Death Comes to the Fair

by Catherine Lloyd

  “May I ask you something in confidence?”

  “Of course.” Dr. Fletcher looked up. “Does it have to do with the apparently mysterious death of our verger?”

  “Hardly mysterious.” Robert shrugged. “I was curious as to exactly where you found the cloth pouch on Ezekiel’s body.”

  “It was tucked inside his shirt, close to his heart.”

  “How was it attached?”

  “I’m not sure.” Dr. Fletcher frowned. “It wasn’t around his neck, and it wasn’t in his pocket.”

  “Then why didn’t it fall out every time he moved? Are you sure it wasn’t pinned in place?”

  “I left everything I found on the body in the box by the window. Did you see a pin?”

  “No.” Robert considered the matter for a long moment. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “I did wonder whether the pouch was . . . left with the corpse.” Dr. Fletcher hesitated. “Was it some kind of charm?”

  “Yes.” Robert decided not to elaborate on the exact contents. “It did seem an odd thing for a devout man such as the verger to have on his person.”

  “Agreed.” Dr. Fletcher stood as Mr. Thurrock returned. “I must be going. It is getting late, and I have two patients to attend to in the village before I can even contemplate seeking my own bed.”

  “Thank you for joining us.” Robert smiled at his old friend. His lack of curiosity as to why Robert was asking questions was always refreshing. “And thank you again for recommending your brother to me as a suitable land agent. He is remarkably efficient.”

  “He’s a good lad.” Dr. Fletcher bowed to Mr. Thurrock. “Good night, sir. I have spoken with Alistair Snape, the village undertaker, about fashioning a coffin for your brother. After he’s done his measuring tomorrow, he’ll attend you at the rectory, and discuss the funeral arrangements in more detail.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Fletcher. I am most obliged.” Mr. Thurrock bowed in return. “I have already asked the rector if he can hold a service for my brother in the old church of Kurland St. Anne, and bury him in the family plot there.”

  “A fit resting place for a man who offered so much to the community around him.”

  With a wink at Robert, Patrick Fletcher left, and Mr. Thurrock sat back down at the table and sighed heavily.

  Feeling obliged to be a good host, Robert slid the decanter of port toward his guest. “Are you feeling quite well, sir? Perhaps I might call for a carriage to take you back to the rectory.”

  “I am rather tired, Sir Robert. Making the arrangements necessary for my brother’s funeral has certainly taken its toll. My health is not as robust as I would wish.” He pressed a hand over his heart. “I still cannot quite believe he is dead. We were in the midst of such exciting developments in our historical research.”

  “I sympathize. Your brother was here when I was a child. I cannot quite imagine the village without him.”

  “A village where some rejoice at his death.”

  The bitterness in Mr. Thurrock’s tone made Robert look up from the contemplation of his brandy glass. “I can assure you that anyone who feels like that is in a very small minority. Your brother was much liked and well respected.”

  “Until he won all those prizes at the fair.”

  “You don’t seriously believe someone decided to kill him over that, do you?”

  “You think it a coincidence?” Mr. Thurrock shook his head. “It seems very unlikely to me.”

  “I am the local magistrate, Mr. Thurrock. If you truly believe there is evidence of foul play surrounding your brother’s death, please know that I am obliged to investigate your claims.”

  “Officially?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I shall think about it.” To Robert’s relief Mr. Thurrock rose slowly to his feet and bowed. “Once the arrangements have been made for Ezekiel’s interment I will have the opportunity to consider my options at leisure.”

  “A wise decision.” Robert stood and walked over somewhat stiffly to ring the bell. He had been sitting at the table for far too long. Foley appeared so quickly Robert assumed he had been loitering in the corridor.

  “Yes, Sir Robert?”

  “Can you send around to the stables for someone to drive Mr. Thurrock back to the rectory?”

  “Already done, Sir Robert.” Foley bowed to Mr. Thurrock. “If you would care to accompany me to the front hall, sir, I shall assist you into the gig.”

  “Thank you. Good night, Sir Robert.”

  For once Robert was delighted by Foley’s unusual efficiency. He wasn’t known for his sociability, and entertaining the garrulous Mr. Thurrock had exhausted his small store of patience. The man blathered on about everything but rarely came to the point. His uneasiness about his brother’s death had taken Robert by surprise, though.

  Foley returned just as Robert reached the door of the dining room.

  “Your guest has departed, sir. It took two of us to hoist him into the gig, but we managed it.”

  “Thank you, Foley.” Robert leaned against the door frame, surreptitiously testing the strength of his weaker leg, which had a tendency not to take his weight when most needed.

  “Have you heard any gossip about the manner of Ezekiel Thurrock’s death?”

  Foley paused. “In what regard, sir?”

  “In any regard.”

  “There are some folks who say his death was a reminder from on high”—Foley flicked his gaze heavenward—“about not getting too big for your own boots.”

  “On high?”

  “From Almighty God, sir.”

  Robert blew out an irritated breath. “And what else?”

  “Others think someone killed him because he won all the prizes.”

  “Our villagers think that?”

  Foley shrugged. “One would assume they are local because, between you and me, sir, who else would care about a few vegetables?”

  “But there is gossip about the death, and speculation that it wasn’t an accident?”

  “Naturally. What else do you expect everyone to be talking about in a village as small as this?”

  Robert gathered his thoughts. “Is there any speculation as to who might have done the terrible deed?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.” Foley smoothed the lapel of his coat. “They tend to go quiet when they see me coming, sir, because they know I’m your right-hand man.”

  “You are?” Foley didn’t bother to answer his question, but instead continued to look as trustworthy as an elderly pet spaniel. “Is there anyone in particular you think might be involved in this matter?”

  “That I cannot say, sir, but you may want to consider the names of those who won the prizes last year. You might also be surprised about who is doing the grumbling.”

  Foley bowed and walked away, leaving Robert to limp over to the main staircase and start his slow, halting journey up to his bedchamber. Despite his flair for the dramatic, Foley actually had a good point. He would have to check with Miss Harrington about the previous winners of the harvest festival prizes. She was certain to have kept a list. She was nothing if not efficient.

  Robert paused on the landing and listened to his house settling around him like an old man sinking into a chair. If there was already gossip about the verger’s death then everyone would be on their guard, and his chances of discovering if there truly was a case to answer for narrowed considerably. He contemplated the thick curtains covering the large arched windows that looked out over the drive up to the front of the hall. Perhaps it would be better if the gossip was simply allowed to die down. He refused to be remembered as the local squire who had caused a murder due to a grievance over a vegetable.

  With a bark of laughter at his own expense, Robert continued on to his bedchamber, where his valet would hopefully be preparing his bath.

  * * *

  “Penelope . . .”

  “And now Dr. Fletcher is asking for the name of my nearest relative so that he can write to them and offer for my hand in mar
riage!”

  Lucy looked up from turning out her pockets as Penelope paced the small available space in her bedroom. To Lucy’s annoyance, even when Penelope was in a rage she still managed to look beautiful. It was no wonder that Dr. Fletcher was enamored of her. Lucy had a great deal of admiration for the good doctor’s strength of character. Courting the tempestuous beauty could not be easy. Major Kurland had told her that the doctor was remarkably calm under fire so perhaps that explained his attraction to danger.

  “Surely he could just ask my father?” Lucy countered. “He is acting as your guardian and you are living in his house.”

  “And what would Mr. Harrington say?” Penelope demanded. “Unlike my relatives who are fighting to get rid of me, he might refuse his permission, and then where will we be?”

  “He might say yes. I’m fairly certain he will be delighted to see you settled in your own home. If Dr. Fletcher asks Major Kurland to support his proposal I suspect he would accept the idea most readily.”

  Lucy smoothed out the sketch and placed it on her dressing table. Right at the bottom of her pocket her fingers brushed against Major Kurland’s handkerchief, and she carefully drew it out.

  “Would you like me to ask Major Kurland for his help?”

  Penelope snorted. “If Patrick Fletcher really wants to marry me he should be the one soliciting the major’s help.”

  “Even though it might feel rather awkward for him seeing as you were once the major’s betrothed?”

  “That’s just another excuse. If he truly wants me then he should be prepared for all eventualities. Surely I am worth it?” She paused in her pacing to glare at Lucy. “Even Major Kurland came to his senses and came chasing after you!”

  “Yes, he did.” Lucy allowed herself a small congratulatory smile. “I will talk to Major Kurland about the situation, and set your mind at rest.”

  “If you must.” Penelope sighed. “I am finding this courtship remarkably stressful.”

  “That is because this time you care about the outcome.” Lucy patted Penelope’s shoulder and steered her toward the door. “It is late; go to sleep and we’ll discuss the matter again in the morning.”

  For once, Penelope didn’t argue, and left without another word, allowing Lucy to return to her tidying.

  On an impulse, she spread the major’s handkerchief out, and studied the contents of the pouch found on Ezekiel’s body. Even though the items individually were relatively harmless, she still couldn’t bring herself to touch anything. She peered closely at the stub of black candle, and picked up her drawing to compare the two symbols.

  Major Kurland was correct. The set of scales was definitely similar, but the other symbols were not.

  “Justice,” Lucy whispered. She wasn’t sure where that thought had come from but that was what the scales made her think of. “But justice for whom?”

  Tomorrow she would make the journey over to Kurland St. Anne to check the gargoyles in that church and locate the Thurrock plot in the graveyard for her father. While she was there, she would also pay a few calls in the village itself and see what else she could discover about the charm discovered on the verger’s body.

  Chapter 7

  “We’ll stop here, where the horse can graze and not escape.”

  Lucy drew the gig up beside the boundary wall of Kurland St. Anne church, and Betty hopped down to open the gate into the churchyard. An old yew tree shaded the moss-covered cobblestones and the uneven humps of the graveyard, which was larger than Lucy remembered.

  According to the local historians, the village of Kurland St. Anne had been named after the small church that stood in its center. The chapel had once belonged to a far more substantial medieval priory shut down during the dissolution of the monasteries. It was easy to see the remnants of the stone priory in the local houses and farms who had cheerfully reclaimed the finely carved stone and used it for less religious purposes. It wasn’t unusual to find a carved arched lintel propping up the wall of a cattle byre or pigsty in these parts.

  Lucy tied up the horse and doubtfully surveyed the unkempt graveyard.

  “As my father has no detailed plans of the place, I suppose we will just have to search until we find any stones with the name Thurrock on them.”

  Betty scratched her head. “Mr. Nathaniel did say he thought the family plot was toward the rear of the space near where the old monks were buried.”

  “That’s helpful.” Lucy got her bearings, picked up her skirts, and started off up the slight slope to the far left corner of the wall. Her skirts swished against the long grass and tangled weeds, snagging on the spiked teasels. “You start in the right corner, and I’ll start here.”

  In truth, it proved remarkably easy to find the Thurrocks. Despite Mr. Nathaniel Thurrock’s assertions, Lucy had no idea that the family had lived for so long in the area or been so abundant. They might even have arrived with the Kurland family who had bought up the church lands to add to the original estate they had established when they landed with William the Conqueror.

  “This one is quite old, Miss Harrington. Come and have a look,” Betty called out.

  Lucy walked carefully over to join her and crouched in front of the extremely worn headstone.

  “Ezekiel Thurrock,” she read, scrubbing away at the moss that covered the engraved stone with the tip of her kid glove. “Beloved of God. Born 1625, died 1661.” She shook her head. “Just think, he was born almost two hundred years ago.”

  She stood and brushed off her skirts. “I think we have established where our Mr. Ezekiel Thurrock can be laid to rest, don’t you?”

  “Yes, miss.” Betty shivered and glanced around the quiet space. “Can we go now?”

  “Yes, of course.” Lucy hesitated. “Do you wish to visit your parents while I complete my other errands?”

  “It depends where you’re thinking of going, miss. I promised Major Kurland I’d keep an eye on you.”

  Lucy halted to stare at her maid. “Why on earth did you do that?”

  Betty retied the strings of her bonnet. “Because he worries about your safety, miss, which is all right and proper from a man who is betrothed to marry you, and doesn’t wish any harm to befall you before your wedding day.”

  There was a stubborn expression on Betty’s face that reminded Lucy forcibly of Major Kurland. He had obviously chosen his watchdog well.

  “How about I tell you where I am going, and you decide whether you want to accompany me or not?”

  “Where are you going, Miss Harrington?”

  “To see the misses Turner.”

  Betty went still. “Them?”

  “It’s not quite what you are probably thinking, Betty, I—”

  Her maid crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m coming with you, miss, and there’s to be no arguing about it.”

  Lucy checked the horse was secured, and walked over to the kissing gate that would let them into the High Street.

  “You may come with me, but you are not to mention it to Major Kurland. I will tell him myself if I think it necessary.”

  “As you wish, Miss Harrington, but don’t think I won’t tell him if things go awry.”

  “By then it will be too late for him to do anything about it anyway,” Lucy murmured, but Betty didn’t reply.

  They set off down the short High Street, which boasted a general store, a bakery, and a cobbler. Several of the shops stood empty. The last two years of cold summers and bad harvests had caused another wave of migration to the bigger towns, where there was at least the possibility of work. Lucy couldn’t blame anyone for leaving, but it left villages like Kurland St. Anne teetering on the brink of collapse.

  To his credit, Major Kurland was working hard to bring his estate back to its former glory, providing jobs, housing, and soon schooling for his tenants.

  “That reminds me, I must speak to Major Kurland about the hiring of a suitable schoolteacher.”

  “I beg your pardon, miss?”

  “I was ju
st thinking aloud, Betty. Major Kurland offered to convert that old storage barn at the far end of Kurland St. Mary into a school for his tenants’ children.”

  “Couldn’t you teach them? You’re full of book learning.”

  “I wish I could, but as Major Kurland’s wife I doubt it would be considered a suitable occupation for me. I’ll be the patron of the school, and I intend to make sure that it is run properly, but I don’t think I’ll be teaching.”

  “Seems silly to me, miss. There you’ll be—right close by—and think of the money the major would save!”

  Would Major Kurland let her teach at the school? She supposed she could ask his opinion on the matter. In his own way he could be just as rigid as her father. She did hope she wasn’t exchanging one cage for another. At least with Major Kurland she was allowed to argue her case and sometimes win.

  Lucy carried on walking, and took a right turn down a narrow lane bordered with a ditch on one side and a high hedge and cow parsley on the other. About a quarter of a mile down the lane stood a simple stone cottage set back within an ancient copse of trees. Beyond the cottage was a large garden that even in the winter appeared to be well tended.

  “Here we are,” Lucy said with far more bravado than she was feeling. “The Turner cottage.”

  Betty huddled deeper into her shawl. “Do you want me to knock?”

  Lucy studied the sturdy front door and the cobwebs hanging from the knocker. “I think we should go around the back. This door doesn’t look as if it is used very often.”

  It was probably because most of the people who visited the Turner sisters wouldn’t want to be seen. There was a side gate that was latched but not locked, and a pathway of well-trodden-in stones laid around to the back door. Betty followed Lucy down the path, and both of them jumped when the door was suddenly opened.

  “Good morning, Miss Harrington.”

  Lucy gathered her scattered wits and clutched her reticule rather hard. She reminded herself that there was no magic involved. The woman had probably spied them walking down the road, recognized them, and hearing the squeak of the side gate been ready to let them in.