As was her custom while working, her mind ran on other matters than the task at hand, and her needle slowed as she considered all that had happened that day. When she had defended Matthew, Catherine had spoken instinctively; she did not know Matthew well. He was always pleasant and respectful, but his disposition was not open. It had never before occurred to her to wonder about his situation. He was Henry’s clerk, and wrote in a strong, elegant hand, so clearly he was an educated man; but then why had he been obliged to go into service? He had worked for Henry since he had taken over the living at Woodston, and was always there, dependable and steady, but so unobtrusive that she rarely thought of him except when he was needed or present. She realized she did not even know his surname.

Such an unremarkable young man — and yet so completely capable of gaining access to Lady Beauclerk’s house and the confidence of her servant! Mr. Shaw, for instance, could not have done such a thing. His first concern was himself, his own wishes and concerns, and he was not able to put those aside for duty. No wonder he worked for a vulgar apothecary, while Matthew had a comfortable, if not prominent, place at Woodston parsonage, where his singular skills were valued.

Such skills were not commonplace; yet how had someone like Matthew acquired them? Immediately a romantic past for Matthew sprung up in her imagination: perhaps he was a younger son from a great family, now fallen on hard times, or perhaps his mother had died and his father remarried to a cruel woman who would not allow him to assist his own children. Young Matthew, forced from his far-flung, retired home, had learned woodcraft for survival; thus his general reserve and silent movement. During a snowstorm, he was forced to ask for shelter at a country parsonage (a comfortable yet unpretending place, rather like Woodston), and the kind rector had taken in the orphan and given him the final polish on his education. Catherine smiled over her sewing, lost in dreams of romance and adventure.

Her solitude was broken by the little maidservant coming in with a note. Catherine did not recognize the handwriting; she broke open the wafer and read.

You have not been asking the right questions. If you wish to know all about the murder of Sir Arthur Beauclerk, go outside now. All will be explained.

The note was unsigned.

What had Henry just said about a mysterious, unsigned note? “Beware getting too close to the truth. Next you will receive a mysterious unsigned note warning you off, and any heroine worth her smelling salts cannot resist such a challenge.” Her mind swirled with possibilities: Lady Beauclerk, weary at a lifetime of harsh treatment; Miss Beauclerk, resisting overbearing parental authority with the help of a besotted apothecary; Sir Philip, desperate to keep his uncle from changing his will; Mrs. Findlay herself, attempting to set into action a cunningly planned series of events. It was just like a book! Though Catherine’s disposition was mostly quite unheroic, when presented with such a delicious adventure, what heroine could resist?

She went to the window and peered down onto Pulteney-street, looking for lurking figures; the darkness was almost full, and a fog swirled off the river, making it impossible to see anything. Catherine hesitated, then decided; someone was trying to tell her something, and she must know what happened. She threw a shawl about her shoulders and went downstairs.

She opened the door and peered outside; she saw no one. She took one step, then another, down the short path that crossed over the vaults below; as she drew close to the iron archway that marked the edge of the pavement, a hand reached out of the fog and seized her wrist. “You come with me now,” said a voice, and bore her inexorably away before she could breathe a word.


Chapter Ten