Anne Perry s Christmas Mysteries Page 0,71

was beginning to shake now that he had stopped moving. He turned and began to walk back across the snow toward the spires of the church, black against the first stars. He knew the vicarage lay to the right of it, invisible in the trees, its lights kept to a minimum for economy's sake.

When he opened the front door, the warmth engulfed him, and after a moment he smelled the hot pastry, oil lamps, coal, and lavender furniture polish.

"Clarice!" he called out eagerly. "Clarice?"

She was there a moment later, hugging him. She gasped when the ice on his coat touched her neck and throat, then ignored it and held him tighter.

After supper they sat by the fire opposite each other. Outside, the wind rose, whipping the branches, and now and then clattering small twigs against the glass. He told her about speaking with Peter Connaught.

"Did he tell you anything useful?" she asked, leaning forward, eyes intent upon his.

"I don't think so," he admitted.

She caught his hesitation. "You think, you aren't sure?"

He looked at her face with its large, tender eyes and vulnerable mouth. Had he brought her into the presence of murder again, into the violence and tragedy of human hatred? He remembered how much she had been hurt the last time, and how frightened he had been himself. She had never doubted him, no matter what the facts had appeared to be. He owed her honesty, but he also owed her protection. He did not wish her to be hurt, ever. And yet if he shut her out, he was alone. He could not tell her half-truths-not without destroying the thread between them that was so infinitely precious.

"It wasn't what he said so much as a look in his face," he said, feeling ridiculous.

"He believed you!" she said, understanding instantly. "You told him the Reverend Wynter was murdered, and he knew you were right!"

He felt a warmth inside deeper than anything the fire or the room could give him. "He believes someone has a secret, and that the Reverend Wynter could have learned it," he said in confirmation. Should he tell her the rest: the impression only barely formed in his mind?

She was waiting for him to finish. She had something urgent to say also. He could see it in her eyes, in the clenching of her hands in her lap.

"I think he was almost relieved," he said. "As if he had feared it, and now that it had happened it could be faced, and he was no longer alone."

"He isn't alone," she said quickly. "And I told John and Genevieve Boscombe as well. I couldn't help it. Dr. Fitzpatrick may be furious, but I couldn't ask their help and then lie to them. They wouldn't have helped me anyway, because I had no sensible explanation for what I'd done."

He was confused, then touched by a tendril of fear, just a tiny thing, but unmistakable. "What have you done?"

She blinked with guilt, lowering her eyes.

"I wasn't accusing you!" He leaned far forward enough to grasp her hand. "Clarice! I only meant..." What had he meant? He gulped, and then clenched his teeth. "I was afraid for you. If someone in this village really lured the Reverend Wynter to the cellar steps and then hit him so hard he died as a result, then it would be foolish to think we are safe if we go looking for the secret that provoked them to it. Despite the snow and the peace, the kindness, Christmas in a few days, there is still something very terrible here. Just because we haven't lived here all our lives doesn't mean we are safe from it. We have made ourselves part of whatever it is. I'm sorry!"

She took his hand, closing her fingers around it. "Don't be. The only way to be safe is not to be alone at all. I shall be very careful."

"No you won't!" he contradicted her sharply. "I know you! You'll go charging in, doing whatever you think is right. Safety, or anything to do with sense, will be the last thing on your mind!"

She sidestepped the issue. "I looked at the books," she told him. "Very carefully."

He was confused. "What books?" It appeared to be irrelevant.

"The ledgers!" she said impatiently. "The accounts!"

"Oh. Why? I'm sure we can manage until the bishop makes a decision." He heard the unhappiness in his own voice. He had not meant to allow himself to care so much, certainly not to let Clarice know. But