Death Comes to the Fair

by Catherine Lloyd

  “An excellent idea, Mr. Thurrock.” Robert walked over to the door and flung it open. “Foley! Arrange to take Mr. Thurrock back to the rectory immediately!”

  * * *

  Lucy ventured along the corridor that led to the major’s study, and went still as the door was suddenly opened and her betrothed bellowed for his butler. She was even more surprised to see Mr. Thurrock being escorted out. She tiptoed closer, breathing as quietly as she could. The door to the study had been left open, and Major Kurland was pacing in front of the fire, his expression irate.

  “I’m sorry, Sir Robert. I did try to warn you.” That was Dermot Fletcher’s voice.

  “I know you did. More fool me for not listening to you.” The major gave a short bark of laughter. “I certainly wasn’t expecting that.”

  “The thing is . . .” Mr. Fletcher said hesitantly. “It’s almost as if he already knew we wouldn’t find the bill of sale.”

  “He’s an amateur historian. He probably noticed the discrepancy in his father’s papers and decided to chance his luck with the Kurland estate.”

  Lucy stepped into the room. “Or he persuaded his brother to consult the Kurland archives and he did know in advance that the actual bill of sale was missing.” She nodded at Mr. Fletcher. “Mr. Ezekiel Thurrock had access to the Kurland archives, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Thank you, Dermot.” Major Kurland turned to his companion. “Perhaps you might continue that search for the missing bill of sale.”

  “Right away, sir.” Mr. Fletcher bowed, picked up his box of papers, and went past Lucy to the door. “Good evening, Miss Harrington.”

  Major Kurland sank down into one of the chairs by the fire and heaved an enormous sigh as Lucy came to join him.

  “Evading your chaperone again, Miss Harrington?”

  Lucy ignored his question, and offered one of her own. “Am I to understand that the sale of the disputed land cannot be confirmed?”

  “That’s correct. We have correspondence agreeing to it, we have evidence that money was paid out to someone for it, but no actual legal document in our possession recording the sale.”

  “And Mr. Thurrock knew that?”

  “He certainly didn’t seem very surprised that we were unable to produce it, but that might be because he has researched the matter extensively.”

  “Or that someone had already stolen the document for him.”

  Major Kurland raised an eyebrow. “Our verger? Why on earth would he do that?”

  “I suspect he would’ve done anything to please his brother. Maybe that’s why they were arguing. Ezekiel might have thought Nathaniel just wanted to borrow the deed for his historical record, and became alarmed when he realized his brother was going to use it to blackmail the Kurland family into returning the land.”

  “That is rather far-fetched, Miss Harrington.”

  “But you must agree it is also possible.”

  “But why?”

  It was Lucy’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Because Mr. Thurrock wants the land back in his possession so that he can dig up the lost treasure of the priory.”

  “And now you are straying into the realms of gothic fiction.” Major Kurland shook his head. “The deed must be there somewhere. Dermot will find it.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then we’ll simply have to prove that the Thurrocks took the money, and are now pretending they never received it or agreed to the sale.”

  Lucy wrapped her shawl more closely around her shoulders. “It does explain why Nathaniel Thurrock might have killed his brother, though, doesn’t it?”

  Major Kurland added another log to the fire and sat back down. “I’ve been thinking about that as well. Do we really believe he murdered his own brother? He was the first person to mention that the death seemed suspicious. Surely he wouldn’t have done that if it meant implicating himself?”

  “Who else could it have been?”

  “Take your pick. According to Foley, the Thurrocks were at war with half the village.”

  “But from what I understand, all those arguments were in the past.”

  Major Kurland looked amused. “Weren’t you the person who told me that our villagers have very long memories indeed? Foley said the bad blood among the Thurrocks, the Mallards, and the Pethridges goes back several generations.”

  “Then we definitely shouldn’t discount them.”

  “And can you really imagine portly Nathaniel Thurrock climbing those rickety stairs in the bell tower without falling, and then dropping a gargoyle on his brother’s head?”

  She looked up. “Yes, I can. We already know that some people will do appalling things to achieve what they want.”

  “Agreed.” He stood up and straightened his spine. “Now I should take you back to the safety of the drawing room and arrange for you all to be conveyed home.”

  “Before you do that there is one more thing I wanted to tell you,” Lucy said. “I asked Harris where he’d driven Mr. Thurrock on the day of his brother’s death. He said he’d left him in the High Street of Kurland St. Anne, but noticed he headed out of the village toward either the Mallard farm or the Turners’.”

  “Interesting. Jim Mallard did say he’d caught him trespassing. He was probably trying to work out where the original boundaries of the Thurrock holdings were.”

  “Does Jim Mallard know about the Thurrock land?”

  “He might. Why?” Major Kurland offered her his arm and she placed her hand on his sleeve.

  “Because that might give him an incentive to get rid of the two brothers as well.”

  “You have a very suspicious mind, Miss Harrington.”

  “Gained from my recent experiences, Major Kurland.”

  “Not with me, I hope?”

  “Not directly.”

  He patted her hand. “I plan on visiting the Turners tomorrow.”

  “Then I will accompany you.”

  “There is no need—”

  She stopped walking. “There is every need. You are the lord of the manor; they are already on their guard because of the verger’s untimely death. If you insist on questioning them they might feel hounded.”

  “And what if they deserve to feel like that because they sent an innocent man an ill-wish that led to his death?”

  “We don’t know that they did.”

  “Why are you so determined to protect them?”

  “Because they are vulnerable?” She shook her head. “I just don’t want you to rush to conclusions. Just because they are wise women, doesn’t mean they are sorceresses.”

  “I never said that they were. I just want to know the truth.” Major Kurland walked back over to the table set near the window and blew out some of the candles. “Damnation.”

  “What is it now?” Lucy asked.

  “Mr. Thurrock has walked off with that book of transcribed letters!”

  Chapter 12

  After successfully persuading Major Kurland not to storm up the stairs of the rectory to demand the return of his book from a still sleeping Mr. Thurrock, Lucy settled into the gig beside him and made sure the ribbons of her bonnet were tied tightly. It was an overcast day with a threat of rain hovering in the dank clouds. She could only hope that the rain would hold off long enough for them to complete their business in Kurland St. Anne and return home.

  Reg was driving the gig, leaving her and Major Kurland free to converse on the journey. As Reg was deaf in one ear, and barely spoke a word to anyone, he provided as much privacy as they could hope for.

  “Penelope was in excellent spirits this morning,” Lucy said. “She had a note from Dr. Fletcher saying you had offered him your full support.”

  “It was the least I could do.”

  Major Kurland had stopped scowling, but there was a hint of impatience remaining in the tight cast of his mouth and the way he tapped the top of his cane with one restless finger. She didn’t think he was in pain, although he had confessed to her p
reviously that the damp weather caused a deep ache within his bones that nothing seemed to relieve.

  “We could go into St. Anne’s church and view the memorial to your saintly Roundhead ancestor.”

  He glanced up at the leaden sky. “If the weather holds up, I am more than willing to do so. Did you bring the charm with you?”

  “I . . . left it with the Turner sisters when I visited them last time.”

  “Was that wise?”

  “I didn’t like having it in my possession.”

  “You should have given it to me.”

  “I did manage to look up some of the properties of the herbs Miss Turner mentioned in my father’s copy of Elizabeth Blackwell’s A Curious Herbal.”

  “And?”

  “They all seem quite harmless.” Lucy hesitated. “I suspect a conventional herbal might not mention the other uses for such things.”

  Her betrothed merely raised a sardonic eyebrow at her words and continued to study the countryside, which was mainly Kurland land, with the keen eye of a farmer. As they approached the outskirts of Kurland St. Anne he called out to Reg.

  “Stop, will you? I want to show Miss Harrington something.”

  Reg drew the gig up beside a gate and Major Kurland helped Lucy down. He pointed out across the barren fields.

  “Do you see that stone wall down there to the left? That follows the line of the Mallard property. In the center on that hillside are the ruins of the priory, and to the far right the white fences of the Kurland Home Farm.”

  “So this middle part is the old Thurrock land?”

  “Exactly.”

  “With the priory ruins right in the middle.” She turned toward the village proper. “And the churchyard was obviously part of the place at some time. You can even see traces of the walls and paths that connected them together when the ground is dry.”

  “I wish the ground was dry,” Major Kurland grumbled. “We’ve had enough rain in the last two years to last us a decade.”

  They got back into the gig, and Reg took them through the village and down the lane that led to the Turner property. Lucy led the major around the back of the house and waited as he knocked on the door.

  Miss Abigail Turner didn’t look surprised to see Major Kurland on her doorstep, but she didn’t look very welcoming either. She curtsied and stepped back without a word allowing him to follow her into the house if he wished. Unlike when Lucy had visited, Miss Abigail went straight through the homely kitchen and into a more formal parlor at the front of the house.

  “Would you like some tea, Miss Harrington, Major Kurland?”

  “That would be very nice,” Lucy answered for both of them.

  “Then please make yourselves at home while I go and put the kettle on and find my sister.”

  Lucy sat down on the small couch as Major Kurland continued to roam around the small space studying the pictures and ornaments intently. He looked too large and too active to be confined in the cluttered room.

  Eventually, Miss Abigail returned with the tea tray. “My sister will be down in a moment. Do you like milk in your tea, Major?”

  “No thank you.”

  He accepted the delicate cup and sat down placing it on the table beside him. Miss Abigail took the seat beside Lucy, and folded her hands in her lap.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, Major Kurland?”

  “I understand Miss Harrington came to you with a ‘charm’ she discovered and asked for your help in discovering what it meant, and who might have sent it.”

  “She did.”

  “And do you have any more information for her about that charm?”

  “As I already told her it is more of an ill-wish. I did examine the dried herbs more closely and discovered hemlock mixed with the sage, birch, and blackberry leaves.”

  “What significance do those items have in relation to the rest of the contents?”

  “They are used to signify justice, or revenge, or that the person ill-wished has gotten what they deserved.”

  “And you are familiar with the usage of these herbs because you offer my villagers such services?”

  Miss Abigail shrugged. “Major, you are an educated man. The herbs are harmless. Even if you ate them in these quantities they would scarcely cause you any harm.”

  “So you are suggesting that what you make does nothing to hurt anyone?”

  “My sister and I need to make a living, Major. How else do you suggest we do that without leaving our home, as two of our sisters have already done, to go into service or get married? Neither of us are inclined to marriage. We prefer living in our own house on our own land, which no one can take away from us.”

  “That is all well and good, Miss Turner, but what about when such potions or concoctions end in a man’s death?”

  Lucy glanced quickly at her hostess, but saw no sign of shock on her face.

  “I presume you are referring to the death of Ezekiel Thurrock?”

  “I am.”

  Miss Abigail turned to Lucy. “You didn’t mention where the ill-wish had come from.”

  “I didn’t want to influence the information you offered me.”

  “And mayhap thought to trap me into admitting I made it?”

  Before Lucy was obliged to reply to that uncomfortable question the door of the parlor opened, and Miss Grace Turner came in. She wore a plain brown dress with a large apron tied over the skirt, and her hands were streaked with some kind of blue dye.

  She curtsied to Major Kurland, who had risen to his feet, and to Lucy. “I do apologize for my appearance. I was bottling blackberries, but Abigail insisted I come and greet you both.”

  She sounded both impatient and wary as she smoothed her hands over her apron and reluctantly sat down.

  “I appreciate your cooperation, Miss Grace. I am attempting to discover more about the ill-wish Miss Harrington left with you on her last visit.”

  “So Abigail told me.” Grace crossed her arms over her chest. “I suppose you’ve decided we made it, and you’ve come to threaten us?”

  “Hardly that, Miss Grace, but do bear in mind that I am the local magistrate. If Mr. Nathaniel Thurrock decides to lodge a complaint as to the circumstances of his brother’s death, I am obliged by law to investigate the matter.”

  “Of course you are,” Grace snorted. “I knew that whatever happened my sister and I would be under suspicion. We always are. Two women living alone dabbling in magical potions? It never takes long for gossip to start up about us and suddenly all the good we do—all the babies who are born safely due to our care, the injuries that heal, and the fevers that are subdued because of our knowledge—is all forgotten.”

  “At this point I am making no accusations,” Major Kurland said with a patience that impressed Lucy. “I am merely attempting to discover the facts. The verger of my church died unexpectedly, and the pouch was found on his person. Someone ill-wished him and mayhap someone got exactly what they wanted.”

  “The pouch was on the verger?” Grace said.

  “Who else?” Major Kurland frowned. “Where did you think Miss Harrington found it?”

  “I . . . have no idea. I must have misunderstood.” Grace started picking at something on her nail. “I still didn’t make that ill-wish, though.”

  “Then who did?” Major Kurland’s attention alternated between the two sisters. “You must have some idea.”

  “It looks . . . amateurish,” Grace burst out. “As if someone wanted us to be blamed because everyone knows we make such things.”

  “I agree.” Miss Abigail nodded. “But I must also say, Major Kurland, that an ill-wisher does not always have to be a murderer.”

  “I don’t believe that I said the verger was murdered.”

  “He was a Thurrock. They are not very welcome in this village.” Grace spoke again. “Perhaps you are trying to equate two things that do not go together.”

  “Or perhaps the ill-wisher was angry that the charm hadn’t worked,
and decided to take a more active role in ensuring the verger paid for his sins?” Major Kurland suggested. “One cannot discount that possibility either.”

  Silence fell and Lucy caught the major’s gaze.

  “Perhaps we should go, Major Kurland.”

  “Indeed.” Major Kurland nodded. “Miss Grace, Miss Abigail, is there anything else you would like to tell me about this matter?”

  Miss Abigail looked down at her folded hands. “I’m sorry, Major. I just wish we could help you more.”

  Major Kurland stood and grabbed his cane. “In truth, you haven’t told me anything at all.”

  “What did you expect?” Grace jumped up and faced him, her hands clenched into fists at her side. “You only came here to intimidate us.”

  “I came because it is my duty to warn you that Mr. Nathaniel Thurrock might insist I investigate this matter. If that is the case, I will be visiting you again, or inviting you to attend my quarterly court.”

  “Inviting? Don’t you mean forcing?”

  “Grace, dear—” Miss Abigail murmured.

  “I administer the laws of this land. I cannot allow my own prejudices or concerns to override them. If I must obey the law, then so must you.” He nodded to both the sisters. “Thank you for your time. Miss Harrington? Are you ready to go?”

  She took his arm, and they walked through the kitchen, into the large garden, and out through the gate to where Reg waited patiently with the gig.

  Lucy maintained a tactful silence as the major helped her ascend and then climbed up himself. Reg clicked to the horse and they set off.

  “I suppose you think I handled that badly,” Major Kurland said.

  “I don’t know what else you could have done. You were remarkably patient and considerate.” She hesitated. “Did you get a sense that Miss Grace Turner was more agitated about the matter than Miss Abigail?”

  “A sense? She practically bit my nose off when I suggested she might have to testify in my court.”

  “And why was she so surprised that the ill-wish was on the verger’s person?”

  “One might think she assumed it was made for someone else, and the only way she would know that is if she’d made the thing herself and knew whom it was destined for.”