The reverend smiled and a warm flush burst through Hannah. “It would be my honour. I was heading out to call upon Mr Miller, if you would care to join me?”
She knew that name. The grandfather of one of the drowned women. A perfect opportunity to at once sate her curiosity and enquire after his welfare. “Thank you, that sounds like a splendid place to start.”
He stood and extended his hand. Hannah placed hers in his and found a warm grasp that washed comfort and support over her. The spaniel ran on ahead, bouncing across the path as scents caught her attention. Hannah and Mr Hartley chatted about the village and the forthcoming dance as they walked.
“You may need to take an extra pair of slippers. Many of the men are keen to dance with your ladyship and I doubt you will have much chance to sit down.” Mr Hartley had placed Hannah’s hand in the crook of his elbow and rested his hand over hers, to steady her on the uneven ground.
The more time she spent with him, the more at ease she found herself. “I am glad it has brought some excitement to the village. I had concerns about whether the sea theme was appropriate, given the recent death.”
He fell silent, then cleared his throat before speaking. “Death walks arm in arm with life, and they are a practical sort hereabouts. Many rely on the ocean to support their families and they know she is a force unto herself.”
“You speak of the ocean as though it were some type of deity. Is that not a conflict with your religious beliefs?” Hannah recalled her father’s associates in the Society of Unnatural Scientific Study. In particular, Reverend Jones possessed a fervent belief that he could call down God to free the trapped remnant of soul in an Afflicted woman. His spiritual beliefs had been shattered when he failed. Hannah thought that particular religious man rather narrow in his view, with no consideration for other religions or types of deities.
Mr Hartley stopped and gestured to the tumultuous ocean. Waves crashed at their feet and foamy peaks rose and fell. “Does she not resemble a pagan goddess? Powerful, unfathomably deep, her arms wrapped around our globe and capable of the greatest mercy and the cruellest acts. Sailors have long referred to the ocean as she, and I think only a foolish man would try to downplay her true nature.” Then he turned to Hannah with a sheepish smile. “But please don’t tell the bishop I said that, if he ever visits. It’s not the done thing.”
Hannah laughed, genuinely this time and not the hollow mimicry she’d felt earlier. “I promise to hold my silence on your admiration of the ocean. My mother holds similar views and refers to the ocean as one of Mother Nature’s handmaidens.” The dead mage had an affinity for nature and the weather that remained undiminished by her passing.
They found Mr Miller at his new cottage, on the outskirts of the estate and an easy walk from the village and the tavern.
“Good day to you, Mr Miller!” Mr Hartley called as they approached.
A weathered bench sat in front of the cottage, the timber worn silver by time and the salt-laden wind. The dour man sat upon it, staring off toward the horizon. His face bore deep wrinkles and his hair was white and tousled like peaky waves. He leaned on a cane clutched in both his hands. A pottery jug sat at his feet and a whiff of stale alcohol and sweat tickled Hannah’s nose.
“Who’s she?” He narrowed his eyes until they nearly disappeared into the wrinkles.
Mr Hartley stopped by the bench. “Lady Wycliff, may I make known to you Abraham Miller. Mr Miller, her ladyship has come to enquire if you are settled in after your recent move and if you need anything.”
“Good day, Mr Miller. How do you find the cottage?” Hannah dug inside her for a sliver of happiness and used it to fuel her smile and tone.
Mr Miller grunted. “His lordship threw me out of my own home.”
“I understood you could no longer work the land, which is a terrible shame, to be sure. But in this smaller cottage, you won’t have to worry about all the chores going untended.” Wycliff had ranted for some time about the state of the Miller farm, the pastures left fallow for too long, and the disrepair of the buildings.
“I was going to get around to mending things and buying sheep. I only needed more time.” He cleared his throat and then spat a glob of phlegm in the dirt.
That wasn’t the version of events Hannah understood. Wycliff had said Mr Miller was at least six months behind in his rent. From what she’d seen of the state of the old farm, it had no hope of generating any income without the sort of hard work Mr Cramond was prepared to put into the soil.
“I am so sorry that you lost your granddaughter—that must have been quite a blow.” Hannah peered over his head and through the window. The cottage appeared orderly, but then he had only been a resident for a few days.
“It was that Cramond, I’m sure of it. He’s a monster that dragged her into the ocean. Probably couldn’t stand that she would rather help her old grandpa than cook his meals.” He shot out the words and the colour rose in his face.
Hannah considered her next words carefully. From what she’d observed of Mr Cramond, he seemed a genial and even-tempered man, unlike the specimen in front of her. A sadness had lingered in the young man’s eyes when he spoke of Amy. “Mr Cramond does not seem the type of man to fly into a rage, from what I have observed of him.”
“You think it was me, don’t you? I know they all say I killed her, but those nasty gossips are all wrong. I’ll swear on the Bible that Amy never came home that night,” he shouted. Spittle flew to the ground.
“Are you sure, Mr Miller?” Hannah bit her tongue before she asked how he could have known that, if he had been blind drunk that night. Rumour, after all, whispered that he had struck Amy in a drunken rage and thrown her body into the water when he sobered up and realised what he had done.
“I waited all night for her to come back. Always sat up, I did, to make sure she found her own bed safe. That’s how I know he did it. I swear to God she never crossed my threshold.” His eyes bulged and the whites shone brighter as his face turned deep red.
Mr Hartley placed a restraining hand on the old man’s shoulder and eased him back down to the seat. “No one is suggesting otherwise, Mr Miller. Lady Wycliff is merely concerned for your well-being.”
“Of course.” Mr Miller might be old and drunk, but he seemed adamant that Amy had never come home. Mr Cramond was equally certain she’d left him that evening to walk home. That only left one possibility, and the certainty grew in Hannah that the someone Amy had to tell her news hadn’t been her grandfather, but another. “Mr Miller, do you know if Amy was seeing anyone other than Mr Cramond?”
He coughed and when he caught his breath, his colour returned to normal. “Maybe. Sometimes she would say she was heading out to see Cramond, but then he’d turn up on my doorstep and she weren’t with him.”
That was hardly proof of any other pull on her affections. Amy might simply have been distracted, or changed her mind. “Did she see Mr Seager for any potions?”
Mr Miller barked a coarse laugh that turned into a cough. “Oh, that one. Used to sniff around the farm with a face like a thundercloud, he did.”
“Well, we shall leave you to your day, Mr Miller, if you don’t require anything.” Mr Hartley offered his arm to Hannah.
Hannah let herself be led away, her mind bounding through ideas like Sheba in the meadow. One in particular began to take shape, but she had more enquiries to make first. How she wished she could discuss this with Wycliff. She glanced up at the profile beside her. Although it had to be said, Mr Hartley made a fine companion for the walk home as he told her the history of the village.
17
The estate demanded more than Wycliff’s days; his nights also came to be given as sacrifice. The summer shear was a major event, and the farmers and shepherds gathered in the fields of Mireworth beside the river. The men worked together to bring in their flocks to run through the river and, once dry, to be shorn. Working alongside his tenants during the long days gave Wycliff an opportunity to hear their concer
ns and ideas.
Unfortunately, the evenings ran late, as the men sat around the fire to talk. That turned into a few celebratory drinks, either to toast Wycliff’s marriage or to simply mark the end of a hard day. The first night, after consuming more ale than he could recollect, Wycliff fell asleep where he sat by the fire. The next night, he was determined to make it back to Mireworth. He was too old for sleeping on the hard ground when he had a comfortable mattress and a willing wife awaiting him.
By the time he slid off his mare, it was after midnight and the ground tilted and swayed under his feet in a way that reminded him of the miserable time in a ship during a rough sailing. His stomach rebelled and he clutched his middle waiting for the sensation to subside. Instead of crawling into a warm bed with his delectable wife in it, he stumbled to a pile of hay, collapsed, and awoke at dawn to…Barnes.
The hand stared at him from a spot on his chest that made Wycliff go cross-eyed trying to look at him. The hand had one finger tucked under another in a gesture that mimicked a person with their arms folded in disapproval.
“If you want to be useful, fetch me a clean shirt and a coffee,” Wycliff grumbled as he sat up.
The hand slid to the ground, saluted with his forefinger, and then scurried from the stall.
Wycliff hauled himself to the trough outside the stables and immersed his head. Cold water dribbled down his spine and revived his senses. He scooped up handfuls of icy water and scrubbed his face. Stubble clung to his chin, but he would shave later. A sniff of his armpit confirmed that the horrid smell was indeed coming from him.
The rancid shirt was pulled over his head and tossed to the ground, then he plunged his torso into the water trough. He experimented with calling the hound forth and was delighted when the frigid water warmed around him. He stopped when it became tepid, not wanting to harm the animals who wouldn’t realise the water had changed temperature.
Snippets of conversation from the previous night emerged from the fog in his head. A group of farmers with a few ales in them gossiped more than women. There was one strand that stuck out—all the men mentioned that Seager possessed the magic potion to cure a pretty woman’s ailments. From the accompanying winks and nudges, it was clear what they meant by magic potion, and it wasn’t anything that came in a vial.
Wycliff had agreed to keep an open mind about the drownings of the three women, but it pained him to linger on the death of Lisbeth. He berated himself for not doing more for his friend. There was a comfort in believing an accident had taken her life. That she must have slipped while watching the storms hit the promontory where she made her home. The alternative placed the fault at his door, for not reaching out earlier to ensure she had the help she needed.
But if Hannah’s instincts were right, he did his childhood friend no service by failing to investigate the possibility that another hand might have pushed Lisbeth to her death. It was time for him to have a quiet conversation with Seager and discover how many women of the village he treated for their problems. The apothecary displayed a foul temper. Who knew what he would do if provoked? Had he conceivably struck out at one, two, or all three?
Frank lumbered across the yard carrying a folded shirt in one hand and a tin mug in the other. Barnes trotted ahead.
“Taking a supervisory role, Barnes?” Wycliff asked as he took the mug and shirt from Frank. “I thank you both.” He gulped the hot brew, and then balanced the mug on a post while he donned the clean shirt and buttoned his waistcoat over the top. “Shearing begins today, and we have more sheep to swim to wash the fleece. Feel like riding a ewe through the river, Barnes?” Wycliff finished the strong coffee.
Stitched monster and hand had stayed at the house yesterday to assist Hannah. Today they followed Wycliff out to the field, where years ago a sheep-wash had been constructed along the river that bordered Mireworth. At a narrow point sat a bridge with low arches that allowed the water to flow, but stopped the animals from swimming away. On the flat ground next to the river stood a pen to funnel the creatures into taking a dip. Stone walls ran down into the pen and created a narrow corridor where they drove the sheep.
The shepherds used their dogs and crooks to direct the woolly creatures into the top of the funnel, channelling them into the pen. Wycliff stripped off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves to wade out into the water to help the washers. As the sheep sprang from the pen into the river, they were dipped under the surface and the wool cleaned before they were released to clamber out on the other side into another stone-enclosed yard.
By the time they had dipped the last of the sheep on one side of the river, the first few out the other side were dry and ready to be clipped. One at a time, a worker grabbed a sheep from the pen and herded it to a shearer. The day lengthened as they worked. Everyone had a specific task to perform.
The shearers’ backs were drenched with sweat from the hard labour as they wielded the shears, two lethal-looking blades, with expert precision. A sheep would lie on its back between the man’s feet as he removed the heavy fleece. Then, once righted, it would bounce away as though reliving its youth as a lamb. Shepherds gathered the shorn flock to graze, waiting to be driven back to pasture.
The midsummer shear of the sheep was a gathering of the community, as many hands were needed to tackle the job. Women threw the fleece onto boards for inspection. Any remaining debris or loose locks were snipped off. Children collected the offcuts, which were stuffed into bags to be used in their homes. Next the fleece was rolled and bundled into sacks and loaded on large carts.
For two days Wycliff worked as hard as the men, taking his turn to drag out a sheep for the shearer. He watched the man flip the creature onto its back, then Wycliff decided he had earned a break. His own back protested the time spent hunkered over and he arched his neck to let his joints pop to ease the ache.
He grabbed a water bottle and stood in the shade, conveniently close to where Seager inspected the bags of loose locks.
“What do you do with the fleece clippings, Seager?” Wycliff asked as he gulped water down a parched throat.
“I remove the lanolin from the wool to make hand creams and lotions that are much in demand by the ladies.” The man spoke without looking up as he crammed more snippets of wool into a bag.
“What else do you offer the ladies that they enjoy?” Wycliff pitched his question low so that it would escape the ears of the children running around the pasture. Hannah thought Cramond might be the common link between the three dead women, but Wycliff preferred Seager for that role.
Seager straightened and met Wycliff’s gaze. He narrowed his eyes and seemed to chew each word before speaking. “I am the apothecary. I offer many cures for the ailments of the villagers—man, woman, and child.”
“Let me speak more plainly, since you seem determined to misunderstand. Were you tending to Lisbeth, Amy, and Sarah?” A gentle breeze stirred and Wycliff tugged on the neck band of his shirt to allow his skin to cool.
“I don’t have to tell you who sought my cures.” Seager turned his back and opened the next bag of offcuts.
For a moment, Wycliff wondered if this was how Hannah had felt early in their acquaintance. Seager was deliberately obtuse and Wycliff suppressed a strong urge to seize the man by the collar and shake some civility into him. “You can either talk to me here and now, or I will drag you off to the Repository of Forgotten Things until your tongue loosens.”
“You cannot do that.” Seager turned and his nostrils flared like those of a bull about to charge.
Wycliff took another long drink. “You’re an aftermage. That gives the Ministry of Unnaturals dominion over you. I could find you a nice cell next to the Afflicted incarcerated because they cannot control their urges. They rot on their feet, oozing bodily fluids that heal when they are given their allotted slice of pickled cauliflower. The stench is stomach-churning, but I’m sure as an apothecary you will find it a fascinating chance to study them up close.”
Seager yanked on th
e bag’s drawstring, pulling it tight before kicking it to one side. “I treated all three women. The only one whose condition might have led to her death was Lisbeth Wolfe. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Wycliff’s hand tightened around the water bottle. He wanted to believe Lisbeth had found a kind of peace on the promontory, not that loneliness and desperation had made her end it all. “So your potions didn’t help her?”
“Lisbeth was much improved. Ask anyone.” Seager spat the words.
“Were you intimate with her?” He had no romantic claim on Lisbeth, but the idea of her rolling around with Seager turned his stomach. As her lifelong friend, he thought she deserved far better.
The other man’s eyes widened. “Of course not! One can offer a woman friendship and advice without bedding her, or is that a revelation to you, my lord?”
Wycliff ground his teeth. While he wrangled his own temper under control, he indulged in imagining how satisfying it would be to smack his fist into Seager’s chin. If for nothing else, he deserved it for his continued rudeness to Hannah. Another part of Wycliff wondered what deep scar Seager covered with his prickly exterior. One porcupine recognised another. Thankfully, Hannah had worked her way through Wycliff’s quills to find the man underneath.
“What of Amy and Sarah? What ailed them?”
Seager fisted his hands and for a moment, Wycliff thought he would be denied the information he sought. “Mrs Rivers sought assistance to conceive. Amy Miller sought relief from constant headaches. Although she refused to hear my advice that the biggest cause was that drunken grandfather of hers.”
“Did you offer them anything else, aside from the relevant potions?” The more they spoke, the more Wycliff sensed the other man was hiding something. He only needed to run it to ground.
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