“Wife died five years ago. Have to grasp at all the company I can. Know everyone here. Have done for years. Can't surprise each other anymore. Gets tedious in the winter. Don't mind in the summer, enough to do in the garden. What did you say your name was?”

“William Monk, Mr. Nicolson.”

“Ah, well, Mr. Monk, would you care for some luncheon, while you tell me your business here in Chilverley?”

Monk was delighted to accept. He was cold and hungry, and it would be far easier to stretch out a conversation over the table than sitting in even the most agreeable parlor.

“Good, good. Now please make yourself comfortable while I inform the cook!”

The Reverend Nicolson was so obviously happy to have company that Monk allowed at least half the meal to pass before he broached the subject of his journey. He swallowed the last of the cold mutton, pickles and vegetables and set his knife and fork down.

The maid appeared with hot, flaky apple pie and a jug of cream and set them on the table with evident satisfaction, taking away the empty plates. Then the vicar began his tale and Monk listened with amazement, anger, and growing compassion.

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The coroner’s inquest into the death of Caleb Stone opened two days later. The public benches were packed. It was an extraordinary incident, and people were curious to learn how such a thing had happened.

Lord Ravensbrook was obliged to attend and give evidence; indeed, he was the only immediate witness. Also to be called were the three gaolers, all sitting rigidly upright, embarrassed and profoundly frightened. Jimson was convinced they were all innocent, Bailey, that they were all to blame, and would be punished appropriately. The third gaoler, who had gone to report the matter, refused to have an opinion at all.

Hester was to be called, by Rathbone, if not by the coroner. There was also the doctor who had examined the body officially.

Enid Ravensbrook sat beside her husband, still pale-faced and gaunt, but steady-eyed, and less physically ill than the week before. Next to her was Genevieve Stonefield, and beside her, calm and resolute, Titus Niven.

Selina Herries sat alone, head high, face white and set, eyes hollow with shock. Rathbone looked at her, and felt an unaccountable grief for her.

They had nothing whatever in common, no culture, no cause, no beliefs, barely even a common language. And yet the sight of her filled him with a sense of the universality of bereavement. He knew what it was to lose that which had been dear, in whatever manner, however mixed or confused the emotion.