Anne Perry s Christmas Mysteries Page 0,50

front parlor where a fire was just beginning to burn up. Mr. Wellbeloved, a sturdy man with a weathered face and a shock of gray hair, was sitting whittling a piece of wood into a whistle. There was a pile of shavings on a piece of brown paper on the floor in front of him. Painted blocks were neatly stacked beside him.

When introductions were made, and he had explained that he was carving Christmas presents for the grandchildren, Dominic asked Mrs. Wellbeloved for advice about whom he should visit. He wrote down her answers, with addresses, in the notebook he had brought with him.

"An' you'd best ask Mr. Boscombe to add to that," her husband put in helpfully. "Lives at the end o' the lane as you come in from the south. A big house with three gables. He was vicar's right hand till about six months ago. Knew everything there was, he did."

Mrs. Wellbeloved nodded her agreement. "That he did, an' all. Good man, Mr. Boscombe. He'll see you right."

"Until about six months ago?" Dominic questioned.

Mr. Wellbeloved glared at his wife, then back at Dominic, his knife stopped in midair. "That's right."

"What happened then?"

Again they looked at each other.

"Don't know," Mrs. Wellbeloved answered. "That'd be between Mr. Boscombe and the vicar. Give up all his church duties, he did. But still a good man, an' very friendly. Nothing whatever you could take against. You go ask him. He'll tell you all as I can't."

And Dominic had to be content with that. He thanked them and made his way reluctantly out into the bitter air again. With the directions they had given him he walked briskly the half mile against the wind to the large, thatched house where John and Genevieve Boscombe lived with their four children.

He was welcomed in shyly, but with a gentle warmth that made him immediately comfortable. John Boscombe was a lean, quietly spoken man with fair hair, which was thinning a little. His wife was unusually pretty. Her skin was without blemish, her smile quick, and the fact that she was a little plump and her hair was definitely untidy seemed only to add to a sense of warmth.

Dominic heard happy laughter from upstairs, and at least three sets of feet running around. A large dog of indeterminate breed was lying on the floor in the kitchen in front of the range, and the whole room smelled of baking bread and clean linen. There was a pile of sewing in a basket, the bodice of which was obviously a doll's dress.

"What can we do for you, Vicar?" Boscombe asked. "A cup of tea for a start? It's turned cold enough to freeze the-" He stopped, coloring faintly at a sharp look from his wife. "Tea?" he repeated, his blue eyes wide.

"Thank you very much," Dominic replied.

Genevieve hastily moved a pile of folded laundry from one of the chairs and invited him to sit down at the kitchen table. He did not need the explanation that this was the only warm room in the house. People careful with money did not burn more fires than they had to. He knew that with sharp familiarity.

There was the sound of a shriek and then giggles from upstairs.

"I need your advice," he said. "Mrs. Wellbeloved tells me you were very close to the vicar and could advise me as to all the people I should keep a special care for: those alone, unwell, in hard or unhappy circumstances of any kind. I'm not asking for any confidences," he added quickly, seeing the look of anxiety in Boscombe's face. "Only where I should begin, and whom I must not overlook."

Boscombe frowned. "Did the vicar not tell you those things?"

At the range, Genevieve turned to look at him, the kettle still in her hand.

"No," Dominic said regretfully. "I never actually met him. The bishop directed me here. I assume the Reverend Wynter advised him rather late. Perhaps his need to take a holiday arose very suddenly-a relative ill or in need? I was given no details. I was happy to come."

"Oh!" Boscombe looked surprised, and oddly relieved. "That was very good of you," he added hastily. "Yes, of course we'll both do anything we can to help."

"Thank you. I'd like to talk to you a little about the vicar's sermons, particularly past Christmases. I don't want to repeat his words, or his exact message, but I'd like to be..." Suddenly he was uncertain exactly what he meant. Familiar, but original? Encouraging