Death Comes to the Village

by Catherine Lloyd

  Bookman set the tankard down on the nightstand, avoiding Robert’s gaze. “I tried to rouse you several times, sir, but you were impossible to revive. In truth, I was beginning to worry and was about to ride for the doctor.”

  Robert pulled himself up against the pillows and groaned as everything swirled around him. His skin was clammy and his breathing slow. “My mouth tastes like the bottom of a river, and my head is pounding as if I’ve drunk three bottles of brandy.”

  “Did you drink to excess last night, Major?”

  “Where would I find three bottles of brandy?” Robert demanded. “Do you think I keep them stashed at the bottom of my bed? Foley wouldn’t like that at all.”

  “Foley might choose not to notice.” Bookman handed Robert the tankard, and he drained it in one.

  “Thank you. Do you have more?”

  “I’ll bring up a jug from the kitchen.” He hesitated. “Do you want me to send for the doctor, sir?”

  “No, I damn well do not!”

  “As you wish, sir.” Bookman left the room and Foley entered. Robert briefly closed his eyes as his butler approached the bed on tiptoe.

  “How are you feeling now, sir?”

  “Not at my best, Foley.” Robert raked a hand through his hair. The ale settled uneasily in his stomach, and he couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

  “I was worried when we couldn’t rouse you.” Foley sniffed. “Bookman insinuated that I had something to do with it. I have no idea why.”

  “He thinks you conspired with me to leave a cache of brandy in my bed.” Foley went to speak and Robert held up his hand. “It’s all right. I know that nothing could be further from the truth. You guard that brandy like a preventions officer. I barely had enough for one glass before I went to sleep and that was all dregs and tasted foul.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll tell him, sir. You do look rather pale.” Foley leaned closer. “Do you want me to mention the laudanum?”

  “What about it?”

  Foley coughed. “When I came in this morning, you had the bottle in your hand, sir, clasped to your chest. Is it possible you misjudged the dose?”

  “What?” Robert picked up the squat black glass bottle that sat on his nightstand, held it up to the light, and shook it. “Damnation, it’s almost empty.” He could taste the opiate now, lingering in his throat, clouding and distorting everything. “I don’t remember taking any of the vile stuff.”

  “We all do things in our sleep we don’t remember occasionally, sir. For example, last week I was playing cards with Bookman, and I must have imbibed far more than usual because I slept like a drunkard and didn’t wake at my usual time at all.”

  “Don’t try to make me feel better, Foley.” He put the bottle down. Was that what he’d done? Dosed himself with the opiate, and not even realized it?

  “You were under a lot of strain yesterday, sir, what with the recent arrival of Mrs. Armitage and your decision to go downstairs. Perhaps you simply overdid things.” Foley patted his hand. “Nothing to worry about at all.”

  “Apart from the fact that I might never have woken up.” Bookman came through the door with more ale. “Do you think I dosed myself with too much laudanum last night in my sleep?”

  “Why would you do that, sir?” Bookman glanced at Foley. “Is that what he thinks?”

  Foley straightened up. “With all due respect, Mr. Bookman, I found the major this morning with the bottle of laudanum in his hand. I relieved him of it before you, or anyone else, saw it. If the major hadn’t decided to apprise you of the fact, you need never have known.”

  “Well, as to that, Mr. Foley, what were you doing in here at that hour in the morning, when I am employed as the major’s valet, and it is my duty to wake him?”

  “You were tardy, Mr. Bookman. I happened to be passing along the corridor when I saw the major’s door was open. I stepped in to say good morning to him.”

  “I wasn’t tardy. I’d gone to get his shaving water.”

  “Excuse me.” Robert held up his hand, but neither man backed down. “Excuse me. Your bickering is getting us nowhere. If I am swigging laudanum in my sleep, I suggest we keep the bottle away from my bedside, and in a safe place, agreed?”

  Both men turned to face him, Foley red with anger, Bookman white, his fists clenched at his sides.

  “If that is what you wish, Major,” Bookman said. “Perhaps one of us should be in charge of it.”

  “Are you suggesting it should be you, Bookman?”

  “I am, sir. With all due respect, Mr. Foley is too inclined to give way to you.”

  “That’s not true, I—”

  “Let Bookman finish, Foley. You think I’d convince Foley to give me whatever I needed?”

  “I do, sir.”

  Robert studied his valet for a long moment. “I reckon you might be right. Lock up the laudanum, Bookman, and keep the key.”

  Bookman saluted. “Yes, sir, and thank you for your trust.” He picked up the bottle and stepped back.

  Robert turned to his butler and tried to ignore the increasing thump of his headache. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Foley. It’s just that you are too kindhearted where I am concerned. If I am drinking too much of the opiate, I need to stop immediately.”

  Foley bowed, all offended dignity. “Whatever you say, sir. Shall I inform Mrs. Armitage that you are now awake, and would you like some breakfast?”

  “Yes, on both counts, Foley. Thank you.”

  He drank another tankard of the weak ale and contemplated getting out of bed. If he was taking laudanum in his sleep, it was no wonder his staff was worried about him. He thought back over the previous months. Had this happened before? Had he been right to warn Miss Harrington off from believing anything his crazed mind imagined seeing at night? Maybe he hadn’t even got out of bed that evening and had imagined the whole thing....

  “Do you wish to get up, Major?”

  He looked up with a start to see Bookman standing by the bed. “I suppose I should.”

  “Not if you don’t feel up to it. I’m sure Mrs. Armitage and Miss Chingford will understand if you are a bit under the weather.”

  Bookman’s bracing tone was enough to make Robert throw back his covers and swing his legs over the side of the bed. He winced as his feet touched the floorboards and a shard of pain sliced up his leg.

  “I’ll have my breakfast over by the window, and then you can take me downstairs.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Robert focused his gaze on his useless legs. “Are you certain you want to stay with me, Bookman? I could give you the names of several prominent military men in London who would be more than grateful for your services.” He paused. “I don’t want to hold you back.”

  “From what, sir?” Bookman’s smile disappeared. “I’m more than happy to stay here and serve you. You’ll be up and about in no time. I’ll be so busy keeping your gear straight that I won’t have a moment to myself, and I’ll be wishing these days back.”

  “But what if that doesn’t happen?” Robert forced himself to ask. “Do you want to be a nursemaid for the rest of your life? What if I never recover?”

  “Then I’ll keep folding your nightshirts until you die. I’m not going to leave you to Foley’s tender mercies, sir. I’m a great believer in loyalty.”

  Robert held Bookman’s dark, unflinching gaze. They’d known each other almost all their lives, learned to swim and shoot together, shared their first woman, their first battle.... Their bond went far deeper than the usual one between a man and his valet.

  “If you are sure.”

  “I am, sir. Now, let’s get you dressed.”

  Robert allowed Bookman to shave him and then help him into his clothes. When Foley returned with a covered tray, Robert was sitting in his chair contemplating the overcast skies. Foley placed the tray on his lap.

  “Your breakfast, Major Kurland. I took the liberty of bringing up the post, as well.”

  “Thank you.�
�� Robert knew it was pointless trying to talk Foley out of the sullens yet. He was still far too offended.

  “You are welcome, sir.”

  Robert contemplated his plate of scrambled eggs, gammon, beef, potatoes, and toast and swallowed hard. It was imperative that he eat something to settle his stomach, but nothing on the plate appealed to him.

  “Could you fetch some plain bread and butter, as well, please?”

  His butler disappeared, and Robert forced himself to eat some of the egg and a mouthful of the ham, chewing determinedly to keep it down. He wished he had a dog to feed the rest of the feast to, but his last spaniel had died about three years ago, and he hadn’t had time to find another. He missed having a pack of dogs at his heels. When he was up and about again, he’d speak to his gamekeeper and find some suitable pups to train.

  After a while, he gave up trying to eat and turned his attention to his mail. There was yet another unfranked letter from his cousin and heir, which he ignored, two letters from his solicitors in London, and one handwritten note.

  He opened the unsealed letter and started to read.

  Dear Major Kurland,

  Since we last met, I have discovered why my best gloves had blood on them. I plan on following the trail of blood I found near the church to see if I can discover if it has any bearing on our investigations. All being well, I will report back to you by twelve o’clock tomorrow morning.

  Your obedient servant,

  Miss Harrington

  Robert checked his pocket watch. It was almost two in the afternoon. He pushed his tray away and turned toward the door his butler was coming through bearing a plate of bread and butter.

  “Foley, when was this note delivered?”

  “Early this morning, sir.”

  “While I was asleep? Did Miss Harrington attempt to call on me at twelve?”

  “Not that I know of, Major. One of the stable hands brought the note around. I haven’t seen Miss Harrington in person today.”

  Robert shoved at the heavy tray, making everything rattle. “Get this out of my way, and call Bookman immediately!”

  “But, Major, you need to eat something, you—”

  “Just do as I say! Better still, find Joseph Cobbins.”

  “If you insist, sir.”

  “I do, now get on with it!”

  He read the letter again, aware of a rising tide of fear. What the devil was Miss Harrington going on about her gloves being bloodied? She hadn’t mentioned that to him, and what did it have to do with anything? He clenched his fist and smashed it into the armrest of the chair. What did she think she was doing, wandering off to investigate things without talking to him first? If he’d known her intentions, he could at least have sent someone to protect her. Did she really think she was safe in this village?

  Robert took a steadying breath. Why should she not? She’d grown up here, would likely spend the rest of her life here. Why should she see danger everywhere like he did, sense it in his gut like he did? He could only pray to a God he sometimes doubted existed that she was safely back in the rectory immersed in domestic details and had simply forgotten to let him know what had happened.

  He glared down at his useless legs. Damnation, he could do nothing except issue orders and hope. As an officer who had always led his troops from the front, being stuck at the rear was an unfamiliar experience and one he was growing to hate.

  His door was flung open and Joseph Cobbins appeared, his face flushed. “What can I do for you, Major?”

  “Ah, Joe. I hear you are the fastest runner in my stables.” Robert tried not to show his anxiety. “I need someone to go down to the rectory and see if Miss Harrington is there.”

  “Yes, sir.” Joe straightened and put his shoulders back. “What do you want me to say to Miss Harrington? Do you want her up here?”

  “I want you to see if she is at home. If she isn’t, ask where she might be. If no one seems to know, I would like you to check the church and the graveyard.”

  “Why there?”

  “Because she is the rector’s daughter and she might be there! Don’t overthink this, Joseph. Just run along, find out, and report back to me as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir!” Joe turned sharply and ran off, his boots clumping down the stairs.

  Bookman looked in the door. “Did you want me, Major?”

  Robert concentrated on concealing his concern. “I’m worried about the whereabouts of Miss Harrington.”

  “Why’s that, sir?”

  “She wrote to say she would be here at twelve and, obviously, I overslept.”

  Bookman brought a pot of coffee over to Robert and poured him a cup. “I wouldn’t fret, sir. She’s probably just busy doing other things.”

  “I’m not fretting, she—”

  “She what, sir?” Bookman briefly touched Robert’s shoulder. “You seem rather agitated. Are you sure you don’t want to see Dr. Baker?”

  “I’m perfectly fine.” He realized he was a breath away from losing his temper. “I’m simply concerned that I have inconvenienced my neighbor.”

  “Miss Harrington is a good Christian woman and won’t take offense.” Bookman left the coffeepot by Robert’s elbow. “Would you like me to pop down to the rectory and see if all is well?”

  “There’s no need. I’ve already sent young Cobbins.” Although he felt like smashing it against the wall, Robert placed his coffee cup onto the table. “I feel so damned useless.”

  His valet studied him. “With all due respect, sir, don’t you think you’re taking this rather too hard? You overslept and missed a visit from Miss Harrington. I’m sure she’ll return eventually. The woman can’t seem to keep away. In truth, I’d imagine you’d be glad to be spared her presence for a day.”

  “You think I’m overreacting?”

  “If you want me to be honest with you, sir, then yes, I do.” Bookman hesitated. “Perhaps now if we can keep you away from the laudanum, you’ll settle down a bit.”

  “You believe I’m delusional?”

  “Sir, when I checked, half that bottle of laudanum was gone. It was full yesterday.”

  Robert’s flash of temper dissipated and was replaced by a wave of uncertainty that made him want to puke. “That will be all, Bookman. Please make sure I’m informed when Joe returns.”

  Lucy opened her eyes and quickly closed them again. The smell of decaying leaves and mold surrounded her, and her cheek was crushed up against something cold and hard that definitely wasn’t her pillow. With a great effort, she pushed one hand flat on the wet ground and tried to raise her head. She was still in the graveyard. How long had she lain there undiscovered?

  She rolled onto her side and managed to sit up. A wave of pain and nausea engulfed her, and she pressed a hand to her aching head. Her fingers came away covered in blood. Had someone come up behind her? She vaguely remembered her cheek connecting with the corner of the DeVry tomb, and nothing else. Her bonnet was askew so she attempted to straighten it and almost cried out. She hadn’t just fallen then. Someone had hit her on the back of the head.

  She swallowed hard against the desire to be sick, leaned back against the nearest convenient gravestone, and wrapped her arms around her raised knees. The graveyard was silent apart from the sound of the wind sighing through the trees and the occasional call of a bird. Where exactly was she? There was no sign of the DeVry tomb, or any of the larger mausoleums. The peppery scent of chrysanthemums on a nearby grave and the fresh mound of another meant she must be in the newer part of the graveyard.

  Had she managed to run away, or had her attacker deliberately moved her? Was he watching her now to see if she would regain consciousness? Panic surged through her, and she stood up in a tangle of damp muddied skirts and unsteady legs, one hand braced on the gravestone. She had to get home. She had to get help!

  She picked up her skirts and started back toward the entrance of the graveyard, her breathing as uneven as the ground, fear ruling her. Had someone been waitin
g for her in the graveyard? Had they watched until she’d knelt down by the tomb and decided she’d seen enough? A low moan escaped her chattering teeth, and she fixed her attention on the gate and the road beyond it. She had to get home.

  Without pausing to look behind her, she ran through the gate and toward the rectory. The church clock chimed the quarter hour, but she had no idea what time it was. As she stumbled toward the house, the front door opened and Anthony emerged, talking to their father.

  “Lucy! What in God’s name happened to you?”

  He ran toward her, and within a moment, she was enclosed in his warm embrace. She touched his face and tried to speak.

  “I must tell Papa, I must—”

  “I’m right here, my dear. Anthony, she looks as if she might swoon. Pick her up and bring her into the house.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Lucy moaned as Anthony manfully tried to carry her in through the open front door. He deposited her on the couch in the small front parlor set aside for the least important visitors, and stood back, visibly puffing.

  “Good Lord, you’re heavier than you look, Lucy.”

  “Fetch Anna and Dr. Baker.” Her father issued orders with his usual calm air of authority. Lucy didn’t think she’d ever been so pleased to hear his voice before. He pulled up a chair and sat beside her. “Now, what happened? We were beginning to wonder where you were.”

  “What time is it?” Lucy whispered.

  “Almost one in the afternoon.”

  “Oh my goodness.” Lucy slumped back against the cushions. “I left the house at about eleven.” She struggled to sit back up and grabbed for her father’s hand. “Papa, you have to go and look in the graveyard. I think there is a dead body in there.”

  “Lucy, my dear, you are obviously overwrought. Of course there are dead bodies in there. Now why don’t you lie back and wait until Dr. Baker comes to see how you are?”

  She clutched the lapel of his coat. “No, you don’t understand! You have to go and see for yourself. The DeVry tomb has been opened!”

  He gently disengaged her fingers from his coat. “If that is the case, we will go and see for ourselves when you have recovered.”