As she drew near the rectory, she saw a great crowd gathered outside the church, amongst them Mr Dewar, his wife and daughters. Mrs Dewar was weeping… several of the women were weeping. What on earth had happened?
“Oh, Miss Parish!” cried Miss Dewar, mopping her eyes with a frilly handkerchief. “Have you heard the dreadful news? The poor chaplain at the castle… poor, poor Mr Nicholson… and what he’s ever done to harm anyone I can’t imagine… the poor man!”
“Whatever has happened to him?” Katherine said, trying to remember the chaplain. A man of middle years, very genial… but nothing very distinctive about him.
“Murdered!” Miss Dewar cried, throwing out one arm as if she were on a stage. “Murdered in his bed in the night!”
“And him as blameless and innocent as a babe,” said Miss Bridget. “Such a dreadful thing!”
Dreadful indeed, but Katherine wondered a little just how innocent and blameless Mr Nicholson might be. Nothing justified murder, naturally, for‘Thou shalt not kill’was an inviolable law, but if someone had been riled enough to kill, then the blameless Mr Nicholson must have donesomethingto provoke such an attack.
2: Prayer And Uncertainty
Themurderwasallanyone could talk about. In the Birchall shops, at the rectory and around the polished dining tables of the gentry, there was only one topic of conversation, and every day brought some new snippet of information. Sir Hubert Strong, the magistrate, was called in, then the coroner. The murdered man’s wife, the blind Lady Alice, had discovered her husband’s body and screamed loud enough to waken even the servants in the attics and basements. The gentleman had been killed with an axe! To Katherine’s mind, that was the most shocking element of all. A knife or a pistol one could understand, but an axe? How abominably barbaric.
Then came the news that some people had been sent for from Hartlepool, men with expertise in investigating such horrific events.
“That is good news, at least,” Aunt Cathcart said, as they lingered at the dinner table one evening. “Sir Hubert is all very well for common thievery or poaching, but a murder of this nature, and to the earl’s brother-in-law, too! Much better to hand it over to experts.”
“All it means is that it is not a straightforward case of an intruder, as we thought at first,” Uncle Cathcart said. “Strong is baffled by it, seemingly. Who would want to kill the chaplain? Surely he cannot have an enemy in the world.”
There was general agreement on the point, but nevertheless, they spent the rest of the evening in increasingly wild speculation.
Katherine took no part in these discussions. She did not know the chaplain well enough to have any speculation to contribute, but there was one office she could fulfil for him, and that was to pray. The Cathcarts were not diligent in their religious observances, but Katherine more than made up for their lack. Thus the deceased chaplain was added to her morning and bedtime prayers, and even the murderer received his share of her thoughts, too, in the heartfelt hope that he would repent of his wickedness. It did not seem enough, however, so whenever she left the rectory after a sewing session, she slipped into the church to add a few more prayers to the great deluge she had already sent.
She was thus engaged one day about three weeks after the murder, when she heard the great wooden door creak open and then close again, followed by the soft sounds of someone creeping on booted feet down the aisle, and trying vainly to be silent about it. She was kneeling at the Lady Chapel rail, eyes closed, and she knew no one would disturb a praying figure. Keeping immobile, she bowed her head a little more, hoping the booted feet would pass on, perhaps to the vestry or to one of the pews. To her surprise, the feet stopped, and a little jingle of metal — fobs, perhaps, or a pocket watch chain — followed by the scraping of chair legs on the tiled floor suggested that the interloper had sat down just behind her.
Startled, she turned to see who it was, and was astonished to see the familiar face that haunted her dreams. And yet, it was not so familiar today, for there was no trace of that wonderful broad smile that always made her want to smile too.
“Mr Atherton!” she said, jumping up and spinning round to face him.
Slowly, as if it were a great effort, he rose to his feet, turning his hat in his hands. “Does it work?”
“I… beg your pardon?”
“Prayer. Does it work? Does it give you what you wish for?” His voice was bleak, empty of its usual lilting optimism.
She gazed at him blankly. That was not the purpose of prayer! Yet she could not possibly say so, not to a man of his rank, not to a man who made her twittery inside whenever she saw him. Impossible to say a word!
“Does it make you feel better, then?”
“Oh yes! Such a comfort.” What a strange question! To talk to God… to unburden oneself and put all one’s worries in His hands… surely everyone must feel better after praying?
“Perhaps I should try it, then.” The smile flickered for a moment. “Ah, now I have shocked you. Forgive me, but not everyone is as good a person as you.”
“No, no,” she murmured, blushing violently. How unworthy she was of such a compliment, for was not everyone a sinner, in some way, great or small?
“I wish Icouldpray,” he burst out, sinking onto the chair again, “for I am in great need of comfort just now and I see none in the mortal realm. When I was a boy, and said my prayers every night, kneeling beside my bed like the well-brought-up child I was in those days, I would ask God for all the things I believed would make me happy. The ability to learn Greek. A new toy soldier for my collection. My older brothers not to tease me. My father to praise me… or even notice me. It is dispiriting to be the third son, Miss Parish, especially one who has no especial attribute to please such a man as my father. Ah, innocent times! I long since learnt that God does not dispense favours in that way, and accepted that my life is not, perhaps, as filled with sunshine as some others, but I could make it so. I could fill it with sunshine myself, by smiling on the world and playing the jester to make everyone laugh. But today… I cannot laugh now, for the most appalling thing has happened. We are destroyed, quite destroyed and I do not know what will become of us, truly I do not, and prayer will not help me one whit.”
He looked so despairing that Katherine sat down beside him and reached out one hand to touch his sleeve. “At such times, I pray for the strength to endure.”
Turning himself fully to face her, he took her hands in his, so that even though they both wore gloves, she imagined the heat of his touch and blushed crimson again.
“Ah, Miss Parish, you have suffered too! You understand. I shall tell you, I think, what has occurred, for I must tell someone or I shall burst. My uncle Nicholson, the chaplain who was so foully murdered earlier this month, having preached piety at us for thirty years, was never ordained as a clergyman at all. That would not have mattered a bit if all he had done was recite the Sunday offices and read us dull sermons, but his very first act as chaplain thirty years ago was to marry my parents. Thus, we now find that their marriage is invalid and all six of the children of that marriage are rendered illegitimate. English law permits no remedy for this situation, so Walter is disinherited, and the title and all Father’s estates will now fall on Uncle George, and after him, my cousin Bertram, who has his nose so deep in his ancient books that he hardly knows what century it is. The last thing he wants is the responsibility of an earldom on his shoulders. It is appalling, and I have no idea what will happen to us all.”
“That is dreadful, but you will recover from this blow, I promise you. Every challenge is also an opportunity. God never burdens us with a greater load than we can bear.”
“You have such certainty!” he cried, releasing her hands and slapping his hat against his thigh. “I wish I could be so… so serene, so contented with life, yet you have suffered grievously, too. Your parents both dead, your home lost… and you had no brothers or sisters.”
