Death Comes to the Fair

by Catherine Lloyd

  It was also warm, which was a blessing. Mrs. Pethridge came to greet him with a smile and a curtsy.

  “Good morning, sir. Would you care for some warmed spiced cider?”

  “That would be most welcome, Mrs. Pethridge.” At her nod he followed her into the best parlor, where a fire had already been lit in the oversize fireplace. “How is your family?”

  “They are all well, sir. Thank you for asking.” She motioned at a seat close to the fire. “I’m sure Gareth will be back in a moment. Please sit down and warm yourself. I don’t know what he was thinking, taking you out there in this weather.”

  Robert sat and surreptitiously stretched out his injured leg toward the hearth. “It was something to do with the superiority of his carrots, I believe.”

  She sighed. “I thought as much. There has been nothing but gossip and ill will spread about that fair. I told him that it wasn’t the end of the world, and that he would do better next year, but did he listen?”

  Robert found himself completely in charity with Mrs. Pethridge. If he never saw another carrot again he would be delighted. Even Foley had made some pointed remark as he’d served Robert’s dinner the previous evening about how he feared the quality of the vegetables from the Home Farm would diminish now that the major hadn’t recognized the entries of his own employees as the best at the fair.

  Mrs. Pethridge went to fetch his cider. He sat back in the very comfortable chair and allowed the warmth to steal through him. He’d walked down from the manor house, and unless he wanted to beg for a lift, he would face an unpleasant uphill struggle to get back. He reminded himself that the weather was nothing compared to the winters he’d spent in Spain and Portugal fighting Napoleon’s forces, but for some reason that failed to comfort him.

  A farm cart drove up to the front of the house and then disappeared around the side. Mrs. Pethridge returned with his warm cider and he thanked her and took a sip. It was sweetened with honey and spices and quite delicious. Just as he went to compliment her, he heard voices approaching, and rose slowly to his feet.

  Mr. Pethridge came in looking rather harassed, accompanied by another familiar face.

  “Major Kurland, sir! How are you?”

  Robert accepted the handshake. “Mallard. How are things in Kurland St. Anne?”

  “Well enough, considering the bad summer we’ve just had.” Jim Mallard grimaced. “You know how it’s been, sir.”

  “Indeed, I do. One can only hope the Fates will smile on us next year, and bring us a summer to remember.”

  “With the improvements you’re making to the land and the estate, we should survive the winter regardless.”

  “These things take time. I am hoping that with Mr. Fletcher now in place as my land agent, I can proceed with my plans for the estate and the outlying farms as fast as possible. Is there anything in particular you require at St. Anne’s to see you through the winter?”

  Jim opened his mouth and, after a glance at Mr. Pethridge, shut it again.

  “That would be a discussion for a different time, maybe, sir. I only came to drop some eggs off to the kitchen, and I must be on my way.”

  “I’ll ask Dermot Fletcher to arrange a meeting at your farm, and then I can see what needs to be accomplished firsthand.”

  Jim shook his hand again. “That would be best, sir. Now I’ll bid you good-bye.” He turned toward the door and then paused. “Is it true that you chose the prizewinners at the fair yesterday, sir, or was it just the rector rewarding his own?”

  Robert straightened his spine. “I chose the winners.”

  Jim grimaced. “There’s been much discussion about your choices, sir.”

  “I am well aware of that.”

  “Some say Ezekiel Thurrock cheated.”

  “Indeed.” Jim didn’t look away from Robert’s challenging stare. “Is there any proof of such an accusation?”

  Jim scratched his head. “I’m not sure, sir, seeing as I’m not the one making the complaint. I know I should’ve won for my turnips, but you can’t win against a Thurrock in this village, now can you? Always been the same.”

  Robert raised an eyebrow at the man’s tone, and Jim took a step back.

  “Good-bye, sir.”

  Robert resumed his seat as Mr. Pethridge escorted his guest back to his gig and returned.

  “I do apologize, Major. Jim Mallard is a forthright man, just like his father.”

  “I know and I don’t hold it against him. I’d much rather deal with him than someone who hides behind the gossips.” Robert took another sip of his cider. “I cannot believe how upset everyone is over this. I was asked to judge the merit of the vegetables on appearance alone. If I’d tasted every damned vegetable I might have come to a different conclusion. I know, for example, that the vegetables you provide for the house are always excellent.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Mr. Pethridge inclined his head. Robert hoped he’d said enough to ensure the quality of produce entering his house remained the same. Miss Harrington wouldn’t be pleased if she arrived as his bride and found the kitchens all to let.

  For a fleeting moment he wished he’d let her persuade him to change his mind about the winning vegetables, but a man about to be married shouldn’t set such an alarming precedent. Another sip of cider and a promising discussion about his hopes for the new agricultural year banished his concerns. Like most issues that occurred in the village he was fairly certain it would all be forgotten just in time for the next local scandal.

  * * *

  Much later, after completing her errands, Lucy came back through the village and headed toward the church, where she would have to take charge of all the preparations for the harvest festival. It had started to rain in earnest, and the leaves were now slick underfoot. She hadn’t seen Penelope or Dr. Fletcher and could only hope they either had taken shelter from the storm in Kurland St. Anne or had some means of staying dry as they traveled.

  She should perhaps have offered Penelope her umbrella, but she was rather glad she had it with her. Just to be particularly annoying the rain decided to slant inward, catching the sharp tug of the breeze and making it impossible despite Lucy’s best efforts to stay dry.

  She was pleased to see the dark mass of the church ahead and hurried toward the closest entrance, which opened into the bell tower. The old oak door creaked a protest as she pushed it inward, causing a gust of wind that immediately blew out the nearest candles, plunging her into darkness. The door was whipped out of her grasp and banged back into place.

  Lucy muttered something rather inappropriate for a sacred place and started forward, one hand out in front of her face. She aimed for the opposite side of the tower, where another door led into the main part of the church. She knew the church intimately, and had no doubt that she could find her way—except her toe stubbed on something unexpected, and she almost fell.

  Luckily, she braced her hand against the wall and caught herself before she fell forward. She gently probed with her toes and connected with something solid and unmoving. With a soft moan she eased down onto the cold stone floor and touched what felt like cloth.

  “Oh, good Lord.”

  Forgetting dignity, she crawled around the unmoving obstacle and found the inner doorway and the tinderbox. Her hands were shaking as she attempted to strike a spark. She eventually managed it, lit a candle and the small lantern that sat beside it.

  Raising the lantern, she turned to the dense black form on the floor and gasped.

  “Mr. Thurrock?”

  Her voice echoed within the stone confines of the tower while above her the bells chimed softly against the buffeting wind. Having already had far too close an acquaintance with death, Lucy was not surprised when Mr. Thurrock didn’t answer her. She played the light over his still form until she reached the silver white sheen of his now disheveled hair and fought to breathe.

  His head . . .

  Lucy pressed her hand over her mouth and backed slowly away into the nave of the church an
d out through the sacristy door.

  Her father looked up, his expression exasperated, as she burst into his study, where he was reading the newspaper and enjoying a glass of brandy.

  “What is it now, child? Can you not see that I am busy?”

  She pressed a hand to her bosom and struggled to breathe. “Mr. Thurrock . . .”

  “What about him?”

  “I think he’s dead!”

  Chapter 3

  Robert walked into the church to find the rector pacing the tiled floor between the pews, his hands behind his back.

  “Ah, Major Kurland. A bad business this, very bad indeed!”

  “What exactly has happened, Mr. Harrington? Your note was rather brief.”

  “Come and see for yourself. I’ve taken the liberty of sending a message to Dr. Fletcher. He should be joining us at any moment.”

  Robert followed the rector past the altar and into the bell tower, which had been constructed slightly earlier than the rest of the church and might even have once been fortified. Candles had been lit all around the cavernous space. Robert paused just inside the door to view the body sprawled on the tiled floor.

  “Good Lord,” he muttered.

  Ezekiel Thurrock lay facedown on the tiles. He wore a long, black cloak over his verger’s uniform. The hood of the cloak had fallen away to reveal his silvery white hair and the rather compressed back of his head....

  Robert swallowed down his sudden nausea, used his cane as a prop, and lowered himself down onto one knee on the tiled floor.

  The rector spoke from behind him. “He appears to have suffered a blow to the head.”

  “So I see.” Robert didn’t have to look far to find what had inflicted the blow. “I assume that grotesque gargoyle hit him?”

  “It seems likely. The wind has been blowing a gale this afternoon.”

  Robert looked up into the lofty heights of the tower. “I suppose we should be grateful none of the bells fell down.”

  From what he remembered there was a spiral staircase cut into the thick wall, which led up to a single platform where the bell ringers congregated to ring the changes. There were five bells within the belfry, and even the smallest of them would’ve crushed far more than Ezekiel Thurrock’s head.

  “Rector?” Dr. Fletcher’s voice echoed down the aisle. “Are you here?”

  Mr. Harrington turned toward the inner door. “I’ll go and fetch him, Major. Please come to the rectory after you have apprised the good doctor of the tragic situation. I have not yet informed Mr. Nathaniel Thurrock of his brother’s demise. I would value your support in this matter.”

  “I will attend you there, Rector.” Robert looked up. “Did you find the body?”

  “No, Lucy did. She is quite distraught.”

  “Then I will also see her when I come,” Robert said instantly. “I do hope she is all right.”

  “She’s not one to put on die-away airs and graces, Major. She lacks the imagination for it, thank goodness.”

  The rector departed and Robert slowly rose to his feet.

  “Another body, Major Kurland?”

  He turned to the doctor, who had just emerged from the doorway leading toward the church.

  “Unfortunately, yes—although I didn’t find this one. I’m here in my capacity as lord of the manor and local magistrate.”

  “Ah.” Dr. Fletcher crouched beside Ezekiel’s head. “Death must have been fairly instantaneous after that blow to the head.”

  “A tragic accident?”

  “I suppose it might have been, although what made that gargoyle, which from the look of it was placed in this church well before the Reformation, suddenly decide to fall down is another matter.” Dr. Fletcher looked up and shivered. “I don’t come in here very often, being a popish heathen.”

  “It is rather odd, but it has been particularly gusty here today. Maybe one of the bells swung and dislodged it.” Robert frowned. “Who’s in charge of the bell ringers these days?”

  “I have no idea, Major, but I should imagine the rector will know.” Dr. Fletcher resumed his examination. “If you intend to walk over to the rectory, could you send me some assistance to get the body back to my house?”

  “I will. Is there anything else you need?”

  “Just something to wrap the corpse in. His head is in a bad state.” He frowned. “I can barely see anything in this light, but I don’t think there are any other injuries.”

  “Then, perhaps for once this is simply a tragic accident.” Robert nodded at his old army companion. “I’ll be on my way. Please let me know if there is any cause to believe that foul play is afoot.”

  He made his way out into the gathering darkness guided by the lights of the far more modern rectory now standing opposite the ancient church. He might decry its faceless golden stone and symmetrical Adams-style frontage, but he couldn’t deny it was one of the warmest and most comfortable houses he had ever visited.

  Leaning heavily on his cane to avoid slipping on the banks of sodden leaves and the continual tug of the wind, Robert traversed the gravel driveway and knocked on the front door, which was immediately opened by Miss Harrington.

  “Major Kurland.”

  He scowled at her. “You should be in bed.”

  She waited until he shed his hat and gloves before answering.

  “I am quite well, sir.”

  “You just found a body.” He searched her even features, noting the paleness of her skin. “I doubt it was a pleasant experience.”

  She touched his arm. “It was not, but I didn’t swoon or fall into hysterics, so I don’t think I need to lie down, do you?”

  For a moment he stared at her, the instinct to protect her at war with his usual admiration for her courage. He lowered his voice and cupped her chin.

  “You are quite certain that you are well?”

  Color rose in her cheeks. “I am, sir, but thank you for caring enough to ask. My father complained when I interrupted him, and then told me not to swoon because he was far too weak to pick up my sturdy form.”

  “Your father is a fool.”

  She held his gaze and smiled. “Yes, sometimes he is quite insufferable. Shall we go through to the parlor?”

  He followed her and found the Chingford sisters and the young curate, George Culpepper, gathered together in a huddle around the fireplace.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Chingford, Miss Dorothea, and Mr. Culpepper.”

  “Major Kurland.” Miss Chingford acknowledged him with a brief glance. “Is Dr. Fletcher not with you?”

  “He is at the church. I believe he intends to come to the rectory once he has made arrangements for the body.”

  “Poor Mr. Thurrock,” Dorothea sighed. “He was such a pleasant man.”

  “Indeed he was,” Robert agreed. “He helped me with my Latin when I was preparing to go away to school. He was just as patient and self-effacing back then.”

  “At least he died quickly,” the curate murmured. “And as a man of great faith he will be welcomed into the kingdom of Our Lord most lovingly.”

  “And he was quite old,” Dorothea pointed out with all the blithe callousness of those with the majority of their life still ahead of them.

  Robert accepted the cup of tea Miss Harrington poured for him, and sat down in the window seat resting his cane against the wall.

  “Is Mr. Nathaniel Thurrock at home?”

  Miss Harrington passed him a jug of milk. “No, he hasn’t returned from his afternoon walk.”

  Robert frowned. “In this weather?”

  “One must assume he has taken shelter somewhere. It isn’t that late.”

  “It’s getting dark and the storm hasn’t yet blown itself out.”

  Miss Harrington met his gaze. “Do you think I should send someone to find him?”

  “It might be wise. He is a visitor here and might not realize the danger of flooding in low-lying areas.”

  “Then I shall go and attend to it.” She rose, smoothing do
wn the skirts of her plain muslin gown. “I’ll also remind my father that you are here, and that we expect Dr. Fletcher at any moment.”

  “Ah, I almost forgot. Dr. Fletcher asked if someone could carry the body, I mean the deceased, down to his house.”

  She nodded. “I will attend to the matter when I go to the stables.”

  Robert half rose. “I can do that.”

  She gave him a warm smile. “Please don’t bother to get up. It will scarcely take a moment. Perhaps you might watch for the doctor’s arrival or Mr. Thurrock’s return?”

  She was gone before he could get into an argument about it, and he sank back gratefully into his seat. The long, cold walk up from the Home Farm followed by the unexpected trip back to the village and kneeling on the uneven floor of the bell tower had made his damaged left leg ache like the devil. Knowing him well, Miss Harrington had probably noticed his lurching gait, and decided to allow him the luxury of a rest.

  He’d quietly been taking riding lessons from his head coachman, but his fear of his own horses combined with his disability made the task an onerous one. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to ride confidently into battle on the back of a trained cavalry horse. He sometimes couldn’t believe he was the same man.

  “Major Kurland.”

  He looked up from his contemplation of the fire to find Dr. Fletcher coming into the room. To his surprise, Miss Chingford rose to her feet and went over to the doctor.

  “Come and sit down immediately. You must be freezing.”

  She gave the doctor a cup of tea and fluttered around him like a rather annoying butterfly—something that didn’t seem to annoy Patrick Fletcher at all.

  “Lucy said the poor verger had been hit on the head by a lump of falling masonry, is that correct, sir?”

  “Indeed.” Dr. Fletcher’s gaze was fixed on Miss Chingford and he was smiling at her in a way that could only be described as intimate. “It was a sizable piece of rock, and caught him on the top of his head. That, combined with the fall, killed him instantly.”