| |
Toby drove slowly away from the Hall. What he should do was to go back to Brighton and write a report of his interview with Nurse Tierney, but what he wanted to do was to go back to the village store and make a groveling apology to Carol. He wanted her to smile at him.
No, he couldn’t do it. His first duty was to his employer. He approached the wrought iron gates, willing himself to go straight out onto the Brighton road. He found his way blocked by the very person he wanted to see. Carol, in a camelhair coat, her hair tucked up under a headscarf and her face set in an expression of grim determination, stepped out from beside the gate and held up an arresting hand.
He brought the car to a halt, and she opened the passenger door and dropped into the seat beside him.
“We’re going to the church,” she said.
“What?”
“Church.” She pointed with a gloved hand, and he saw the church spire looming above the naked trees about a half mile away.
“Why?”
“To see the vicar.”
Toby seemed incapable of expressing more than one word at a time. “Why?”
“So that you’ll believe me.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.” She still sounded irritated but not as angry as before. “But if you won’t believe me, perhaps you’ll believe the vicar.”
“It’s not a question of not believing you,” Toby said, glancing sideways at her as he pulled out onto the road. “I’m gathering evidence, and, well, you don’t really have any firsthand evidence. You didn’t see Vera give birth, so—”
“Did anyone see Lady Sylvia give birth?”
“I’ve just been talking to a nurse who was there,” Toby replied.
“She saw it?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Of course not, because it didn’t happen. Turn right here.”
She directed him into a narrow road that took him across the back of the village green and into a small parking area beside the white stone parish church. A faded sign proclaimed that the church was dedicated to St. James, and the vicar was Rodney Farley-Reed.
“He’s waiting for us,” said Carol. “I told him we needed to talk to him.”
“Did you tell him why?”
“Of course I did. I had to stop him from jumping to conclusions. He thought I was bringing my young man to see him so we could set a wedding date.”
Toby felt himself blushing, and saw the ghost of a smile cross Carol’s face.
“Not really,” she said. “He knows me better than that. He knows I don’t have a young man.”
“Don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.”
Toby opened the car door and welcomed the rush of cold air on his flushed cheeks. Carol was out of the passenger door before he had time to run round and open it for her. He hoped she knew that he had intended to act the gentleman even if she had not given him the opportunity.
They found Farley-Reed in the church vestry, where he was pawing through a box of ragged choir robes.
“It’ll be Easter before you know it,” he declared, “and these robes aren’t fit to be worn. The way new clothes are rationed, you’d think we were still at war. We’ll have to make do with the choir wearing their street clothes.”
“You’re welcome to my clothing ration,” Carol offered. “I don’t need new clothes. I never go anywhere glamorous.”
Toby wanted to interrupt with an invitation to dinner at the Ritz or tea at the Savoy, but he couldn’t do it; not in front of the vicar. “Your turn will come,” said Farley-Reed. “Don’t give up yet.” He was an old man, Toby thought. He was not as old as Mr. Champion, but he was quite definitely on the wrong side of seventy and maybe nearer to eighty. His shock of white hair stood up like a halo around his head, and his stooped shoulders, encased in a rusted-brown cassock, gave him the appearance of an eccentric scholar rather than a kindly country parson.
“This is Mr. Whitby,” Carol said.
The vicar extended a gnarled, arthritic hand, and Toby shook it as gently as he could, fearing that he might injure the old man.
“He wants to ask you about the christening when you baptized Vera Chapman’s baby.”
“Vera Malloy,” the vicar corrected. “I married her to that young American. It was all legal and aboveboard, although he didn’t seem very enthusiastic. But he was wounded, you know, so I don’t expect he was feeling very chipper.”
“And she was, you know, well ...” Toby hesitated.
“Pregnant?” Farley-Reed asked.
“Yes.”
“Yes, she was and quite noticeably so. But that’s the way it is sometimes. Better late than never, that’s what I say. I married them in March and baptized the baby in May.”
“And was the husband there?” asked Toby.
The vicar shook his head. “He was on his way to Berlin with Eisenhower. Young Vera was fortunate to get him back for the wedding. If he hadn’t been wounded, she might never have seen him again.”
“Really?” said Toby. “Are you saying he didn’t want to marry her?”
The vicar smiled. “I’ve seen many a reluctant bridegroom in my day. I know when a young fellow feels like he’s been trapped.”
“She didn’t trap him,” Carol protested.
The vicar looked down his long nose at Carol. “He was trapped all right. Millie Chapman had been to the Earl, and the Earl had got onto the poor fellow’s CO, and as soon as the lad was out of the hospital, he was in my church reciting his wedding vows. White as a sheet, he was. He could hardly get his vows out. Vera was loud and clear, but I thought the poor boy was going to choke on the words.”
“Mr. Whitby wants to know about the baptism,” Carol said.
“All legal and aboveboard,” the vicar confirmed. “I can show you the record.”
“Perhaps you could just tell me.”