Her blood iced in her veins as the meaning behind his words sank in. She had no idea how to respond. She would never speak ill of Mr. Warrington. Why would Mr. North have reason to do so?
She needed clarity. “Are you accusing Mr. Warrington of being involved with Mr. Longham’s death?”
“No, nothing like that. I don’t think him involved at all. But I think he might take advantage of the situation.”
She could not let this go. “Then who do you think is involved in Mr. Longham’s death?”
“Unfortunately, I think the answer to that is very clear. I’d confess my thoughts on this to no one else besides you, but by now you know that Peter Clark is a volatile man. Normally I pay no heed to gossip, but then again, never have I felt that someone I cared for was in danger. His groom reportedly gave a very different account of that night than he or his wife did. Very different.”
She felt as if she would be ill. If Mr. Clark was involved with the murder, then the logical conclusion was that Mr. Longham was killed to ensure silence.
And she was the reason why.
“I’ve said too much already,” he continued, “but I will say one more thing and then be silent. It is just that I... I do care for you, Miss Hale. Very much. I want you to be careful.”
A shuffle sounded at the church door behind them, and they turned to see Betsy.
From their safe distance, Mr. North said, “Your friend’s not very fond of me.”
“Betsy?”
Mr. North spoke low but did not look away as Betsy approached them. “As the vicar here, of course I would like for her to be comfortable around me, at least. But these days I find myself caring less about what others think about me. My concern lies more with what one person in particular thinks.”
There could be no doubt now of his meaning. These were not the words of a vicar to his parishioner. These were the words of a man to a woman.
A strange sense of panic surged through her. “Mr. North, I—”
His words silenced her. “How long do I have to—”
But he quickly stopped talking as Betsy drew nearer.
“I got all of the apples! One rolled under the desk. It took me a while to retrieve it.” She glanced from Cassandra to Mr. North. “If I am interrupting, I—”
“No, you’re not interrupting at all.” Surprisingly relieved to be released from what could have been a much more serious conversation, Cassandra reached for Betsy’s empty basket. “It’s getting late. I must retrieve Rachel.” She turned and curtsied. “As always, thank you, Mr. North, for your concern and help.”
A flash of disappointment, or perhaps annoyance, splayed across his handsome face, but a smile quickly replaced it. “Of course. If you are done in the church, I will just go lock the office.”
Betsy looped her arm through Cassandra’s as they walked toward the vicarage and lowered her voice. “What did Mr. North want?”
Cassandra hesitated. His intentions were clear. Had his help been a mask for his romantic intentions all along? But he had repeatedly stated the importance he placed on social rank. What exactly was his interest with her? It didn’t make sense. “I’m not entirely sure.”
“Hmph.” Betsy’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You are now the most interesting person in the area, what with the inheritance looming, and every man will want to speak with you.”
“I don’t know what to believe, Betsy. It seems that everyone hasdifferent stories. Different expectations. If only I had some definite new proof.”
“Yes. Too bad you don’t have any documentation.” A sly smirk crept over her face as they walked along, and she pulled back the linen over the basket in her arms. Inside was a sheet of paper.
“Betsy!” cried Cassandra as she looked down at the page. “What have you done?”
“While you were talking, I just took a look and found something very interesting in the bottom of a drawer, tucked away in a portfolio.”
“But you can’t just take things.” Cassandra glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching them.
“Are you sure? Because...” Betsy stepped off the road and tugged Cassandra with her. “Look.” She removed the paper from the basket and held it out.
It was a vellum paper with a list of names and dates on it. The page had clearly been torn from some sort of bound book. Shock nearly stole Cassandra’s speech as the significance of what she was holding dawned on her. “These are baptism records.”
“I know. Look here.” Betsy pointed at the page.
