that moment that she suspected my motives for coming to this place were not solely to teach music.
“I was interested naturally to see anything connected with the family,” I said coolly.
“And I am sure it does you credit,” she replied. “I’ll tell you this: Lady Stacy was not buried in the vault. You probably know that suicides are buried in unconsecrated ground.”
“Suicides!” I cried.
She nodded gravely; then her lips formed into lines of disapproval. “Just after Beaumont’s death, she killed herself. It was most unfortunate. She took a gun into the woods…and died in the same way…only in her case the wound was self-inflicted.”
“What a terrible tragedy.”
“She couldn’t bear life without Beaumont. She doted on the boy. I think the affair turned her brain.”
“So it was a double tragedy.”
“It changed everything up at the house. Beaumont and Lady Stacy dead and Napier sent away. Everything was blamed onto Napier.”
“But it was an accident.”
Mrs. Rendall nodded mournfully. “He was always up to something. A bad boy…so different from his brother. It was almost as though they believed it wasn’t an accident after all. But blood’s thicker than water and Sir William didn’t want everything to go out of the family after all. Though at one time we thought he might disinherit Napier. However, he’s back now and married to Edith, which is what Sir William wanted, so it seemed Napier was ready to please his father at last…for the sake of the inheritance of course.”
“Well, I hope he’ll be happy,” I said. “He must have suffered a great deal. Whatever he did, he was only seventeen and to banish him in that way seems a terrible punishment.”
Mrs. Rendall sniffed. “Of course if Beau had lived Napier wouldn’t have inherited. It’s a consideration.”
I felt rather indignant on behalf of Napier—though I couldn’t think why I should feel so for someone whom I had disliked on sight, except for my sense of justice. I decided that Sir William was an unnatural father whom I was very ready to dislike as much as I already disliked his son.
I said nothing however and Mrs. Rendall remarked that I might care to come to the schoolroom and meet Mr. Jeremy Brown.
The vicarage schoolroom was a long room, rather low ceilinged. As in the big house, the windows had the leaden panes which, while they looked charming, let in little light.
It was a delightful scene which met my eyes as Mrs. Rendall threw open the door without knocking. I imagined she rarely warned people of her approach. There were the girls at the big table—Edith among them, bent over their work; there was a fourth member of the party: Sylvia. And seated at the head of the table a very fair, delicate-looking young man.
“I have brought Mrs. Verlaine to meet you,” boomed Mrs. Rendall and the young man rose and came toward us.
“This is our curate, Mr. Jeremy Brown,” went on Mrs. Rendall.
I shook hands with Mr. Brown, whose manner was almost apologetic. Another, I thought, who stood in awe of this formidable lady.
“And what is it this morning, Mr. Brown?” asked Mrs. Rendall.
“Latin and geography.”
I saw the maps spread out on the table and the girls’ notebooks beside them. Edith looked happier than I had so far seen her.
Mrs. Rendall grunted and said: “Mrs. Verlaine wants to take the girls through their music. One by one, I suppose, Mrs. Verlaine?”
“I think that would be an excellent idea.” I smiled at the curate. “If you are agreeable.”
“Oh yes…yes…indeed,” he said. Then I noticed the rapt expression in Edith’s eyes.
How the young betray themselves! I knew that there was some romantic attachment—however slight—between Edith and this Jeremy Brown.
As Mrs. Kendall had said, I was a detective.
In the next day or so I slipped into a routine. There were meals with Mrs. Lincroft when often Alice was present; there were the piano lessons for the girls and some of
“I was interested naturally to see anything connected with the family,” I said coolly.
“And I am sure it does you credit,” she replied. “I’ll tell you this: Lady Stacy was not buried in the vault. You probably know that suicides are buried in unconsecrated ground.”
“Suicides!” I cried.
She nodded gravely; then her lips formed into lines of disapproval. “Just after Beaumont’s death, she killed herself. It was most unfortunate. She took a gun into the woods…and died in the same way…only in her case the wound was self-inflicted.”
“What a terrible tragedy.”
“She couldn’t bear life without Beaumont. She doted on the boy. I think the affair turned her brain.”
“So it was a double tragedy.”
“It changed everything up at the house. Beaumont and Lady Stacy dead and Napier sent away. Everything was blamed onto Napier.”
“But it was an accident.”
Mrs. Rendall nodded mournfully. “He was always up to something. A bad boy…so different from his brother. It was almost as though they believed it wasn’t an accident after all. But blood’s thicker than water and Sir William didn’t want everything to go out of the family after all. Though at one time we thought he might disinherit Napier. However, he’s back now and married to Edith, which is what Sir William wanted, so it seemed Napier was ready to please his father at last…for the sake of the inheritance of course.”
“Well, I hope he’ll be happy,” I said. “He must have suffered a great deal. Whatever he did, he was only seventeen and to banish him in that way seems a terrible punishment.”
Mrs. Rendall sniffed. “Of course if Beau had lived Napier wouldn’t have inherited. It’s a consideration.”
I felt rather indignant on behalf of Napier—though I couldn’t think why I should feel so for someone whom I had disliked on sight, except for my sense of justice. I decided that Sir William was an unnatural father whom I was very ready to dislike as much as I already disliked his son.
I said nothing however and Mrs. Rendall remarked that I might care to come to the schoolroom and meet Mr. Jeremy Brown.
The vicarage schoolroom was a long room, rather low ceilinged. As in the big house, the windows had the leaden panes which, while they looked charming, let in little light.
It was a delightful scene which met my eyes as Mrs. Rendall threw open the door without knocking. I imagined she rarely warned people of her approach. There were the girls at the big table—Edith among them, bent over their work; there was a fourth member of the party: Sylvia. And seated at the head of the table a very fair, delicate-looking young man.
“I have brought Mrs. Verlaine to meet you,” boomed Mrs. Rendall and the young man rose and came toward us.
“This is our curate, Mr. Jeremy Brown,” went on Mrs. Rendall.
I shook hands with Mr. Brown, whose manner was almost apologetic. Another, I thought, who stood in awe of this formidable lady.
“And what is it this morning, Mr. Brown?” asked Mrs. Rendall.
“Latin and geography.”
I saw the maps spread out on the table and the girls’ notebooks beside them. Edith looked happier than I had so far seen her.
Mrs. Rendall grunted and said: “Mrs. Verlaine wants to take the girls through their music. One by one, I suppose, Mrs. Verlaine?”
“I think that would be an excellent idea.” I smiled at the curate. “If you are agreeable.”
“Oh yes…yes…indeed,” he said. Then I noticed the rapt expression in Edith’s eyes.
How the young betray themselves! I knew that there was some romantic attachment—however slight—between Edith and this Jeremy Brown.
As Mrs. Kendall had said, I was a detective.
In the next day or so I slipped into a routine. There were meals with Mrs. Lincroft when often Alice was present; there were the piano lessons for the girls and some of
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