To Cassie’s astonishment, the pastor laughed out at that. “Useless to tell you that I acted purely on instinct, I daresay.”
“Like Cassie,” said Lady Ferrensby with a smile. “I don’t doubt that.”
The vicar dipped his head. “You may rest assured, ma’am, that no witch hunt will be permitted to run free while I am vicar of this parish. I have made my views known. What is more, I intend to find and reprimand the boys responsible for attacking Mrs. Dale.”
“Excellent. My dependence is all upon you, sir. Good day.” She moved to the door, turning to look at Cassie. “Do try to keep up a modicum of common sense, Cassie. And don’t let the vicar stay too long.”
With which admonishment, she opened the door and swept out of the cottage, leaving Cassie with a burning resentment that found instant expression.
“She does not believe me. She thinks it is all in my mind. And she will not credit how much they hate me! Not that I blame them.”
“Well, I do,” came from the vicar. He moved a little towards her. “I cannot, like Lady Ferrensby, dismiss what I have heard. Nor will I minimise the danger in a bid to spare you pain. You need to know it, so that you will take the greatest care.”
Oddly, Cassie immediately felt less endangered. She was so much accustomed to being contradicted upon the findings of her senses by those who had her best interests at heart. Acceptance was a novel feeling.
“You are an unexpected man, Mr. Kinnerton.”
His lips quivered, and amusement crept into his eyes. “Such an encomium from one with your gifts is equally so.”
Cassie’s world lightened suddenly, and she laughed. “But I don’t see character in people. Only images.”
“Then in that I have the advantage of you. In my profession it is a necessary skill.” He stood back. “I must not stay. Little though I relished her comments, Lady Ferrensby’s reprimand was just.”
He went to the door, and Cassie was conscious of the onset of disappointment. And a resurgence of her earlier suspicions. She obeyed an impulse to delay him.
“Mr. Kinnerton.”
He turned. “My name is Aidan.”
She took it in without pausing for thought. “How was it Lady Ferrensby engaged you?”
Puzzlement showed in his eyes. “It happened she was visiting in the vicinity of my family’s estate. A fortuitous meeting.”
Cassie did not pause to consider her words. “You are unmarried?”
She saw the frown in his eyes, but her need was too urgent for caution.
“Yes. Does it show?”
Cassie gave an impatient shake of her head. “No. How should I see such a thing? But of what degree is your family? Who are they?”
A brittle laugh escaped him. “Why the interrogation, Mrs. Dale?”
The question stopped her tongue. She could not tell him the truth. Nor did she know how to prevaricate. She had never been adept with social rules. Indeed, she’d flouted them so badly it had landed her in this sorry condition, leading a life of lies and deceit. She sought in vain for a way out, blank of mind as she stared at him.
Mr. Kinnerton’s features softened, and a smile came. “You look like an infant caught out in mischief.”
Warmth raced into Cassie’s cheeks. She looked away. “I have no graces. I should not have questioned you.”
He took a hasty step towards her, throwing out a hand. “Don’t look so. It was not meant for a reproach, I assure you.” At that, a sharp sliver cut at her from the well of guilt, and her gaze flew back to meet his. “Then it should have been. I am fit for nothing less.”
She watched in fascination a series of rapid changes in the blue eyes. She could not read them all, but the last struck her strongly. Compassion. His gaze did not leave hers as he came closer. He put out his palm in that odd gesture she recalled from last night, and Cassie automatically gave her hand into his keeping. The clasp was strong.
“I will not take you up on that today, but one day we will talk of it.”
“As a member of your flock?”
He did not flinch. “Yes, if you will. Or as a friend.” He bent, lightly kissed her hand, and turned again for the door. He opened it and looked back. “Don’t go out without your maid for company, I charge you. And have this fellow Hawes remain within hailing distance at all times.”
Then he was gone, and Cassie was left to contemplate the closed door, all the confusions of the previous night rolling back to haunt her.
Chapter 3
Having made a circuit of the green, the Fanshawes arrived at the sizeable establishment to the right, which lay more or less opposite a tavern, where, as Francis surmised, Ryde must have gathered his information.
The Blue Pig was set back from the lane with a cobbled frontage and a drive leading through an archway at the side towards the back, presumably to adjoining stables. Francis led the way along a pathway in the cobbles, and a battered inn sign came into view, indeed depicting a crude blue boar which resembled the homely pig more than a little.
Francis pushed open the heavy wooden entrance door, and Ottilia passed into the shadowy darkness of a substantial hall. It was eerily silent, and her glance took in more stout doors and stalwart wooden posts between the lath walls as Francis shut the main door and moved into the musty space. “House, ho! What, is no one home?”
His shout echoed crazily into the oak beams above, and Ottilia had the oddest prescience of impending doom. She shivered a little.
“Cold?”
She turned and met concern in her husband’s eyes. Ottilia shook her head.
“A little disconcerted, that is all.”
His arm came about her shoulders for a moment. “That is not like you, my love.”
She gave him a quick smile. “It’s nothing. A silly fancy, no more.”
“Not, I trust, concerning ghosts of smothered little princes or a butt of malmsey wine?”
Feeling a degree lighter, Ottilia dutifully laughed. “Nothing so definite.”
Francis released her, his tone sharpening. “You may be pardoned. The place is like a morgue.”
Again, a tiny riffle of unease disturbed Ottilia’s senses, and she remembered the words of Cassie Dale. A man died here last night.
Francis crossed to one of the doors and beat a rapid tattoo upon the wood. “Confound it, where the devil is everybody?”
Ottilia’s ears caught the sound of footsteps somewhere in the recesses behind the walls. “Listen!”
In the silence, the patter of feet grew louder. Ottilia saw Francis turn towards a door at the back. It opened, and a matronly figure bustled into the hall.
“Oh dear, I’m that sorry to have kept you waiting, sir,” said the woman, sounding out of breath, “only we’re all in a pother today.”
She came to a halt before them and dropped a curtsy, peering up at them through the gloom. Her head bobbed towards Ottilia.
“Beg pardon, ma’am, I’m sure. How may I serve you?”
Ottilia forestalled Francis as he opened his mouth to answer. Moving forward, she held out her hand and smiled at the woman.
“I’m afraid we are stranded. Our carriage is broken, and we have no means of continuing our journey. Will you take pity upon us — Mrs. Pakefield, isn’t it?”
The woman looked astonished as she took the proffered hand. “Yes, it is, ma’am, but it beats me how you knew it.”
“We had the pleasure of meeting Miss Beeleigh and Mrs. Radlett on our way here. They kindly directed us to your house.”
Mrs. Pakefield looked gratified. “They’re good souls, both of ’em. But do you say you walked from the post road?”
“Oh, it was no hardship, Mrs. Pakefield. Only I would very much appreciate a glass of lemonade. And then perhaps a cup of coffee.” She interrupted the woman’s murmured assent with a gesture towards Francis. “And my husband — oh, this is my husband, Lord Francis Fanshawe.” Her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and she was able to note with satisfaction the instant star
tled lift to the woman’s head. “My husband would much appreciate a tankard of ale to begin with, but he is excessively hungry.”
“Yes, of course, ma’am — my lady, I should say — I’ll have Cook rustle up a repast in no time.”
“Some ham, perhaps,” said Ottilia, unable to resist throwing a mischievous glance at Francis. His lips quirked, but he said nothing.
Mrs. Pakefield at once launched into a recital of the range of viands at her disposal, ushering the visitors meanwhile through the door on which Francis had previously knocked. The atmosphere at once brightened, and Ottilia looked approvingly around a roomy apartment whose windows let onto the frontage, presenting an excellent view of the green and its environs. The sun streamed in, throwing latticed shadows onto a large round table. There was another long table near the opposite wall beyond the empty hearth, with a bench behind.
“What a pleasant room,” Ottilia said effusively, crossing to look out.
A swift glance took in the tavern opposite, flanked at a little distance by several buildings on each side, a round little grey structure in the middle of the green — a lock-up? — and a row of houses at the far end, at either side of which the divided lane led away. Behind them at a little distance rose a tower that pointed the location of the church. Ottilia could not have hoped for better.
“This is so pretty, with the view and the sun coming in.”
She turned as she spoke to examine the landlady in the better light and was pleased to note the flush of pleasure rising into Mrs. Pakefield’s cheeks.
“Thank you kindly, ma’am.” Crossing to the table, she took hold of a large brass handbell set there and rang it violently, bobbing a curtsy towards Francis. “I’ll fetch Pakefield to you, my lord, for the ale.”
“That will be most welcome,” he said, setting a chair for Ottilia at the round table.
She did not immediately take advantage of the opportunity to sit down, instead fixing her attention on Mrs. Pakefield. There was an anxious look in the woman’s eyes, which Ottilia suspected was not entirely due to the presence of her unexpected guests.
“You look a little dismayed, Mrs. Pakefield,” she ventured.
The landlady visibly pulled herself together. “No, my lady, it’s only... Well, I was wondering... You see, we don’t run to a parlour. But if you’ll make shift with this room, I can see to it that you’re private. We’ve none but the local gentry-folk at this present who come in for coffee each day. Leastways, the ladies do, and Mr. Netherburn if he don’t go across to the Cock. They won’t mind giving it up for once.”
But this would not suit Ottilia in the least. She smiled as she at last took her seat. “Do you mean Mrs. Radlett and Miss Beeleigh? I should not dream of depriving them, Mrs. Pakefield. Besides, I like company, and what in the world should we do with ourselves all alone here until such time as our carriage can be mended?”
Relief flooded the woman’s features. “It’s good of you to say so, my lady. And today of all days. I can’t think as the ladies won’t come in.”
Ottilia caught her husband’s eye briefly as he pulled out a chair for himself and sat down. She allowed her eyelids to flicker a message, and one of his brows went up.
“Yes, we understand this is a difficult day for you all,” he said pleasantly.
Ottilia sighed thankfully and threw him a look meant to convey that she would reward him for this indulgence presently.
Mrs. Pakefield immediately began to look flustered again. “Oh dear, you’ve heard, then? I wouldn’t have spoke of it, sir, only — I mean, my lord —”
“Pray don’t stand upon ceremony,” Ottilia interjected. “So tedious to be forever having to remember such things, do you not find?”
The landlady looked relieved. “Thank you, ma’am. Though I ought to be able to remember, for there’s Lady Ferrensby as is the great lady hereabouts, and Lord Henbury as is justice of the peace, but he’s rickety these days and don’t come into the village that frequent.” Her shoulders jerked suddenly. “Though like as not he’ll be sent for if so be it’s true as Duggleby were killed unlawful-like.”
Mrs. Pakefield then gasped, snatching a hand to her mouth as if she sought to thrust the words back in. Before Ottilia could seize on this cue, the door opened to admit a tall and rather skinny individual with a long face which struck Ottilia as appropriately lugubrious.
The landlady turned with obvious relief. “Pakefield, here’s visitors as has had their coach broke. This here’s my husband, my lady.”
In the act of approaching, the landlord halted, his jaw dropping. “My lady?”
“It’s Lord Francis Fanshawe and his good lady, Pakefield.”
The man’s eyes went from one to the other, but his jaw remained slack. Ottilia cast a look at her husband, and he at once rose to the occasion.
“Ah, Pakefield, in good time. I will be obliged if you can furnish my wife with a glass of lemonade and a tankard of your finest ale for myself.”
The landlord looked once more at the visitors and then stared blankly at his wife. Ottilia saw the woman dig an elbow roughly into the fellow’s ribs, and he winced.
“Get you gone, Pakefield,” she prompted in an audible undertone. “Ale for the gentleman and lemonade for the lady. Be quick now.”
His wife’s urging seemed to affect the landlord, for he nodded several times, still apparently bemused, and then turned for the door. Mrs. Pakefield’s manner became apologetic.
“He’s that put about, ma’am, what with all the excitement. I hope you’ll forgive it.”
Ottilia leapt on the refreshed opportunity. “By all means. You are speaking of your blacksmith, I daresay. I gather there are suspicions that the poor fellow was murdered?”
The word acted powerfully upon the landlady. Her face went white, and she swayed alarmingly. Ottilia rose, but Francis was before her, seizing a chair and thrusting it behind the woman in time for her to sit down plump upon its caned seat.
“I am so very sorry,” said Ottilia, leaning over the woman and taking up one of her slack hands. “I shocked you, Mrs. Pakefield.”
The landlady shook her head numbly. “I never thought of it ’til you said it. To think of such a happening in our village. Murder!”
“It is a horrid word,” Ottilia agreed gently, chafing the woman’s hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted Francis slipping quietly out of the room into the hall and interpreted his departure as tacit permission for her to pursue her investigations. Or else he placed little trust in the reliability of the landlord to fulfil his needs without prompting, which seemed only too likely.
She released Mrs. Pakefield’s hand and drew her chair closer, with the intention of creating an atmosphere of intimacy.
“Come, Mrs. Pakefield, I wish you will unburden yourself. You may speak freely to me, I promise you.”
The tone had its effect. A little colour returned to the woman’s cheeks, and she sat up straighter in the chair.
“It’s a dreadful business, my lady, what with Duggleby buried in the wreckage and all the men digging to fetch him out.”
“It seems there is a neighbourly spirit in your village, Mrs. Pakefield.”
The landlady seemed dubious. “What else could anyone do? Not but what half of them hadn’t had their differences with Duggleby. A surly, disobliging man he was, and I don’t care who hears me say so. But I’d take my oath no one in the village were that much his enemy as to take a hammer to his head.”
“Yet it appears someone did so.”
“So Molly Tisbury says. Not that I’d believe nothing she said, for a worse fibster you couldn’t hope to meet.”
Ottilia’s mind was already afire. There was enmity enough to be sought for, it would seem. But she wasted no time in idle comment. At any moment, Mrs. Pakefield might recollect her place and clam up.
“Who is Molly Tisbury?”
The woman’s head came up at that, and there was malice in her eyes. “Runs the tavern over yonder, where they t
ook and brought Duggleby last night. Not that there’s need for her to crow over that, for I’d not have had the brute on no table in my coffee room, that I can swear to. And if she thought to make me jealous by such a boast, she knows by now she’s disappointed.”
It was evident to Ottilia that a lively rivalry existed between the two public houses, despite their different functions in the area. It was not hard to seek a reason, for it was obvious that while the Blue Pig catered for the genteel part of the population, the greater part must of necessity patronise the Cock and Bottle. It did not take much imagination to perceive how jealousies might arise in either bosom. Ottilia made a mental note to send her husband off as soon as she could to glean what he might at the more common tavern. And to find out where the body was now.
“Was Duggleby found dead where he lay, do you know, or did he die later?”
“He were dead in the forge,” sighed the landlady. “The wonder is the whole place weren’t burnt to a cinder.” She drew in a sharp breath. “Which is as well, for I daresay it wouldn’t have took much for them devils to fling poor Mrs. Dale into the flames instead of setting the boys on to stoning her.”
“Dear me,” said Ottilia. “I had not heard about the stoning. I must say she did not look very much like a witch to me.”
Bewilderment wreathed Mrs. Pakefield’s features. “You’ve seen her?”
“I met her at the smithy a little while ago.”
“She went in there, did she?” Shaking her head, the landlady tutted. “She’d have done better to have stayed away.”
Ottilia brought her ruthlessly back to the point. “How widespread is this belief that the poor creature is a witch, Mrs. Pakefield?”
The landlady’s features formed into a glare. “Ignorance, that’s what it is. Not that I’d expect nothing less from as silly a female as you could hope to meet.”
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 38
