The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “Molly Tisbury?” Ottilia guessed.

  “Yes, and if it don’t show how fitted she is for her station, I don’t know what does. She’s the ringleader.”

  “Indeed? And how many is she leading?” asked Ottilia, unfailingly persistent.

  “All of ’em, far as I can see,” snapped the landlady. “Can the girl help it if she’s got the sight? To think that creature dared to dictate to me in my own home, saying as I should turn the poor young thing away from my door and refuse to serve her. As if I would!”

  Ottilia played an ace. “How fortunate you are not among those who choose to persecute her. She must be glad of your sympathy.”

  Mrs. Pakefield looked a little uncomfortable at this. “Well, she don’t come in often. She ain’t what you’d call one of them as seek society, Mrs. Dale ain’t. A bit of a loner, she is.”

  “Well, if she is shunned by half the countryside, that is scarcely surprising,” said Ottilia tartly before she could stop herself.

  The landlady flushed, and her tone sharpened. “I’ve said as I ain’t one of them, ma’am.”

  “Good gracious, of course not,” Ottilia said at once in a conciliatory tone, trying to retrieve her slip. “I was rather thinking of such persons as Molly Tisbury and her ilk.”

  The glare returned to the landlady’s face. “Yes, well, she may change her tune soon enough. Seems the Almighty has produced a new champion in Reverend Kinnerton, and by all accounts he ain’t best pleased. I hope he thunders at ’em from the pulpit come Sunday.”

  This was intriguing, to say the least, but Ottilia let it alone for the moment. She was anxious to learn more of Cassie Dale.

  “What of Mrs. Dale’s husband?”

  “Dead. Leastways, she came here a widow. Tragic it is, for she can’t be much more than eighteen. Though it don’t show in her manner, for she’s one as talks as if an old head were on her shoulders. And she’s prickly, if you know what I mean.”

  With which Ottilia could not but agree, though she refrained from saying so. “If she is regarded in such an unfriendly light, that is natural, do you not think?”

  Mrs. Pakefield frowned. “Yes, but that’s not it, ma’am. You can’t pass the time of day with her like most folks. She’s apt to go off random-like in the midst of talking, as if her thoughts are out of tune with her speaking.”

  Which did not come as much of a surprise. Small wonder the villagers found her out of place. Oddities of conduct combined with second sight? A recipe for disaster. Ottilia was conscious of a lively desire to see more of Cassie Dale.

  “Where does Mrs. Dale live?”

  Mrs. Pakefield sighed. “She’s in the last of the cottages up by the river.”

  “You mean the ones we passed as we came into the village?”

  “That’s right, ma’am.”

  Satisfied, Ottilia sought another point of information. Rising, she crossed to the window. “Is that a lock-up in the middle of the green, Mrs. Pakefield?”

  Mrs. Pakefield shivered. “A nasty old place it is. Not much used, thank goodness. To my mind, it had ought to be demolished. It’s like a well in there after the rain, damp and smelly, not to speak of the rats.”

  “Though your village is otherwise very pretty, Mrs. Pakefield,” soothed Ottilia. “And you appear to have everything you need. Is that a shop?” She pointed to the building nearest to the Cock and Bottle.

  “Uddington’s, that is.”

  “Might one obtain such items as soap and tooth powder there, do you think?” She saw a hopeful look creep into the landlady’s eyes and hastened to build it up. “There is no saying how long it may take our coachman to find someone to effect a repair, and our groom cannot leave the carriage unattended to bring our luggage here.”

  Mrs. Pakefield was rubbing her hands. “Never you fret, my lady. If so be as you need anything, you’ve only to ask. And you’ll find all such necessities at Uddington’s. He’s an odd one is Uddington. Keeps himself to himself, so to speak. Getting on in years he is now, but he’s a good sort of man in his way and does the best he can.”

  Devoutly trusting that Francis would raise no serious objections to remaining overnight, Ottilia thanked the woman, making a mental note to pay a visit to the village shop before the day was out. Although no doubt she might trust Mrs. Pakefield’s servants to clean off the dirt adhering to the hems of her petticoats and to clean her husband’s boots.

  The door opened, and Francis himself came in, bearing a tray upon which reposed a tankard, a jug, and a large tumbler. Mrs. Pakefield, reminded of her duties, exclaimed, moving swiftly to relieve him of his burden.

  “Beg pardon, my lord. You should’ve let Pakefield bring it.”

  Ottilia watched her husband’s practised smile appear. “I fear your spouse is still a trifle overcome by these sad events.”

  The landlady set the tray down and lifted the jug. “It’s upset the whole village, my lord.” And to Ottilia, “Beg pardon, my lady. I should have seen to your needs instead of standing here gossiping.”

  “I cannot accuse you of that, Mrs. Pakefield,” Ottilia said gently. “In your place, I should have been as much discomposed.”

  The woman dropped a curtsy. “It’s kind of you to say so, my lady. But I’d best go and see to finding something to satisfy his lordship’s hunger. I’m that put about to have kept you waiting, my lord. It shan’t be long.”

  With which, she hurried to the door and disappeared through it. Ottilia took a sip of her lemonade and realised she was excessively thirsty. For several moments, her whole attention was concentrated upon downing the contents of the tumbler. When she emerged, she found Francis’s amused eye on her and laughed.

  “There is no need to look at me like that. I daresay you did much the same with your first tankard.”

  He grinned. “Wretch. How came you to guess that this is my second?”

  “You’ve been gone too long.” She reached out her hand, and his fingers curled around it. “Not that I object, for I have been most usefully employed, pumping Mrs. Pakefield. How did you fare with the husband?”

  Francis lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it before releasing her. “Not as well as you, I suspect. The fellow seems to have been knocked sideways. Besides having a disposition to regard everything he discloses in the most pessimistic light.”

  She laughed. “I rather gathered as much from his aspect. What had he to say about this business?”

  As she sipped at her second glass, she listened to Francis’s unvarnished account of the accident, if it was one. None had doubted as much to begin with, the landlord had told him, until the doctor had expressed his dissatisfaction.

  “However, the doctor was merely overheard last night telling the vicar of his suspicion, and you know how village gossip spreads. It may prove a complete fabrication.”

  Ottilia eyed him. “Are you saying that only to put me off?”

  Francis raised his brows at her. “After my feat at the smithy? I am resigned to allowing you a few more hours.”

  Relieved, she laughed. “I shall need them, I fear. But that is excellent, for I have a task for you.”

  He groaned. “Don’t tell me. I utterly refuse to go on any wild-goose chase on an empty stomach.”

  “As if I would ask it of you.”

  “Indeed? My experience of you in the mode of hunting down a murderer leads me to expect the worst.”

  Ottilia took refuge in her lemonade. His tone was teasing, but she was guiltily aware of having already planned to impose upon him unmercifully. This was hardly the moment to disclose that she believed they might be obliged to stay the night. With the hope of distracting him, she seized upon an item in his narrative that niggled at the back of her mind. “Did Mr. Pakefield say anything else about the vicar?”

  Francis frowned. “No. Why?”

  “Because I suspect he may be pertinent. Mrs. Pakefield spoke of him as a champion sent by the Almighty.”

  “A champion of whom?”


  “The witch.”

  Light dawned in his features. “Ah, that explains it. I thought the fellow muttered something along those lines.”

  “What, pray?”

  “The witch took sanctuary in the vicarage, as we heard, but did not come out until morning, although her maid did. The village, according to Pakefield, feels this to be the devil at work again, tempting a man of God to evil.”

  With his hunger satisfied by the consumption of several large slices of an excellent pigeon pie in addition to the promised ham, the jaundiced view Francis had taken of events proved evanescent, and he was fully able to appreciate the necessity — expressed, to his amusement, with an excessive amount of charm by his darling wife — to gauge the temper of the local populace. Nor, since Tillie could not with decorum frequent the taproom of the local tavern, had it taken much persuasion for him to agree to do his part. The quicker the facts were uncovered, the sooner Francis might get her away from the place.

  His ingenuity had not been to any degree tested. He had pointedly ignored the curious looks which must be accorded to any stranger in such an out-of-the-way place, merely ordering a tankard and taking an opportunity to engage the tapster in conversation.

  “You’ve had a deal of excitement here, I take it.”

  “Aye, we have that, sir,” the man responded, and then he frowned a little. “But how you got to know it has me beat.”

  “I am staying with my wife at the Blue Pig,” Francis informed him pleasantly. “My carriage broke down.”

  This piece of news appeared to interest the tapster unduly. “Broke a wheel, sir?”

  “The axletree.”

  “Ah. ’Tis a pity as poor Mr. Duggleby been and took dead, then, for he’d have had it put together in no time.”

  A heavy sigh accompanied this pronouncement. Recognising his cue, Francis bethought him of his wife and did his duty.

  “The blacksmith, do you mean? I hear the roof fell in on him.”

  “Aye, it did that, sir. And the devil’s own job it be to dig him out.”

  “I imagine so,” Francis agreed. “From what I saw at the smithy, it must have taken a deal of work and many hands.”

  The tapster blinked. “You seen it, then, sir?”

  “On the way in. There seems to have been something of a fire, too.”

  “Aye, blazing it be when we brung him out, only the storm done for that soon enough.”

  Francis kept his tone carefully casual. “I daresay it was inevitable, what with the fire going in the forge.”

  A puzzled look crept into the tapster’s features, and he leaned confidentially across the counter. “That be the funny thing, sir. The fire be over where Duggleby lay, but there bain’t no path of flame to the forge which be out already, the bellows being still. Master Tisbury says as how the flames must’ve jumped by the roof afore it come down.”

  Or perhaps, as Tillie had surmised, someone had taken a burning piece of tinder and deliberately set alight the area around the body. Which thought reminded Francis of his second task.

  “Pakefield said your Master Tisbury had the smith brought here last night.”

  “In this very taproom, aye. Master thought as it bain’t right to leave Duggleby lying in the smithy, with the roof down and all.”

  “That was well thought of. Though I confess I am relieved the body has been removed.”

  This produced a snigger, and the tapster went so far as to wink. “It be old Pa Wagstaff as said he hoped as he bain’t expected to take his drink along o’ the dead, seeing as he bain’t minded yet to join Duggleby in the next world.”

  “One can scarcely blame him,” said Francis with a smile, noting the nod in the direction of an ancient sitting on a bench near the fireplace. He looked to be a fixture, and his aged gaze, still keen, had more than once flickered in Francis’s direction.

  “Aye, but it be nowt to do with old Pa as made Master set the body over to back of the house.”

  “This house?”

  The tapster nodded. “Have him took to another room, says the doctor, for as he’d to look at Duggleby by daylight.”

  Francis caught the whiff of gossip in the fellow’s voice and looked a question. The tapster cast a glance around the watching patrons, leaned over the counter, and lowered his voice.

  “I heard the doc say as how he bain’t satisfied as to how Duggleby died.”

  “You heard it?” repeated Francis, rejoiced to have discovered so readily the source of the rumour.

  The tapster nodded, his eyes alight. “I heard him say as it be a hammer to Duggleby’s head afore the roof come down. He be talking to the new reverend.”

  The door to the hallway opened, and Francis looked round as the tapster glanced up.

  “Here be the reverend now, sir.”

  The fellow began to move away, but Francis held up a hand. “One moment. Has the doctor been here today to look at the body?”

  If the tapster was surprised at the question, he did not show it, but nodded, his attention focused on the newcomer, who was coming towards the counter.

  “He come early, but told Master to leave Duggleby where he be. He’ve gone off to fetch Lord Henbury as be justice of the peace, and Pilton, which be constable hereabout.”

  With which, the fellow moved to where the parson now stood, and Francis shifted his position, eyeing the man even as he racked his brains for a means to introduce Tillie into the room where the corpse lay.

  The vicar was a slim-featured gentleman with a serious expression and a pair of startlingly blue eyes. The black garb and clerical collar proclaimed his calling, and he spoke with a quiet assurance that instantly drew Francis’s interest. “Will? Is Tisbury here?”

  “In the back, Reverend. Shall I fetch him to you?”

  “If you please.”

  The tapster disappeared through a doorway behind the counter, and the vicar stood back, glancing around the taproom. He met Francis’s eye briefly but made no comment, instead focusing his gaze upon a bench flanking the fireplace.

  “What you done with that there witch, Reverend? Time to set up the faggots, be it?”

  A high-pitched cackle accompanied this challenge, and Francis turned to find the comment emanated from the old country fellow stigmatised as Pa Wagstaff. A smoking clay pipe was in his fingers, and he sported a greasy smock and a battered hat.

  The vicar nodded towards him. “I’ll thank you not to jest upon such a subject, Mr. Wagstaff.”

  The ancient sniggered the more and waved his pipe. “And I’ll thankee if’n you be minded to take a stick to my fool daughter, Reverend.”

  Before the parson had a chance to respond, the tapster returned with a portly individual whose unprepossessing countenance took on a discontented expression the instant his eyes fell on the vicar.

  “Oh, it be you, Reverend. What be you wanting this time?”

  A slight edge entered the vicar’s voice. “I shall be obliged, Tisbury, if you will furnish me with the names of the village boys.”

  The landlord scowled. “What, all on ’em?”

  “All who may answer to the charge of stoning Mrs. Dale.”

  The fellow Tisbury looked recalcitrant. “How’s I to know which on ’em done it?”

  Francis watched the blue eyes set steady upon the landlord’s face. “Yet I am certain you do know.”

  No response being forthcoming, the vicar glanced again around the tavern. Francis saw a swift shifting among the assembled men, all but the aged Wagstaff refusing to meet the vicar’s eyes.

  “They won’t none on ’em tell you, Reverend,” said this worthy, who seemed to find every one of his own utterances matter for mirth. “What’ll you do, dust they jackets for ’em?”

  The parson ignored him, turning back instead to the landlord. “Have you boys of your own, Tisbury?”

  “Mine’s growed,” returned the man, his tone sullen.

  “And are they good citizens?”

  “Only be one, and he be ’prenticed
.”

  “Excellent. Now, which boys do I look for on this occasion?”

  Tisbury scowled the more. “If’n you want the ringleaders, you best try Staxton’s boys. Lawless little varmints they be.”

  “I thank you.”

  The vicar turned to go, but at that moment, the door opened again and a burly fellow came in, attired in rough homespuns.

  “Here be Staxton himself,” pronounced the landlord.

  The man who had entered halted abruptly, his glance going from the landlord behind the counter to the vicar, who was facing him. Francis heard a collective intake of breath and looked more closely at the fellow Staxton, taking in the raw and ruddy cheeks and a look of fierce defiance in a pair of bloodshot eyes. It struck him the village was chock-full of bad-tempered men. Or was it due to the happenings of the hour?

  “Farmer Staxton?”

  The man stood his ground, his frowning gaze fixed on the vicar. “Reverend?”

  The parson unexpectedly held out his hand. “We have not met. I am Kinnerton.”

  The farmer looked at the hand, wiped his own against his breeches in a gesture Francis took to be both habitual and unconscious, and shook it.

  “Saw you last night, Reverend,” said Staxton, his voice a low growl.

  Kinnerton smiled. “Indeed? I regret I could not take in all the faces.”

  A faint twitch of the man’s lips might be taken for an attempt at a smile. “It ’ud take a tidy good memory.”

  “True.” The vicar fell back a step. “Staxton, I need your help.”

  “Aye?”

  “Do you know any of the boys who threw stones at Mrs. Dale last night?”

  There was a perceptible pause. Francis saw the man’s eyes flicker. Deciding whether to lie? Then he nodded briefly.

  “Aye.”

  “Will you furnish me with their names, if you please?”

  This time the man’s chin came up, but he did not hesitate. “Bart, Josh, and Abe. T’other two be only followers.”

  Francis watched Kinnerton’s face with intense concentration. Not a muscle shifted, and the blue eyes remained steady on Staxton’s own.

  “I thank you. Where may I find them?”

  “Over to the farm. My boys they be.”