“If there were, we’d have found it by now,” Boscombe said miserably. “What are you going to say to the bishop?”

“Nothing,” Dominic replied, again rashly. He stood up. “I’m concerned with finding who killed the Reverend Wynter. Anything else is between you and God. Living with a woman to whom you are not married may be a sin, but it is not against the law. We will address that problem later. Perhaps after Christmas they will move me somewhere else. I hope not, but I cannot choose.” He heard the roughness of grief in his own voice and was angry with himself. What had he to grieve over, when he was returning to the woman he loved, with no shadow over them or between them, except whatever he might create himself by being less than she believed of him? “First let us celebrate the birth of Christ, and leave other things until after that.”

Boscombe held out his hand, blinking rapidly again. “Thank you.”

Dominic gripped him hard. “But if I stay here, we will have to seek an answer one day.”

“I know,” Boscombe replied. “I know.”

The morning dawned bright. The sky was a pale, wind-scoured blue, and the ice crust on the snow was hard enough to support a child’s weight. The few ducks out, eager for bread, paddled across it without making a crack. Someone had been thoughtful enough to put out water for them, but it would need thawing every hour or two.

Clarice had baked bread, a skill she was very proud of because it had not come naturally to her. Dominic took a loaf to old Mr. Riddington and found him frail and hunched up in his chair. He was grateful for the bread, but even more for the company in his chilly and almost soundless world. Dominic brought in more wood and coal, making them both a cup of tea. He found it was more than two hours before he could decently leave the old man.

He went next door to check with Mrs. Blount and thank her for her kindness. Then he set out for home.

He was close to the green again when he was aware of footsteps behind him. He heard every crack and crunch of the ice. He turned to see the small figure of Sybil Towers struggling to catch up with him. Her mittened hands were waggling awkwardly as she tried to keep her balance, her cape was trailing lopsidedly, and her hat was a trifle awry.

It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he started back toward her. She looked so frantic and lonely, he had no choice.

“Good morning, Mrs. Towers. Are you all right?” He offered her his arm. “It isn’t weather for hurrying, you know. Where are you going? Perhaps I can accompany you and see you don’t fall.”

“You are too kind, Reverend Corde.” She grasped his arm as if it were a lifeline in a stormy sea. “Those poor ducks. I know Mrs. Jones is putting out bread and a little lard for them, such a nice woman.”

“Which way are you going, Mrs. Towers?” he asked again.

“Oh, over there.” She gestured vaguely with her free arm, nearly losing her balance again. “How are you settling in? Is Mrs. Corde finding the vicarage to her liking? A home matters so much, I always think.”

“We both like it very much indeed,” he answered.

“A good garden,” she went on. “Old trees make a garden, don’t you agree?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “I expect in spring they are beautiful.”

She told him how many blossom trees there were, then the various other flowers in season, all the way through to the tawny chrysanthemums, the purple Michaelmas daisies, and the offer of an excellent recipe for crab apple jelly. “One of my favorites, I confess,” she said with enthusiasm. “I prefer the tart to the very sweet, don’t you?”

They were now well across the green and into the lane at the far side. They had passed several cottages; the way through the woods lay ahead, winding between the trees. Presumably it led eventually to open fields and perhaps a farm or two. He had realized half a mile ago that she was not actually going anywhere. She needed to talk to him, but could not bring herself to come to the subject easily. His hands were numb and his feet so cold he was losing sensation in them also, but he felt her need as sharply as the wind rattling the bare branches above them. Did she know something about the Reverend Wynter’s death? Was that what she was struggling to say?

“Of course, we will probably not be here for very long,” he prompted her, surprised again by the regret in his voice. “Once the bishop finds a permanent replacement for the Reverend Wynter, we will return to London. From everything I hear, he was a most remarkable man, one whose shoes it will not be easy to fill.”

“He was,” she said eagerly. “Oh, he was. So kind. So very patient. One knew one could trust him with anything.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “But I think perhaps you are the same, Reverend Corde. It seems to me you are a man who has understood pain.” She looked away from him, and he knew she was afraid she had been too bold.

He hastened to reassure her. “Thank you. That is a very fine thing to say, Mrs. Towers. I shall endeavor to live up to it. At least I can say that I understand loneliness, and the grief of knowing that you have done something ugly and wrong. But I also know there is a path back.”

They walked in silence for several yards. Crows wheeled up in the sky, cawing harshly, then circled back into the lower branches again.

“I was going to speak to the Reverend Wynter,” she said at last. “I wanted to make a confession, but…”

“I think he knew that,” Dominic said for her, still holding her arm. “Let’s turn back, or we will have too far to go. All the earth is God’s house. You do not have to speak in a church for it to be a sacred trust.”

“No, no, I suppose not. I kept doing little things wrong, you see, to find out if he would forgive them, before I…before I told him the real thing.”

He walked a few moments, perhaps thirty or forty yards along the path, and then he prompted her again. “Was it you who took the pennies from the collection for the poor?”

She drew in her breath with a little cry. “It was only pennies! I made it up, always! I gave extra…”

He put his other hand over her arm, holding her more tightly. “That doesn’t matter. The books were never short. I know that. But you wanted to speak to him, and never quite found the resolve.” He did not use the word courage. “Perhaps now would be a good time?”

She gulped again. “I…I committed a…a terrible sin when I was young. I’m so ashamed, and it can never be undone. I wanted to confess, but…but I…he was such a good man, I was afraid he would despise me…”

“Then tell me, Mrs. Towers. I am not so very good. I understand very well what it feels like to sin, and to repent.”

“I do repent, I do!”

“Then cast it on the Lord, and be free of it.”

“But I must pay!”

“I think that is not for you to decide. What is it you did that is so heavy for you to bear?”

“I had a love affair,” she whispered. “Oh, I did love him. You see, I am not Mrs. Towers. I never married. And…and…” Again she could not find the words.

He guessed. “You had a child?”

She nodded. “Yes.” She took a few more steps. “I only saw her for a few moments, then they took her away from me. She was so beautiful.” The tears were flowing down her face now. In moments the wind would freeze them on her cold skin. She must have been nearly seventy, and yet the memory was as sharp as yesterday.

He ached to do anything that would take away the pain. Could the compassion in his own heart speak for God? Surely God had to be better, greater than he was?

“Is that all?” he asked her.

“Is that not enough?” she said incredulously.

“Yes. And the penance you have already paid is enough also. More than enough. God forgave you long ago. And the Reverend Wynter would tell you that, were he here.”