[Victorian Mystery 02] • A Trace of Deceit by Karen Odden

Author:Karen Odden [Odden, Karen]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780062796622
Publisher: William Morrow Paperbacks
Published: 2019-12-17T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Who is it?” Matthew asked.

“My name is Mr. Pascoe. I was a friend of Edwin’s.”

“It’s all right, Matthew. It’s the vicar from the funeral,” I whispered.

“Stay there a moment,” he said.

Obediently, I remained where I was as Matthew opened the door.

“I beg your pardon.” The man’s voice was strained but low, as if he was trying to conceal his agitation. “I’m looking for Miss Annabel Rowe. I hoped someone here might tell me where I could find her—and then I saw the light.”

I came out from the back room and walked toward the door. The vicar wore a black coat and a weather-beaten hat, and he carried a newspaper in his left hand. I caught a glimpse of the masthead of the Beacon and guessed what brought him here at half past eight in the evening. “Please come in, Mr. Pascoe,” I said.

Silently Matthew stepped aside, and the vicar entered, looking from Matthew to me, his expression discomfited.

I felt myself flush; of course he’d wonder what we were doing alone in Edwin’s rooms at this hour.

“This is Inspector Hallam, from the Yard,” I said as matter-of-factly as I could manage. “He’s looking into Edwin’s murder. We were just going through Edwin’s sketchbooks.” I gestured toward the one comfortable chair. “Please, sit down. Would you like tea?”

“No, thank you.” He laid the newspaper on the worktable and removed his coat with a deliberateness that suggested he was accustomed to maintaining his equanimity in trying circumstances, although I noticed his cleric’s collar was askew, and he’d left a middle button undone on his shirt.

He sat down and rubbed fiercely at his hair so it spiked in several directions. “Miss Rowe, I beg your pardon for disturbing you, but I only just read this paper, and I had to come straightaway.”

“How did you know Edwin’s address?” Matthew asked idly.

“I’d been here to visit him once or twice.” He turned back to me to add, “Generally he came to see me at the church.”

I drew one of Edwin’s stools close to the vicar, perched on it, and waited to hear what he’d say.

He steepled his hands as if in prayer and touched the fingertips of his forefingers gently to his chin, his expression grave. “At the funeral, the priest gave out that Edwin’s death was sudden, of course, and naturally most of us assumed it was the result of an accident, though it wasn’t made explicit. Afterward, when you told me it wasn’t . . . well, I thought . . . that is, I assumed he had taken his own life.”

My shock at the idea silenced me, but Matthew leaned toward the vicar. “Why would you think so?”

“When he was in prison, he spoke of it several times.”

My mouth went dry. “Was he in earnest?”

The vicar’s eyes met mine, and his expression was full of regret. “It wasn’t uttered impetuously, if that’s what you mean. I’ve seen men speak of committing that desperate act, and I know when someone is considering it with some purpose.

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