Olivia’s eyes widened, but Plunket appeared none the wiser.
This conversation was best kept for the privacy of their carriage.
“Our search relates to the Roman-style mausoleum,” she said. “We need Mr Hathaway’s last known abode and the name of the officiant who performed the ceremony.”
The verger found the relevant month and flipped back and forth through the pages. He drew a magnifying glass from the desk drawer and ran his gaze down the list of names. “Hathaway, you said, my lady? Any chance there might be an error with the name?”
“No, I’m quite certain.” She flinched, just a fleeting tremor only a man who couldn’t take his eyes off her might notice. Something had caught her attention. “There’s no mistake.”
The verger looked at her, almost embarrassed to continue. “There’s no one listed by that name in the whole month of March. Nor in April.”
Had it been any other date, Gabriel would have returned to the mausoleum to check their facts. But this date? Its absence sharpened his suspicions.
“You do have the sexton’s records here?”
“Yes, yes, my lord.” Plunket practically shook with the need to please. “They’re in the parish chest.” He gestured to an oak trunk tucked away in an alcove.
“Someone would have recorded a tomb of that scale.”
They waited while the verger knelt beside the chest and rummaged through the musty contents. For a good ten minutes, he sifted among the disorganised tomes, muttering and blowing dust from their covers, until at last he unearthed the correct volume. He opened it, turned a few brittle pages?—
—and found nothing.
No Hathaways.
No purchase of a mausoleum of that grandeur.
Not so much as a passing reference.
Plunket blinked down at the page, confusion knitting his brow. “That’s … most irregular. A structure of that size would require a record of fees paid.” He rubbed a thumb along the margin as if a name might magically appear. “You may wish to speak to Reverend Clay, my lord. Though he’s only been the rector here these past ten years.”
Ten years. A bloody decade.
The word ought to be struck from every page in every book.
Plunket closed the tome with a soft thud. “I’m afraid the previous rector can’t help, my lord. Poor soul retired to the coast and perished not long after. Slipped on the coastal steps during a storm, or so I was told.”
Or pushed to silence him.
“Where will I find the new sexton?” Gabriel asked, keeping his tone even. “And surely there are Hathaways living in the parish.”
“None that I recall, my lord.” Plunket cast a glance towards the door. “Mr Nesbit should be in the churchyard tending the graves. If he’s not there, I suggest trying The Bear Tavern. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
Armed with a description of the sexton, they left the church and crossed directly into the adjoining graveyard.
Order reigned here. The stones stood mostly straight, some worn to a soft blur of names, others newer and unmarked by time. Flower posies rested at a few graves, and an elderly couple gathered by a headstone, speaking in hushed tones. The paths were swept, the grass trimmed.
“It’s hard to believe the same sexton tends both graveyards,” Olivia said. “It’s clear where he spends his efforts.”
Gabriel stopped a gardener busy clipping back the long summer grass. “Might you tell me where I’ll find Mr Nesbit?”
The man paused, shears idle in his hand and doffed hiscap. “He’s gone to look in on a burial plot out by the rectory, sir.”
That was a lie. There were no empty burial plots at the rectory. “Then perhaps you’ll direct us to The Bear Tavern.”
The gardener nodded towards the far boundary wall. “First left off Sydney Street, though it’s popular with gravediggers, and no place for a lady.”
They left the churchyard, but Gabriel paused at the gate.
