Death Comes to the Village

by Catherine Lloyd

  “Some innocent. She’d already decided Miss Harrington was beneath her, and wondered out loud why I would converse with such an unworthy person.”

  “Perhaps she was jealous?”

  “Jealous of Miss Harrington? Ha! That’s the most amusing thing I’ve heard in a long time. A glance in her mirror should reassure Miss Chingford that she is far superior in looks.”

  “You did speak to Miss Harrington for rather a long time.”

  Robert found himself glaring at his favorite aunt. “Mayhap because unlike Miss Chingford, she wanted to speak to me. Every time I try and engage my so-called betrothed in a conversation, she cuts me off or avoids answering me. I’m not even sure if she still wants to marry me or not.”

  “I’m not sure, either.” Aunt Rose frowned. “Yet she was determined to come and see you.”

  “And perhaps finds me no longer to her liking.” Robert swallowed hard. “She can hardly bear to look at me.”

  “She’s young. Seeing you like this has been something of a shock. I’m sure she’ll come to terms with it soon enough.”

  “I’ll give her a few more days, but then I will have to speak plainly to her. We need to settle this one way or the other.”

  “I agree.” Aunt Rose smiled at him. “Miss Harrington is very charming, isn’t she?”

  “Charming? In the manner of my favorite drill sergeant, yes, I suppose she is. She’s certainly tougher than she looks. There were times when I was delirious with pain that I clung to the sound of her nagging like a raft in a stormy sea.” He laughed at his aunt’s raised eyebrows. “Hardly the most flattering of descriptions, but Miss Harrington is as formidable as you are, Aunt, and that’s a compliment.”

  “Then let’s hope she won’t rake you down for failing to mention that you were engaged to Miss Chingford.” Aunt Rose smiled sweetly. “She certainly looked rather taken aback when I told her.”

  Robert stifled a curse.

  Chapter 11

  Major Kurland was betrothed to that supercilious, condescending nonentity? Lucy stomped down the driveway of Kurland Hall at a speed that was most unladylike and possibly injurious to her health. It would have been nice if either of the happy couple had mentioned their engaged state to her. They hardly seemed to smell of April and May. She slowed to a more decorous pace and approached the shortcut to the church. Why did the major want to marry a woman like that? Was her father right that in the end, all men preferred superficial beauty to inner worth? If that were the case, the major would be far better off with Anna, who had both.

  Just as Lucy glanced back at the gracious Elizabethan manor, the sun broke through the clouds and lit up the hundreds of diamond-paned windows. The house glittered like a faceted crystal glass reflecting back its secrets. If Miss Chingford had her way, Major Kurland would soon be busy rebuilding his house into a palatial mansion to satisfy his bride’s delusions of grandeur.

  “Three wings are not enough.” Lucy mimicked Miss Chingford’s high petulant tone as she approached the boundary wall of the property. “I’d be happy to have just one!”

  The sunlight faded abruptly, shut out by the bulk of the Norman bell tower. Lucy buttoned her pelisse against the chill rising from the ancient stones. On her left was the stile and gate across a path that eventually came out on the main road. She stopped to examine the wooden posts and step, but there was no sign of any blood. The ground was still churned up, and the bushes that crowded against the posts needed cutting back. Hadn’t the gate next to it been open when she’d passed by on the day of Mary’s disappearance? A flash of something pink flapping in the breeze caught her attention. Entangled on one of the prickly hawthorn bushes was a piece of pink ribbon such as a woman might wear in her hair, or use to decorate a bonnet.

  Lucy carefully untangled the ribbon and studied it. The frayed end was darker and the last inch was rusted with brown specks. She brought it up to her face and cautiously sniffed, catching the coppery tang of blood. With a shudder, she folded the ribbon and placed it in her handkerchief. The ribbon might have caught on the hawthorn bush or been left there by the wind. Had either of the missing girls liked pink? She couldn’t recall.

  She walked past the stile and continued along the path bounded by the church on one side and the flint wall of the graveyard on the other. As a child she’d asked her father why the church sat so much lower than the surrounding graveyard—had it sunk? He’d told her that, on the contrary, the church remained the same, but that over the centuries, all the burials had raised the level of the land around it. She’d thanked him for the information and had nightmares for weeks afterward.

  Somewhat ahead of her, framed by the dark and narrow shortcut, was part of the honey-covered stone of the rectory. A flash of color made her pause as Ben Cobbins strode past, his coattails flapping, followed by only one of his dogs. Even though she knew he would be unlikely to see her, she pressed against the wall of the church and held her breath. After counting to fifty, she moved away from the wall and walked forward until she was at the cornerstone of the church. She now had a far better view of the street and the rectory and was grateful that Ben Cobbins appeared to have disappeared. The sound of raised voices from the graveyard made her stiffen. Had Ben gone in there, and for what purpose? She didn’t have the nerve to go after him.

  She turned sideways to squeeze through the gap between the cornerstone and the leaning wall of the graveyard. When had she last done this? She remembered the day of Mary’s disappearance and looked up at the stone where her gloved hand rested. Was the surface darker there? She took out her handkerchief and scrubbed it against the stone before heading as fast as she could for the rectory.

  When she reached the sanctuary of the kitchen door, she paused to look back at the church. Who would want to meet Ben Cobbins in the graveyard, and what had all the shouting been about?

  “Are you all right, miss?”

  Lucy jumped and swung around to find that Betty had opened the back door and was staring at her.

  “I’m fine, Betty. I was just contemplating the state of the weather.”

  Betty peered up at the leaden sky. “Looks like it might rain, miss. You don’t want to be going out in that unless you have to.”

  “Indeed, I think I’ll come in and finish making those shirts for the twins.”

  She looked back over her shoulder again and saw Anthony and Edward approaching. Had they been in the church together? From the discontented expression on Anthony’s face, she deemed it likely. If she asked him, he’d probably accuse her of spying on him and she didn’t want that. As she walked into the kitchen, she glanced down at her handkerchief and saw the brownish stains from where she’d wiped it on the wall. Now she knew where she’d picked up the blood on her other pair of gloves. The question was, what did it mean?

  The only person she could discuss her findings with was Major Kurland. She felt rather disinclined to walk back up the drive and speak to him at this particular moment. He’d probably be too busy attending to his guests to wish to consult with her anyway. She’d have to think this through by herself.

  Lucy paused in the hallway. What if she wrote Major Kurland a note and had it delivered to him by hand in the morning? She wouldn’t have to actually see him, and he wouldn’t be able to stop her going ahead with her investigations until it was too late. Surely that was the best answer to her deliberations?

  Anthony and Edward came in behind her, and although both of them bade her a civil good evening, neither of them seemed inclined to linger. For once she was happy to ignore their incivility and get on with devising a plan to discover exactly what Ben Cobbins was up to in the graveyard, and whether the trail of blood continued beyond the wall of the church.

  The sun had disappeared behind a towering bank of clouds, so Lucy lit a candle and placed it on her desk while she wrote a short note to the major about her plans for the morning. Fragrant smells emanated from the kitchen where an offended Mrs. Fielding was intent on proving her culinary superio
rity to both Lucy and the rector. Lucy’s stomach rumbled. She had no doubt that Major Kurland would be furious with her, but there was little she could do about that. He couldn’t undertake the task and she could.

  Rather than distracting Betty from laying the table for dinner, Lucy walked the note out to the stables herself and asked one of the stable hands to deliver it for her early the next morning. She didn’t want to give Major Kurland the chance to stop her. The dinner bell rang as she returned to the main house, and she went to wash her hands and tidy her dress. Overhead in the nursery, she could hear the twins loudly protesting having to wash any part of themselves before eating and Jane’s equally loud replies.

  Lucy climbed the stairs, the scrap of ribbon carefully concealed in her bloody handkerchief. She’d have to wait until the morning when the light was better to carry out her plan, but at least she had an idea where to start. She paused on the landing and looked across at the church. What if Major Kurland was right after all and something far worse than petty theft had occurred in their picturesque, quiet little village?

  “Are you all right, sis? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Anthony walked toward her; his earlier glum expression had lifted. She noticed he was wearing his best blue coat.

  “Are you going out after dinner?” Lucy didn’t move out of his way.

  “Yes, what of it?” His smile faded. “Do I need to ask permission?”

  “Of course you don’t. I—”

  “You have to stop treating me like a child, Lucy. I’m almost nineteen. I’m a man.”

  “I do understand that, it’s just—”

  “You don’t understand! This house feels like a prison these days, what with you, and Father, and that damned tutor all spying on me.”

  “I certainly don’t have time to spy on you, and I doubt anyone else does, either. All we want is for you to successfully complete your studies and go up to Cambridge.”

  “And what if I don’t want to do that? What if I don’t want to be Father’s reincarnation of Tom?”

  Lucy touched his shoulder. “If you hate it that much, you should talk to him. He will not force you to do something you abhor.”

  He shrugged her off. “You have no idea what it’s like to be a man. To be forced to do your duty, to sacrifice what you want for the sake of your family.”

  “Do you think I wanted to stay here and bring up my siblings? Don’t talk to me about duty, Anthony. I’ve certainly done mine.”

  “It’s not the same! I’ve always wanted to go into the army, you know that, and now, because of Tom deciding to be noble and join up himself, I’m not allowed to enlist. No one’s asking you to fill a dead man’s shoes.”

  “How about a dead mother’s? Does that sound familiar to you?” Lucy gathered the last shreds of her temper and looked up at her brother. “And while we are having this discussion, if all this is simply a tantrum because you are in trouble again, please tell me.”

  “Trouble with what?”

  “Money.”

  “No! For God’s sake, Lucy, I promised I wouldn’t get involved in that ever again. Don’t you believe anything I say?”

  “Then where did that porcelain box I found in your pocket come from? Did you win it at play?”

  “What box?”

  “The one in the pocket of your blue coat. I found it when I was putting on the button.”

  He flushed. “Firstly, I have no idea what you are talking about, and secondly how dare you go through my personal possessions?”

  “I was fixing your coat!”

  For a long moment they glared at each other before Lucy stepped back. “If you hate your life so much, Anthony, be a man, and tell Papa what you want to do instead of going to Cambridge. He will, at least, listen to you, and even if he doesn’t, you can still leave here and make your fortune elsewhere. I have no such choice.”

  He glared at her and then continued down the stairs with a muttered curse. She wasn’t surprised to hear the door slam behind him. She was surprised it hadn’t fallen off its hinges by now. It didn’t matter how much he blustered and threatened, he was definitely in trouble. All she could hope was that their father was still willing to save him when everything inevitably went wrong.

  To Lucy’s relief, it was a bright and clear morning. Despite her best efforts to get away quickly, she’d had to deal with Mrs. Fielding at her most sneeringly well-mannered to approve the week’s menus, and her father losing the notes for the sermon he expected Edward to write for him. She’d checked that there was neither a burial nor a church service scheduled for that morning and that none of the numerous ladies who aided the rectory would be around to require her help.

  Dressed in her oldest gray gown and boots as the graveyard tended to be damp and uneven, she tiptoed down the stairs. There wasn’t a perfect solution to the undulations of the ground. At one point, her father had contemplated having goats to keep the grass down, because it was so difficult to swing a scythe without hitting a gravestone. Luckily he had changed his mind, and the graveyard had remained the same.

  After a quick look up and down the road in front of the rectory, Lucy marched across to the corner of the church and stood with her back to it looking slowly around. She measured the stain on the wall. It was about five and a half feet from the ground. Was there any more blood visible?

  Last night, just before she’d fallen asleep, she wondered at the height of the bloodstains. If they had been left by an animal, surely they would’ve been lower and not at over five feet high? Unless the creature was a cow or a horse— but they would scarcely have fitted through the gap between the church and the wall. A person’s face or hand could’ve bled out at that level, or someone being carried....

  She pushed that thought away and resolutely resumed her search. On the flint wall of the graveyard, she detected another patch of reddish brown and walked across to it. Yes, it definitely looked like blood, and there was a faint trail of it under the sheltered ridge of the wall with the odd drop falling to the ground. Lucy kept her gaze on the blood and followed it until she reached the gates of the graveyard. They weren’t locked, as many villagers liked to come and visit their deceased family members. Lucy often came to place flowers on Tom’s grave and tell him what had been happening with their family.

  The gate opened with a creak and slowly clanged shut, leaving her in the tranquil, shaded peace of the ancient burial ground. Her father was an enthusiastic amateur archaeologist and before her mother’s death had often taken Lucy and Tom to dig for what he insisted were the remains of a pagan place of worship beneath their Norman church. They’d found enough evidence to allow the rector to write a learned paper for a respected scientific journal. After that, his enthusiasm had lapsed.

  Lucy felt the ancient inhabitants of the space around her now, as well as the newer ones like Tom. If anything were needed to convince her that death brought peace to many, this would be the place. The silence had a quality all of its own, so thick and layered that it felt like walking through time. When Lucy asked her father about that, he’d looked at her strangely and advised her to pray more often. Her mother had understood and felt the same sensations herself.

  She took in a deep breath and smelled freshly turned earth, cut grass, and something more visceral that tugged at her senses and set the hairs on the back of her neck bristling. Death had its own particular smell. Tom had said that to her once when she’d caught him pacing the hallways of the rectory, too afraid to sleep with his nightmares. Major Kurland would probably understand that, too. She couldn’t imagine how it might feel to face an enemy of thousands, knowing you might die and that you must kill, or be killed.

  A blackbird cried a warning and she remembered to breathe, aware that the graveyard breathed with her. If she wanted to meet secretly with someone, where would she go? Her gaze traveled to the far left of the space where the older, mainly abandoned graves and larger mausoleums were situated. It was also a popular place for village trysts, alth
ough Lucy had often wondered why. But then she supposed life and death were sometimes more entwined than she wanted to believe.

  She picked up her skirts and threaded her way through the stones, avoiding tree roots and grave markers crowded together and broken or discolored with age like a beggar’s teeth. A twig snapped somewhere in front of her, and she halted. Had Ben Cobbins returned, or was someone merely visiting a deceased loved one? There were very few well-tended graves in this area.

  Her attention was caught by a vivid smear of red on the white marble of a mausoleum dedicated to the long-expired DeVry family. She went closer, her boots crunching on the fallen acorns from the old oak trees, and saw footprints in the mud around the base of the tomb. The blackbird cried out again, momentarily distracting her. She circled the tomb until she reached the front. The white marble façade was stained and cracked with age and the inscriptions almost disappeared.

  “Oh my goodness.”

  Without thought for her gown, Lucy knelt and studied the scrap of fabric wedged in the door of the vault. It wasn’t exactly the same color as the ribbon she’d found yesterday, but it was definitely pink. She leaned forward and tugged at the material, but she couldn’t pull it free. She took off her gloves and tried again, her fingers warm against the freezing marble, and still she failed to release it.

  With a disgusted sound, she sat back. A flicker of movement to her right made her look up. Before she could do more than open her mouth to scream, she was plunged into darkness and knew no more.

  “Devil take it, what time is it?” Robert rubbed his eyes and scowled at Bookman, who stood next to his bed with a worried expression and a tankard of what looked like ale in his hand. Sunlight spilled through the open curtains and the shadows were almost nonexistent, confirming his first dazed impression that it was very late.

  “It’s about one o’clock in the afternoon, sir.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”