Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [167]
“Colonel Patterson?” he said grimly. “This is Chilverley?”
“Yes sir, Chilverley, Berkshire.” He looked at Monk anxiously. “Who were you looking for, sir?”
“The family home of Lord Ravensbrook.”
“Oh, bless you, sir. It is the family home of the Ravensbrooks, but he don’t live here no more. Sold it. Moved up to live in London, so they say.”
“I’m surprised it wasn’t entailed,” Monk said irrelevantly.
“Daresay it might have been.” The stationmaster wagged his head. “But Lord Milo were the last o’ the line. No reason why he shouldn’t sell, if he wanted. Must have got a tidy sum for it.” He touched his cap respectfully as two gentlemen, one in a Norfolk jacket, the other in a greatcoat, went by and through the gate to the road.
“No brothers, or even cousins?” Monk had no reason to ask, it simply occurred to him.
The stationmaster turned back to him.
“No sir. Had one brother, younger than him, but he was killed, poor soul. Accident it was, in Italy, or some such place.” He shook his head. “Drowned, they say. Pity, that was. He were a very charming gentleman, if a bit wild. Very handsome, and a bit free with the ladies, and with his money. Still, a sad end for one so young.”
“How old was he?” Again it hardly mattered.
“No more than thirty-one or thirty-two,” the stationmaster answered. “It’s all a long time ago now, well over quarter of a century, nearer thirty-five years.”
“Would you know if any of the old servants are still at the house?”
“Oh no, sir. All left when his lordship did. Colonel Patterson brought his own household with him.”
“Is there no one I could find who lived in the house then?” Monk pressed. “What about outside staff? Even a gardener, gamekeeper, coachman? Is it still the same vicar as it was then?”
The stationmaster nodded. “Oh, yes. Mr. Nicolson is still the vicar. Vicarage is opposite the church, just beyond that second stand of elms.” He pointed. “Can’t miss it. Just follow the road ’round. About two miles from here, sir.”
“Thank you. I’m obliged to you for your time and your courtesy.” And without waiting for any acknowledgment, Monk strode out in the direction the stationmaster had indicated.
The wind sighed through the bare branches of the elms and a cloud of rooks soared up into the air, disturbed by some predatory cat. Their black, tangled nests were low in the forks, towards the trunks. It had been a hard winter.
The vicar was an elderly man, but spry and bright-eyed. He greeted Monk over the hedge from where he had been looking hopefully at the green lawn and first spears of bulbs showing through.
Monk gave the briefest of explanations as to his purpose.
The vicar regarded him with a lively interest.
“Yes sir, of course I can. What a fine morning, isn’t it? Won’t be long before the daffodils come through. Love a good show of daffodils. Come into the parlor, my dear fellow. Got a decent fire going. Get the chill out of yourself.”
He came to the gate and opened it for Monk to walk through. Then he led him up a chipped stone path to the door, which was heavily bowered with honeysuckle, now a dark tangle of stems not yet showing green.
“In fact, would you like a spot of luncheon?” he invited, showing Monk the way inside, where it was immediately warm. “Hate to eat alone. Uncivilized. Good conversation best for a meal, don’t you think?” He went through the overcrowded hall and opened the door into a bright, chintz-curtained room. “Wife died five years ago. Have to grasp at all the company I can. Know everyone here. Have done for years. Can’t surprise each other anymore. Gets tedious in the winter. Don’t mind in the summer, enough to do in the garden. What did you say your name was?”
“William Monk, Mr. Nicolson.”
“Ah, well, Mr. Monk, would you care for some luncheon, while you tell me your business here in Chilverley?”
Monk was delighted to accept. He was cold and hungry, and it would be far easier to stretch out a conversation over the table than sitting in even the most agreeable parlor.
“Good, good.