A Christmas Secret by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online Page B

master; the dog’s repeated low howl of grief was answer enough. Anyway, who else could it be? Even smeared with coal dust, the white of his clerical collar was clearly visible.
    There was no question if there was anything she could do for him; it was perfectly obvious there was not. Slowly, her knees wobbling, the lantern swaying, she fumbled her way back up the steps again and then stood gulping air at the top. She grasped the door lintel in the gray daylight. She must report the death. The poor old man had probably had a heart attack or something of that sort. Everyone thought he had gone away, so no one would have missed him and gone to look. What a bitterly sad way for a vicar, of all people, to die. From everyone’s account, he had been a fine man, and deeply and justly loved.
    She could wait for Dominic to return, but in this weather he could be a long time doing all that was necessary. She did not want to stay here alone, knowing what was downstairs. She was perfectly capable of putting on boots and a cape and going to find the doctor herself. She knew where he lived; that was one of the things Mrs. Wellbeloved had told her. It was a stiff walk, but along open road all the way. She would make it in half an hour, even in the snow, and he might have a pony and trap for the way back.
    Extinguishing the lantern, she left the cellar door wedged open so Harry and Etta could come out if they chose, or stay and mourn if that was their nature. Perhaps that was more fitting anyway. She rather hoped they would. Then she put on the boots, wrapped herself around in her cloak, and set out, her mind so filled with pity she scarcely noticed either the cold or the way the deep snow dragged at her feet.

    â€œHeart attack I expect, poor man,” Dr. Fitzpatrick told her, coming back up the steps and closing the cellar door behind him. The cat and dog had come upstairs again, persuaded with some difficulty, and were now sitting side by side in front of the kitchen stove. “Only comfort is he probably felt very little,” Fitzpatrick went on. He was a fussy man with a large mustache. “Are you all right, Mrs. Corde? Horrible experience for you. What on earth were you doing down there?”
    She had already explained to him, or she thought she had. Perhaps she had been more incoherent than she supposed. “I went to fill the coke scuttle, and the cat came, too, and then I couldn’t find her.”
    He nodded. “Smelled something, I suppose. Or perhaps just after the mice.” He held up his coal-smeared hands.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry,” she apologized quickly. “Please come into the kitchen and wash, and perhaps you’d like a cup of tea?” She glanced down at his trouser legs, sodden where the snow on them had melted in the warmth of the house, then her own heavy, wet skirts.
    â€œYes,” he said with alacrity. “Thank you.”
    She busied herself with water in the kettle, warming the teapot, fetching milk from a very chilly pantry, and offering him a slice of cake, which he made an excuse for accepting as well.
    â€œI’ll take care of the arrangements,” he said with his mouth full. “I daresay they won’t be able to hold a funeral for a few days, considering the weather and what the bishop might care to do, but I’ll have the body removed and all the appropriate registrations dealt with. You don’t need to concern yourself, Mrs. Corde. I will take care of it all. And I would be obliged if you would speak of this to no one yet. There is a proper order of things, which we must observe.”
    â€œThank you.” She felt relieved, but more than a little sad. It was a lonely and undignified way to go. Not that she supposed he was more than briefly aware of it. He had lived well, very well, and in the end that was all that mattered. “Thank you,” she repeated. “No doubt my husband will be in touch with the bishop. He