Reaves mounted the stairs to the pulpit to read the lessons for the day then remained there for the sermon. He did indeed speak about the follies of wealth.
"And then Jesus said, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. "
Grenville's lips twitched once. Denis remained smooth-faced. Most of the congregation did too, as they listened to Reaves, a man who loved the finer things in life, drone on about the evils of wealth.
People glanced at me as Reaves started to go on a bit, but they were not connecting me with the sermon. The Laceys had forsaken their wealth long ago, in any case. The villagers and farmers were simply curious about me, about why I'd returned and whether I intended to stay.
Buckley sat in a pew on the left side of the church and studiously did not look at me. Next to him was his plump wife and his son Robert, who had an equally plump wife and a sturdy-looking toddler. A respectable country family.
Robert was staring at the altar, his lips parted slightly. I looked in the direction of his gaze and saw that Reaves-or more likely, Mrs. Landon-had restored the silver candlesticks, well polished, to the front of the church.
The platen and cup were nowhere in sight, probably shut away in the sacristy. Parson's Point was decidedly low church, and communion was offered only at Christmas, Easter, and on a person's deathbed. Even then, most of the villagers refused it.
Reaves finished at last, and another village man passed around the offering plate. I put in my dutiful coins, and Grenville and Denis dropped in an extravagant five gold guineas each.
Mrs. Landon's eyes widened when she saw what they'd given. No doubt she'd be badgering me to make certain Mr. Denis and Mr. Grenville attended often.
After the service, we filed out and shook hands with Reaves, who waited at the door. I broke from Grenville, and stopped Robert Buckley, who was about to walk to the village for his Sunday dinner with his father and mother.
I shook Robert's hand and greeted his wife and child. Seeing I wanted to talk, he told his wife to take their son and go on with his parents.
"I'm afraid I've found nothing for you, Captain," Robert said. "No sign of the man."
I hadn't thought he would. "I want to speak to you of another matter," I said. "It's about my father."
Robert looked surprised. "Oh, aye?"
"I understand that you looked after him before he died."
Robert shrugged. "Not so much looked after as took him dinner that Dad sent."
"Even so, it was kind of you and your father to look out for him. I imagine he had no one else?"
"There was Mrs. Quinn, on occasion."
" Mrs. Quinn? The vicar's wife?"
"Aye. She went with me to see him sometimes. Plumped his pillows and the like. He'd talk to her."
The Mrs. Quinn I had known had been a bit of a valetudinarian, finding any excuse to stay home and not go about in bad weather. Mrs. Landon had taken over many of the duties of a vicar's wife, while Mrs. Quinn served tea in china as delicate as she was and smiled kindly on her husband's flock. As fragile as she appeared to be, she'd outlived her robust husband.
"Do you remember when Miss Quinn eloped?"
Robert's face creased with a smile. "That I do. I was potty in love with Miss Quinn. I was ten years old and thought she was an angel."
"But she ran away with someone else."
His grin became a chuckle. "And was I jealous? A bit, I suppose. I had dreams of her waiting for me to grow up, but at heart, I was a practical lad. She was a gentleman's daughter, I was a publican's son, and I knew she'd go off with the flash bloke. And she did."
"Did you help her go off with him?"
Robert lost his smile. "What are you getting around to, Captain?"
"I know she was to meet Mr. Braxton in the copse a little way from my house the night she went. I found a dress that was likely hers in my mother's sitting room. The house was little used, I understand, once my father shut himself up in his sickbed in the last years, the servants gone. You went up there most days, from what I hear. Did you help Miss Quinn meet her lover that night?"
Robert started to put a hand on my shoulder then seemed to recall that he was below me in social standing. "A bit of advice, Captain," he said. "The less you ask about Miss Quinn, the better. Her eloping is still a sore point around here. Mrs. Quinn hasn't gotten over the heartbreak of it, and young Mr. Quinn is still angry."
"I assure you, I have no wish to make the Quinns unhappy," I said. "But I want to know what happened in my house."
Robert glanced behind me, at the villagers still filing away, at Grenville and Denis now entering Denis's carriage. "They'll be waiting for you," he said.
"Tell me."
Robert heaved a resigned sigh. "All right-aye, they used me as a go-between. I'd have done anything for Miss Quinn, I told you. The night they were to have gone, Miss Quinn and I went to your house, as though she were helping me take dinner to your dad. I'd hidden a bundle of clothes for her there. She changed out in your mum's rooms, and then I walked with her to the copse. It was dark by then, and I didn't want her going alone. She meets Mr. Braxton, and that's the end of it."
"What about the candlesticks?"
Robert blinked. "The what?"
"The silver candlesticks and the chalice stolen from the church. The ones you were gaping at this morning. They were stolen at about the same time."
"She never stole them," Robert said hastily. "Everyone thinks Miss Quinn took them away with her, but there they are in the church-which proves she don't have them."
But someone had stuffed them up the chimney at the Lacey house. "You seemed quite surprised to see them this morning."
"Well, 'course I was. I didn't know they'd been found."
"A shock," I said in a mild voice.
He nodded, his grin trying to return. "Aye." He stuck out his hand. "They'll be holding my dinner, Captain, and mum gets right cross when anyone's late. My invitation to see my farm still stands, sir. We're a bit pressed just now, but come after dark and my wife will serve you a fine supper."
He looked proud of her, a woman he seemed fond of. The fantasy of the angelic Miss Quinn falling in love with him had been left in the past.
I shook Robert's hand, assured him I would visit, and let him rush after his family to the safety of the village pub. Closed today, as it was Sunday, but not to the Buckleys.
Sunday dinner at Easton House meant Grenville and me sitting in the dining room, eating rather fine food served by Denis's hulking men. Denis never had female servants in his house.
Afterward, horses were saddled for me and Grenville, and we rode northward to the marshes to follow the path the shepherd had pointed out to me the day before.
Chapter Eighteen
Matthias and Bartholomew accompanied us, but on foot. Both had balked at riding horses-a gentleman's gentleman didn't ride with his master, Bartholomew argued. The brothers walked, but a five-mile hike across marshland to them was little more than an after-dinner stroll.
I found the spot where I'd met the shepherd. I saw sheep in the distance, but the shepherd had moved to another resting place.
From horseback, atop the ridge path, we had a fine view of the sea, which lay far out on the edge of the sands. The wind had pushed back the clouds, letting autumn blue sky arch overhead. The tall grasses bent, marshes stretching ahead and behind us. Lovely for a Sunday afternoon hack, but I was too impatient to enjoy it.
The path led into a hollow and the sea was lost to sight. Somewhere to the left of us was the coast road that went to Stifkey and on to Wells. Our way led straight through marshes that had yet to be drained, on a path that would be buried during high water. The tide was well out at the moment, but this path would be impassible at high tide.