Death Comes to the Fair

by Catherine Lloyd

  “He did win all the prizes at the fair. . . .”

  “And that is hardly a reason to kill him!”

  “There is no point in letting your guilt at allowing him to win everything overshadow your usual good sense.”

  “My guilt? Good Lord, Miss Harrington. I’d already forgotten all about that damned fair.”

  “But maybe someone else has not?”

  “That is ridiculous. Anyone who kills over such a small matter is not sane.”

  “I am inclined to agree with you.”

  “Well, thank God for that.”

  “Which makes me wonder what on earth is going on.” She finished her drink. “And now I must go home. My father is expecting me.”

  * * *

  The next morning brought a clear, bright day as though the storm had swept away any lingering bad weather. After making sure everything at the rectory was proceeding as it should, Lucy crossed over to the church. To keep herself from worrying, she attempted to arrange the harvest produce in a pleasing manner on the table in the side chapel. Light filtered through the plain glass windows and danced over the gilt candlesticks and golden embroidery threads in the altar cloth. Her father followed the traditions of the High Anglican church, insisting a plain church was the province of Puritans, Calvinists, and damned Methodists.

  Lucy often wondered what the church had looked like before Cromwell’s troops smashed the stained glass, hacked and disfigured the medieval tombs of the Kurland family, and took away all the plate to melt down for coin and weaponry. Occasionally, when a repair was needed to the roof or walls traces of garishly colored plaster and paint were revealed behind the thick lime wash but were quickly covered up.

  Lucy stood back to regard her efforts and heaved a sigh. Her piles of vegetables looked even less appealing than the stalls at the monthly Kurland market in the village square. She could only hope that the Chingford sisters would display more artistic talent than she would ever have.

  “Miss Harrington?”

  She turned to see Major Kurland in the doorway of the church, his hat in his hand. He wore a thick greatcoat over his usual country attire of buckskin breeches, tweed waistcoat, and well-polished boots.

  He walked up the aisle and stood beside her and the harvest vegetables. “Are we reduced to selling produce for the upkeep of the church now?”

  “No.” Lucy said. “It is supposed to be a festive harvest display, but I have no imagination or artistic ability to make everything appear more pleasing.”

  Major Kurland looked over his shoulder and beckoned to the red-haired man waiting patiently in the doorway.

  “Mr. Fletcher, is there anyone up at the hall who could help with this matter?”

  “Mrs. Bloomfield has a fine hand with the flowers she places within the house, sir.”

  “That’s true. Bring her down here sometime today, and ask her to help Miss Harrington, will you?”

  “Of course, Sir Robert.”

  Lucy was still not accustomed to her betrothed’s high-handed orders, and assumption that everyone lived to do his bidding.

  “Mrs. Bloomfield might be otherwise engaged.”

  “Do you want some help, or don’t you?” He glanced down at her.

  “Only if she can be spared,” Lucy said firmly. “Running Kurland Hall hardly leaves her much time to do anything else.”

  “She only has to look after me.”

  “Exactly. A full-time occupation.”

  His answering smile was for her alone. “And one that you will shortly take on for yourself.”

  Mr. Fletcher cleared his throat. “Do you wish me to remain here with you, sir, or go back to Kurland Hall and find Mrs. Bloomfield?”

  “I need you to stay.” Major Kurland started walking toward the bell tower. “I don’t think I will be able to ascend the stairs in here, so you will have to go up there in my stead.”

  Lucy followed him and waited as he propped open the door with a wooden wedge and then did the same to the outer door. It certainly made the interior of the tower much lighter. Mr. Fletcher had brought two large lanterns with him as well, which he lit.

  “What exactly am I looking for up in the tower, sir?”

  “Evidence of gargoyles or stone statues in the walls, or places where it looks like the stonework has recently been damaged.”

  Mr. Fletcher went still. “The same kind of gargoyle as the one that killed Mr. Thurrock?”

  Major Kurland fixed him with a calm stare. “Perhaps you might go and see what is up there, Dermot. We can discuss other matters once we have ascertained what is going on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Mr. Fletcher cautiously approached the stairs, Lucy took the other lantern and standing in the center of the floor spun around in a slow circle.

  “What are you looking for, Miss Harrington?”

  “I don’t know.” Lucy placed the lantern on the floor and slowly sank down beside it, her petticoats billowing around her. “I just wondered if Mr. Thurrock had left anything behind.”

  Major Kurland pointed toward the door. “There is a slight splatter of blood there.”

  Even as she shuddered, Lucy moved toward the mark. “Which means he was probably either coming in or going out of the door when the gargoyle hit him.”

  “He must have been going into the church, as his body lay across the tower floor behind him.”

  Lucy squinted at the bloodstain and then leaned closer. “Can you slide the lantern closer?”

  “Why, what is it?”

  Above them she could hear Mr. Fletcher’s boots echoing on the wooden platform. The bells above him were silent.

  Light illuminated the door frame. “There is something scratched into the stone. It’s a series of symbols. . . .”

  “Can you make them out?”

  She sat back. “No. They look quite ancient.”

  “Mayhap a stonemason’s mark?”

  “Quite possibly.” Lucy allowed Major Kurland to help her to her feet as Mr. Fletcher descended from the platform.

  “Well?” Major Kurland demanded.

  “I could see no gargoyles or stone statues up there at all, and no evidence of any recent disturbance in the structure of the walls.”

  “Devil take it,” Major Kurland murmured. “Please keep this to yourself, Dermot.”

  “Yes, Sir Robert.”

  “Where did we put the gargoyle that hit Mr. Thurrock?”

  Lucy frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “When did you last see it?”

  “I didn’t. All I saw was Mr. Thurrock’s dead body.”

  Major Kurland walked out of the bell tower, leaving Mr. Fletcher to close the doors and extinguish the lanterns. He lowered his voice to speak to Lucy.

  “I saw the gargoyle when I met the rector in the church. It was sitting on the floor near the body.”

  “Did my father take it, or mayhap Dr. Fletcher?”

  “I didn’t see it at the doctor’s house, did you?”

  “No.” Lucy headed for the rectory. “Perhaps we could ask my father?”

  “Won’t he wonder why we want to know?”

  “I doubt it. He is much consumed with settling his new hunter into the stables today, and has very little time for anything else.”

  “Then perhaps we might check his study while he is otherwise engaged.”

  Lucy accompanied him through the front door, and closed it gently behind her. It appeared that her father had taken his dogs out with him to the stables so all was quiet. She beckoned the major forward and tapped gently on the study door. There was no reply so she went in, pausing on the threshold to make certain that her father was indeed absent.

  “There.” Major Kurland pointed at the desk. “Sitting on top of that pile of letters.”

  Lucy advanced toward the desk, shuddering as she noticed the dark patches of dried blood that disfigured the already leering face of the gargoyle. They both paused to study the stone.

  “Did it come from the
church?” Major Kurland asked.

  “No. I checked all the obvious places as I walked through yesterday, but it might, of course, have been hidden somewhere. I understand that such figures often were. I could ask my father if he recognizes it, but then he might become suspicious.” Lucy sighed. “There is something familiar about it, but I cannot think where I have seen it. Perhaps the memory will return to me eventually.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before, but I am far less familiar with the church than you are.”

  Lucy turned toward him. “Unfortunately, the very person who would know the answer to this question is the one whom was killed. Mr. Thurrock was an expert on all the churches in our parish.” She took a seat at the desk and found a piece of paper. “I will attempt to make a sketch of this item.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “For comparison.”

  Major Kurland raised an eyebrow. “You intend to wander around the village staring at gargoyles?”

  She frowned up at him, her pen poised over the paper. “They do not occur that often, sir.”

  “Churches, then? We have at least three on my lands.”

  “They would certainly be a good place to start.” She completed her sketch and dipped her pen back in the ink. Major Kurland came and looked over her shoulder.

  “That is quite a good likeness, Miss Harrington.”

  “Thank you.” She closed her eyes and then opened them again, and began drawing. “I’m trying to reproduce the marks I saw at the foot of the door.”

  “I thought we decided they were stonemason marks?”

  “They might well be, but I still wish to record them.”

  Major Kurland peered closely at her work. “That particular symbol reminds me of what was scratched on the base of the candle stub in the charm.”

  “Which particular part?”

  “It’s almost like scales or something. Would you agree?”

  Lucy considered her own drawing. “It certainly could be a set of scales. I wonder what on earth it means?”

  The study door opened abruptly, making both of them jump. Maisey slapped a hand over her mouth and squeaked.

  “Ooh, Miss Harrington! You startled me!”

  Lucy gave her a calm smile. “Were you looking for the rector? I believe he is still out in the stables.”

  Maisey’s gaze swept the room. “I was looking for something Mrs. Fielding said she wanted, but I can’t see it in here.”

  “What exactly was it?” Lucy asked patiently.

  “I can’t remember now.” Maisey bobbed a curtsy. “Sorry to disturb you, miss, Major Kurland, I mean Sir Robert, sir.”

  Lucy let out her breath as Maisey shut the door behind her. “That girl would forget her head if it weren’t screwed on. What on earth did she expect to find in here?”

  Major Kurland shrugged. “I have no idea. The minds of women are something of a mystery to me.”

  “As they are to most men.” Lucy blotted her paper and replaced the pen.

  “What do you expect me to do while you chase after gargoyles, Miss Harrington?”

  She stood and smiled at him. “Nothing.”

  He paused to stare at her. “That is most unlike you. Usually you have me chasing after something.”

  It was her turn to feign surprise. “I thought you said you were tired of me embroiling you in such schemes?”

  “As your betrothed, and the man who will soon have the managing of you, I can’t help but be involved.”

  She raised her chin. “The managing of me? I am not a child.”

  “But you are a handful.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, and heard the scrabble of paws at the back door. She snatched up her paper and moved swiftly toward the door. “Unless you wish to speak to my father, we should probably vacate his study.”

  He followed her down the hall, and into the small back parlor, where she shut the door. Moments later her father strode past shouting to his dogs and talking to Harris about the progress of his new horse.

  Major Kurland moved across to the fire, and bent to add another log to the blaze.

  “I will speak to my tenants about Mr. Thurrock’s death.”

  Lucy leaned up against the door. “To what end?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her, his dark blue gaze direct. “To see if anyone has a theory about why Ezekiel Thurrock died.”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “Everyone thinks it was an accident.”

  “But as you suggested earlier, perhaps if someone does believe they had a hand in bringing about his death they might feel the need to brag a little.”

  “To you?”

  “Of course not. I just might get a sense of it, especially if I mention the controversy over the vegetables.”

  She considered him carefully as he finally turned to face her. Was he attempting to be conciliatory after his earlier remarks about her character? It was rather lowering to realize that when she did marry him for all intents and purposes she became his property, and he did have the right to manage her every moment.

  “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to ask such questions, sir. I will do the same.”

  “And, I will inquire of Dr. Fletcher exactly where he found the charm on the body. He’s coming to dinner tonight at the hall with his brother, and Mr. Thurrock.”

  “That sounds like an excellent idea.” She offered him a small smile. “I will attempt to ascertain where the gargoyle came from.”

  “Good. Then perhaps I should find Dermot and head for home.”

  To his credit, he didn’t tell her to be careful, which she appreciated.

  After he’d left, she took out the sketch she’d made of the gargoyle and studied it again. Major Kurland didn’t need to know that she had far more reaching plans than she had admitted to him. One thing she had already learned in life was that when it came to managing men, the less said, the better.

  Chapter 6

  “Well, as I was saying, my dear Sir Robert, poor Ezekiel was most perturbed by the uproar over his winning entries in the village contest.” Mr. Nathaniel Thurrock belched discreetly and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. The gentlemen had lingered over their port at the dining table after the meal and Robert had done nothing to discourage the very vocal Nathaniel from talking at length.

  “I told him that he should be proud of his gardening skills, but he said that he had to live in Kurland St. Mary, and that there was enough bad feeling about the Thurrocks already without adding to it.”

  Robert sat up. “Your brother was worried? Did he seriously believe someone would do him harm over something so banal?”

  “Indeed he did. You saw how frightened he was after the fair. In truth, we quarreled over the subject.” Nathaniel shook his head. “A matter I now deeply regret seeing as we had no chance to apologize to each other before his death.” He paused. “One does have to wonder whether he was right, though, doesn’t one?”

  “What exactly do you mean?” Robert asked cautiously.

  “Well, he did die rather suddenly.” Nathaniel’s gaze swept around the table encompassing the startled expressions of Dr. Fletcher and his brother. “I’ve already heard some impertinent suggestions that he got what he deserved.”

  “Where the devil did you hear that?” Robert tried to sound unperturbed, but it was difficult.

  “I went down to the Queen’s Head to hire a post boy to send off some more letters to Cambridge, and while I was waiting for the landlord, I overheard certain remarks coming from the tap room.”

  “What were they saying?”

  “That my brother’s God had seen justice done by him.”

  “Did you manage to see exactly who made that particularly unpleasant comment?”

  “No, I did peer through the door, but the smoke from the peat fire and the men’s clay pipes made the place barely habitable. I didn’t dare venture inside in case I started to cough.”

  Robert thought it was more likely that the portly Mr. Thurr
ock would not have been inclined to get into a brawl over his brother in a public tavern, but he didn’t say anything, and his guest continued.

  “I have something of a delicate constitution, Sir Robert. And from what I could tell it wasn’t just one ruffian speaking of my brother; there were several of them who seemed to be in agreement.”

  Robert refilled his glass. “Would you recognize any of them again?”

  Nathaniel sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his ample belly. “I did witness two of them leaving. One was young, tall, and fair, and the other was built like a laborer and wore a green hat and an old-fashioned frock coat. They left together in an old gig.”

  “Sounds like one of the Pethridge boys,” Dermot Fletcher said quietly. “If it was young Martin, he barely opens his mouth unless he’s had a drink or two. I doubt he would’ve said anything bad about anyone.”

  “The fair-headed chap?” Nathaniel asked. “He was certainly the most outspoken, and the other rogue had to hold him up as they left the tavern. But if he was a Pethridge I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Yes,” Robert answered for his land agent. “The other man doesn’t sound as familiar. Maybe he is working on one of the farms this winter.”

  “Would you like me to check the records, Sir Robert?” Dermot half rose from his seat.

  “Not right now. Enjoy your port. Perhaps we should go out there tomorrow. I promised Jim Mallard I would visit his farm the other day. He had some scheme to develop the land he wanted to discuss with me.”

  Dermot sat back down again and picked up his glass. “As you wish, sir. I will be able to accompany you after eleven.”

  “Thank you.” Robert nodded at Dermot. “If you have a moment before you retire for the night could you find me the last report we did on the Mallard holdings?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll bring it to your study.”

  Eventually, Nathaniel Thurrock excused himself to use the necessary, and Dermot took his leave to find the information Robert had requested. He had opted to live in the main house, and had his rooms in the estate office wing. If he ever decided to marry, Robert would offer him his own house on the estate. In the moment of quietness, Robert took the opportunity to turn his attention to Patrick Fletcher.