The Keeper of Secrets by Judith Cutler Page B

while the men found consolation in good ale, fine wine and some of the French chef’s finest delicacies. Lord Elham, even more boorish than his father, mooned around, making no effort to engage with his guests, and, though he did not dare jostle either of us, turned his back on both Dr Hansard and myself.
    ‘I told you it would be a total waste of time,’ Hansard muttered. ‘Have any facts been established?’
    ‘Not even the identity of the witness,’ I agreed.
    He turned to me, with an amusement out of place at such a gathering. ‘And it was you who so strongly objected to the very thought of an inquest.’
    ‘It would have been good to quash the rumours, which that cannot have done.’ I straightened. ‘At least there is another judge whom the guilty have to face.’
     
    ‘I will see if Mr Campion is At Home,’ Mrs Trent declared, with as much dignity as if she had been butler at Chatsworth fending off importunate tourists with no more claim on the duke’s time than the guidebooks they clutched.
    ‘Of course he’s at home,’ a male voice grumbled. ‘Parsons are supposed to be at home – not like some highfalutin’ lord or some such. Anyways, his horse is out at the back, with that groom of his working on it.’
    ‘Mr Campion may be In The Building,’ she conceded, still loftily, ‘but that does not mean that he is At Home.’
    Nor did I want to receive visitors, but my guest was in theright. He was my churchwarden, and entitled to my attention. However, the One whom I was addressing was entitled to it too.
    Asking for His blessing for my day’s endeavours, I rose at last from my knees. I sensed Mrs Trent’s approval, as she watched from the open door. Had I been addressing no more an illustrious personage than the meanest beggar, she would have wanted me to keep Mr Bulmer cooling his heels. One mention of his name was enough to produce an expression on her face that suggested she might be sucking a particularly sour lemon. Jem employed a much cruder analogy, concerning hens, but treated her with genuine respect, not simply an account of her years, which must have numbered sixty. She meanwhile indulged him as one might a perpetually hungry nephew, any of her light pastry and toothsome pies baked at least as much for his delectation as for mine.
    I believe it was Mrs Trent’s hauteur , not mine, that made Bulmer not merely doff his cap but twist it between his hands like a schoolboy caught raiding an orchard.
    ‘’Morning, Parson Campion,’ he said cautiously, no doubt as mindful as I was of our continued hostility.
    ‘Good morning to you, Mr Bulmer.’ I tried to be cordial. ‘Pray, sit down. How may I help you?’
    He perched on the edge of the chair I indicated.
    ‘May I offer you some refreshment? A glass of Madeira?’
    I would have sworn he salivated at the prospect. It was rumoured in the village that though the farmer was warm he was also close .
    ‘He’s the sort of man who would rather spend someone else’s money,’ had been Mrs Trent’s original verdict. Now shebetrayed her feelings by the flicker of an eyelid when I summoned her.
    ‘And perhaps some of your excellent biscuits, Mrs Trent?’ I added.
    The warm and spicy smell was wafting from the kitchen, or I am sure she would have denied their existence. The slight thud as she placed a plateful on the table at his elbow suggested that they were as pearls before swine. But the decanter was the best, and the glasses polished to an exquisite brilliance. It was clear that she had her standards to maintain.
    At last, after a long sip of his wine, Bulmer got round to opening his budget. ‘It’s about a monument, Parson. To Lord Elham. There’s still space on the chancel wall and I thought it would be – begging your pardon, Mr Miller and I thought – it would be appropriate for us to raise a memorial tablet, maybe with a nice bit of Latin to his late lordship. The new lord would take it kindly, I have no doubt.’ With more