He flipped through the parish account book instead.
She had thought he was handsome the moment she met him, but now, now that she knew his moods, now that she could read the intense concentration as he scanned down the pages…
Now, her whole being swayed toward him. That firm set of his eyebrows, the press of his lips…
Part of her wanted their quest to be hopeless.
But it was no longer just conscience. There was another part of her, something that had always been there. A part of her that had yearned and wanted and desired, year after year.
I want to be loved.
Not just picked as a default. Not just accepted as fate.
She wanted to be loved. She wanted him to devote that intense concentration to her not because he had no choice, but because she’d earned it.
I want to be loved.
It was no longer enough to win for the sake of her conscience. Now, it felt almost imperative—that she should prove it to herself. That he should care for her by choice, not by necessity.
I want to be loved by him, Camilla thought.
His finger halted on the page, tapping. “Here,” he said. “This is where the entry ought to have been. But there is very distinctly nothing in the parish accounts.”
“That’s good. But…have you checked? Perhaps he recorded it earlier? Or later?”
“Did he often do so?”
Camilla shook her head. “I don’t think so. But—we can compare.” The second book—the book of Rector Miles’s private accounts—was taken out.
There it was—a thousand pounds entered into the ledger. Income from investment, it read.
“But Mrs. Martin gave two thousand pounds.”
“Lassiter must have received half. Somehow. But… There’s no record. At least not here.”
“Well, then.” He exhaled. “We have them. Proof of wrongdoing. Mrs. Martin can prove she gave the rector money; we can prove they never sent that money on to the church or used it for its intended purpose. And Miss…”
“Shackleton,” Kitty provided.
“Miss Shackleton,” Adrian said, “I must ask you—did Bishop Lassiter speak to you about this scheme? Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
“Ah.” Adrian shut his eyes.
“Is it enough?”
Still, Adrian hesitated.
Her mind raced through the possibilities. She’d read the reports after all.
“It might be enough if all we needed was to prove facts for our annulment.” She knew how it worked, unfortunately. “It would be enough if facts were enough. There is motive. There is explanation. There are witnesses.”
“But.” He gave her a sad smile.
“But.” She shut her eyes. “But facts are what people believe them to be. And with nobody powerful on our side, the truth will not be enough. Your uncle…”
“My uncle,” Adrian said, “wants Bishop Lassiter. And all of this points to Miles alone.”
“You don’t think your uncle will help anyway?”
He looked over at her. “I want to,” he said slowly. “I want to think he will lend his voice. But…”
She watched him.
“But,” he said, “I’ve known him too long. I suspect he won’t.”
Another silence fell. Camilla bit her lip and considered. She was technically Lady Camilla. Judith had no desire to see her, but… Maybe, if Camilla asked nicely?
“They must have corresponded,” Camilla said. “The bishop arrived on almost no notice.”
“If they did, it was not in my presence.”
Camilla shut her eyes and thought about that morning again. She could see it, plain as day. She’d been harried, running around. They’d had no notice of the bishop’s arrival, not until lunchtime. Her memory was good; she returned to it now, trying to recall any helpful detail.
There had been someone at the door. Camilla had run through Rector Miles’s office in haste. She had had so much to do, and…
Right. She could see the fireplace in his office, the gray ash that she’d had to clean out, mixed with little curling bits of paper… It had all gone in the dust bin.
Damn.
“They must have corresponded,” Camilla said, her nose twitching. “But he burned the correspondence. After eighteen months of cleaning, I know what a burned telegram looks like.”
Adrian lifted his head. “What sort of correspondence did you say it was?”
“A telegram. Several, I would imagine. He burned them. I had to clean out the fireplace; I would know.”
He was staring at her, his eyes broad and wide.
“Drat.” Camilla squeezed her eyes shut. “Drat, drat, drat. We’re so close. There has to be something.”
“You said it was a telegram?”
She turned to him. “Why?”
“Oh my God.” Adrian didn’t stand. He didn’t move an inch. Still, that broad smile took over his face. “There’s still a chance, then.” And then, in his regular voice, he spoke. “Mrs. Beasley,” he said, “are you listening?”
Chapter Nineteen
It took Mrs. Beasley approximately five seconds after being hailed to appear, tea-tray in both her hands. “Well, dearies,” she said brightly, “who would like some tea?”
“Um.” Camilla looked at Kitty, then back at Adrian. “I’ve got some questions, I think, about a telegram that might or might not have been sent through your office.”
“Oh, I heard you the whole time.” Mrs. Beasley smiled and set the tea-tray down. “All the more reason to serve tea.” She began pouring the brown liquid into cups. “Never gossip on a dry throat. It doesn’t turn out well.”
“So were telegrams sent between Lassiter and Miles?” Adrian cut in.
Mrs. Beasley brandished the sugar tongs. “One lump or two?”
“One, but—”
“You know how I am,” Mrs. Beasley said. “Gossip only goes in, not out. I could never tell you what another person sent via telegram. That would violate a sacred trust reposed in me, and I’m not the sort to do that.”
“But—then—”
“I would never speak of the telegrams I sent or received,” Mrs. Beasley said, adding sugar diligently to a cup and handing it to Kitty, “but I would love to tell you about the procedures of the telegraph office.”
“Ah.” Adrian nodded and took his own cup of tea. Camilla wondered what procedures she meant, and how it would help. But Adrian seemed almost comfortable.
“How long do you keep the telegrams that are sent?” he asked.
“I don’t keep them. I send them on.”
“No. I mean, when someone fills out a form, or when you’re taking notes on a telegram that comes for someone in the area. How long do you keep those notes?”
Mrs. Beasley tilted her head and looked at Adrian. A little smile played over her face. “Well, dearie. You know I’m supposed to burn them all at the end of every day.”
“But in reality?”
“Well.” Mrs. Beasley shrugged. “Every day is quite often, you know. In reality, I sometimes take a little longer.”
Camilla felt her heart thump. “How much longer?”
“Ah.” A flicker of a smile passed over the woman’s face. “Well. It may have been…a bit since my last burning.”
“A week? Two weeks?”
“Oh, less than that,” Mrs. Beasley said. “Three days. But… How shall I say this? Operating a teletype machine is not interesting work, Miss Winters. Sometimes, we keep things around for our own amusement.”
“Do we?”
“I could never show them to anyone, you understand,” Mrs. Beasley said kindly, “but they’re all in the attic, organized by date. And speaking of the office—my husband has finished his time there, and he’ll be expecting me to take my turn there for a few hours while he heads to the pub.”
“Is that so?”
By way of an answer, Mrs. Beasley withdrew a keyring from her pocket. “It is locked, the attic, but th
is…” She fished one key out from the lot and jiggled it. “This, that’ll undo the attic door. I would never let these keys out of my sight.” She set them on the table. “Never, at least not on purpose. But I am old-ish and forgetful-ish.” She smiled brilliantly. “What a shame. I’ve misplaced them. Do let me know if you see them.”
* * *
Kitty offered to help, but the attic wasn’t large, and in any event, Camilla knew what it was like to walk away from a place of employment with nothing but a valise.
“Send your sister a telegram,” Adrian told her. “And tell us what you’d need. I’m sure we can find a position where you can have your daughter with you. If I can’t think of something in my family’s holdings, I’ll find somewhere else.”
It took Camilla and Adrian several hours to sort through the sheaves of paper in the attic. There had been hundreds of telegrams exchanged over the years; few of them were relevant. They retreated downstairs with a stack of papers.
“Here,” Camilla said. “This one—what do you think?”
TO: LASSITER