The Cuckold's Bride by Leonard Tourney

Author:Leonard Tourney [Tourney, Leonard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-09-29T06:00:00+00:00

29

The Parmenters and their party—William, Kempe, and three menservants—had left early, but they stopped along the way to take shelter from a summer storm that rained upon them for an hour or more until the road—a poor thoroughfare in the best of times—had turned into a river of mud. Everyone was soaked and in bad humor, but what was there to be joyous about? However the journey ended, it would be of no benefit to the grieving parents. Alice, their daughter, was dead. If William proved his innocence and Fanshaw’s guilt of her murder, she would still be dead. Sir John and his lady would merely be changing one subject of their enmity for another. And it was unlikely their mutual grief would bring them together in any meaningful way, since but for Sir John’s insistence that Alice marry Fanshaw, she would be alive and well. William was sure that was how Lady Elizabeth would see things.

When they resumed their journey it was a solemn progress. Sir John and his wife had little to say to each other, Sir John having objected to the expedition all along, and his lady wife discomfited by a hard saddle of which she complained bitterly. Kempe, usually loquacious when in William’s company, also seemed subdued and turned inward, although William thought a lively exchange between the two, sharing memories of university days, would have confirmed the closeness of their friendship and invited the Parmenters’ suspicions. He decided that Kempe was right to keep him at arm’s length. In medical consultation, which in a way this was, objectivity was everything.

By this time, William’s hope for a speedy exoneration was beginning to fade. Why did he feel so, when all logic suggested otherwise? His proof was dispositive, he thought. The evidence would be plain on its face, as his lawyer father might say. The two bodies, both murder victims, their place in the Fanshaw tomb—to William the evidence spoke for itself, not only spoke but cried out, implicating Fanshaw as author of both murders.

It was late afternoon when the truncated tower of St. Mark’s church appeared, and the road—which had been more a wheel-rutted path for a mile or two—turned down into the valley where Maidenstowe lay, like a human settlement fast on its way to extinction. There was suddenly a general expression of relief that the journey was at an end. Behind him, William could hear Sir John’s men chattering among themselves, pointing to the village’s one tavern, as if the delights of drink were the sole object of the journey. But it was a desolate prospect. It had rained hard in the village too, and no one seemed to be about as the company wound its way up the hill to the church.

The vicar was not at home, only his wife, who upon seeing Sir John and his lady was all aflutter and could barely speak. Finally, she made them understand that the vicar was off visiting a sick parishioner but would be home soon.

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