
“Absolutely not.” Shepard jammed his beaver hat atop his auburn head. “Warrington? You coming?” Without waiting for a response from either of them, Shepard stomped out of the room, leaving them alone.
“I want to go,” she whispered, rushing toward him, her golden eyes determined and pleading.
James reached forward and squeezed her hand. “It’s best if you stay here. Let me do this for you. It will be easier if I know you are safe.”
He squeezed her hand once more, and then he followed the magistrate outside into the night.
* * *
A heavy early winter mist cloaked the forests of Briarton Park as James and Shepard made their way to the vicarage. The hour was late—not a single soul traversed the bridge or trod the high street. Even the Green Ox Inn seemed deserted. The occasional whip of wind through the tree branches or an owl’s bereft cry would pierce the eerie silence, but otherwise, all was still.
Their steps slowed as the vicarage came into view. Firelight flickered from behind drawn curtains. Even in the night’s darkness, smoke ascended from the chimney.
Once at the front door, Shepard lifted his heavy gloved hand and pounded it against the wooden door.
After several seconds, no response came.
Shepard knocked again. He waited for several seconds and then jiggled the brass knob.
It was locked.
Shepard motioned for James to follow him on the path leading to the kitchen entrance. When another knock went unanswered, Shepard tried the door, and it swung open freely. Inside, a fire simmered in the grate, and candles lit the space. “North!” he bellowed. “You here?”
They waited in silence, but nothing moved until a large brown cat sauntered through the kitchen, taking no notice of them.
“Mrs. Pearson?” called James.
And again, no response.
“Come on,” Shepard instructed.
James followed in through the kitchen to the parlor. Something was untoward about the state of this house. Too many candles burned. Too many items were casually scattered about in hapless abandon. It appeared that someone had been here quite recently. Or possibly was here still.
They continued through the empty parlor and through the empty dining room until they reached a space that had to be his study. It, too, was lit by candlelight, and yet there was no sign of anyone at home.
North’s modest study consisted of a small desk and a narrow wardrobe chest, two crowded bookshelves, and a chest under the window. The clock on the mantel ticked away the seconds, the minutes, as the men shuffled through letters and books, drawers and chests, shelves and stacks.
They were about to give up their search when Shepard’s foot caught on the rug. It slid aside, revealing a mismatched section of the wood floor. He kicked the rug aside and leaned down to touch the disparate floorboard. It lifted out, revealing a small hole brimming with letters and a few small boxes.
“Ha, ha! What have we here?” Shepard lifted the bound letters by the ribbon securing them and handed the stack to James. “Start reading.”
James untied the letters and opened one.
“They’re from an Alice Stricklin. Sound familiar?”
“That was his aunt, the late vicar’s wife, if I recall. Here, hand me some.”
Together they skimmed the letters, until something gave James reason to pause.
“Look.” He held out the letter so Shepard could see it and pointed to the lines that caught his eye. “Read here.”
Don’t forget. You must act quickly. You must hold her at bay for the full three years. After that, the land will be yours, and it can be sold. You—we—will be very wealthy, my boy. But keep a keen eye out. Situations like this can change very quickly.
Shepard took the letter and lowered it. “I’d say your suspicion was right.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t tie him to Longham’s murder.”
“But it is suspicious enough for me to bring him in, and I’m the magistrate.”
James handed the remaining letters over to Shepard. “Strange that these candles are lit and no one is home. Do you think he knows we’re here?”
“Perhaps he ran off when he saw us. He’s not a foolish man. No, it seems he’s quite clever. Tricked us all, eh?” Shepard tucked the letters into his coat. “I’m taking these to read further, and I’m going to the Green Ox Inn. Someone there is bound to have seen him, and I’ll fetch the constable to assist. You go home and let me know if you hear anything. But I’d be careful if I were you. If our suspicions are right, this man is willing to murder to keep his secrets. Best keep an eye out.”
Chapter 42
In her heart Cassandra now knew that Mr. North had to be behind this.
How gullible she’d been!
All of the signs pointed to it—all of the subtle hints he’d fed her. He clearly did not care for her as he had projected. He was keeping an eye on her, determined to find out what she knew and to prevent her from learning the truth.
Yes, she’d been naive. But instead of feeling sad or embarrassed, she felt anger brimming within her and fueling her steps.