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Chapter 6
    T he aged, golden-hued sandstone church of St. Thomas was nestled into the side of the hill overlooking the village green and high street. Reached by way of a narrow lane that climbed past the Blue Boar and a rambling vicarage, the church boasted a bulky western tower pierced by twin round-topped windows almost as small as arrow slits, and a side porch with a gabled roof and a strong, nail-studded door that suggested the church had been built as much for defense as for worship.
    The vicar of St. Thomas’s was a tall, lanky man in his late forties, his straight black hair thinning with the passage of the years, his sky blue eyes fanned by laugh lines. He had a way of wincing when he touched upon painful subjects, and he winced as he spoke of Emma Chance, his breath easing out in a long sigh.
    “She was in the churchyard when I first saw her, studying one of the old family crypts near the apse. You know what she said when I went to ask if I could help her? She said, ‘Oh, thank you, but I’m not looking for anyone in particular. I simply enjoy reading old tombstones. I like to imagine the lives of the people whose names are engraved there, and think about the love they must have had for each other—husbands for wives, mothers and fathers for children.’” The Reverend Benedict Underwood sighed again and shook his head. “That poor woman. The poor, poor woman.”
    Sebastian had come upon the vicar planting sprigs of rosemary near the lych-gate. He’d apologized for his dirty hands and pushed quickly to his feet when Sebastian introduced himself. But Sebastian found he had no need to explain the reason for his visit; news of both Emma Chance’s death and the young Squire’s request for Sebastian’s assistance was all over town.
    “What day was this?” asked Sebastian.
    “Friday, I believe. She’d only just come to the village.”
    “Could you show me which tomb she was looking at?”
    “Yes, of course. It’s this way.”
    They turned toward the sunken path that ran along the side of the nave. The churchyard was surprisingly vast and crowded, given the small size of the village. But then Sebastian reminded himself that Ayleswick had once been a much larger place.
    “Did she come here again yesterday, to sketch the church?”
    The Reverend walked with his dirty hands held awkwardly out at his sides. “She did, yes. In the morning.”
    “You saw her?”
    “I did. When I was on my way to visit old Jeff Cook. He’s not well, I’m afraid.”
    “What time did she finish? Do you know?”
    “Sorry, no. She was gone by the time I returned.”
    “And when was that?”
    “About half past eleven, I should think.”
    “Did you speak to her at all?”
    “Yesterday morning, you mean? Only briefly. I believe I called out, ‘Lovely day now that the rain has cleared!’ and she looked up and smiled.” The Reverend shook his head and let loose another of his soulful sighs. “She was such a charming, polite young woman. Not at all forward or fast in the way one might expect, given the somewhat unorthodox nature of her reason for visiting the village.”
    “Her sketching expedition, you mean?”
    Underwood pulled a face. “Yes. Not the sort of thing I’d care to see one of my own daughters doing—if I had daughters, which unfortunately I do not.”
    “Did she ever say anything to you about her family?”
    The Reverend looked thoughtful. “Not that I recall, no. Although she may’ve said something to Mrs. Underwood.”
    “Your wife spoke to her?”
    “Oh, yes. She came to the vicarage for tea.”
    “Did she happen to mention where in London she lived?”
    “Was she from London? I don’t believe she ever said, actually. We mainly spoke of the village. She was most interested in the history of the place. It makes sense, I suppose, given her interest in our historic structures.”
    Sebastian stared up at the heavy stonework of the church’s ancient Norman tower. “Did this used to be part