The next day I am surprised by a visitor.
And it is not Alfred Saintsbury.
No, my butler, Montgomery, shows another familiar—but much less welcome—face into my study.
“Ah, madame,” Mr. Thompson says after seating himself across from me. “I am glad to see that you are well. After the excitement of yesterday.”
I cock my brow at him. “It will take more than a few overset men to affect my health, Mr. Thompson.”
“Of course, of course,” he says. “And I hope that I was of service to you.”
I sigh. One of the advantages of being notorious is that you needn’t be unnecessarily polite.
“Yes, you were very helpful, sir,” I say, with apparent lack of conviction. “I thank you for your efforts.”
“You are most welcome,” he says. “The little incident reminded me that it is important to have a vicar of strength here in Trescott.”
“As you’ll remember, Mr. Saintsbury seems to have acquitted himself adequately on that score.”
“What may seem adequate,” the man says as if it pains him, “may, in fact, be anything but.”
“Dear God, Mr. Thompson, if you have something to say, please do say it. You needn’t warm me up before you pour horseshit in my ear. I’m not my father.”
The man reels back.
“I merely meant that firing into a crowd of his own parishioners is hardly measured. There is strength and then there is—well, violence.”
“Given that I was the object of the enraged mob’s proposed violence, I am not inclined to see his actions as excessive.”
“Of course, you did not choose Mr. Saintsbury for the post. He was your father’s choice.”
His eyes gleam at this pronouncement.
And for some reason it bothers me that he even dares to speak Alfred’s name.
“He was not,” I say flatly. “But he suits me now. As I’m sure you’ll agree, religion is not a preoccupation of mine.”
“But you are a woman of reason,” he counters, “even of intelligence.”
Really, I should throw the man from my office. And I would if I thought he was worth the exertion.
“Yes, even that,” I say dryly. “Is there anything else, Mr. Thompson, that you would like to share?”
He reddens.
“My son was to have the living. It was practically agreed upon by your father. And then when I retired, your father suddenly changed his mind. He gave it to Saintsbury.”
“Perhaps he thought he deserved it more.”
“Impossible!” Mr. Thompson cries. “I think he was already sick, your father. It was an addling of his brain.”
“He chose Mr. Saintsbury three months beforehis illness. And I will be frank with you. I have no inclination to change who holds the living at present. I am sorry to your son—but I understand he holds a very nice living in Kent.”
“It is two hundred pounds less a year than the living here. A substantial sum.”
“Surely he will rise in time.”
Mr. Thompson flushes again.
