Free A Question of Honor by Charles Todd Page A

heavy church door closing as a man stepped out. He started toward the square, saw us in the churchyard, and halted. Then he came our way. I don’t know why, but I had a feeling he was the rector, or failing that either a church warden or someone else in authority. His expression was rather cold, and my first thought was, He knows which graves these are.
    “Can I be of assistance?” he asked.
    “Are you the rector?” It was Simon who put the question, before I could speak.
    “The sexton,” the man replied.
    “We had just happened to noticed that three members of this family—the Caswells—died on the same day,” I said.
    The sexton frowned. “It was cholera, I believe,” he said shortly, as if used to prying questions. “Are you looking for a member of your own family? There are records in the church, I can help you find their graves.”
    He was urging us away from this particular plot.
    “We were passing the time until tea, wandering here,” I said. “It’s a lovely church.”
    “Then you must look inside. I recommend it.”
    There was nothing to do but follow him to the church and go inside. He held the door for us, and busied himself at a table, straightening up the literature there while we looked around. It was indeed a handsome church with a beautiful old wooden ceiling. We walked down toward the altar and then turned.
    The sexton waited for us, and accompanied us to the square. I had the feeling that he was shepherding us, even though he was giving us information about the church as we went. Once he was certain we were heading for my motorcar, he bade us farewell, and then stood watching us until I got in and Simon went to turn the crank.
    He was still there, in front of the gates, when we drove away.
    We decided to stop for tea in the pretty inn just off the square. I was grateful for the quiet table Simon commanded that overlooked the road. There was a small group in the lounge that came through shortly after we’d sat down, choosing a table nearer the cold hearth. It was clear they knew one another, and I thought they must have met up in the square during market day, for I heard them catching up on family news as they sat down. Someone’s daughter was to be married soon, and that occupied much of their conversation.
    Our tea had just arrived, along with a dish of thin sandwiches made with the bread I’d just seen in a stall in the square—a lovely farm loaf—when the door opened and the chaplain we’d seen earlier as we’d left what must have been the Caswells’ house at one time came into the room from the street.
    He cast a glance around, spotted us, and came at once to our table. I could see that he was red in the face from suppressed anger.
    “Just who are you?” he demanded. “First the house, then the graves. Are you down from London looking to bring up the whole sorry business again? Isn’t the killing in France enough for you?”
    Simon stayed seated, eyeing the chaplain mildly. But it was deceptive, that mildness. Simon was nearly as angry himself at being attacked this way in a public place.
    “My name is Brandon,” he said. “I have nothing to do with newspapers or London. And I’ve had enough of your rudeness.”
    “Have you indeed,” the chaplain said. He hooked a chair with his foot and brought it around so that it stood at the table between Simon and me. Sitting down, the chaplain said, “I’m trying to sell that barn of a place. And bad publicity just now will put paid to any chance I have. Whatever you’re up to, I won’t let you do this. I’ll have the constable in here and see what he has to say.”
    “Is the house yours?” I asked before Simon could speak, trying to prevent an unpleasant encounter between the two men. “Do you have the right to tell people what they ought and ought not to do, like this?”
    He was taken aback. “Of course the house is mine. Ask anyone, it was left to me by my uncle.”
    “Have you ever lived there?”
    He blinked,