13 - The Midsummer Rose by Kate Sedley Read Free Book Online

memories of the dead girl.
    ‘Would you … Would you care to see her coffin?’ he asked tentatively. ‘Would you let me escort you down to the crypt? The stairs are rather dark, but I have my tinderbox. I can light a candle.’
    I half expected Mistress Avenel to refuse. I doubted if the crypt and the stairs leading to it were very clean, and she was wearing a gown of pale yellow sarcenet. Her little feet were shod in cream leather. But she nodded good-naturedly.
    ‘Yes, of course, if you’d like me to.’
    Luke smiled and once again bent over her hand, while she peeped up at him from beneath her long lashes. Her compliance, I reflected meanly, was easily explained. Her father’s assistant was a good-looking young man and she couldn’t resist adding him to her list of conquests – if she hadn’t done so already.
    Luke Prettywood fetched and lit a new candle, pocketed his tinderbox and gallantly offered her his arm.
    ‘I’ll wish you good day, then, chapman,’ he said. ‘I daresay you want to be off.’
    It was almost as if he were anxious to see me gone. It made me wonder. Had the little scene recently enacted by the pair been solely for my benefit? Was there something more between them than I had so far suspected? Margaret had referred to Marianne Avenel as a fly-by-night, with an underlying suggestion that she was not as dutiful – or as faithful? – a wife as she should be. Or was I adding two and two together and making five?
    I watched Luke Prettywood and Marianne Avenel disappear down the steps leading to the crypt, but made no attempt to be on my way. Instead, I lit another candle, gave the couple a moment or two’s grace, then followed them.
    The crypt of Saint Giles was an oppressive place, with a smell of damp and decay much more noticeable than in the church above. I was not normally so sensitive to atmosphere, but I suddenly had an overwhelming impression of unhappiness and suffering. I put it down to my weakened state and told myself not to be foolish. I looked around for my quarry, but saw nothing except tombs and rows of stone coffins lined up on shelves.
    I held my candle higher, but its wavering light revealed only the dead. There was no sign of the living.
    I moved forward cautiously, and as my eyes again grew accustomed to this greater gloom, I realized that the vault immediately below the church was not the full extent of the crypt. Ahead of me loomed an archway, and beyond that lay a second chamber, the only difference being that it was used, not as a repository for the dead, but as a storeroom. A number of chests, old and covered in cobwebs, were ranged against the walls, together with planks of wood and numerous pieces of furniture that had seen better days. I hazarded a guess that the priest was running a profitable little business on the side, augmenting his stipend by renting out space to those of his parishioners who had items they were loath to throw away, but no longer had room for in their houses.
    To my astonishment, yet another archway beckoned, and I walked forward to find myself staring into a third, equally dusty chamber. This one, however, was empty. Empty, that is, except for the pale gleam of two figures at the far end, locked together in what was obviously a passionate embrace. Luke Prettywood and Marianne Avenel, without a doubt. Who else could it be?
    I was uncertain whether I should announce my presence or withdraw discreetly. In the end, as they seemed not to have noticed me, discretion won. I tiptoed back the way I had come and was just about to mount the steps to the church when the amorous pair reappeared, looking hot, dishevelled and, when they clapped eyes on me, distinctly guilty.
    ‘Ch–Chapman? I … We … What are you doing down here? I thought you’d gone.’ Master Prettywood was plainly disconcerted.
    I assumed my blandest expression. ‘Once I’d finished my prayers, I decided that I, too, would like to pay my respects to your sister.’ It sounded a