Sixpence and Selkies

by Tilly Wallace

  Libby rolled to one side to pick up another handful of shells. “It’s been hard these last few days, and I do find great comfort in my little ones. They miss their aunt, but Mr Hartley has explained to them that God called her to his side and that she will always watch over them.”

  “I wonder that the village can take any more tragedy. I understand that there were two other women who lost their lives to the ocean in the past year.” Hannah tied a knot in the string to keep the shells from sliding down into each other.

  Shells clacked together as they bumped one another on the strings. The irregular noise was not unlike that of knitting needles and the faint scent of salt-laden sea air rose off them under Hannah’s fingers.

  “The paths are narrow and treacherous in the dark, especially if you’re upset and not seeing clearly. We lost Amy at Christmas, and then Lisbeth before her.” Libby placed a finished garland in another basket and stretched her arms up over her head.

  The deaths fascinated Hannah, not in a morbid kind of way, but in a way that sought a logical explanation for why they had happened, and under what circumstances. “Did you know them both?”

  One of the other women carried over a tray with cups of tea. She dipped a curtsey and offered one to Hannah with a shy smile, and then Libby. Another chair was dragged over, its wooden seat serving as a side table as they continued to work and talk.

  Libby took a sip of her tea before answering. “Lisbeth was a familiar figure, but we rarely saw her in town. Amy was in our circle. I think Sarah was a great comfort to Harvey, after Amy died.”

  “Were Sarah and Harvey close?” Did married women often form friendships with single men? Hannah considered the men in her circle and her dealings with them. Single men in service didn’t count. The closest was Doctor Husom, but she wasn’t sure how to classify her acquaintance with the Immortal.

  “We were all close, once. There’s not so many children out here and you find friends where you can. Got ourselves into a bit of mischief, we did, as youngsters.” Libby plucked a plain biscuit from the plate.

  Hannah thought of the tales Mrs Rossett had told of the young Jonas and Lisbeth. Noble or common, young people had a natural affinity for mischief.

  Libby’s other two children grew tired of their game and wandered over to sit at their mother’s feet and sneak biscuits. “I thought they might marry, but then she fell in love with Jim Rivers. The heart wants what it wants, and there’s no way for others to predict or understand it.”

  “No. Love is a mysterious thing.” Never could Hannah have imagined that her heart would one day find itself given to the brooding Viscount Wycliff. Or worse, that she would experience the stirrings of a love that went unreciprocated.

  Hannah spent a companionable afternoon with the women, making garlands, tidying the hall, and considering how to arrange the chairs and tables.

  “You have done amazing work,” Hannah said as afternoon lengthened and the spaniel grew restless, rather like the children who grizzled and needed a nap. “Later in the week, we will sort out the placement of tables and finalise the decorations.” Then she picked up her basket and took her leave with her canine companion. As she walked the roads back toward the estate, myriad thoughts churned through her mind like a school of fish.

  As she turned onto a narrow lane not far from Mireworth, up ahead a man moved a mob of sheep with the aid of two black-and-white dogs. The woolly sheep stopped often to eat the lush grass on the waysides and a dog would give a warning woof to get it moving again. The man wore a cloth cap and carried a stick taller than he was, using it to reach out and wave at sheep that got confused and tried to go back the way they had just come.

  Sheba crept closer to the sheep, imitating the low crouch of the working dogs. Hannah wondered if these sheep were like Wycliff’s merinos, or some other breed. She didn’t want to offend by getting the breed wrong. Perhaps there was some sort of sheep identification book she could carry in her pocket, like the ones birdwatchers possessed.

  When the man turned and touched the brim of his cap, Hannah thought there was something familiar about him. Yes, now that she placed his face, he had been at the cemetery and laid flowers on a grave after Sarah’s funeral.

  “Good day to you, Lady Wycliff,” he called out.

  Hannah waved and tried to put a name to the face, but in the moment couldn’t recollect whether Wycliff had murmured the man’s name into her ear. “I am sorry if we have been introduced. I do not recollect your name. I do promise I will learn everyone’s names soon.”

  He used his crook to pull a wayward sheep back into line. “Harvey Cramond, milady.”

  “Mr Cramond.” How fortuitous to encounter him, after her conversation with Libby Tant. Hannah fell into step beside him as the mob took off at a trot with the dogs padding behind. Now she knew his name, or at least the whispers of it. The last person to have seen Amy Miller alive. Her feet trod the road, while she wondered at the truth of the rumours. “I was sorry to hear of the loss you suffered, Mr Cramond.”

  He nodded and kept his attention on the sheep. “I’m glad I’m not in the village much these days. I couldn’t stomach seeing Jim go through the same thing. I have nothing to say that would ease his pain.”

  Hannah gripped her basket more tightly, seeking a polite way to solicit his opinion on the deaths. “It is a great tragedy that three women have met a watery end in the past year.”

  Mr Cramond whistled and one of the dogs set off after a sheep heading in the wrong direction. “Amy’s death is no mystery to me, milady, even though the magistrate refused to investigate when he came here. We would have been happy, me and her, if not for that selfish brute of a grandfather.”

  “You do not think her drowning was an accident?” The line of enquiry Hannah sought presented an opening. While she gathered whispers to her, she trod carefully so as not to offend the villagers with her questions.

  “No, milady, I do not. Miller has an ugly temper. When I last saw Amy, I had proposed and she said yes. But she had someone to tell privately, before we announced our engagement to the village. She set off for home looking right worried, she did. Next time I saw her, we were pulling her from the ocean and anyone could see the bump on her head.” He paused for a moment and wiped his face on the sleeve of his shirt.

  “I’m sorry, I did not mean to pry. Of late, I find myself seeking justice for those who cannot speak for themselves. If someone did Amy harm, they must be made to pay for their crime.” Especially if they had also taken the lives of Sarah Rivers or Lisbeth Wolfe. Rumours circled the village like seagulls. Three women drowned in the span of twelve months was surely an unusually high number, even for a coastal village? If they had been no accident, that meant a deliberate choice. But were the women so unhappy with their lot they could no longer bear to walk this earth, or had another hand snuffed them out? There was the delicate line Hannah tried to distinguish.

  Mr Cramond fell silent and his shoulders slumped. Then he took off his hat and scratched his hair as he stared along the lane. “Something’s not right here, Lady Wycliff, if you ask me.”

  A prickle at the base of Hannah’s skull made her think the same thing. “If Amy never made it home that night as her grandfather claims, was there anyone who might have wished her harm?”

  He huffed a soft laugh and his eyes shone when he turned to Hannah. “No. Everyone liked Amy. She was the kindest, sweetest woman.”

  Hannah took the opportunity to ask her next question. “What of Sarah or Lisbeth?”

  He wet his lips and wedged the soft hat back on his head. “See? Something’s not right. Good women, all three of them. God-fearing women who would never risk their immortal souls like some whisper. If you ask me, I’d look to Seager. Who knows what he puts in those potions he sells. What if he gave them something he shouldn’t that made them fall in the dark?”

  “Why would he do that?” The man struck Hannah as abrasive and rude, but those qualities didn’t automatically mean he was capab
le of murder.

  “I think he was jealous and the man is quick to anger. He used to visit Lisbeth, out at that remote cottage of hers. Old man Miller said he used to call on Amy, even when she was stepping out with me. Then I saw him staring after Sarah. What would a thirsty man do if a cool drink of water was denied him?” He clutched his crook tight in two hands.

  This was quite the accusation, implying Mr Seager had courted all three women. But then what? In the grip of a jealous rage, did he stalk the women and push them, or concoct a potion that caused them to stumble while out at night?

  “You have given me much to consider, Mr Cramond.”

  “I feel better having said my piece to someone. Thank you for listening, milady.” He waved his arms to get the sheep moving, the animals having stalled while they talked. “I’m right grateful to Lord Wycliff for the opportunity he has given me, if you would tell him for me. These sheep are for the farm and I shall roll up my sleeves and fix the place up in memory of Amy.”

  Hannah managed to smile at his kind words. “Of course I will tell his lordship.” When I manage to lay eyes on him.

  She returned to Mireworth to find the kitchen empty, but the beginnings of dinner on the range. Sheba flopped onto her blanket, exhausted by playing with the children and the walk home.

  Hannah placed the kettle on the fire and then fetched the journal they had found the previous night in the library. She would set aside gloomy thoughts of possible murder and turn her mind to a puzzle of a more architectural nature. She sipped a quiet cup of tea while she read the tight script under the kitchen skylight. It took her a few pages to become familiar with the author’s handwriting and how they formed their letters. She scanned pages, looking for anything about the construction of the house.

  The references she found were vague, only mentioning that the architect had been engaged and his outrageous fee. How odd that a simple house with pleasing symmetry was more expensive to draw up than a baroque explosion with gargoyles and multiple turrets. The writer referred to the plans and Hannah wished she had them to hand to fully understand the layout of the house.

  She flicked over the page, when a turn of phrase leapt out at her. Returning to the previous page, she drew a line down the middle with her fingertip until she found the right paragraph. She read aloud to the empty kitchen, as Mrs Rossett and Mary spent the afternoon in the walled garden. “I give no import to ridiculous rumours, but since the tower cannot be torn down I shall at least conceal the damned thing.”

  Hannah leaned back in her chair and stared up at the skylight. Don’t start with that old nonsense. And now ridiculous rumours about the tower. “This village seems teeming with ridiculous rumours and nonsense, although I can’t imagine a sea creature hiding out in a tower this far inland.”

  With renewed vigour, she tackled the rest of the journal, but found no more mention of the tower, nor any hint as to what the lord of the manor had heard about it. The light above had faded by the time Mrs Rossett and Mary returned, the housekeeper carrying a basket with the floppy greenery of carrots dangling over the side.

  “How goes the study, milady?” Mrs Rossett placed the basket on the table and Mary crossed to the range to feed it more fuel.

  Hannah closed the journal and gulped the last cold mouthful of tea. “Frustrating. The Lord Wycliff of last century was vague in his references. Are you aware of any old stories concerning the hidden tower? Would they at all connect to the old whispers of mermaids and selkies?”

  Mary collected her empty cup and carried it to the sink.

  Mrs Rossett emptied the basket of carrots, potatoes, and a pile of plump strawberries. She huffed a silent laugh. “Never heard of any mermaids at Mireworth, and I doubt that pool in the conservatory is big enough to hold one. Old houses like these carry all sorts of stories about things hidden in the walls or stuffed up in the attic. It’s usually naughty children or troublesome wives bricked in, though, not towers.”

  “Is there anyone you can think of who might know more about the history of the area, or any old stories?” What Hannah needed was an ancient gossip who collected whispers and myths. There was normally one in every village who knew everyone’s business stretching back numerous generations.

  “You could try Mr Hartley.” Mrs Rossett selected her favourite knife from the solid wooden block.

  “Isn’t he new to the area? I recall Wycliff saying he only took up his position some two years ago.” At least the vicar had a far more pleasant demeanour than Mr Seager. It would be no hardship to call upon him to ask if he had information on the subject.

  “He is, but his grandmother was born in the village and moved away when she married. I think that was one of the reasons why he wanted to move here, to return to his roots, as he put it.” Mrs Rossett commenced chopping off the ends of the carrots.

  “Thank you, I shall call upon him tomorrow. Could you also tell me how to find Lisbeth Wolfe’s cottage? I am curious to see it, since it sounds like a beautiful spot.” The more Hannah followed the strands of the other women’s lives, the deeper her curiosity pulled her. Like a fish on a hook, she couldn’t let go of the bait.

  13

  On her quest to find the tower, Hannah prowled the lower floor of the house all afternoon. While she knew roughly where the tower hid, deduced from the view afforded from its windows, not a single clue hinted at its presence from the outside. Her explorations to find a hidden access to the ground level of the turret were fruitless. Wycliff shook his head when she asked, but she refused to be defeated. Her brain knew the tower was there and there simply had to be a way to find its lower level, even if she had to take a hammer to the plaster and brick to reveal it. So, she would apply to the next most likely person to know.

  “I shall visit Mr Hartley today, and see if he knows anything about the history of Mireworth,” Hannah said over breakfast the next morning, determined to uncover any information that might assist her search.

  “I have a woman coming today to look at the kitchen garden and to talk about duties. She’s a sensible thing, and her children are grown and moved on.” Mrs Rossett spoke as she moved around the kitchen and gathered the items needed for whatever she planned to make.

  Mary placed a wicker basket on the table and then filled it with pastries, followed by slices of meat, a cloth-wrapped cheese, and a loaf of bread.

  “Where are you off to, Mary?” Hannah asked as she sipped one last cup of fortifying tea before her walk.

  “I’m taking a picnic out to Frank.” She added a few apples to the available space left. Then she glanced up and added, “And Lord Wycliff, of course.”

  “Of course,” Hannah murmured. She exchanged a smile with Mrs Rossett.

  The housekeeper clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Even a blind man could see how smitten you two are with each other, Mary.”

  Mary tucked a tea towel over the top of the contents to keep everything secure and then a sigh heaved through her slight frame. “I am ever so fond of him. But I do wish he would propose. A woman does get tired of waiting.”

  Mrs Rossett barked her sharp laugh that startled the spaniel from her blanket by the range. “If you want to marry that one, you will have to do the proposing. Despite his size, he seems far too timid to ask the question.”

  Mary paled and dropped into a chair. One hand went to her chest. “Me? Ask him?” Her bottom lip trembled.

  “If you don’t want to take that bull by the horns, you could always wait a few more years and see if he gets around to it.” Mrs Rossett sliced a lump of butter from the pat.

  Hannah reached across the table and took Mary’s hand. “You know Frank has trouble articulating words. I imagine he cannot express what he feels in his heart and needs a gentle prod in the right direction.” At least, Hannah hoped the gentle giant harboured feelings for Mary in his own heart. The man bore an ugly scar down his chest and who knew, Lord Dunkeith might have inserted another man’s organ. But that didn’t alter the fact that the entirety of
Frank’s pieces agreed in their obvious devotion to Mary.

  The maid’s eyes widened and her mouth made a silent oh. “I might find enough patience to wait a bit longer,” she managed to say after a long silence. Then she fetched her shawl and bonnet, before grabbing the basket and leaving to find the men at work.

  Hannah followed the maid’s example. She carried a smaller basket to hold anything of interest she found on her walk. She tied her bonnet firmly under her chin, to stymie the wind blowing off the ocean that seemed determined to steal it from her head. “I will return later this afternoon, Mrs Rossett.”

  Sheba bounced through the grass as Hannah headed for Mr Hartley’s cottage on the edge of the estate. It took her nearly an hour to walk the distance, but she didn’t mind, as the wind died down and the sun held a pleasant warmth. The walk gave her time to mull over many different strands of thought. The history of the tower fascinated her. The deaths of the women worried her in that they might be connected. The growing void between her and Wycliff caused a coldness to seep inside her.

  By the time she found the cottage, she was ready to talk to someone about at least some of her many problems. The house nestled into a rise and overlooked a sheltered bay with a glorious view of the ocean. She found Mr Hartley sitting in the shade under a spreading tree in the middle of the grassy expanse before his home.

  He rose on spotting her and bowed. “Lady Wycliff, how fortunate I am to have your company this glorious day.”

  Sheba snuffled around the garden and Hannah approached the wrought-iron table with two matching chairs. “Good day, Mr Hartley. What a wonderful spot you have here.”

  He waited for her to seat herself before resuming his own. “I should live in the vicarage, I suppose, and not have such a walk to church. But I find I cannot bear to be so closed in, and since my curate is content to live upstairs and keep it up, then I am content to occupy this place. It is marvellous to sit and watch the ocean from here and I find it does much to stimulate my thoughts. Tea? The pot is still warm.”