No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [133]
“We have,” the vicar agreed happily. He looked to be in his forties, a round-faced man with a soft voice. “Lovely village. Would you care to look around?” His glance included Judith.
“Actually, I think my late father may have come here a little while ago,” Joseph replied. “His car was rather distinctive, a yellow Lanchester.”
“Oh, yes!” the vicar said with obvious pleasure. “Delightful gentleman.” Then his face clouded. “Did you say ‘late’? I’m so sorry. Please accept my sympathies. Such a nice man. Looking for a friend of his, a German gentleman. I directed him to Frog End, where he had just rented the house.” He shook his head, biting his lip a little. “Really very sad. Takes a lot of faith sometimes, it really does. Poor gentleman was killed in an accident just after that himself.”
Joseph was stunned. He was aware of Judith beside him drawing in her breath in a gasp. Her fingers dug into his arm. He tried to keep himself steady.
“Out walking about in the evening and must have slipped and fallen into Candle Ditch,” the vicar went on sorrowfully. “Up where it meets the river near Fulbourn Fen.” He shook his head a little. “He wouldn’t know the area, of course. I suppose he hit his head on a stone or something. And you say your poor father died recently as well. I’m so sorry.”
“Yes.” Joseph found it difficult to gather his feelings in the face of this sudden very real compassion. Indifference woke anger, or a sense of isolation, and that was in some ways easier. “Did you know this German gentleman?”
An elderly couple passed; the vicar smiled at them but turned back to Joseph and Judith to indicate he was engaged, and the couple moved on.
“I did not know him closely, I regret to say,” the vicar shook his head. They were still standing out on the road in the sun. “But it was actually I who rented him the house, on behalf of the owner, you know. An elderly lady who lives abroad now. Herr Reisenburg was a very clever gentleman, so I’m told, a philosopher of some sort—kept largely to himself. Melancholy sort of person.” Grief filled his mild face. “Not that he wasn’t very pleasant, but I sensed a certain trouble within him. At least that’s what I thought. My wife tells me I imagine too much.”
“I think perhaps you were correct, and it was sensitivity rather than imagination,” Joseph said gently. “Did you say his name was Reisenburg?”
The vicar nodded. “Yes, that’s right, Reisenburg. Very distinguished-looking gentleman he was, tall and a little stooping, and soft-spoken. Excellent English. He said he liked it here. . . .” He stopped with a sigh. “Oh, dear. So much pain sometimes. I gathered from the gentleman in the yellow car that they were friends. Corresponded with each other for years, he said. He thanked me and drove toward Frog End. That was all I saw of him.” He looked a little shyly at Judith. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.” Joseph swallowed, the tightness almost choking his throat. “My father was killed in a car accident the next day . . . and my mother along with him.”
“How very terrible,” the vicar said in little more than a whisper. “If you would like to be alone in the church for a while, I can see that no one disturbs you.” His invitation included both of them, but it was Joseph he reached out to touch, placing his hand on Joseph’s arm. “Trust in God, my dear friend. He knows our path and has walked every step before us.”
Joseph hesitated. “Did Herr Reisenburg have any other friends that you are aware of? Someone I might speak to?”
The man’s face crumpled in regret. “None that I saw. As I said, he kept very much to himself. One gentleman asked for him, apart from your father, at least so I am told, but that’s all.”
“Who was that?” Judith asked quickly.
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” the vicar replied. “It was the same day as your father, and frankly I rather think it was just someone else he must have spoken to.