'I think quite describes it. You scent a whiff of scandal about my family, and here you come to pay your 'respects.''
I could not say he was wrong. The dress I'd found had intrigued and worried me, and yes, learning of Helena's flight had made me uneasy.
'Perhaps we should not argue about it on the high street,' I said.
'Why not? Our neighbors know all our business. Ask them.'
Terrance started to close the door. I put my shoulder against it. 'Listen to me,' I said, my voice low. 'Your cousin was my friend, and at one time, you were too. I want to help you find her.'
Terrance opened the door, grabbed me, and hauled me inside, his one-handed grip amazingly strong. He slammed the door, and I righted myself before I could unbalance on my bad leg. We made a sorry pair.
'My mother and aunt have gone to Norwich,' Terrance said. 'The cook and maid are taking their day out, so no one is here to stop me beating the devil out of you.'
'You'd find it a tough fight,' I said. 'I am not as feeble as I appear.'
'Neither am I.' Terrance's face was red.
I gestured with my walking stick to his empty right sleeve. 'How did that happen?'
'How do you think? Fighting the Frenchies at Waterloo. A ball went right through it. The surgeon said I'd have to lose it or die of gangrene, so I let him take it. I should have told him to shoot me in the head.'
I tapped my bad knee with the stick. 'This was French deserters amusing themselves with a lone prisoner. The only reason I lived was because of the kindness of a Spanish woman and her small children. I, the brave soldier, was reduced to begging for water from a six-year-old boy.'
Terrance looked at my injured leg with a little less belligerence. 'I suppose we both have harrowing tales. I thought my family would welcome me back with joy, but they've let it be known that I would have brought them more honor if I'd stayed and died. What good is half a man to a poor family?'
'Which is why I make myself useful by prying into other people's affairs.'
'And now you've come to pry into ours. To hell with this, Lacey. Helena ran off with a man. She went to Cambridge. That is all.'
I debated whether to tell him about the gown, but I decided not to. Terrance was unhappy and volatile, and I was by no means certain the gown had been Helena's.
'Arguing is thirsty work,' I said. 'Step with me to the pub, and I'll stand you a tankard.'
I thought for a moment he might accept, for old time's sake, but Terrance shook his head. 'I have things to do before my aunt and mother return. I'll tell them you called.'
'Fair enough.' I made for the door. 'Send for me anytime you wish to jaw, or drink, or argue. A message to the old Lacey house will reach me.'
'Do not wait for it,' Terrance said.
I gave him another half bow and stepped out of the house. He slammed the door before I could turn and walk away.
I made my way down the southwestern road to the Lacey house. When I reached it, I found that Denis's two men had returned to continue the search for the stolen artwork, but no Cooper.
Bartholomew was there, as well as Matthias, the two brothers helping one of the men break up the debris from the bonfire. Bartholomew had found nothing in the windmill, he said, as I stopped to speak to them.
A sudden shouting from the house startled us all. It was Denis's man, who had gone below stairs to continue demolishing the servants' passages and the kitchen.
Matthias and Bartholomew raced to the house, and I followed as quickly as I could. We found the second man in the kitchen, he having torn half the mantelpiece from the fireplace. I do not now what I expected him to show us-the skeletal remains of Miss Quinn? — but I was fully prepared for horror.
What he held, pulled from the fireplace, was a piece of canvas folded around things that clanked.
As we all hurried in, he spread the canvas open across the massive kitchen worktable, the one piece of furniture still whole.
'There, guv,' he said. 'What do you think of that?'
I stared down at four silver candlesticks, a wide and deep silver chalice, and a small silver plate, tarnished now, but the metal shimmered here and there in the sunlight from the high windows.
These dishes had never graced the Lacey household. The plate and chalice had been made to hold a host and wine, and I'd stared at the silver candlesticks on the altar of the chapel at Parson's Point all my young life.
Someone had robbed the Parson's Point church and stuffed the booty up the chimney of the Lacey kitchen.
Chapter Nine
The man who'd found the stash hefted one of the candlesticks. 'Nice silver there. Fetch a good price.'
'Put it down,' I said. 'I know where these things belong, and I will return them.'
The man looked astonished but stood the candlestick upright on the table. 'Why, guv? We know they're nicked, but none but us know they're here, eh? I have just the chap to sell them to, and we split the take. Stands to reason. I found them, but it's your house.'
A fair-minded thief. 'They came from a parish church that is by no means well off,' I said. 'I am taking them back.'
The man still had his hand on the candlestick. He eyed me in confusion then sighed and stepped away. Denis must have ordered him to obey me no matter how daft my commands.
Bartholomew stared at the silver. 'But what is all that doing here?'
A very good question. I laid the candlesticks and communion dishes in the middle of the canvas and folded the cloth over them again. 'Someone robbed the chapel, stashed the things in an empty house, and did not have a chance to return for them.'
I could see that Denis's lackeys thought I'd lost my mind. Perfectly good nick, me with no money, and I wanted to return it?
'I'll ride up to the village now,' I said. 'But I agree about keeping it quiet.'
I picked up the clanking bundle, balanced it over my shoulder, and leveraged myself up the stairs with my walking stick. Bartholomew came out with me and brought my horse to me.
'Keep an eye out,' I said as he helped me into the saddle then handed up the bundle. 'I'll return directly.'
'Aye, sir,' Bartholomew said, and I rode away.
I clattered into Parson's Point not long later, which had filled with cooking smells for evening meals. I went through the village, past the flint houses that looked very much like those in Blakeney, and out the other side of the village to the church, half a mile beyond.
The Parson's Point church had been built at least seven centuries ago, and repaired yearly by its congregation ever since. It had very little in the way of ornamentation, having been constructed before the wild gothic fantasies of pointed arches, flying buttresses, and gargoyles.
The church's only decoration was frescoes painted high on the walls above the altar. They were pretty pictures, faded with time, depicting the holy family on their flight to Egypt and the young Jesus teaching in the temple. I'd always envied the boy Jesus as I'd studied the paintings during the learned but dull sermons of Dr. Quinn. He'd done what he pleased while his parents looked on in astonishment. Christ's story might have ended differently had Joseph been anything like my father.
The rest of the church was whitewashed, and the rows of polished pews for the masses were a fairly recent addition. Until twenty-five years ago, the villagers had stood for their worship. My family and other prominent members of the community had always had enclosed pews in the front.
Preston Reaves was not at the vicarage. Of course not-he was picnicking with Lady Southwick and her guests at Binham Priory. Likely he was looking at the ruined splendor of the priory and regretting he hadn't been born before the advent of Protestant frugality.
