Death Comes to the Fair

by Catherine Lloyd

  “They won’t talk to you.”

  Robert rose to his feet. “My dear, Miss Harrington, I’m the local magistrate and justice of the peace. They won’t have a choice.”

  Chapter 9

  “Come on, Maisey,” Lucy called out to the kitchen maid, who was dawdling along the path behind her, and staring up into the trees.

  “Sorry. Coming, miss. I was counting magpies. It’s not lucky to just see one, you know.”

  Lucy produced the key to the front door of Ezekiel Thurrock’s small terraced cottage, and unlocked the door. The smell of cabbage and stale tobacco smoke wafted over her, reminding her of the verger quite acutely.

  “It’s dark in here.” Maisey peered inside.

  “Yes, we should probably open the shutters, and let some air in.”

  Lucy walked farther into the house and surveyed the accommodation. It was a fairly large space for one man, with two rooms on the ground floor, and two above connected by a steep staircase in the middle. The lower floor was flagstone, and there was a good-sized fireplace against the outside wall. The rectory also owned the cottage next door. It was currently vacant, and would be used if the curate married and had a family.

  There were two high-backed wooden chairs and a small table set in front of the fire. A clay pipe and a tinderbox sat on the mantelpiece alongside a pewter candlestick. There was no clock, or any evidence of other decorations apart from a rosary and a small crucifix, which struck Lucy as surprisingly popish.

  “Maisey—has Mr. Nathaniel Thurrock been down to assess his brother’s possessions?” Lucy asked.

  “I’m not sure, miss.” Maisey gave the spartan room a doubtful glance. “There’s not much in here, is there? Maybe he already picked the things he wanted and left the rest.”

  “That’s possible.” She walked through into the other room, which contained a fireplace with a black pot hanging from a hook, and a rudimentary clay sink and water pump. Behind a door was a small stone-lined larder, where a few basic goods had been stored. The fire was banked up but not lit, and everything was in its place as if the verger had just left.

  “At least he had water, miss.” Maisey pointed at the pump. “My parents don’t have that. They have to go to the well. The verger also had his own shared privy in the garden.” She shook her head. “And a house all to himself. I dream of having my own place, miss.”

  “Well, keep on learning your craft from Mrs. Fielding and one day you might achieve your dream, Maisey,” Lucy said encouragingly. “Shall we go upstairs?”

  To her surprise the entire house was spotless. As far as she knew, the verger had never married and had obviously learned to look after himself. Her father had recently made some pointed remarks about how he was supposed to cope when she departed the rectory. She doubted he would want to hear that his own verger had managed perfectly well without a woman to do all the work for him. And her father was hardly alone. He had three male staff, Maisey, and Mrs. Fielding to cater to his every need.

  She must warn Anna not to come home too quickly . . .

  Pausing at the top of the stairs she turned toward the first door, and unlatched it. There was a bed with a plain wooden headboard, a nightstand with a bowl and jug on it, and a carved chest. Underneath the bed was a chamber pot, which was mercifully empty. Light spilled through the drawn curtains, and outside a blackbird warned off all-comers in a frenzy of song.

  There was a sense of peace in the room. Lucy could imagine the verger there, his lined face smooth as he slept, his Bible close at hand. He had been a devotional man who prayed every day and wasn’t ashamed to admit it. In truth, he’d kept both her father and the curate in check and on task, taking on many of the responsibilities of her father’s office without a murmur of reproach.

  “He didn’t deserve to die,” Lucy said.

  “What’s that, miss?” Maisey clumped up the stairs. “Flies? In here? We are close to the stream.”

  Lucy opened the cupboard built into the wall beside the fireplace. Two sets of black robes hung there, along with two folded shirts, black stocks, and breeches. An embroidered waistcoat gleamed with dull silver thread, displaying the only hint of frivolity and color in the place.

  On the floor were a pair of old-fashioned buckled shoes, two hats, and a box. Lucy lifted out the box and peered inside to find a powdered white wig. She lifted it out and checked underneath to see if there was anything else concealed in there, but found nothing.

  “Maisey? Clean out this cupboard and place Mr. Ezekiel’s possessions on the bed, please.”

  As Maisey began her task, Lucy turned her attention to the chest, which proved to hold Ezekiel’s night robes, underthings, and woolen stockings. Everything was in good repair, neatly darned and cared for.

  “Did the verger have someone come to the house to clean for him?”

  “He might have.” Maisey folded a shirt. “It’s very tidy in here.”

  Lucy didn’t remember him ever asking her for domestic help from the rectory. In truth, she had barely set foot in the place for the past seven years. He’d eaten most his meals with them, but after he went home she had no idea whom he’d been friends with, or what he’d done with his time.

  “Did Mr. Ezekiel ever take a pint of ale in the Queen’s Head?”

  “Don’t think so, miss.” Maisey paused. “He wasn’t quite one of us, you know?”

  “Why not?”

  “He was the verger.”

  “But his family lived here for generations.”

  “Which is probably why he didn’t choose to drink with the likes of the Mallards and the Pethridges and the rest of them.” Maisey’s usual smile had gone. “Maybe he thought he was better than us, seeing as he was raised in Cambridge and went to university there.”

  “Perhaps he just didn’t like to drink. I’ve seen no evidence of ale or even spirits in the place, have you?”

  “He kept to himself, miss. That’s all I know.” Maisey continued her folding.

  Lucy carefully took everything out from the chest, and sorted through it before placing it on the bed. “I doubt Mr. Nathaniel will want any of these items, but we should at least offer them to him. I’ll ask Harris to bring him down here so he can make some decisions.” She surveyed the chest. “I wonder if this is his? It looks quite old and matches the one down in the front parlor.”

  “It’s pretty, miss.” Maisey studied the carved lid. “Adam and Eve and the apple, ain’t it?”

  “I think you’re right.”

  Lucy turned to the bedside table and picked up the Bible. A piece of paper fell out, and she bent to pick it up, almost bumping heads with Maisey in the process.

  “I reckon Mr. Nathaniel will want to keep this Bible.” Lucy smoothed a finger over the well-worn cover. “Is there anything else in the cupboard, Maisey?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  Lucy checked just to make sure and then eyed the pile of clothes on the bed. “Perhaps you could go back to the rectory, and see if Harris can bring Mr. Nathaniel down now.”

  “All right, miss.” Maisey picked up her skirts and clumped off down the stairs, and banged the door on her way out.

  Lucy watched her go from the upstairs window and then let herself into the smaller of the two upstairs rooms. The room contained a desk and walls of precious and expensive books, which possibly explained why the rest of the house was so barren. Sitting down on the only chair, Lucy opened her hand to reveal the note she had found in the Bible, and unfolded it.

  “Meet me in the church at seven.”

  Lucy read the words out loud and stared at the ill-formed letters. If she was correct, the verger might well have received a summons to the church on the night of his death. She considered where she had found the note. Had it originally been slipped under his door? Had he come up to his bedroom to pray before deciding to go over to the church knowing he might not return?

  There was no threat contained within the note. Why had he gone? Had he assumed he knew whom he wa
s about to meet? She let out her breath and eyed the drawers of the desk. It would take Maisey a good ten minutes to walk back to the rectory. Then she had to find Harris, and Mr. Thurrock, wait until the horse was put in harness, and proceed back to the cottage.

  She would have to be quick, but she was determined to look through the rest of Ezekiel’s possessions before his brother appeared.

  * * *

  “Foley, come and sit down.”

  Robert waved his butler to a seat in front of his desk in his study.

  “What do you want, sir?” Foley sunk reluctantly into the chair. “I hope you’re not going to suggest I retire again just before we welcome a new bride to Kurland Hall. I am quite confident that I shall manage to fulfill all her ladyship’s requirements.”

  “It’s not about that.”

  “Well, that makes a change, sir, you not bothering me about being too old.” Foley still looked doubtful. “How may I be of assistance then?”

  “Can you tell me anything about the Mallards and the Thurrocks?”

  “What about them, sir?”

  Robert sought for patience. “Is it true that there has been bad blood between the families for years?”

  “I believe that is correct. For some reason the Thurrock family isn’t well liked round here.” Foley folded his hands in his lap. “Mr. Ezekiel was a good, honest, saintly man, but the villagers still didn’t take to him.”

  “So I’ve noticed. But why?”

  Foley sat back. “I do know there was trouble between Mr. Ezekiel’s father and Jim Mallard’s aunt. Some say they were in love, and of course they weren’t allowed to marry, seeing as the families hated each other. Some say she threw herself in the river when he left Kurland St. Mary to go to Cambridge, but that can’t be right because she’s still alive—although I suppose she might just have got a soaking and climbed out.”

  “Foley.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Can you stick to the facts, and avoid dragging this conversation into the realms of melodrama?”

  “I’ll do my best, sir. And, then there was the problem with the Pethridge family.”

  Robert pressed two fingers to his temple and resigned himself to a long meandering investigation. “What problem?”

  “The current Mr. Thurrock’s grandfather and our Mr. Pethridge’s grandfather were friends for a while. They both said they didn’t care about what had gone before, but then they fell out.”

  “Over a woman?” Robert said warily.

  “No, over some land they both claimed.”

  “The Thurrocks owned land here?”

  “They did for a long time, sir.”

  Now Foley was looking at him as if he couldn’t believe Robert didn’t know.

  “Where exactly was this land?”

  “I believe it was between our Home Farm and Kurland St. Anne.”

  “But I own all that land.”

  “That’s because Mr. Thurrock sold it to your father.”

  “Ah, that’s the first thing you’ve said that makes sense.”

  “It also explains why Mr. Nathaniel Thurrock was so eager to see the Kurland records,” Foley offered. “He’s been researching the history of the Thurrock family.”

  “He mentioned something about that to me. I left him in Mr. Fletcher’s care when he came up to the house.”

  Foley cleared his throat. “I did hear some of the conversation between Mr. Nathaniel and Mr. Fletcher, while I was busy doing my duty serving refreshments.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t want to be accused of eavesdropping, sir—”

  “Just tell me what you ‘accidentally’ overheard.”

  “In fact, I was somewhat surprised that Mr. Nathaniel didn’t bring the subject up with you that night when he came to dinner.”

  “He was rather preoccupied with his brother’s sudden death.”

  “True, sir. But he was cross with Mr. Fletcher—quite rude actually—but Mr. Fletcher was very polite to him.”

  “Rude about what?”

  “Mr. Thurrock seemed to be implying that the Kurland family were somehow at fault.”

  “Indeed.” Robert sat back and contemplated his linked hands. “Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you don’t know exactly how long this ‘feud’ has been going on between the Thurrocks and half the village?”

  Foley shook his head and looked sympathetically at Robert, who heaved a sigh.

  “Thank you, Foley. Will you find Mr. Fletcher and ask him to report to me here immediately?”

  “Yes, sir.” Foley paused, one hand on the back of his chair. “In other matters, have you fixed on a date for the wedding yet? We’ve all been wondering.”

  “That is in the hands of my bride’s considerable family, and in the lap of the gods. As soon as they deign to tell me the date, I will share it with you and my staff.”

  Foley bowed. “Thank you, sir.”

  Robert stayed at his desk frowning at the chair Foley had recently vacated until a light knock on the door restored him to his surroundings and revealed the familiar face of his land agent.

  “Ah, Dermot. Come in.”

  “Foley said you wanted to speak to me, Sir Robert. Is something wrong?”

  “Do you recall the day when Mr. Nathaniel Thurrock came up to Kurland Hall to look at our manorial records?”

  Dermot winced. “Oh. Did he speak to you about it, sir? I did attempt to tell him not to bother you until I’d done some research.”

  “He hasn’t spoken to me about anything except his brother’s death. What else should I be expecting to hear from him?”

  Dermot hesitated, one hand on the back of the chair. “I’m not sure quite how to put this—”

  “Just take a seat and spit it out, man.” After talking to Foley, Robert’s patience was definitely wearing thin. Judging by the speed Dermot sat down he perhaps sounded brusquer than he intended.

  “Mr. Thurrock believed that his family lands had been . . . stolen by the Kurland family. He told me he intended to bring the matter to your attention—along with several other matters pertaining to the village, and its inhabitants, at the earliest opportunity.”

  “What the devil?”

  Dermot grimaced. “I know. I have no notion where he got such a harebrained idea from, sir. He was convinced the land had been deeded over by force or blackmail or something that meant his father hadn’t meant to lose it.”

  “And did he have any facts to back up this idiotic assumption?”

  “He was convinced they would come to light if only he was allowed to view the records in full—a request I said I would put before you after his brother’s funeral.”

  Robert slapped a hand on the desk. “The man is delusional. My father would never have taken anything that wasn’t offered to him freely and without prejudice.”

  “I’ve started looking through our records, sir. I was hoping to have all the evidence necessary to convince Mr. Thurrock he was mistaken before he brought the matter to your attention.”

  “Then keep searching.” Robert studied his land agent. “I have a suspicion that Nathaniel Thurrock will return to this matter at some point, don’t you?” He shoved a hand through his hair. “Do you have any idea exactly which piece of land he is talking about?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I can show you on the estate map we were looking at yesterday.” Dermot went over to the large table by the window and unrolled the map, staring down at it until Robert joined him.

  “Here is the old boundary of the Home Farm.” He pointed at a broken line. “And here is the new one, which takes in those three fields and the stream, which includes the ruins of the priory, and beyond that the church of Kurland St. Anne, and the boundary of the Mallard farm.”

  “But I always remember that land as being part of the Kurland estate.”

  “Perhaps your family leased it from the Thurrocks before they purchased it?”

  “One would hope so.” Robert lean
ed closer to study the faint lines. “The far boundary seems to cut into the Mallard land as well.”

  “Which might explain why Jim Mallard caught Mr. Thurrock wandering around his walls.”

  Robert straightened up. “I’d forgotten about that. When is the funeral?”

  “I believe it is set for next Friday. There are some family members traveling down from Cambridge to attend.”

  “I’m going to have to speak to Mr. Thurrock about this before then. If you can find any information to back up the Kurland claim to the land, I’d like to see it.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Robert returned to his desk and penned a quick note to Miss Harrington. Perhaps the Thurrock brothers had been arguing about far weightier matters than just prize-winning vegetables after all....

  Chapter 10

  Leaving Mr. Nathaniel Thurrock with Harris and Maisey at his brother’s abode, Lucy hurried back to the rectory. Penelope and her sister were out visiting Dr. Fletcher, and her father was in Saffron Walden, which meant the house was remarkably quiet. She stood in the hall and appreciated the peace surrounding her. Soon, her twin brothers would return from school for the holidays, and Anna would arrive back from London.

  If her marriage happened as swiftly as Major Kurland wanted it to, Lucy would not be there to welcome them home . . . How would they manage without her? If Anna had not chosen a suitable husband would she be forced into the role Lucy was relinquishing so gladly—that of mother, protector, and organizer of the household?

  A qualm of doubt shook through her. In truth, she would only be half a mile away at Kurland Hall, but for all intents and purposes, she would no longer be a daughter-at-home. Her obedience and her world would lie with her new husband. In her absence, would Mrs. Fielding’s influence on the rector increase? Would she start behaving more openly as his mistress, and less as his cook? It might explain her current insolence. There was no point talking to her father about the matter; it would simply enrage him. She must write to Anna and share her fears in an open manner and hope her sister had some opinions and solutions to offer.