The Keeper of Secrets Read Free Page A

pray arrange what you think best. If you can run a house the size of the Priory, I dare swear you know what is best for this.’
    Her laugh showed her excellent teeth, of which her ladyship must have been very jealous.
    At last what I had wanted to know all morning. ‘Might I ask, Mrs Beckles, how young Lizzie fares this morning?’
    ‘Indeed you may. She is shaken, a little inclined to weep, so I have kept her busy with tasks in my room.’ She smiled. ‘I honour you for what you did yesterday, Parson. Many another young man would have looked the other way. But you did right. I should be glad for Lizzie’s sake if she could find aposition in another house, but wherever she went she would have young bloods thinking she was there for their pleasure, and at least here I can keep an eye on her. But a word of advice, Parson. When you chose servants, let your head do the choosing, not your heart. Many a plain girl works harder than a pretty one.’
    ‘I suppose, Mrs Beckles, that you would not be able to recommend one?’
    She shook her head firmly. ‘It is your new housekeeper-cook you should consult. It is she who will have the training of her after all.’
    ‘And where would I find a housekeeper-cook? Should I ask Mr Davies for advice?’
    We both knew what her answer would be. ‘I think I can find you just the lady,’ she said.
    For all its curtains, carpets, tables and chairs, the house felt very empty when she had left.
     
    I repaired to the obvious place – to St Jude’s, there to offer belated morning prayers in the ineffable peace of the ancient building and then to become acquainted with its fabric.
    At last rising from my knees, I looked about me. From the shape of the arches and the windows, I judged the building to date from Norman times. There were brasses aplenty, and some grandiose tombs holding the earthly remains of the family who held the benefice, with Latin inscriptions testifying to the excellence of their lives. Nil nisi bonum , I supposed. The choir stalls looked as old as those in the Chapel of King’s College, in Cambridge, where I had taken my degree and later been ordained. I sat in one for a moment, feeling a sense ofhome there that I had yet to feel in the parsonage. As if in greeting, coloured light danced on my hands with the sudden illumination of the stained-glass windows.
    I had hardly closed the heavy door behind me when I realised I was not alone. Rake in one hand, shapeless hat in another, a man in his thirties greeted me. Though much the same age as Jem, he was spare to the point of emaciation, whereas Jem was broad and enough to carry me – as on occasion he had had to, when I had dipped far too deep. His thin face contrasted with Jem’s manly features.
    ‘Simon Clark, your honour,’ he greeted me. ‘Your verger, your honour.’
    Could this man dig a grave a full six feet deep? I doubted it, but little knew how soon he would prove my doubts unnecessary.
    ‘Call me Parson Campion, Mr Clark. And carry on with your excellent work.’ Now I looked about me, I could see how neat and trim the graveyard looked, barely one weed daring to show its head in the immaculate grass. When he stood where he was, still smiling, I added, with perfect truth, ‘Rarely have I seen so beautifully tended churchyard. Is this all your work?’
    Eyes huge and round, he nodded convulsively. ‘Thank you, your honour!’
    I shook my head. ‘No, it is I who must thank you. It is you who cleans the church?’
    He swallowed hard. ‘That be my good wife, your honour. She does her best, your honour.’
    ‘Then pray thank her on my behalf.’
    ‘Thank you, your honour.’
    Clearly he could not move until I did, so with another smile, I turned and walked to the lych-gate.
    I came face to face with two stolid countrymen, one ruddy and broad, the other as pale and thin as Simon Clark. Neither evinced any immediate signs of friendliness.
    ‘And who might you be, young sir?’ the red-faced one