“What brings you to such a desolate part of Chelsea?” the rector asked, then winced as his memory caught up with his tongue. “Oh dear, you must still be looking for that poor man’s body. Dreadful turn of events. Quite dreadful.”
“Yes, we’re searching all the burial grounds in the area,” Gabriel said with the aristocratic air that made lesser men uneasy, “looking for signs of a disturbance. The magistrate believes a show of authority might appease the restless parishioners.”
“We wondered if you were doing something similar,” Olivia said, “as we saw you making notes in your book.”
Mrs Hodge was quick to answer on his behalf. “We’re taking down names in the hope we can persuade family members to tend the overgrown graves. With crime on therise, there are too many places for footpads and robbers to hide.”
Olivia frowned. Grave-tending was the sexton’s duty, not the rector’s. Since when did clergy concern themselves with weeds?
“And that awful murder, right on our doorstep, will have folk moving further out to Fulham.” The rector glanced heavenward. “Let us pray that a generous benefactor donates the funds to hire another gardener.”
She thought Gabriel might contribute or offer to send his own man, but giving money to a suspected revolutionary could implicate him in their crimes.
“Have you thought of approaching Sir Randall?” Olivia wanted Mrs Hodge to know they had spoken to her former employer. “His sister thought highly of you. He did nothing but sing your praises when we met yesterday.”
The woman shifted, as though a pebble had found its way into her shoe. “I wouldn’t want him to feel obliged. He took her passing badly, and I’d not wish to stir painful memories.”
“He keeps her marble paperweight on his desk, and seemed quite eager to talk about her.”
“All the same, I’ll not ask for his charity.”
“I’m sure the Lord will provide a solution.” Gabriel returned to the subject of his murdered friend. “Before we leave you to your work, there are a few questions we must ask on the magistrate’s behalf. Concerning the body found in the cottage.”
“By all means,” the rector said, “though I presume the suspect has reached Brighton by now. I believe the lady who rented the cottage has an aunt there.”
Olivia’s chest constricted. She counted the seconds untilMrs Hodge revealed her secret, that she was Miss Woolf, the missing suspect.
“I told the constable all I know,” Mrs Hodge said curtly.
“If you wouldn’t mind confirming the facts.” Gabriel fixed her with that penetrating gaze one dared not refuse. “It might help us understand why the resurrectionists took a body that was two days old, when the surgeons pay more for fresher specimens.”
Mrs Hodge hesitated, fingers picking at the edge of her coat as if buying time.
The rector gave a genial smile. “Go ahead, Mrs Hodge. His lordship is merely seeking answers.”
After stuttering over the first words, she said, “I came to clean the cottage after the tenant left and found the poor gentleman dead in the bed.”
Olivia shivered, imagining Mr Lovelace lying lifeless in her old bed, and some devil planting evidence to incriminate her.
And why had Mrs Hodge been so vague? Referring only to ‘the tenant’ and not Miss Woolf? Perhaps she was afraid of Gabriel. Or perhaps she hoped the constables would waste time chasing shadows because someone had helped her murder Mr Lovelace.
“Was there any sign of forced entry?” Gabriel asked.
“The back door was ajar, as though someone had opened it with a key. But I had the only key, so whoever it was must have had a spare or used tools to pick the lock.”
While dragging a body from the graveyard through the garden? “Were there muddy footprints on the floor?” Olivia asked. “Might you have noticed the size or shape?”
“How intuitive, Lady Rothley,” Reverend Clay said.
“No, ma’am. There was no sign anything was amiss until I went upstairs and came across the horrid scene.”
She wondered if her thoughts and Gabriel’s were aligned? Had he noticed the lack of empathy? The calm detachment of a woman who had seen such horrors before?
“What was he wearing?” Gabriel said.
“Dark trousers, an open shirt. His black jacket hung over the chair, his boots placed neatly beneath.” Mrs Hodge clasped her chest, remembering she was supposed to be shocked. “I ran to the rectory.” She turned, pointing west of the mausoleum. “Reverend Clay fetched the watchman and dealt with things from there.”
“So you didn’t find the letter?”
