“No, he’s worse,” retorted Kenrick. “He may not bite your nose off, but then you ain’t related to him.”
Denzell smiled over his unnatural impatience. “Dear boy, I am convinced he cannot even notice you among so many.”
“That’s just what I rely on. I thank God I am not the eldest, for although a naval career is not what I would have chosen, at least it keeps me away. Poor Fulbert is obliged to remain, just as my father is.”
Yes, and his reverend Uncle Hartley had the Pittlesthorp living, Denzell remembered, so that his cousin Walter must be much under old man Chaceley’s eye. There were several women, too, were there not? They were all in attendance at the wedding, even the Chaceley sisters, who had moved away on their marriages, returning with their families to make an appearance here.
“Lord, yes, I had not thought,” he said aloud. “Your house must be pretty full at this present.”
“Bursting at the seams,” said Kenrick. “Which is all to the good. Grandpapa has too many distractions to be concerning himself over one insignificant naval officer.” He tapped his own chest. “Me.”
Denzell glanced around them, saw with satisfaction that his friends were all deep in discussion, and pulled Kenrick apart, obliging him to walk as he said in an urgent under-voice, “I have something I particularly wish to ask you.”
“What?” demanded Kenrick, intrigued.
“Have you any relatives down Sussex way?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Are you sure?” urged Denzell, ignoring the question.
“Sure? No! How in thunder should I know all the ins and outs of the family? My grandfather was one of five, and I can’t account for the half of them.”
“Oh,” said Denzell, dashed. “Damnation. Then it might go years back, and you would not know of it.”
“Talking in riddles, old fellow. I wish you’d tell me what’s in your mind.”
Denzell suddenly wondered why he was doing this. If Verena Chaceley had wanted him to investigate the ramifications of her family, no doubt she would have asked him to do so. Yes, when the moon turned to green cheese. What the devil was he doing?
He shook his head. “It does not matter. I met someone — but it is not important.”
Kenrick’s interest was not so readily depressed, however. “What, you mean you have met a Chaceley? In Sussex?”
“No, in Tunbridge Wells, but —”
“Tunbridge Wells? Lord, Hawk, what in thunder took you to a tumbledown rack of a place like that?”
Denzell grinned. “I know. Though it is quite a thriving community these days, you must realise — if aged on the whole. My friend Osmond Ruishton lives there.”
“He must be mad.”
“Probably.”
Kenrick slapped his shoulder. “Tell you what, Hawk. We’ll ask my father. Knows the family tree inside out, does my father. Ten to one, though, there ain’t no Chaceley in Tunbridge Wells.”
But Bevis Chaceley, when accosted by his son, could not enlighten them. Could not, or would not? Denzell wondered, the urgency returning despite himself. Had there not been even a slight reaction from the fellow?
Kenrick’s father was a handsome man of middle years, running a little to the portly, but still able to cut a fine figure in a suit of green-toned ditto. He was a calm personage, with a pleasant manner and an easy temperament. Although Denzell knew Bevis Chaceley for a stern parent, he was not as rigid in his views as old man Chaceley.
“Sussex!” he exclaimed, as if there was meaning in it.
Something leapt in Denzell’s chest. He knew something.
But then the gentleman frowned a little, pursing up his lips. “What part of Sussex?”
“A place called Fittleworth,” Denzell answered, an odd sensation inside him, as of a hunger — for information.
Bevis shook his head. “I think not. It may be some other family.” He smiled. “We are not the only Chaceleys to bear the name, my boy.”
