The Outcast's Redemption. Sarah Mallory

woman scowled. ‘It’s said there’s always rabbit in the pot at the Owlets’ place, courtesy of Arrandale woods.’

      ‘I am sure young Tom isn’t the only one to go poaching in the woods and there is more than enough game to go round, since the woods are so neglected.’

      ‘That’s not the point, Miss Grace. It’s breaking the law.’

      ‘Well, if the law says a man cannot feed his family when there is such an abundance of rabbits on hand, then it is a bad law.’

      ‘Tsk, and you betrothed to a magistrate, too!’ Mrs Truscott waved a large spoon in her direction. ‘Don’t you go letting your man hear you saying such things, Miss Grace.’

      ‘Sir Loftus knows my sentiments on these things and I know he has some sympathy with the poorer villagers, although it would never do for him to say so, of course, and I suppose I should not have said as much to you.’

      ‘Don’t you worry about me, Miss Grace, there’s many a secret I’ve kept over the years. Now, let’s say no more about it, for the kettle’s boiling and the master will be waiting for his tea.’

      * * *

      Later, when she had seen her father comfortably ensconced in his study, Grace set off with her basket. Mrs Owlet lived at the furthest extremity of the village, at the end of a small lane backing on to Arrandale Park. Grace stayed for some time, trying to make conversation, although she found the widow’s embittered manner and caustic tongue very trying. The sun was at its height when Grace eventually emerged from the ill-kept cottage and she stood for a moment, breathing in the fresh air. Having spent the past hour sympathising with Mrs Owlet, Grace was not inclined to walk back through the village and listen to anyone else’s woes. Instead she carried on up the lane into the park. There was a good path through the woods that bounded the park itself, and from there she could walk past the hall and on to the vicarage. It was a well-worn path that cut off the long curve of the High Street.

      It was a fine spring morning and the woods were full of birdsong. Grace’s sunny nature revived and she began to feel more charitable towards Mrs Owlet. She had fallen on hard times when Arrandale House had been closed up. Now she lived a frugal existence with her son in what was little more than a hovel. It was no wonder that she was bitter, but Grace could not help thinking that less indulgence in strong beer and more effort with a broom would have improved her condition. Seeing her now, with her grubby linen and dirty clothes, it was difficult to think that she had once been laundress in a great house.

      Grace recalled Mrs Truscott’s dark mutterings about young Tom Owlet poaching in these very woods and she looked around her. Not that anyone could mistake her tall form in its blue pelisse for a rabbit, but she strode on briskly and soon reached what had once been the deer park. Arrandale Hall was ahead of her, but her path veered away from the formal gardens and joined an impressive avenue of elms that lined the main approach to the house and would bring her out very close to the vicarage.

      She had walked this way many times and always thought it regrettable that such a fine old house should stand empty. It was looking very grand today in the sunshine, but there was something different about the building that made her stop. She frowned at the little chapel beside the main house: the wide oak door was open.

      Grace hurried across to the chapel. It was most likely Mr Jones had gone in there for some reason, but it could be children from the village, up to mischief, and the sooner they were sent on their way the better. She stepped inside and stood for a moment, while her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. Someone was standing by the opposite wall, but it was definitely not a child.

      ‘Mr Peregrine! What on earth are you doing here?’

      * * *

      Wolf turned. Grace Duncombe stood in the entrance, a black outline against the sunshine.

      ‘The door was open and I was curious to see inside.’ He saw the frowning suspicion in her eyes. ‘I have not been stealing the church silver, Miss Duncombe, if that is your concern.’

      ‘There is nothing of that sort left in here now,’ she replied. ‘But what business can you have at the Hall?’

      ‘Curiosity,’ he repeated. ‘After what your father said last night I was interested to see the house, but you may be easy. The caretaker knows better than to let strangers into the house.’

      Aye, thought Wolf, Jones would turn a stranger away, but the man had been happy enough to let Wolf wander through the familiar rooms. If Grace had arrived ten minutes earlier she would have found him in the entrance hall of the house itself. That would have been more difficult to explain away.

      ‘It was remiss of Mr Jones to leave the chapel open,’ she said now. ‘I must remind him of his duties.’

      ‘Must you?’

      ‘Why, yes. While the family are absent we must respect their property.’

      ‘Very commendable, Miss Duncombe, but since we are here, would you object if I took a moment to look around? You may stay, if you like, and make sure I do no damage.’

      ‘I shall certainly do so.’

      Silently he turned to study an ornately carved edifice with its stone effigies. A curious stranger would ask whose tomb this was, so he did.

      ‘That is the tomb of Roland Arrandale and his wife,’ said Grace, stepping up beside him. ‘He was the first Earl of Davenport. The second and third earls are buried here, but the Hall was not grand enough for James, the fourth earl. He built himself a new principal seat and bequeathed Arrandale Hall to his younger son, John. His descendants are buried in the vault below us and you can see the carved memorials on the walls.’

      ‘Including these,’ murmured Wolf, looking up at two gleaming marble tablets.

      ‘They are recent additions. For the late Mr and Mrs Arrandale, and Florence, the poor wife of Mr Wolfgang Arrandale. I believe the younger son arranged for these to be installed at his own expense when the trustees refused to pay.’

      Wolf kept his face impassive. What were those cheese-paring lawyers about to deny money for such things? And Richard—confound it, his little brother should not be bearing the cost. This was his fault. All of it.

      ‘It was fortunate there were no children,’ he said, keeping his voice indifferent.

      ‘Oh, but there was,’ she corrected him, as he had hoped she would. ‘There was a little girl. She was adopted by an Arrandale cousin, I believe.’

      ‘I am surprised her maternal grandparents did not bring up the child.’ He glanced at Grace, hoping she might answer the question he dare not ask. She did not disappoint him.

      ‘The Sawstons moved away from the area after their daughter’s death. They wanted nothing more to do with the Arrandale family, nor their granddaughter.’ Disapproval flickered over her serene countenance. ‘It was cruel of them to abandon the baby at such a time. The poor child had done nothing to warrant it, except to be born.’

      And that was his fault, too. A shudder ran through Wolf and he turned away, saying curtly, ‘There is little of interest here.’

      ‘Unless you appreciate craftsmanship,’ she told him. ‘The font cover is by Grinling Gibbons.’

      ‘Is it now?’ Wolf went to the back of the church where the stone font stood behind the last box pew. He ran a careful hand over the elaborately carved wooden cover. ‘What a pity I did not know that earlier, I might have carried it off to sell in the nearest town.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Is that not what you think of me, Miss Duncombe, that I am a thief?’

      ‘I do not know what you are.’

      ‘Your father trusts me.’

      ‘Father trusts everyone.’

      ‘True. He is a saint and I will not deny that I am a sinner. But I am not here to steal from the chapel.’ Her darkling look was sceptical. He shrugged. ‘I have seen enough here now. Shall we