Leave the Grave Green

and I remember doubting my parishioners would find a sermon on the subject very uplifting. You’re not familiar with the geography of the area, are you, Mr. Kincaid?”

Kincaid assumed the question to be rhetorical, as the vicar had gone to his desk and begun rooting among the papers even as he spoke, but he answered anyway. “No, Vicar, I can’t say that I am.”

The object of the search proved to be a tattered Ordnance Survey map, which the vicar unearthed with obvious delight from beneath a pile of books. Opening it carefully, he spread it before Kincaid. “The Chiltern Hills are a legacy of the last Ice Age. They lie across the land at a horizontal angle, from the northeast to the southwest, do you see?” He traced a darker green oblong with his fingertip. “The north side is the escarpment, the southern the dip-slope, with valleys running down it like fingers. Some of these valleys bear rivers—the Lea, the Bulbourne, the Chess, the Wye, and others—all tributaries of the Thames. In others the springs and surface-flow only break out when the water table reaches the surface—during the winter or other times of particularly heavy rain.” Sighing, he gave the map a gentle tap with a forefinger before folding it again. “Hence their name—winterbournes. It’s quite pretty, isn’t it? Very descriptive. But they can be treacherous in flood, and that, I’m afraid, was the downfall of poor young Matthew.”

“What exactly happened?” asked Kincaid. “I’ve only really heard the story secondhand.”

“The only one who will ever know exactly what happened is Julia, as she was with him,” said the vicar, with an attention to detail worthy of a policeman. “But I’ll do my best to piece it together. The children were walking home from school and took a familiar shortcut through the woods. The rain had given us a brief respite, for the first time in days. Matthew, indulging in some horseplay along the bank of the stream, fell in and was caught by the current. Julia tried to reach him, going dangerously far into the water herself, and, failing, ran home for help. It was too late, of course. I think it quite likely that the boy had stopped breathing before Julia left him.”

“Did Julia tell you the story herself?”

Mead nodded as he sipped his tea, then set his cup down and continued. “In bits and snatches, rather less than coherently, I’m afraid. You see, she was quite ill afterward, what with the shock and the chill. No one thought to see to her until hours later, and she’d been soaked to the skin. Even that was Mrs. Plumley’s doing—the parents were entirely too distraught to remember her at all.

“She developed pneumonia. It was touch and go for a bit.” Shaking his head, he held his hands out toward the electric fire, as if the memory had made him cold. “I visited her every day, taking it in turn with Mrs. Plumley to sit with her during the worst of it.”

“What about her parents?” asked Kincaid, feeling the stirrings of outrage.

Distress creased the vicar’s gentle face. “The grief in that house was as thick as the water that drowned Matthew, Mr. Kincaid. They had no room in their minds or hearts for anything else.”

“Not even their daughter?”

Very quietly, almost to himself, Mead said, “I think they couldn’t bear to look at her, knowing that she was alive and he was not.” He met Kincaid’s eyes, adding more briskly, “There now, I’ve said more than I should. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought of it, and Connor’s death has brought it all back.”

“There’s more you’re not telling me.” Kincaid sat forward in his chair, not willing to let the matter drop.

“It’s not my place to pass judgment, Mr. Kincaid. It was a difficult time for everyone concerned.”

Kincaid translated that as meaning that Mead thought the Ashertons had behaved abominably, but wouldn’t allow himself to say so. “Sir Gerald and Dame Caroline are certainly solicitous of their daughter now.”

“As I said, Mr. Kincaid, it was all a very long time ago. I’m only sorry that Julia has had another such loss.”

A movement at the window caught Kincaid’s eye. The wind had raised a dervish of leaves on the vicar’s lawn. It spun for a moment, then collapsed. A few leaves drifted toward the window, lightly tapping the panes. “You said you knew Matthew, but you must have come to know Julia quite well, actually.”

The vicar swirled the dregs of his tea in his mug. “I’m not sure anyone knows Julia well. She was always a quiet child, watching and listening where Matthew would plunge into things. It made the rare response from her all the sweeter, and when she took an interest in something it seemed genuine, not merely the latest enthusiasm.”

“And later?”

“She did talk to me, of course, during her illness, but it was a hodgepodge, childish delirium. And when she recovered she became quite withdrawn. The only time I had a glimpse of the child I knew was at her wedding. She had that glow that almost all brides have, and it softened the edges.” His tone affectionate, the vicar’s smile invited Kincaid’s understanding.

“I can almost imagine that,” Kincaid said, thinking of the smile he’d seen when Julia had opened the door to them, thinking it was Plummy. “You said you married them, Vicar? But I thought—”

“Connor was Catholic, yes, but he didn’t practice, and Julia preferred to be married here at St. Barts.” He nodded at the church, its distinctive double tower just visible across the lane. “I counseled Connor as well as Julia before the wedding, and I must say I had my doubts, even then.”

“Why was that?” Kincaid had developed a considerable regard for the vicar’s perceptions.

“In some odd way he reminded me of Matthew, or of Matthew as he might have been had he grown up. I don’t know if I can explain it… he was perhaps a bit too glib for my liking—with such outward charm it’s sometimes difficult to tell what runs beneath the surface. An ill-fated match, in any event.”

“Apparently,” Kincaid agreed wryly. “Although I’m a bit confused as to who wouldn’t divorce whom. Julia certainly seems to have grown to dislike Connor.” He paused, weighing his words. “Do you think she could have killed him, Vicar? Is she capable of it?”

“We all carry the seeds of violence, Mr. Kincaid. What has always fascinated me is the balance of the equation—what factor is it that allows one person to tip over the edge, and another not?” Mead’s eyes held knowledge accumulated over a lifetime of observing the best and worst of human character, and it occurred to Kincaid once again that their callings were not dissimilar. The vicar blinked and continued, “But to answer your question, no, I do not think Julia capable of killing anyone, no matter what the circumstances.”

“Why do you say ‘anyone,’ Vicar?” Kincaid asked, puzzled.