Death Comes to the Fair

by Catherine Lloyd

  Chapter 18

  “Father . . .”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “Have you ever heard of a man called John Stearne who lived in Manningtree in Essex?”

  Her father put down his newspaper and placed it on his desk. It was the evening of their successful trip to Hertford. After a great deal of time to think on the return journey, Lucy had remembered the questions she had for her father.

  “Of course I have.”

  “Who was he?”

  “An associate of Matthew Hopkins.” When she didn’t reply he cast her an irritated look and rose to his feet. “Surely you have heard of him?”

  “I don’t believe I have.”

  He went to the bookshelves and selected a small leather-bound volume. “Here, read this.”

  “The Discovery of Witches?” She opened the book and studied the title page reading the words out loud.

  “IN

  Answer to severall Queries

  LATELY

  Deliv’erd to the Judges of Assizes for the County of NORFOLK

  And now published

  By MATTHEW HOPKINS, Witch-finder

  FOR

  The Benefit of the Whole Kingdom.”

  Lucy looked up from the page. “Witch-finder?”

  “I am surprised you have never heard of him. He is rather notorious in the counties of Norfolk, Essex, and even Hertfordshire.”

  She closed the book. “May I borrow this?”

  “Of course. I have never censored your reading.”

  “And I am most grateful for that.” She hesitated. “May I ask you something else?”

  He returned to his seat and picked up his paper. “If you must.”

  “Do you remember where you put the gargoyle that hit Mr. Thurrock on the head? The last time I saw it was on your desk. I thought to return it to a less secular setting.”

  “I have no idea where it went.” Her father looked irritated. “I know it disappeared because one morning after the maids had been in, all the papers I had stacked underneath it were all over the floor.”

  “Then I’ll ask Betty where she put it. Thank you for the book.”

  Her father nodded. “I’ll be heading out to Kurland St. Anne in a short while to see Sir Reginald Potter, so don’t expect me back until midnight at least.”

  Lucy paused by the door. “Perhaps you might prevail upon him to let you stay the night. I don’t like to think of you traveling back in the dark.”

  Her father chuckled. “He’ll happily offer me a bed. It depends on how much brandy we consume while we argue about the state of scholarship in this country.”

  “And whether you are still speaking to each other after the debate?”

  “That is also true, but we are old friends, and know each other far too well to take offense.”

  Lucy’s smile disappeared as she closed the door and slipped the small book into the pocket of her gown. She walked down to the kitchen, which was deserted apart from Maisey.

  “Evening, Miss Harrington.” Maisey looked up from cleaning the silver cutlery. “Did you have a nice day in Hertford?”

  “It was very pleasant.” Lucy sat opposite the maid. “Is Mrs. Fielding about?”

  “It’s her afternoon off, miss, and Betty’s, and seeing as the rector’s going out to dinner, and we weren’t sure when you would return, I doubt either of them will be hurrying back.”

  “Which is quite understandable.”

  “Miss Chingford and her sister are dining at the doctor’s house. There’s a plate of cold cuts in the larder if you’re hungry, miss.”

  “Maisey . . . do you remember the gargoyle that was in the rector’s study?”

  The maid’s hands went still. “Gar . . . what, miss?”

  “The stone head. You moved it from the study. Where did you put it?”

  “What makes you think I did that?” Lucy didn’t say anything, and Maisey resumed her polishing, rubbing hard at a black spot. “And even if I did, what makes you think someone didn’t ask me to move the darned thing?”

  “I’m not blaming you for anything, Maisey. If you were ordered to move the gargoyle you had no choice but to do as you were told.” Lucy used her most soothing voice. “Where did you put it?”

  “Back in Mr. Thurrock’s room, like I was asked.”

  “Ah,” Lucy said.

  “He was right surprised to see it there, gave me a right telling off, I can tell you.” Maisey hunched her shoulder. “I didn’t know that’s what killed his brother, did I? I just thought it was a big lump of rock!”

  Lucy frowned. “But I didn’t find it when I cleared out Mr. Thurrock’s possessions. Did you move it again?”

  “Me, miss? No.” This time Maisey looked her in the eye and spoke quite vehemently. “After all that fuss, do you think I wanted to be touching that thing again?”

  “Probably not.” Lucy rose from the table. “Good night, Maisey.”

  “Night, miss.”

  Lucy paused at the door. “I might have to go out later to see to something. If I’m not in my room, don’t go waking up the whole rectory again, will you?”

  “No, miss, I got into trouble for doing that as well,” Maisey said gloomily. “I’ll just keep my mouth shut, like my aunt Grace said.”

  “Aunt Grace?” Lucy mentally catalogued all the women she knew called Grace in the surrounding area.

  “She’s always right about things.”

  “Grace Turner?”

  “Yes, miss?” Now Maisey looked puzzled. “My mother’s sister.”

  “Your mother was a Turner? I never knew that.”

  “She went into service when she was fourteen. She married at sixteen, and when he died she came back to the village, and married me dad.”

  “That explains it then.” Lucy managed what she hoped was a calm smile. “Don’t stay up too late, will you?”

  “Have to finish this lot or Mrs. Fielding will kill me.”

  “Then I’d better let you get on.”

  Lucy picked up her skirts and ran up the stairs as quickly as she could. She sat down by the fire and picked up the book of Kurland letters, then leafed through the pages just past the one she had marked earlier.

  “Stearne . . .” she whispered. “Stearne . . . Oh, good Lord, there he is!”

  She read the short passage where Thomas mentioned the arrival in the village of John Stearne and his far more notorious associate Matthew Hopkins. She turned the page, hoping for more information, and found nothing except a new letter dated almost six months later.

  She looked up, the book clasped to her chest. Horatio Driskin had said the letter writer wanted Mr. Stearne to investigate the Romany and other ungodly issues. It wasn’t much, but the arrival of the so-called Witch-Finder General—possibly in response to a letter sent by the wife of the original Ezekiel Thurrock—might well have proved the very bone of contention among the Kurlands, the villagers, and the Thurrocks that she and Major Kurland had been looking for all along.

  The sound of the back door slamming and her father’s cheery good-bye made her jump. Apart from Maisey she was now alone in the house. No one would know if she decided to go up to Kurland Hall to share the news with Major Kurland.

  * * *

  Robert had settled in his chair beside the fire, his sprained ankle supported by a footstool, a decanter of brandy at his elbow, and the Kurland letters ready to be painstakingly deciphered. He’d also borrowed Mr. Thurrock’s sketchbook from Miss Harrington to see if any of the drawings made any sense to him. In an attempt to gain entrance the wind was prowling around the hall rattling windows and slamming doors like a frustrated burglar. The house was old, and it was far too easy for draughts to penetrate even the thick tapestries and curtains drawn tight against them.

  But Kurland Hall was his home, and he loved every inch of it. As he read the letters, he could picture Thomas and William Kurland pacing in front of this very fireplace attempting to find a way to save the estate from both the king and
opposing Parliament. Sometimes he felt as if he were in the same position, his loyalty to the crown at odds with the injustices he encountered amongst his tenants.

  Dermot was in Bishop’s Stortford dealing with the Kurland solicitors. Patrick was entertaining the Chingford sisters to a dinner served and presented by his newly acquired cook. He’d asked Robert to join him, but he’d pleaded fatigue after the trip to Hertford, and was happy to stay at home in relative peace and quiet.

  Life was good, and he had better enjoy these last solitary evenings because in less than a month his life would become complicated with the presence of his wife. He doubted she would be happy if he spent every evening holed up in his study and didn’t emerge to speak to her. In truth, she’d probably come and find him, and drag him out. He had much to be thankful for, and Miss Harrington had been instrumental in his current happiness.

  The tap on the window made him start hard enough to almost choke on his sip of brandy. With an irritated sigh, he rose to his feet, crossed to the large window and drew back the curtain, and was confronted with the bedraggled vision of his beloved.

  “Miss Harrington?” He opened the window and helped her clamber over the low sill. “I thought we weren’t going to do this anymore.”

  She made her way quickly to the fire and knelt down in front of the blaze warming her hands.

  “There is no fear of discovery. My father is out visiting a friend, the Chingfords are at Dr. Fletcher’s, and Maisey knows I will be back home shortly.”

  He handed her his glass of brandy. “Sit down, you’re shivering.”

  She sank into a chair, her hands cradling the bowl of the glass, and took a tiny sip.

  “I had to come.”

  “What have you discovered?”

  “I’m not sure where to start.” She smoothed her windblown hair away from her face. “The Turner sisters are Maisey’s aunts.”

  “Your kitchen maid Maisey?” At her nod he continued. “Why is this important?”

  “Did you know?”

  “No, but what does it matter?”

  “For one, it means that the Mallards will probably lie to protect the Turners, which means that they might not have been at that birthday party at all and could quite well have been at the priory ensuring Nathaniel Thurrock died from ‘natural causes.’ ”

  Robert nodded. “It’s a possibility. Go on.”

  “With Maisey in the rectory, the Turners would know everything about the Thurrocks, and have access to the daily schedules, and even their possessions.”

  “Which I assume you’re suggesting would help if they wished to be in the right place to do them harm.”

  “Exactly. And then there’s the gargoyle.”

  “Which one?”

  “I’m not sure if there was ever more than one. What I do know is that at some point it ended up in Mr. Thurrock’s room because Maisey put it there.” She sat forward. “Do you remember that day when she came into the study and said she was looking for something and then left empty-handed?”

  “Yes.” Robert stared at her for a long moment. “But I still don’t understand.”

  “Maisey said she was ordered to do it.”

  “By whom?”

  “I assumed she meant by Mr. Thurrock, but then she said he was angry to see it in his bedchamber.”

  “One would assume he would be—seeing as it was used to crush his brother’s skull.”

  “But was he angry because he didn’t want the weapon he’d used near him, or because he was genuinely upset to see it there?”

  “I have no idea.” Robert frowned. “If you are suggesting that the Turners somehow killed Ezekiel Thurrock, wouldn’t they have told Maisey to remove the gargoyle entirely?”

  “Maybe—or maybe they wanted to frighten Nathaniel by placing it in his room.”

  “As a threat? That’s possible. Like the prickly offering under my pillow.”

  “They could have killed both of them, couldn’t they?” Miss Harrington said. “Ezekiel with the gargoyle, and then Nathaniel out at the priory when they were supposed to be at the Mallard party.”

  “But we have no proof of any of this, do we?”

  “The gargoyle has definitely disappeared from the rectory, so at least we have a place to start asking questions.”

  Robert studied his boots for a long moment. “But why? For what possible reason would the Turners decide to kill the Thurrocks? Especially after living peacefully with Ezekiel for years.”

  “Because Nathaniel came to visit, and stirred everything up.”

  “As I’ve already mentioned, if anyone wanted to get rid of the Thurrock brothers because of the past surely it would be me?”

  “But I might have found another reason.” Miss Harrington took a book out of her pocket. “Have you ever heard of a man called Matthew Hopkins?”

  He took the book and opened it at the title page.

  “The Witch-Finder General? I hear that our colonial cousins used this book The Discovery of Witches extensively to try their own witches.”

  “Mr. Driskin mentioned John Stearne to me, and—”

  “Yes, I know that name.” Robert glanced over at the pile of letters. “He’s mentioned in the letters. Apparently there was some problem in the village, and someone decided to send for the witch-finder.”

  “Mr. Driskin said that the original Ezekiel Thurrock’s wife wrote to Stearne to ask him to come to Kurland St. Anne to deal with ungodliness. The Romany chose to move on early that year, so he had no idea what happened in the village after they left.”

  Robert rested his forefinger in the open book. “So if the Romany left, who else was Matthew Hopkins after?”

  “From what I’ve read of his book so far, he sought out elderly women who lived alone, healers, and local wise women and subjected them to his ‘tests.’”

  “The Turner family have been healers for generations, haven’t they?”

  Miss Harrington bit her lip. “I do believe they have.”

  Robert stood up. “Then perhaps, if you are willing to accompany me, we should pay them an unexpected visit.”

  * * *

  Robert drove the gig himself, not wanting to disturb his staff, who were still busy caring for his horses. His stable boy, Joseph Cobbins, who was on watch, noted Robert’s arrival but had the sense not to comment on it. He got the horse ready and brought the gig out into the yard so Robert and Miss Harrington could get going.

  Robert tossed him a coin. “Thank you, Joseph. If I am not back by morning, tell Mr. Coleman that you saw me leave in a gig, and that I was visiting the Turners.”

  “Will do, sir.” Joseph stepped back from holding the horse’s head.

  Miss Harrington glanced at Robert, her face a pale blur in the darkness. “Do you expect trouble?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  They didn’t speak again as he maneuvered the gig through the narrow country lanes toward Kurland St. Anne, and the scattered cottages around it. There was a single light burning in the window of the Turner cottage, but the rest of the house was dark. Robert took out his pocket watch and squinted at the dial.

  “It’s only eight o’clock. I doubt they have gone to bed yet.”

  Beside him Miss Harrington shrugged. “They might be conserving their candle supply and are both situated in the same room.” She paused. “Are you quite certain you want to do this? As you said, we have no evidence to support our theory that the Turner sisters meant the Thurrocks harm.”

  “I am aware of that. I just want them to know what we have discovered. If they are guilty I am fairly certain we will see it on their faces. Miss Grace is hardly a great dissembler.”

  “But even if they are guilty, we still have no proof.”

  “They might inadvertently supply us with proof or confess their crimes.”

  She maintained her no doubt skeptical silence as he got down from the gig and came around to help her alight. They took the path around the side of the house pausing to open and close
the gate, which creaked slightly. Robert pointed out into the green blackness of the garden.

  “There’s a light down there as well.”

  “Yes. That’s where Miss Grace concocts her potions.”

  Even as he turned back to the door, Robert sensed something was wrong. Pain exploded in the back of his skull, and that was the last thing he remembered.

  Chapter 19

  “Miss Harrington!!”

  Lucy opened her eyes to complete darkness and closed them again. She must be dreaming, although . . .

  “Lucy.”

  She was definitely dreaming, for how else would Major Kurland be whispering her given name in her ear? As far as she knew they weren’t married quite yet.

  His frustrated sigh echoed around her ears and she cautiously opened her eyes again. Her head hurt and she couldn’t move her legs.

  “Major Kurland?”

  “Ah, thank God,” he muttered. “I thought you’d never wake up.”

  “But what has happened? Where are we?”

  “I’ll be damned if I know. One minute we were at the back door of the Turner house, and the next I woke up trussed up like a chicken beside you.”

  “It’s cold in here.” She shivered.

  “We’re lying on a stone floor. That’s all I’ve ascertained so far, and it’s dark enough for us to be below ground.”

  “Buried?”

  “No, there is plenty of space around us.” He shifted awkwardly beside her. “I need your help to get free so that we can explore our surroundings more carefully, and decide how we will escape.”

  “I appreciate your calm approach to this matter, Major, but what if all of the above is impossible?”

  “I assure you that nothing is impossible. Our hands and feet are tied. Your hands have been tied in front of you, which means you can use them more easily. Can you sit up?”

  She scrambled awkwardly to do so, her head swimming dizzily as she righted herself. Her bonnet had disappeared, but she did still have her warm pelisse on. After a few deep gulps of air she nodded.

  “I am ready to proceed. What do you want me to do?”

  “Check to see if they left me my penknife. It’s a small blade. I always carry it.”

  “Where might I find it on your person?”