Page 56 of Who Will Remember (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery #20)
O ne of Mr. Crispin Carmichael’s many vanities was his singing voice. Having been blessed by his Creator with a clear, rich tenor, he made it a point to delight his parishioners every Tuesday and Sunday with evensong.
Arriving early, Hero ushered her charge into their pew and then slid in beside her. Given the short time available, it hadn’t been easy to find a plain but respectable light blue gown that Hero was able to quickly adjust to fit Bridget’s small frame. As much of the girl’s flaming red hair as possible was tucked up under a modest, unassuming hat, and a short, dense veil hid her features. Bridget knew they thought she might see the “tall, skinny cove” at church, but they had been careful not to suggest that it was the vicar himself who was of interest.
“I ain’t never been in a place like this before,” whispered Bridget, her head turning this way and that as she watched Mayfair’s residents file in. The church was filling rapidly, for the strange, inexplicable weather had begun driving more and more of even the most jaded members of the ton to seek comfort in their religion. “Everybody’s so grand you’d think they was goin’ to a ball or somethin’.”
“Well, it’s certainly a place to see and be seen,” said Hero with a smile.
“Where’s this cove you want me t’ take a look at?”
“Just keep watching. And remember: If you do see him, don’t say or do anything that might call attention to you.”
“No, ma’am.”
The girl watched intently as the choir trooped in to settle with much clearing of throats and rustling of music sheets. Then Mr. Crispin Carmichael himself arrived with a grand flourish, trailing silk, gold embroidery, and ostentatious holiness.
“Gor,” breathed Bridget, watching the Reverend take his place. “Is he the English pope or somethin’?”
“No. He’s simply the rector of this church.”
“Oh. Well, he sure is grand, ain’t he?”
Because of the veil, it was impossible for Hero to see the girl’s face. But as Bridget watched the service in rapt fascination it became more and more obvious to Hero that the girl did not recognize the vicar of St. George’s.
Afterward, as they joined the stream of parishioners leaving the church, Hero leaned in close to Bridget to say, “Did you see anyone—anyone at all—who resembled the man from that night?”
“No, ma’am.”
“The Reverend is quite tall and thin,” Hero said casually.
“Yes, ma’am. But he don’t look nothin’ like that cove. And he’s really tall.”
Hero looked at her. “The skinny man wasn’t really tall?”
“Well, he was way taller than me, that’s fer sure. And he was taller than the old bugger, too. But he weren’t much taller than Lord Preston. He weren’t even as tall as you are, ma’am.”
“Oh,” said Hero, radically readjusting her mental image of the man.
“His voice was different, too,” Bridget was saying. “Sorta husky, but in a funny way, like he was trying to sound different from what he normally did.”
“Perhaps he was deliberately—”
“ Ma’am!” said Bridget with a gasp, grabbing Hero’s arm.
“What? What is it?”
“That’s him,” Bridget whispered, her fingers digging into Hero’s elbow. “There! In that black bombazine. I mean, I know it ain’t a him , it’s a her. But it’s still him , I swear. And you see that cove she’s talkin’ to? I think he might be the old bugger! I know I didn’t see his face, but he was all round-shouldered and dumpy-lookin’, just like that.”
Hero forced herself to turn casually and smile as she followed the direction of Bridget’s gaze. And there was Sir Windle Barr, deep in earnest conversation with Lady Hester Farnsworth.