Sing Witch, Sing Death

by Roberta Gellis

  "You are not a witch, are you, Sarah?" Pamela tried to make her voice light, as if she were joking, but the words fell heavily.

  "No, my lady, I am not, but my mother… That's neither here nor there. Anyhow, I feel such things."

  Absurdly, Pamela was relieved. She realized it would not have mattered what Sarah replied. The calm acceptance in her voice and manner turned the remark into a statement of ordinary fact rather than a hideous confession.

  Pamela found herself saying, "Oh, yes," in a faintly disapproving voice, as if Sarah had said she was a Methodist, and then passing on to some instructions about her clothing. Sarah handed her her reticule and handkerchief, and she went down to breakfast.

  "Not riding today? Don't blame you."

  "Oh, good morning, George. No, I am rather stiff. How is Velvet's fetlock?"

  "Stiff too. Be right as rain in a fortnight. Ride Blue Lady until then, if you take my advice."

  "Yes, I will. I found it hard to choose between them in the first place. I settled on Velvet because she was more of a goer, and perhaps because she was a bit unpredictable."

  "Hmmm, yes, you would, m'dear. Late Lady St. Just's favorite, too. Remarkable how much you two are alike. Velvet will be all right. More worried about Sergeant. Cut his knees up."

  "Oh, dear. St. Just will be livid."

  George laughed. "Good word, livid. Used to go just that color before he burned so black. Bad temper Vyvyan's got. Stopped in to see him this morning. Take my word—don't. Be down to bedevil us all soon enough."

  "Will you ride down to the village and have the farrier up to look at Sergeant, George?"

  "No need. I've applied fomentations, and we'll keep the knees dressed with a spermaceti ointment. Might keep them from scarring. Farrier couldn't do more."

  "No. I didn't know you were interested in horses."

  "Must be interested in something to make living out here endurable. Land's not mine. Horses and sailing." A shadow marred his bland expression. "No sailing now. Yacht's gone, and…" He pushed his cup away. "I'd best be off to the stable again. Infuriating horse, that Velvet. Likes to eat the poultice off her leg. Grooms don't watch her close enough."

  He started to slide back his chair, but the legs caught in the rug behind it and kept him bent over the table awkwardly. Pamela had reached for another slice of bread and was applying butter to it. There was a scream, a clatter, a loud thump, another scream, and loud sobbing.

  George tipped his chair over backward; Pamela flung down bread and butter and leaped to her feet. Their eagerness undid them. They reached the doorway at the same moment and became entangled. George drew back, and Pamela burst through, rounded the corner of the corridor, and flung herself to her knees beside Hetty, who was lying at the foot of the stairs.

  "Hetty," she cried, lifting the countess into her arms like a doll. "Are you hurt? How did you come to fall?"

  "I was pushed," Hetty whimpered, trembling and clinging to Pamela. "I was halfway down, and someone pushed me."

  Her eyes were turned to the head of the stairs and held an expression of horror. Instinctively George and Pamela looked up too. St. Just stood at the top of the stairwell, his body half-turned so that it was impossible to say whether he was mounting or descending. Now he turned fully and came down slowly. Hetty screamed again.

  "Stop your nonsense, Hetty," he said sharply. "Who the devil would want to push you down the stairs? And don't say it was I, because you'd never let me get behind you on the stairs."

  "Now, m'dear," George said, "can't have been Vyvyan. You'd have heard him. Wearing boots. No carpet in the corridor."

  "Do you think I don't know whether I trip or am pushed?" Hetty screamed. "Someone put his hands on my back. I felt it."

  "Tell me first whether you are hurt," Pamela urged. "That is most important. Can you stand, Hetty?"

  George lifted Hetty out of Pamela's arms and set her on her feet, and Pamela rose too. Quite obviously the countess was not hurt, except that her palms were reddened by their sharp contact with the floor. She was helped into the drawing room and laid upon the sofa. Pamela rang for a maid, sent her to the housekeeper for restoratives. George chafed Hetty's hands and murmured soothingly. St. Just propped his broad shoulders against the mantelpiece and glowered.

  "If you would slap her face," he recommended coldly, "she would come around quicker."

  Frankly, Pamela held the same opinion, since Hetty seemed to grow more hysterical the more attention she received. Another thing Pamela noticed was that all George's attempts to assure Hetty that she had not been pushed merely increased her terror. At last she half-forced a large glass of brandy down the countess's throat, and while Hetty was gasping and silenced by the fiery liquor, she changed the tack of their argument.

  "I have just thought that it is very likely Hetty was pushed," she said thoughtfully.

  St. Just, who had been looking fixedly at an ornament on the fire screen, jerked his head up and stared.

  "Now, now. Lady Pam," George protested.

  "Oh, not on purpose, but just think: if one of the maids, who has no business on that staircase, was coming down quickly and looking around to make sure no one would see her, she might well have run into Hetty."

  "And then she disappeared into thin air?" St. Just asked dryly.

  "Please, my lord," Pamela snapped, casting a monitory glance at him over Hetty's head. "Hetty is not such a fool that she does not know whether or not she has been pushed."

  His lips parted, but the Hervey eyes shot sparks, and he closed his mouth. Whatever caustic comment was on the tip of his tongue remained there.

  "Well, but would a maid just leave Hetty lying there?"

  Now it was George's turn to receive a stabbing glance from the green-and-gold glinting eyes.

  "What undermaid in this house would you expect to confess she had just knocked her mistress down a flight of stairs she had no business to be on in the first place?" Pamela asked.

  George had the grace to look slightly abashed. He realized now what Pamela was doing and realized that she was succeeding, too. Hetty was interested in this discussion. Her sobs were diminishing noticeably.

  "Stupid of me," he murmured. "Of course, she would nip up the stairs like a shot. Sure she'd lose her place if she were caught."

  "And run right into me," St. Just said. Both George and Pamela glared at him, but there was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes now, and they realized he was deliberately playing the heavy to give them an excuse to continue talking.

  "No, she wouldn't do that," George pointed out. "You had to come around from the front of the house. Wouldn't move too fast, either, because you're bound to be sore. All she had to do was turn the corner of the stairs, gallop down past my room, and there she is at the backstairs, where she belonged."

  "That sounds very likely to me," Pamela approved, wondering how Hetty could swallow it when even in the excitement no one could possibly miss the sound of a maid's clogs running in the uncarpeted corridor. It would have been easier for St. Just to creep up behind her.

  "Does it not sound to you as if that is what occurred, Hetty?" she asked cajolingly.

  The countess stared resentfully at her husband's booted feet. He was wearing breeches and top boots, and there could be no doubt that it would take him several minutes to get the boots on, even with his valet's help. He could not have pushed her, run back to his room to don his boots, and got to the head of the stairs again in time. He could not even have placed the boots near the stairs and put them on there, because with his sprained wrist he would need his valet's help to get them on. If he had been wearing pantaloons and hessians, it would have been barely possible, but not with top boots. It was just like Vyvyan to wear boots when you would expect him to put on proper morning dress.

  "I suppose it must have been so," she said grudgingly. "And what is to be done about it."

  "Nothing," St. Just replied. "What can be done?"

  "Now, now," George protested. "Can't have
the girls gaily toppling us down the stairs. Set an inquiry afoot."

  Pamela drew breath sharply, having suddenly realized that Sarah did not wear clogs—Sarah, who moved so silently and knew the house so well. The ugly notion was gone in a moment, not because Pamela believed Sarah incapable of removing what she believed was an obstacle to her nursling's happiness, but because Sarah—Pamela had a vision of the grim mouth and hard eyes—would never do anything so haphazard. If Sarah decided to harm Hetty, there would be no chance involved. Of pushing Hetty down a wide, unencumbered flight of stairs, Sarah was innocent.

  "Well, but how can we investigate?" Pamela asked, knowing that George had said what was necessary and now needed someone to argue him out of his position.

  George raised an eyebrow and Pamela continued, "The servants all know what has happened by now, and you know how they all stand together. Probably they would hold their tongues even if the girl had burst into the servants' quarters all unnerved. After all, it was an accident, and Hetty was not hurt."

  Now it was George who nodded. "Besides," he said, "the maid may well have run upstairs instead of down. This is the hour when no one really is in a fixed place. The rooms are being done, breakfast is on the sideboard, and no other meal yet being prepared. Why, even cook and the scullery maids may have been upstairs."

  "Then we are just to forget the whole thing?" Hetty cried. "My father would have whipped the whole staff and turned them out to field labor."

  "Possibly, but I am not likely to do that." St. Just's lips twisted wryly. "For God's sake, Hetty, be reasonable. The girl—if anyone did push you—must be more terrified than you were. You may rest assured she will never use that staircase again."

  "No, you would not like an inquiry, would you, Vyvyan?" Hetty spat. "It might turn out to be no accident after all. You should look rather nowhere if someone confessed she had been told to push me."

  St. Just burst out laughing, and George, with staring eyes, bleated, "Now, now, Hetty, no!" in an agonized voice.

  "Why not?" St. Just choked. "What is there unreasonable in it? Surely I would have made a general announcement to the servants at large that any and all attempts to maim or murder my wife were to be encouraged and would be deeply appreciated. I wonder what inducement I'd have offered them—not only to do the deed, of course, but to keep silent about it during the ensuing investigations?"

  "Vyvyan," George cried, quite put out, "go away, for God's sake. Go look at Sergeant and see if the fomentations should be removed."

  Pamela was bent over Hetty, who had thrown herself back on the sofa, weeping noisily again. She wondered wearily, as she administered hartshorn and water, whether every meeting between St. Just and his wife would be this wearing.

  Up until the previous night, both had maintained the appearance of civility to each other most of the time. The violence that had taken place, unrelated though it might be to the differences between them, and clearly in neither case anything more than an accident, had broken some thin barrier of reserve. There could be no solution now except a separation.

  In the background, Pamela could hear George saying, "That's enough, Vyvyan, you are being objectionable. Can't you see the girl's shaken out of her wits?"

  "Do you want me to listen to her accuse me of attempted murder—such a clumsy attempt, too—and smile? You didn't think it was just the thing last night."

  "No. Didn't make any stupid, sarcastic cracks, either. Reasoned with you. Worked. And you ain't the most reasonable person in the world, Vyvyan."

  "Is Hetty?"

  "Woman. Bound to be unreasonable. If you were kinder, Vyvyan, showed her a little more attention, she wouldn't get this way."

  "You would show her more attention, wouldn't you?"

  ''Well, I would. Save a lot of argument. Come on, Vyvyan, come out of here."

  George drew his still-glowering cousin from the room, and Hetty soon quieted. Pamela found herself wondering whether it was the removal of the irritation that St. Just applied to her nerves or the simple removal of her audience that calmed her. In any event, Hetty soon stopped sobbing and even agreed that it was probably useless to pursue an investigation of which maid had pushed her.

  "Oh, I know Vyvyan would not do such a thing," she sighed finally. "He is far too clever."

  "Have you thought of separating from him, Hetty?" Pamela asked. "I am sure you are wrong with regard to his intentions toward you, but if you feel this way, would you not be better apart? If it is only the money, some binding arrangement might be made so that he would free you. I am sure he only desires enough to keep Tremaire running. He is not expensive in other ways. Surely you could let him have that, and enough would remain for you to be very comfortable in London or…or even to go back to the Indies, if that is what you desire."

  "Leave St. Just?" Hetty exclaimed in a shocked voice. "You mean live alone? I could not. I have never done so. It would be most improper."

  "Improper? But, Hetty, surely you cannot value propriety more than your life."

  There was malice in Pamela's voice, for her temper had been worn thin by fright and what she considered histrionics on Hetty's part. She was tired of hearing Hetty scream murder every time a glance was thrown at her. If she could make Hetty see how ridiculous her pretense of fear was, perhaps St. Just would be spared the constant reminders of his brother-in-law's death. The point went right over Hetty's head.

  "Well, I do value propriety more," the countess rejoined with a sullen pout. "For what is life if one cannot move in the best circles and go to balls and card parties and such-like? I may be very ignorant of certain things, but I do know the value of being a countess, and I know, too, that, situated as I am—a stranger—the worst possible construction would be placed upon my separation."

  "But that might be got around, Hetty. If Lord St. Just's sister would support you—"

  "Lady Boscawen? She hates me! She would sooner poison me than support me."

  Pamela could no more imagine Lady Alice Boscawen dancing nude in the street than exhibiting sufficient passion to be called hatred, and the reference to poison seemed to prove that Hetty was not rational on this subject. She abandoned the question of Hetty living separately in England.

  "If you went home, Hetty, none of these problems would arise. You would be safe and among all your own friends."

  "Oh, I shall not do that. Good heavens, the islands were well enough when I knew no better, but they are a paltry place compared to London." She looked at Pamela with her head cocked to one side. "One would almost think, dear Pam, that you wished me to leave Vyvyan."

  Color rushed into Pamela's face, and Hetty laughed merrily.

  "I assure you," she went on, "I would not care. Moreover, it is all nonsense. If I went, you could not stay, so if you were…er…friendly with Vyvyan, you would never urge me to leave him. I do not suspect you. Besides, Vyvyan does not seem to care much for women. He is attractive—to a certain type, of course—and has had opportunities among the less elegant ladies we knew. I never cast the slightest impediment in his way, but nothing ever came of it. He likes only the filth one purchases with money. That is a 'gentleman's' taste."

  The flush receded slowly from Pamela's face, but her eyes blazed her indignation. Hetty had the grace to look down uneasily.

  "Dear Pam," she said after a short unpleasant silence, "do not be cross for my little joke. I promise I will not fun in that silly way again. My dependence for entrance into society is all upon you and Lady Boscawen."

  After that Pamela could only wonder if Hetty was quite right in the head. One moment she said Lady Boscawen hated her and insulted Pamela grossly, the next she acted as if a single sentence wiped out everything that had gone before.

  In a moment Pamela sighed. It was she who was silly, not Hetty. Hetty was perfectly in character—a spoiled child. If she did not get what she wanted, the world was against her. All the accusations and hysteria about her brother's death were simply a method of bedeviling her husband, turning the
knife in the wound in his conscience, because he had not given in to her demands.

  Certainly Hetty did not fear for her own life. If further proof than their conversation was necessary, Hetty promptly furnished it by making an excellent breakfast and setting about her normal morning pursuits. Pamela was thoroughly sickened. She would write to her friends in London and ask them to find another position for her as soon as possible.

  If she had the money, Pamela told herself, she would have gone to her room, packed her things, and left that very day. The countess's insinuation about her relationship with St. Just lay like a shadow on her mind in spite of the apology, yet she did not go to her bedchamber or to the library to write her letters. I must settle the business about the maid with Mrs. Helston, Pamela decided, and went off to the kitchen to interrogate the girl.

  She found that Mrs. Helston had given a very fair picture of the pregnant maid, and concluded that it was most unlikely that she had seduced the gardener. Whether or not she would be a source of trouble in the future was more doubtful. The girl was rather simpleminded and, deplorably, pretty.

  It seemed only too likely that in a large household such as theirs she would fall into the same error again. In a small place where no menservants were kept and she could be closely watched, she might do better.

  They could not find a place for her before the child was born, however, and what to do with the child, who would make finding another place for her after her delivery very difficult, was another problem. Pamela went upstairs to the housekeeper's room and was discussing the matter with Mrs. Helston when a footman came to summon her to Hetty. Callers had arrived.

  Casting an anxious glance at her dress, Pamela hurried down the stairs. She had not paid any attention when Sarah laid out her clothing, and she was surprised to find herself suitably arrayed in an Indian muslin morning dress with a flounced hem and a rather severe tucked bodice. Usually she wore rather worn merino garments around the house, because clothing was becoming an expensive burden to her.

  Sarah may not have been a witch, but she seemed to have precognition. Quick fingers twitched Pamela's sash straight, felt to be sure that her heavy loops of hair were neat; she opened the door of the small drawing room to hear Hetty in the final stages of description of her morning's accident.