Anne Perry s Christmas Mysteries Page 0,55

his eyes bright again in the firelight. "Would you like to see the house?" he asked. "It would be my pleasure to show you."

"I'd love to," she said sincerely.

He guided her through it all with a kind of gentle pride she found endearing. He did not boast except once, and then immediately apologized for it as though it had been a breach of good manners.

"You have a right to be proud," she said honestly. "It is so beautiful, and obviously it has been loved over the centuries. Thank you for your generosity in showing me."

He looked pleased, even a little self-conscious. "Are you sure you wish to walk home alone? It is now quite dark."

"Oh, certainly," she said with confidence. "It is only a mile or so."

"Still, I would rather accompany you, at least as far as the village green. I would be happier."

She did not argue. When she was within sight of the vicarage lights, which were already familiar to her, he bade her good night and turned back toward the manor. Clarice went another few yards, then saw the dark outline of a figure coming toward her, leaning into the wind and huddling a shawl around her. It was so small and walked with such tiny, hurried steps, it had to be a woman.

"Good evening," Clarice said clearly, thinking the woman had not seen her and was in danger of bumping into her unless she moved off the path into the snow.

"Oh! My dear, you gave me a fright!" the woman exclaimed. "I was quite lost in my own thoughts. Since I don't know you, you must be the new vicar's wife."

"Yes, I am. Clarice Corde." Clarice held out her hand.

"How do you do," the woman responded. Her voice was husky and a little cracked, but it must have been rich in her youth. "My name is Sybil Towers," she went on, holding out a small hand in a woolen mitten. "Welcome to Cottisham. I am sure you will be happy here. We all love the Reverend Wynter, and we will make you comfortable, too."

"Mrs. Towers," Clarice said impulsively. "You don't know where the Reverend Wynter went for his holiday, do you? I have found something he left behind, and I would very much like to send it after him, but the only address I have is not for this year."

"No! I'm afraid I have no idea," she responded. "In fact, I didn't even know he was going away. I'm so sorry."

It would be inexcusable to keep the old lady standing outside in the rising wind any longer, so Clarice dismissed it, wished her good night, and hurried on to the vicarage.

Dominic was at home and intensely relieved to see her-so much so that she found no suitable opportunity to tell him about the Bible, or the fact that she could find no one who knew the vicar's holiday address.

***

The morning was milder, and thick wet snow blanketed everything. Even the air swirled in white flurries, blocking out the village green so that the houses at the farther side were all but invisible. It was a world of movement and shadows seen through a haze.

Dominic left to go visit the sick and the lonely, and Clarice began the necessary duties of housework. There was no point in thinking of doing laundry, beyond shirts and underclothing. Nothing else would dry.

She should air the vicar's bedroom. Closed rooms, especially in this weather, could come to smell stale. She did not wish him to return to that stuffy, unoccupied feeling. The cat pattered around behind her, poking her nose into everything and giving her the uncomfortable suspicion that there could be mice here after all. Harry had gone back to sleep in front of the range in the kitchen, as if he was still sulking. He had been outside first thing with Dominic, but now he refused to wag his tail or in any other way respond.

The first thing she noticed in the bedroom-after opening the windows briefly, just to let the cold, sweet air circulate-was a stark drawing of bare trees in the snow. There was no color in it at all, and yet there was a grace to the lines that held her attention. She stared at it so long, she grew cold, then realized the window was still open. She shut it quickly and returned to the picture. It was another of the vicar's own drawings. She had begun to recognize his style even before she read his