A Christmas Secret by Anne Perry Page A

knew.”
    â€œThey thought he had gone away on holiday,” he answered. “We all did.”
    She frowned. “Why? Why did the bishop think he was going on holiday?”
    â€œBecause he wrote and told him,” Dominic said.
    She said nothing. Something made her more than sad, but she wasn’t sure what it was.
    There was a voice at the door, calling out urgently. Dominic turned and went back to the hall. “What is it? Can I help?”
    â€œOh, Vicar!” It was a man’s voice, deep and unfamiliar. “Poor Mrs. Hapgood’s had bad news, and she’s that upset, I don’t know what to do for her. Can you come? Dreadful state she’s in, poor thing.”
    Dominic hesitated, turning back toward Clarice.
    She knew how much it mattered; this was their chance to prove they could do everything that a parish needed. “Yes, of course you can,” she said firmly. There was no need to tell this man that the Reverend Wynter was dead. He had his own griefs to aid first. “There’s nothing here I can’t take care of.”
    â€œOh, bless you, ma’am!” the man in the hall said fervently. “This way, Vicar.”
    The doctor came back with the blacksmith and his cart, and the two men carried the body out quickly and discreetly, wrapped in a blanket. After they had gone Clarice went back to the kitchen and washed the few dishes they had used, her mind whirling. There was something wrong. She could not put her finger on it standing here at the bench. She would have to go down to the cellar again, and yet she was reluctant to. It was more than the cold or even the memory of what she had found.
    â€œCome on, Harry,” she said briskly. “Come, keep me company.” She relit the lantern and the dog, surprisingly, obeyed her. It was the very first time he had done as she’d asked. Together they went to the door and opened it. She went first down the steps, very carefully, and he followed behind. A little more than halfway he stopped and sniffed.
    â€œWhat is it?” she said, gulping, her hand swaying so the light gyrated around the walls.
    Harry sniffed again and looked up at her.
    Swallowing hard, she retraced her steps up to him and bent to examine what he’d spotted. It was a very small piece of fabric, no more than a few threads caught in a splinter of the wood. At first she thought how odd it was that the dog had noticed it; then she saw the smear of blood. It wasn’t much darker than the coal-smudged steps themselves, but when she licked her finger and touched it, it came away red. Was this where the vicar had stumbled, and then gone on down the rest of the way to the bottom? How could she find out?
    She held the lantern so she could see the steps closely. They were dark with years of trodden-in coal dust, each bit dropped from a bucket or scuttle carried up full. No matter how closely she looked, all she could distinguish were the most recent marks, a heel dent, and the smear of a sole. They could have been anybody’s: Dominic’s, the doctor’s, even Mrs. Wellbeloved’s.
    She went to the bottom and looked again, not expecting to find anything or knowing what it would mean even if she did.
    Then she saw it: a small, neat pattern of marks she understood very easily—cat prints. Etta had been this way. She walked after the marks, for no real reason except that they led to the second cellar. They were easy to read because they were on plain ground, as if someone had swept all the old marks away with a broom. Why would anybody sweep just a single track, no more than eighteen or twenty inches wide? It was not even clean, just brushed once. Several times it was disturbed at the sides by footprints.
    Then she understood. It was not swept—these were drag marks. Someone had pulled something heavy, covered in cloth, from the bottom of the stairs over into the second cellar.
    Could the Reverend Wynter have fallen,