Adamson nodded, placed two glasses down, and filled them. “Where be ye to this time of night? T’ain’t safe out on the moor after dark.”
Jack shrugged and took a long swallow of his drink. “We’re both good horsemen.”
The publican nodded. “Still, plenty good riders fall afoul of bogs. There be rooms upstairs. Ye’d best keep safe an’ stay the night.”
Jack doffed his hat at the publican. “Appreciate the advice.”
“Ye be a long way from home.” Adamson looked from Jack to Brandt. “What be ye wantin’ in these parts?”
“We’re lookin’ for someone,” Brandt said.
“Maybe I can help. Lived here all me life.”
“A vicar. Goes by the name Greyson.”
“Reverend Greyson?” Adamson’s shaggy brows rose in surprise. “Why, ee’s been dead six years back.”
Jack’s stomach lurched. He’d expected as much, but it still felt like a knife in his gut.
“Why be ye wantin’ him?”
“A friend asked us to deliver him a message,” Brandt said.
Adamson cocked his head. “What friend be that?”
Jack ignored the man’s query. “How did he die?” he asked flatly.
“Of a broken heart, to be sure.” The publican’s plump wife looked up from wiping a spill on the counter. “Poor man suffered some black times—lost ee’s missus an’ little girl in days of each other.” She rested a hand on her hip and stared above Jack’s head as if seeing the past play out behind him. “Still, the good vicar never missed a service. Then one day ee’s boy ran off, an’ later, he got word the lad drowned at sea.” She shook her head. “He never recovered from that sorrow. Ee’s boy was trouble, but the vicar cherished him all the same.”
Jack’s throat closed. He took another swallow of whiskey.
“Be thee well?” Mrs. Adamson leaned forward and peered at Jack.
“Just tired from the long journey. Another drink will do me right. Brandy this time—double.”
“I’ll stick with whiskey,” Brandt said.
The publican poured the drinks, and Jack tossed another coin on the table.
Mrs. Adamson scooped it up. “Been in these parts ’afore, ’ave ye?” She eyed Jack.
“Don’t be daft woman,” the publican grunted. “They be Americans.”
Jack swallowed his brandy and motioned for another round. “Did the poor vicar die alone?”
“No, thank the good Lord. Had ee’s daughter to care for him until the end, he did. Poor maid! Her was alone after the reverend died. But the new vicar, bless his soul, took pity, an’ put her to work.”
“Doing what?” Hope quickened Jack’s pulse.
“Governess to ee’s young uns. Her was a quiet, learned young thing. Always sitting atop some tor with her nose deep in a book.”
Jack leaned forward on the bar. “Why do you speak of her in the past tense? Did she go somewhere?”
“The new vicar only served us a year afore the fire. He was a young man, Reverend Paddon, with a young family. Full of energy and love for the parish, he was. An’ us was glad to have him. But a year after he come—poof!” She mimicked an explosion with her arms.
“I don’t understand. Did the Greyson girl die in a fire?” Jack struggled to keep the urgency from his voice.
“Some folks swear her was gone from the vicar’s afore the fire, but I knowed different.”
