For a moment, he received no reply other than his wife’s measured regard. Francis knew that look.
“If you are about to try your cajolery on me, Tillie, let me warn you I am not in the mood.”
Tillie’s characteristic laugh escaped her lips, and his ill temper lightened briefly. “I can see that, my dearest.”
She stepped gently off the grass verge and picked a path across the muddy road, holding up her skirts. Having wisely left her travelling greatcoat in the coach, she was clad only in a gown of soft green muslin that emphasised her curves, a mere wisp of lace tucker covering the swell of her bosom. Below her chip straw bonnet, tendrils of her banded hair escaped confinement under a cap and her high-boned cheeks seemed unaffected by the heat that was adding to Francis’s frustrations. For an instant he softened, reflecting on the pleasure the mere sight of her gave him, transformed — thanks to his mother’s insistence and his own open purse — from the dowdy companion he had first encountered. Then his eye caught on the clutch of coloured stems tucked in her fingers, and his irritation flared anew.
“You are the most maddening female, Tillie,” he told her as she came up.
She looked rueful. “Dear me. Am I still in disgrace?”
Francis almost relented, but for the lurking twinkle in his wife’s eye. “You know very well we should not have been in this mess had you not insisted on leaving your godmother’s this morning. Anyone with a modicum of common sense must have known what the outcome would be after such a storm as we had last night.”
To his intense satisfaction, his wife’s patience cracked.
“For heaven’s sake, Fan, don’t start again! All well for you, able to leave the room the moment you could no longer endure it, but I was obliged to answer again and again to the same set of questions and comment. I tell you, if we had not escaped, I would have been ready to stab her with the carving knife.”
“Thus ensuring you don’t receive a farthing when she is finally gathered to her forefathers.”
“Just so,” Ottilia said, disregarding his sarcasm. “Far safer to leave at once.”
The duty visit to Lady Edingale had indeed been trying, as Francis was obliged to concede. Tillie’s ancient benefactor, a schoolfriend of her deceased grandmother, was both deaf and forgetful. She had signally failed to grasp the fact of Ottilia’s marriage, despite endless repetitions by both parties and the old lady’s long-suffering companion. Or if she had grasped it, she had forgotten it within minutes, enlivening every attempt at conversation with a refrain that at last alienated even his wife’s wide tolerance.
“You should think of getting married again, Ottilia. You cannot be mourning your lost love forever.”
In vain had his poor Tillie, virtually shouting into the old lady’s ear trumpet, protested her new state. It proved of no avail to point Francis out as her husband, for whenever he walked into a room where she was, Lady Edingale invariably took immediate exception to his presence.
“Who is this? What’s that? Francis, you say? Know him? Of course I don’t know him. Never seen the fellow before in my life.”
Nevertheless, it had been foolhardy to set out in these conditions, despite the early promise of the sun. Annoyed with himself for giving in to Tillie’s insistence against his better judgement, Francis was aware of being driven to vent his spleen unfairly. He moderated his tone.
“Tillie, I’m hungry and hot and frustrated.”
A faint smile flickered on her lips. “And sadly out of temper.” She lifted the gloved hand in which her collection of wildflowers was still clutched and rested it lightly against his chest. “Could you truly have endured another such night of creeping about in the dark?”
Francis felt his irritation melting away. Lady Edingale’s steadfast refusal to acknowledge their marriage had resulted in furtive assignations in either one of their allotted separate bedchambers. His fingers came up to grasp her hand as he lifted a teasing eyebrow.
“To tell you the truth, I was rather enjoying the romance of it all.”
He was rewarded with the gurgle that never failed to affect him.
“You should have mentioned that at the outset,” said Tillie. “Such an argument might well have persuaded me to remain.”
“What, and miss this adventure?”
“How well you know me!”
He had to laugh. “Wretch!”
Tillie leaned up, and Francis obligingly kissed her on the lips.
“Am I forgiven?”
He gave an elaborate sigh. “I suppose I must be magnanimous.”
“Especially considering I am the newest of brides and entitled to a deal more latitude than might normally be the case.”
“Latitude? I am more like to end by locking you up and forbidding you to leave the house under any circumstances.”
“I should call on your friend George to throw a rope ladder up to my window,” returned his wife with scarcely a tremor in her voice. But the mischief in her eyes drove away the last of his irritation.
“Is that the best you can do?” he scoffed. “For shame, Tillie. And here I thought I would provide you with puzzle enough to tax your ingenuity to the utmost.”
Before she could retaliate, a hail from behind drew Francis’s attention. Releasing his wife, he turned to see his groom re-entering the main road from the little lane into which Ryde’s steps had been directed by the local whom Francis had earlier accosted.
“Ah, there you are at last.”
As Ryde crossed the road towards them, Ottilia noted a look of perturbation in the man’s face.
“All is not well, I think,” she murmured.
Her husband cast her a frowning look but made no comment, instead turning his attention back to the groom. “Had you no success? Don’t say there is no blacksmith at this village after all.”
A faint smile twisted Ryde’s lips as he came up. It struck Ottilia as grim. A dour fellow at the best of times, the groom was nevertheless, so Francis assured her, one of his household’s greatest assets. He had served his master from Lord Francis Fanshawe’s earliest years and, like his valet Diplock, had followed him through his soldiering adventures. Ottilia had learned already to trust the man’s judgement.
“There’s a blacksmith, all right, m’lord,” he responded, removing his hat and wiping his hand across his grizzled and sweaty head. “Only he’s dead.”
Ottilia saw renewed vexation leap quickly into Francis’s eyes, and she made an immediate effort to deflect his attention. “Recently, Ryde?”
“Last night, m’lady.”
“Last night?” Francis echoed. “If that isn’t the devil’s own luck.”
“For Duggleby, m’lord, as I hear is the man’s name.” From no other servant would her husband have accepted the implied rebuke, Ottilia knew. She intervened swiftly, knowing his temper to be exacerbated already.
“What happened to him, Ryde?”
“Seems the roof caved in on him, m’lady.”
“Good God,” uttered Francis, startled. “Then the poor fellow was crushed to death?”
“Was it the storm, Ryde?”
A faint twitch attacked the groom’s mouth, and his eye gleamed. Noting these rare signs of amusement, Ottilia waited with burgeoning interest.
“The storm, m’lady, or a witch’s curse, if the villagers are to be believed.”
A spurt of laughter was surprised out of Francis, but Ottilia was intrigued.
“How could that be?”
Ryde shrugged. “I couldn’t make much sense of it, m’lady. Seems this witch claims she saw the roof come down in a vision.”
“Wise after the event, eh?”
“Before, m’lord. By all accounts, this Mrs. Dale gave warning to this Duggleby a couple of days back.”
“And it happened as she said? Sheer luck, no doubt.”
Ottilia put up a finger. “Don’t dismiss it so lightly, Francis. Perhaps the woman has second sight.”
The groom was nodding. “That’s wha
t they say, m’lady. It ain’t the first time as she’s been right.”
“And I daresay the villagers don’t like it?”
“No, m’lady. They say she caused the roof to fall in.”
“Yes,” Ottilia mused, “people are apt to attack what they fear or do not understand.”
“That’s why you spoke of a witch’s curse, Ryde?”
“Yes, m’lord. Only it’s worse than that. Seems the place was set afire. And rumour has it the doctor weren’t satisfied as it was the cave-in as killed the blacksmith. They’re saying he had his head bashed in.”
“But his head must have been damaged by the falling masonry,” objected Francis.
Ottilia’s mind was buzzing. “Do you say someone administered a blow to the man’s head before the roof fell in on him?”
Ryde grimaced. “It’s what the tapster in the tavern told me. Only the constable can’t go arresting the witch because she’s took sanctuary in the vicar’s house.”
A ripple of unholy delight ran through Ottilia. “It sounds the most glorious muddle.”
But her husband’s attention had reverted to their own difficulties. “What the devil are we to do now?”
“Nothing for it but to wait for Williams, m’lord.” Ottilia ignored her husband’s fluent curses and once more claimed the groom’s attention. “Is there a decent hostelry in this village, Ryde?”
“In Witherley, m’lady? But there ain’t no point in going there.”
“Is it a pretty place?” pursued Ottilia, wholly ignoring this rider.
“Tillie, what are you about?”
She heard the suspicious note in Francis’s voice, but she did not answer, merely putting out a hand to enjoin his silence.
The groom looked both puzzled and suspicious, and his answer was brief. “It’s well enough, m’lady.”
“And does it have a decent hostelry?”
The repetition made Ryde frown and cast a glance at his master. Ottilia turned to smile blindingly at her husband. His gaze narrowed a little, but he did not fail her.
“Answer, man.”
Ryde’s patent disapproval increased, but he did as he was bid. “I did see a likely place across the green from the Cock and Bottle.”
“Excellent,” said Ottilia. “Francis, why should we not rest there for a while? You may satisfy your hunger, and I can —”
“Ryde, go and check on the horses,” said Francis, cutting in without apology.
Ottilia gathered her forces while Francis waited until the groom was out of earshot. The moment he turned on her, she caught his hand.
“I know what you are going to say, Fan, but —”
“Tillie, no!”
“— it will be only for an hour or two, and I am excessively thirsty —”
“An hour or two? I know you better than that, my love. And pray don’t give me any fiddle-faddle about thirst and hunger.”
Ottilia released his hand. “Well, but you said you were starving, and I could kill for a cup of coffee.”
“And there you have uttered the operative word. Tillie, I will not have you embroil yourself in this business.”
Ottilia could not suppress a giggle. “Well, I will admit to being intrigued, but I promise you I only mean to satisfy my curiosity.”
“Promise forsooth! Do you take me for a flat? If I allow you to set foot in the place, as sure as check you will be hobnobbing with all and sundry and hunting down this witch.”
“Not necessarily,” objected Ottilia without thinking. “Merely because the villagers are silly enough to fall for a lot of superstitious nonsense does not make the woman guilty.”
Francis threw up his hands. “I knew it! You are going nowhere near the place. Besides, how will you get there?”
“On foot, of course.”
“You’ll walk half a mile or more?”
“I am not made of china, Fan. I was bred in the country, you know.”
“That is all very well, but we are due at Polbrook in a matter of days.”
“Who said anything about days?” said Ottilia mildly. “I was only thinking of remaining there until Williams has found somewhere more suitable.”
“Yes, and when Williams arrives to fetch us, I suppose you will meekly get into the carriage and allow yourself to be driven away just when you have uncovered half a dozen clues to set you on the trail of the murderer? No, Tillie, I know you too well.”
Ottilia smiled at him. “But are you not the teeniest bit curious?”
Her husband’s eyes narrowed, the beloved features growing ever more suspicious. “Don’t waste your cajolery, Tillie, for I am adamant.”
Ottilia blinked rapidly and fetched an elaborate sigh. “I did promise obedience.”
Francis was almost betrayed into a laugh, but he managed to suppress it. “You did. And if I remember rightly, you declared after the business with my family last year that one murder was quite enough for you.”
Mischief flitted across her face, and he could feel his resolve weakening.
“Astonishing, is it not, how one can be mistaken? But although it was all perfectly horrid in the end, you must recall that at the outset I was highly entertained.”
Which was perfectly true, Francis was bound to admit. At the time, his world turned upside down by the discovery of his sister-in-law’s death and his brother’s subsequent disappearance, he had been too upset to think beyond the immediate necessity to handle the aftermath. That very day he had met his future wife, and been grateful thereafter for her calm good sense as she set about uncovering the culprit, and indeed for the playful manner that had done much to lighten those dark days. His heart softened despite himself.
Abruptly, he turned to call to his groom. “Ryde, exactly how far is this Witherley?”
A hand stole into his and squeezed. “An hour or two, no more.”
Francis looked down at his wife. He knew that smile. He groaned inwardly. Let Tillie but get her teeth into this and nothing would serve to bring her away until it was all over. All he could hope was that it would prove but a storm in a teacup.
Stepping into the village tavern for the second time, Aidan was a trifle wary. Last night, led thither by the maid Tabitha once his visitor had been delivered into the hands of his housekeeper, he had done little more than introduce himself, give his condolences to the bereaved family, and say his piece over the body of the dead man.
He had found the doctor in attendance, the blacksmith’s corpse having been brought in and laid upon a long table in the taproom of the Cock and Bottle, an establishment of cheerful aspect at odds with the night’s dismal events. Brasses and copper gleamed off the wooden beams in the candlelight, which was mostly concentrated around the table. There was a wide fireplace, innocent of flame to its piled up logs despite the chill left by the storm, and a collection of wooden settles, in one of which sat a huddle of weeping women and children.
None had questioned Aidan’s presence, but he had sensed a mood of surly suspicion, particularly from the landlord Tisbury and his wife. Nothing was said, but he caught a number of alien looks, the reason for which he very soon found out.
As he had turned for the door, he was accosted by the doctor, who had made himself known by the name of Meldreth.
“Are you for the vicarage, Mr. Kinnerton? My house is in your way. Allow me to accompany you.”
Aidan accepted gracefully and waited by the door while the doctor lingered.
“Have Duggleby’s body conveyed to another room, Tisbury. One with an adequate window, if you please. I must examine him again by daylight on the morrow.”
They left together, and once outside, the doctor paused, his keen glance appraising Aidan from under a grizzled wig. “A word of caution, Mr. Kinnerton.”
Turning, Aidan surveyed him, stiffening a little. “Which is, sir?”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of the doctor’s mouth. “No need to poker up. It is not I who would censure you.”
Relaxing, Aidan return
ed the smile. “The villagers, you mean? There was a degree of sullenness in my reception, I noticed.”
“Yes, they are not pleased. Mrs. Dale was seen to enter your house, you see.”
Aidan frowned. “Mrs. Dale?”
“The young female they believe to be a witch.”
Recalling the maid’s “Miss Cassie,” Aidan was surprised, but he let it go for the moment. “Ah, yes. She warned me there would be repercussions.”
“Worse than she supposes, I’m afraid.”
An interrupted rhythm disturbed Aidan’s pulses. “What do you mean, sir?”
“There is already a move towards blaming Mrs. Dale for Duggleby’s death, but that is merely due to her having seen a vision of the roof coming down.”
“So I understand. But then?”
The doctor hesitated, drawing a sighing breath. “There can be little doubt that Duggleby received a blow to the head before the roof fell in on him.”
A sense of deep foreboding entered Aidan’s breast. “You are saying he was murdered?”
The doctor nodded. “I believe so. I have no choice but to fetch the justice of the peace and call in the constable in the morning.”
“But do you tell me these people will suppose Mrs. Dale to be guilty of striking the man? They cannot be so prejudiced.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid they are, Kinnerton.”
“Then I must scotch such thinking without delay.”
“I should leave it for the morning, if I were you,” suggested Meldreth. “The mood is ugly, and I suspect a drowning of sorrows tonight may make it worse.”
This advice seemed sound to Aidan. Now, in the new day, having swallowed his breakfast and ascertained from his housekeeper that Mrs. Dale — or “Miss Cassie,” as the maid addressed her — was still sleeping, he lost no time in bearding the lions in their den.
The landlord fairly glared as Aidan walked into the taproom. “What be you wanting, Reverend?”
Unsurprised by the bitter note, Aidan regarded the man’s bloated countenance, the red-veined nose and cheeks arguing an unhealthy addiction to the fleshpots and the bottle. The sleeves of his frock coat clung to thick arms, and his waistcoat and breeches slumped over a protruding belly.
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 35
