Death Comes to the Fair

by Catherine Lloyd

  “The inside right pocket of my coat.”

  He leaned back against the wall giving her access to his still buttoned coat. It took her a while to persuade her cold fingers to work. She eventually managed to slip all three of the silver gilt buttons free.

  She leaned against him, momentarily distracted not only by the heat emanating from his body, but by the steady beat of his heart, and the comforting scent of brandy, cigarillos, and bay rum that characterized him. She had an absurd desire to simply lay her head against his chest and fall asleep.

  “Are you all right, Miss Harrington?”

  “Yes.” She focused on her task, ignoring the headache that gathered like a storm behind her eyes. “The right-hand pocket, you said?”

  “There are two of them, one is very small.”

  The tips of her bound fingers slid over the satin lining of his coat and she curled them to gain access to the shallow pocket.

  “I have it.”

  “Good girl. Gently now.”

  It took her a while to work out a way of getting the knife out without dropping it. To her surprise the normally impatient major remained calm beneath her hands. For the first time she could easily imagine him commanding his troops in battle. Eventually, she held the knife between her fingers.

  “The blade is concealed in the handle. You need to push carefully on the right-hand side, and watch your fingers.”

  “I do have brothers, you know,” she replied. “I have handled a pocketknife before.”

  “Thank God for that.” He shifted away from the wall. “Do you think you could untie my wrists?”

  What with the blackness and her lack of mobility it took a while to cut through the rope. As soon as she had hacked through the second loop, Major Kurland managed to wrestle both his hands free.

  “Well done, Miss Harrington. Now pass me the blade, and I’ll set you free.”

  Lucy rubbed at her wrists and waited as Major Kurland finished working on her ankles.

  “There.”

  “Thank you.”

  He glowered at her. “Don’t thank me for getting you into this mess. I should have known better than to set off so impulsively.”

  “You wanted to catch them unawares. It was perfectly understandable.”

  “But, somehow they knew we were coming.”

  “Or someone did.”

  “Who other than the Turners could it have been?” He snorted. “And what do they hope to gain by trying to dispose of the lord of the manor and the eldest daughter of the rector? Don’t they think anyone will notice?”

  Lucy was almost glad to hear the acerbic tone of his voice returning.

  “They definitely weren’t random thieves because my purse is still here, and my pocket watch.”

  “I don’t suppose you carry a tinderbox, do you, Major?”

  “Of course I do—complete with a stub of candle.”

  She made a gallant effort to stand up, clutching the wall to steady herself, her voice trembling. “Because I would really like to find out where we are, and how we are going to get out.”

  He reached out and touched her shoulder. “I understand why you are afraid, Miss Harrington. I swear I will not allow you to remain trapped here or anywhere.”

  She hated feeling so weak. It was not like her, but at least he understood why.

  He found the tinderbox and managed to strike a spark and light the candle. Light flickered off low, curved ceilings, and at least two arched doorways.

  “It feels almost familiar . . . ,” Major Kurland murmured. “Like I should know where I am.”

  Lucy turned a small circle. “They didn’t even lock us in.”

  “I know; how odd. Mayhap they hope we’ll wander in this maze for days, and never be seen again.”

  She shivered. “Meaning our deaths would eventually be considered as due to our own folly, and no one would be held accountable . . . Just like the Thurrocks.”

  “Or people might think we have eloped and not bother to search for us at all.” Major Kurland continued to explore and turned back to her, his shadow huge against the wall behind her. “We should be on our way. The candle won’t last very long.”

  “But which way?” Lucy glanced doubtfully at the two identical dark doorways. “What if someone is lying in wait for us?”

  He leaned back against the doorway. “Would you rather stay here and wait to be rescued?”

  She heaved an unsteady sigh. “No—although you did at least tell Joseph where we were going, and to alert Mr. Coleman if we didn’t return.”

  He consulted his pocket watch. “As it is barely midnight, we still have six hours to waste. Shall we at least attempt to escape all by ourselves?”

  “How is your leg?”

  “Good enough.”

  “And your ankle?”

  “I won’t expect you to carry me if that’s what you are worrying about.” He raised an eyebrow and held out his hand. “Are you coming?”

  She walked toward him. “Yes.”

  “That’s my girl.” He turned into the first doorway. “Does this place seem vaguely ecclesiastical to you?”

  “Very. It even smells like an old church.” She glanced down at a battered wooden chest that stood beside the door. “This looks very like the one Mr. Ezekiel Thurrock had in his house.”

  Major Kurland trained the light on it. “I wonder if he took it from here?” He frowned. “It reminds me of another chest I saw recently.”

  Lucy crouched down to examine the lid. There was nothing inside the box. “I wonder if we are in the cellars of the old priory?”

  “I had the same thought. Is this what Nathaniel Thurrock was searching for all along?”

  “With help from the Miss Turners?” Lucy stood up again and they started down the passageway. “I suspect they knew all about these cellars. Perhaps they were more intent on keeping him away.” Lucy tripped and flattened a hand against the wall to stop herself from falling. “The path ahead appears to be blocked.”

  “Yes.” Major Kurland didn’t sound alarmed. “So it does. Let’s go back and try the other exit.”

  Lucy stayed where she was. “What if that one is blocked as well?”

  He turned her so that her back was against the wall and gently framed her face with his hands. “We will get out of here. I promise you.”

  “In a thousand years when someone digs up our bones along with the priory?”

  His thumb grazed her cheek. “There must be a way out because how else did we get in here?”

  “Mayhap they blocked the passage behind them when they left.”

  “If they did, then we will find a way around it.”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “I know I will do anything in my power to get you out of here.”

  Lucy stared into his dark blue eyes and allowed herself to take a deep, slow breath. “You promise?”

  His smile flickered. “Yes. On my honor.”

  They retraced their steps and came back into the first room. The second dark passageway beckoned.

  “Come on.”

  Within forty steps—not that Lucy was counting—another dark mass of rocks loomed. Lucy fought an absurd desire to cry.

  “It’s blocked as well.”

  Major Kurland went closer and stood still playing the light over the fallen stones. “This was done quite recently. Do you feel the draught of air beyond the stones?”

  She tried to quiet her inner panic. “Yes.”

  “I think we can safely move some of these and make our way through.”

  “You . . . do?”

  “It’s not blocked floor to ceiling, and I doubt it’s very wide.” He frowned. “It feels more like someone wants to slow us down rather than kill us outright, doesn’t it?”

  “As I said, they probably just want us to die down here.”

  “You are in a remarkably pessimistic mood, Miss Harrington. It is most unlike you.” Major Kurland crouched and eased a largish stone block to one side. “
If we work on this part, I think we’ll be through fairly quickly.”

  She helped him, her fear adding strength to her efforts. It was slow work and she was terrified that the candle was going to go out before they finished, leaving them in the blackness.

  “Just this last one and . . .” With a grunt, Major Kurland shoved at a cracked piece of broken stone column. “Ah! Fresh air!”

  * * *

  In truth, Robert’s optimism was somewhat premature as they moved through two more “blockages.” By the time they’d made a path through the third lot of stones, his whole body was aching, and Miss Harrington looked exhausted. They sat together, against the wall, hands clasped between them to get their breath back.

  “Where do you think this passage will come out?” Miss Harrington said.

  “I have no idea—the top of the hill where you saw the dancers?”

  “Is someone protecting this space? But whatever for?” She shook her head; her brown hair had fallen down and was around her shoulders. “The treasure?”

  “I don’t believe there ever was any treasure.”

  “Then why?”

  “If I knew that, Miss Harrington, I wouldn’t be sitting here on my arse, now would I?”

  She stared at him for a long moment. “Your language is appalling.”

  “I apologize.”

  “But quite understandable. It is remarkably frustrating, isn’t it?”

  “We should move on. The candle is about to go out, and I don’t want to be blundering around in the dark.” He pointed upward. “It is definitely lighter up there and the air is moving more freely.”

  Lucy heaved herself to her feet and offered Major Kurland a hand, which for the first time he took. Pain flashed in his eyes, tightening his mouth and making his breath hiss out, as he attempted to straighten up.

  “Put your arm around my shoulders, Major.”

  He snorted. “And send you crashing to the floor with my weight? Thank you for the offer, but I’ll manage.”

  She didn’t have the energy to argue with him. She had a headache, her throat was dry and scratchy, and it was almost impossible to put one foot in front of the other. As the candle flickered and died, she placed one hand on the wall and kept going. Major Kurland fell farther behind her, his breathing labored, his footsteps dragging.

  At the end of the passageway was a substantial oak door, which looked new. She said a quiet prayer as she tried to lift the latch, and the door opened inward. For a long moment she just stood there staring at the unexpectedly calm scene in front of her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Major Kurland had come up behind her. She stepped to one side to allow him a closer look.

  “Good Lord. I do believe we’re in the Pethridge milking parlor!”

  He checked the time on his pocket watch.

  “If we don’t want Martin Pethridge to see us in here, we’d better leave. He’ll be bringing in the cows for their first milking at five o’clock.” He looked down at his bemused companion. “Do you think you can walk back to Kurland Hall from here?”

  Wearily, she shook her head.

  “Neither do I, which means we are going to have to go up to the farmhouse and ask for help.”

  “Not again.” She bit her lip. “My father is going to lock me up until the day of our wedding—if there is a wedding, and I haven’t been sent away to live with cousins in India or something.”

  “There will be a wedding. Even if I have to follow you to the ends of the globe.” Robert paused. “I wonder what happened to my gig? I doubt the Turners will want to leave it in front of their house.”

  “Major Kurland.” Miss Harrington tugged on his sleeve.

  “What is it?”

  She pointed toward the Pethridge stables, which were opposite the cowsheds. “There’s your gig.”

  He took a moment to look around, and then grabbed her hand and moved as fast as he could toward the vehicle.

  “Get in.” He untied the rope and gathered the reins.

  “But—”

  “We’re leaving. We’ll sort out the ramifications of this later.”

  He drove back to Kurland Hall as quickly as he could, his mind busy with possibilities and fears. Miss Harrington slumped against him, and for once he forgot about worrying about controlling the horse.

  “Are you all right?”

  She yawned against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m just tired.”

  “You’ll be home soon—unless you’d rather stay up at the hall with me, and be damned to your father?”

  “I’d rather go home. It’s still early. I think I can get back to bed without being seen this time.”

  “If you can’t, tell your father to come and speak to me.”

  “I won’t need to tell him anything. He will probably challenge you to a duel.” She rubbed her cheek against the torn sleeve of his favorite coat. “I think I’ll just go to bed and sleep for a week.”

  “An excellent idea.” He paused. “Will you promise me not to go out alone until we’ve sorted this out?”

  “Yes. Are you going to have the Turner sisters arrested?”

  “I’ll certainly try.”

  They reached the gates of Kurland Hall and Robert stopped the gig. “It’s probably better if I let you down here. Are you quite certain that you don’t wish to come and stay?”

  “I’ll be fine.” She climbed slowly out of the gig. “You must promise to take care of yourself, as well.”

  “I will.” He waved her toward the rectory. “Now go. I’ll watch to see you reach the door safely.”

  By the time he left the gig with Joseph in the stables, and made his way up to his bedchamber, every bone in his body was hurting. He sat beside the fire and drank three large brandies as he slowly shed his clothing, then climbed into bed. Silas would have a fit when he saw his master’s favorite coat and just-purchased pair of buckskin breeches. He doubted even a rag-and-bone man would find a use for those.

  God—everything ached—not just his damaged hip, thigh, and ankle. He wondered if he’d ever manage to get out of bed again. The moment he closed his eyes his mind started playing tricks on him. Images of the tunnels, the blocked passageways, Miss Harrington’s frightened face all haunted him.

  How had his gig ended up at Pethridge farm?

  Who had trapped them in the tunnels and wanted them dead?

  * * *

  Lucy shut the back door and leaned against it, letting out a slow breath. The house was quiet, and neither her father nor Maisey had appeared to chastise her. She hung her muddy cloak on a peg and stared down at her ruined half boots, which she would have to take off at some point. Pressing a hand to the bump at the nape of her neck she started forward—only to be brought up short by the sight of a fully dressed Mrs. Fielding sitting at the kitchen table.

  “You’re back.”

  Lucy attempted to straighten up. “Good morning, Mrs. Fielding.”

  The cook drummed her fingers on the wooden tabletop. “I was hoping you’d be lost for a while longer.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Mrs. Fielding rose slowly to her feet. “You always were a terrible meddler, Miss Harrington, weren’t you? Even as a child. Poking your nose in my business, judging me for warming your father’s bed when he’s the old fool, not me.”

  “I do not have time to argue with you, Mrs. Fielding. I am tired and I want my bed. As it appears you no longer have any intention of being remotely civil to me I will be suggesting to my father that he terminates your employment.”

  She went to move past Mrs. Fielding but was yanked backward, her arm twisted against her spine, and was slammed onto the table. She gasped as the blade of a kitchen knife grazed her throat.

  “Mrs. Fielding, what are you doing?”

  “Be quiet, or I will slit your throat. We are going to take a morning stroll together.”

  Lucy attempted to pull free, and the tip of the blade nicked her skin.

  “I said be still.”<
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  “I’ll scream, and—”

  “Do that and I’ll make sure your Major Kurland dies in his bed. You know I have the power to get into his bedchamber. Do you want his death on your conscience as well? Or maybe I’ll tie you to a chair, go up those stairs, and stab your father through his heart.”

  “You wouldn’t . . .”

  “I’ll do what is necessary to get what I want.” Even as she spoke, the cook was tying Lucy’s poor wrists together behind her back. “Now, take Maisey’s cloak and get moving.”

  Lucy did as she was told; her tired mind and already exhausted body no match for the strength of the determined cook. She couldn’t make sense of what was happening at all.

  They took a path between the church and Kurland Hall that led out toward the ruins of the priory. There was no one about, and a slight mist made seeing more than a few yards in front of her impossible.

  “That’s why Maisey woke up my father,” Lucy said.

  “What?”

  “She went to find you in your bed, and you weren’t there, so she assumed you were with my father.”

  Mrs. Fielding tightened her grip on Lucy’s upper arm.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The night of Mr. Nathaniel Thurrock’s death. You weren’t at the rectory.”

  “Neither were you—cavorting around with your intended, so gossip says. Hardly the way a man of the cloth’s daughter should behave.”

  “Meaning that if Major Kurland and I were discovered to be missing this morning everyone would think we were off cavorting again, and had met with a terrible accident?”

  Mrs. Fielding didn’t reply, and the terrain got steeper. Lucy’s skirt was soon drenched with dew, and caught around her legs, making each step even harder. She stumbled and almost fell.

  “None of your tricks, now.”

  She hissed out a breath as Mrs. Fielding dragged her upright again. If only she hadn’t spent the night toiling to get out of the priory cellars she would have the energy to outrun the older woman, but her legs felt like day-old porridge.

  “Stop.”

  There was a ripping sound, and then Lucy’s eyes were covered in fabric. A push in the small of her back sent her stumbling forward again. Eventually she smelled a farmyard and was taken inside some kind of structure and led down echoing stone steps. For the second time in less than a day she was pushed into a room with a hard stone floor.