Free A Christmas Secret by Anne Perry Page A

stone, so it would mop up well enough. “Come into the kitchen,” he invited, satisfied with his work and turning to lead the way. “Have some soup. Always keep a stockpot on the simmer this time of year. The children are out playing. They’ve built a snowman bigger than I am. Genny! New vicar’s wife is here!”
    Genevieve Boscombe stood in the middle of the kitchen with her hands in a big bowl of flour and pastry. She was smiling, but she did not make any move to stop what she was doing. “Welcome,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll not shake your hand or I’ll have you covered. John’ll get you a dish of soup. It’s just barley and bones, but it’s hot.” There was a faint flush of defiance in her cheeks, from more than just the exertion of rolling the pastry.
    One was not defensive unless one was vulnerable. Clarice knew that from experience. She was conscious of her own clumsiness, where her sisters and her mother had been graceful. The comparison, even made in what was intended as humor, had sometimes hurt her sharply. Once or twice when she had fancied herself in love, she had felt it even more.
    She smiled at Mrs. Boscombe, deliberately avoiding looking around the kitchen, though she had noticed that the good linen sheets over the airing rail had been carefully cut down the worn-out middle then turned to be joined at the sides—to give them longer life. The china on the dresser was good, but a few pieces were chipped, one or two even broken and glued very carefully together. They had had money and were now making do and mending. Even Genevieve’s dress indicated the same thing. It was of good quality but had been up-to-date ten years ago.
    â€œThank you. I would like that very much.” She thought of adding something about barley being very light and pleasing, and decided not to; it would so easily sound patronizing. “Actually I called because I hoped Mr. Boscombe might be able to help me with a little of the church bookkeeping,” she said hastily. “I do so much wish to be accurate. I tried Mr. Frazer, but he was unable to offer any assistance.”
    â€œWhat is the difficulty, Mrs. Corde?” Boscombe said with concern.
    Boscombe served the barley soup into a blue-and-white bowl and set it on the table in front of Clarice, who thanked him. Suddenly she realized how difficult it was to explain her problem without lying, at least by implication.
    Boscombe was waiting, eyes wide.
    She must speak. “I … I was going through the Reverend Wynter’s account books and I found certain …”
    He was staring at her, something in his look darkening.
    She could think of nothing to excuse what she had done, except the truth. Fitzpatrick had no authority to order her silence. Everyone would have to know at some time, perhaps even by tomorrow. She plunged in. “The Reverend Wynter is dead,” she said very quietly, sadness overwhelming her. “We found his body quite by chance … in the second cellar. I went for coal and the cat followed me down. I …” She looked at him and saw the shock in his face, followed immediately by a terrible regret. He turned to look at Genevieve, then back at Clarice.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” he said a little huskily. “What happened? I … I hadn’t heard.”
    â€œNo one has,” she said quietly. “Dr. Fitzpatrick asked us not to tell anyone until the bishop has been informed, but …” This was the difficult part. “But we disagree upon what happened. However, I would be grateful if you would not let people know that I told you, at least not yet.”
    â€œOf course not,” he agreed. “That is why you were going through the account books?” He still seemed puzzled, but there was an inexplicable sense of relief in him, as if this wasn’t what he had feared.
    â€œYes.” She knew she had