“Well, what the deuce has it to do with her, hey? Who is the woman?”
“This is Lady Francis Fanshawe, my lord. The vicar presented her, if you remember. She has been examining the body.”
Lord Henbury turned his choleric eye upon Ottilia. “Think it’s a peep show, hey? The man’s dead. Don’t need silly females gawping at him!”
Noting her spouse’s gathering frown, Ottilia put a staying hand on his arm and dropped her voice as she addressed the doctor.
“I must leave you to explain my advent, sir, though I fear his lordship will be horribly shocked. You, too, perhaps?”
Meldreth smiled. “On the contrary, Lady Francis. I am rather astonished at your level of interest in anatomy.”
“Dear me. Do you credit us females with wishing to know nothing beyond the frivolous?”
He laughed. “Not if I am to judge by Lady Ferrensby, whose brain is as good as any man’s. Nor, I may add, by Miss Beeleigh. She is renowned for poking — I mean, interesting herself —”
“Poking her nose into matters better suited to the male of the species? Yes, I gathered as much from her discourse. But you cannot accuse Mrs. Radlett of being other than feminine.”
“No, indeed,” he agreed, laughing. “I see you have the measure of our little community already.”
Ottilia could not answer, for Lord Henbury was making noises indicative of his impatience which became too vociferous to be ignored.
“Damme, I won’t have it! All this talk of murder. Who the devil would want to murder the blacksmith, I’d like to know? Don’t make sense. Besides, roof fell in on him.”
“True, my lord, but —”
Meldreth got no further, for Francis intervened, his voice redolent with scorn and raised more in annoyance, Ottilia suspected, than simply to be heard.
“My dear sir, if that is all you know, you have been told less than the truth. It is not merely a matter of the body’s condition. There is more, if you will take the trouble to examine the smithy.”
“What do you mean, Lord Francis?” asked the doctor. “I intend to take Lord Henbury there shortly, but I cannot say I noticed anything untoward myself.”
To Ottilia’s delight, her spouse instantly gave an enthusiastic account of their visit to the blacksmith’s forge and what he had spotted there.
“None with the slightest degree of common sense could suppose that beam came down only with the storm,” he finished. “It has been hacked through. Someone wanted to be very sure the roof fell in."
“Balderdash,” snapped the elderly justice of the peace, apparently having had no difficulty in hearing what was said. “Wouldn’t hold up in a court of law. And if the matter is brought before me, I shall dismiss it out of hand.”
Seeing her spouse’s cheeks darken with unaccustomed ire, Ottilia risked all on a single throw.
“Oh, surely not, my lord,” she said pleasantly, pronouncing her words distinctly and at a level generally reserved for distance. “I cannot believe you would suffer an innocent female to be harmed in this cause.”
Lord Henbury stared at her as if she was out of her senses. “Hey? What the deuce are you talking of, woman?”
“I am talking of Mrs. Dale.”
“Dale, hey? You don’t mean that flibberty little thing Lady Ferrensby brought here? What’s she got to do with it?”
“The villagers are blaming her, my Lord Henbury. They say she is responsible for Duggleby’s death.”
“Hey? Hey?” Henbury blinked confusedly and fastened his gaze upon the doctor. “That so, Meldreth?”
“Yes, my lord. It is indeed so. Mrs. Dale was stoned by the village boys last night in retribution.”
“Stoned? Stoned? Never heard such flummery. Why should anyone do that?”
“Because,” said the doctor patiently, “they think she killed Duggleby by witchcraft.”
Lord Henbury stared at him for a moment in silence. Then he exploded.
“Mad! Mad as March hares, the lot of them. Well, I won’t have it.” He turned on the luckless constable. “What the deuce are you doing standing there, Pilton? Do your duty, man. Arrest them! Throw them into the lock-up.”
The constable blinked confusedly. “What, them boys, my lord? Or did you mean —?”
“You cannot expect the poor man to arrest half the village,” Ottilia cut in, prompted to action again. “And I believe Reverend Kinnerton is dealing with the boys.”
“I’ll not have it, I tell you.”
Ottilia pointedly ignored her husband, whose anger, by his shaking shoulders, had given way to an emotion far more contagious.
“No one could expect it of you, sir. But would it not be a far better solution to demonstrate conclusively that some other party had done the deed?”
Lord Henbury looked struck, but he entered a caveat. “How is that to be done?”
“I believe, Lord Henbury, you are about to examine the body.”
“Ha! Yes, that’s right.” The old man turned on Meldreth. “What the devil are you waiting for, Meldreth? Get on, do. Lead me to the fellow’s remains.”
The doctor, to his credit, did no more than cast up his eyes before turning for the door. But Ottilia put out a hand to detain his lordship.
“After that, Lord Henbury, my husband will go with you to the smithy and show you the very beam of which he has just been telling you.”
The old man threw a glance at Francis and nodded in a pleased way, just as if he had not previously refused to entertain the notion of discovering anything amiss at the forge.
“Capital! Wait there for me, young fellow. Won’t be more than a jiffy. Now, Meldreth, I’m with you. Pilton, wait here!”
The constable, who had made to follow, fell back with a sigh. Her interest aroused, Ottilia waited only until the two gentlemen had vanished into the house before bestowing one of her friendly smiles upon the man.
“You are the village constable?”
The fellow started. Turning, he snatched off his slouch hat and touched his forelock. “Aye, m’am. Pilton be the name, m’am.”
“Were you well acquainted with Duggleby, Mr. Pilton?” A flush spread across the young man’s face at being thus addressed. Ottilia hid her satisfaction and waited.
“Not to say well, m’am, being as I be over towards Atherstone way. Nor I’ve nowt by way of business with him, having no horse.”
“I see. Yet you knew him, as you must know all in the village, holding such an important post.”
The young man’s chest swelled a touch, and his chin went up. “Aye, ’tis true as I’d to keep tally of who came and went. Not as we be great folk for travelling like.”
“Just so,” agreed Ottilia and urged his attention back to the matter at hand. “What did you think of Duggleby? I have heard he could be a difficult man at times.”
Pilton nodded, pursing his lips. “He’d a temper on him, m’am, that’s a fact. Nor he didn’t like none argufying with him.”
“Was it anyone in particular who argued with him?”
The constable chewed his lower lip. “Not as you’d say argue. ’Cepting Farmer Staxton. Fit to argufy with anyone for nowt, he be.” He brightened suddenly. “Then there be Tisbury over to Cock.”
Ottilia’s ears pricked up. “Indeed? I understood Tisbury and Duggleby were friends.”
“Aye, that they be right enough. Only old Jeremiah Wagstaff, as is Mrs. Tisbury’s dad, he goes for to crack a joke agin Duggleby like he do one an’ all and no one don’t take no mind.”
“But Duggleby did mind, I surmise,” Francis put in.
“Like a bear he minded, sir,” agreed the constable, turning with obvious relief to talk to a fellow male. “Said as he’d haul off an’ poke Pa Wagstaff in the eye if’n he didn’t shut it, and danged if the old man bain’t more’n seventy!”
Pilton then became a trifle crimson about the gills, casting an apologetic look at Ottilia. She smiled encouragingly.
“What was the joke?”
&nb
sp; The constable’s colour intensified, and he threw an imploring look at Francis, who gave her a questioning glance. Suspecting some sort of amorous innuendo, Ottilia returned an infinitesimal nod.
“Come, Pilton, you need not be shy,” said Francis. “Her ladyship is more than seven, and she will not take offence.”
Clearing his throat, the constable kept his eyes firmly on the less intimidating male, and his voice was gruff. “Well, see, it be this way, sir. Duggleby were ranting as how he be as good a man nor any who set foot in the Pig, and Pa Wagstaff said as how Duggleby had ought to go a-courting the witch widow if’n he’d a mind to set himself up a gentleman. Duggleby said as how he weren’t courting no one for as he be a married man, and Pa said as how that bain’t stopped him afore.”
“And Duggleby took it ill?” Francis suggested.
“Sore as a gumboil he be. And Mrs. Tisbury got mad an’ shrieks on hubby to protect her pa. And Tisbury yells his head off at Duggleby, and before you knows it, the two on ’em be at it hammer and tongs.”
“Fisticuffs?”
Pilton’s eyes were alight with the age-old male love of watching a pitched battle, and he forgot Ottilia’s presence in his enthusiasm.
“Bain’t never nothing like it, sir. Place was full an’ all, and the two on ’em heaving and shoving like giants and crashing the furniture. And then Mrs. Tisbury sets up a screech for the breakages and yells at the men to lay hold on both. But none didn’t pay no mind, what with old Pa Wagstaff cackling into his pipe and everyone shouting odds on one or t’other.”
Ottilia, following the tale with a mind crackling with conjecture and a lively image of the scene, was grateful to Francis for asking the question in her head, fearing Pilton would cease his enlivening tale if she intervened.
“Odds? You mean they were laying wagers upon the outcome?”
“Aye, sir. An’ old Pa Wagstaff egging them on.”
“I hardly dare ask what was the outcome.”
Pilton’s features registered disappointment. “It come to nothing in the end, for Mrs. Tisbury up and seized one of the brasses off the wall and dashed Duggleby’s head.”
“Ah. He fell senseless, I suppose?”
“Aye.” The constable nodded. “Likewise Tisbury, for her served him just the same, no matter he be her husband. They do say as neither spoke a word to t’other nigh a se’nnight after.”
Ottilia caught Francis’s questioning eye and at last spoke out. “When did this happen, Mr. Pilton?”
The constable started, and a bashful look came over his features as he became once more alert to her presence. He squeezed his hat in one nervous hand.
“It were near a month gone, m’am.”
Ottilia digested this. “But lately Tisbury and the blacksmith have returned to their former friendly relations?”
Pilton looked dubious, his embarrassment dissipating in interest. “I wouldn’t say as how it be forgot. I seen both on ’em scowl one at t’other if’n any mentioned about it.”
“You mean there were those who dared?”
“Oh, don’t tell me,” uttered Francis, grinning. “Pa Wagstaff?”
“Aye, sir. But Pakefield had his say on it once or twice. Nor Mr. Uddington didn’t scruple to speak his piece.”
Both men having their own reasons to throw jibes, no doubt, thought Ottilia. She sought to clarify a point.
“Do you know if Pakefield and Uddington directed their comments at Duggleby rather than Tisbury?”
The constable considered this. “I’d say as Mr. Uddington did. But Pakefield has took a powerful dislike to Tisbury, being as the Cock do better nor the Pig.”
This piece of information tallied nicely with what Ottilia had already learned. She also recalled the interesting piece of information offered by Mrs. Radlett concerning Uddington’s wife and the blacksmith. It began to seem that a number of persons had an interest in pointing the finger elsewhere. How convenient to have Cassie the witch so neatly to hand.
Chapter 6
For the first few moments after Ottilia stepped through the portal of the unremarkable emporium serving the general needs of Witherley’s inhabitants, she made a play of examining its wares, while she took stock of its owner.
Mr. Uddington was a man with a shock of white hair, worn tied back at the nape of his neck, which perhaps made him appear older than his years. He did not come forward immediately upon the tinkle of the bell above the door signalling Ottilia’s entrance, and she wondered if, like Lord Henbury, he was hard of hearing.
She moved into the shop, casting her eye over the shelves, which were stacked to bursting, and the two large counters boasting a collection of drawers beneath and a plethora of goods on top, juxtaposed one against another with little heed as to type or symmetry. Mr. Uddington’s head was bent over a large ledger set on a sloping desk at which he was seated, perched upon a high stool.
Ottilia forbore to draw attention to herself, preferring to shift quietly along the nearest counter while she surreptitiously took the merchant in. Her eye fell cursorily upon an open tray of coloured gloves, a collection of quill pens, several fancy knots of ribbon spilling from a casket, and a selection of brooch pins in a glass case.
Meanwhile she had time to take in that Mr. Uddington was a lanky specimen, rather on the lines of Pakefield at the Blue Pig, but without the latter’s dour aspect. This man had an air of gentility, and Ottilia immediately surmised he had come down in the world and found himself betwixt and between in the limited society of Witherley.
Before she had a chance to pursue this thought, Mr. Uddington suddenly looked up, as at some untoward movement. He saw Ottilia and instantly set down his pen.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, ma’am. I did not hear the bell.”
“It makes no matter,” she said and waited as he slipped off the stool and came forward, peering at her over the top of a pair of gold pince-nez.
“How may I serve you, ma’am?”
It was then evidently borne in upon him that he was addressing a stranger, for he lifted his head sharply, surveying her instead through the glass of his spectacles. A look of gratification spread across his rather pasty complexion.
“Oh! You will be Lady Francis Fanshawe. Or am I wrong?”
Ottilia laughed. “Dear me. My fame goes before me, does it, Mr. Uddington?”
A sad little smile turned up the corners of the man’s mouth, thinned by age — or sorrow perhaps?
“Nothing occurs in this village but that everyone is instantly aware of it, my lady.”
“I can readily believe it.” Giving him a smile, she added, “You will have heard, then, that we are stranded and in the expectation of having to remain for a day or two.”
“I had so heard, my lady.” The pince-nez came down, and Mr. Uddington regarded her over the top of them, like a schoolmaster with an errant pupil. “Also that you are taking an interest in the unfortunate demise of our blacksmith.”
Ottilia raised her brows, and her tone was cool. “You do not approve?”
He gave an unconvincing shrug. “It is not my place to question your ladyship’s actions.”
“Yet you wonder at my interference.”
Uddington pursed his lips. “Since you press me, my lady, I must confess that I do.”
Ottilia brought out her big guns. “Then you possibly have not yet been apprised, Mr. Uddington, of Lord Henbury’s having placed his confidence in my ability to track down the murderer.”
That this was paltering with the truth she did not allow to weigh with her. She had decided on her tactics in a brief colloquy with her spouse before he left her at Uddington’s door, having escorted her thither while the doctor and Lord Henbury had gone on ahead towards the smithy, with Pilton in tow.
“You’re going to regret having involved Henbury,” Francis had said the moment the others were out of earshot. “He’ll drive you as demented as your godmother did.”
“Yes, but we need him,” Ottilia returned. “He has the only
real authority. ”
Francis cocked an eyebrow. “If you are hoping he will grant you carte blanche as I did, my love, I fear you are doomed to disappointment.”
Ottilia could not but agree. “Yet if he is seen to be involved, I may very well persuade those I wish to question that his lordship has sanctioned my activities.”
Her husband’s smile was wry. “Yes, I’ve no doubt you will take whatever unscrupulous measures you wish to get your own way.”
Seized by a qualm of conscience, Ottilia set her hands against his chest. “Your indulgence will be rewarded, Fan, I promise you.”
He covered her hands with his own. “I’m delighted to know it, but I am obliged to confess I shall find it a wrench to walk away myself at this juncture.”
“Ah, now that you have discovered your own investigative powers?” she teased.
“Precisely. If I thought I could pit my wits against yours, I might well set a challenge to beat you at your own game.”
“Might you indeed?”
He laughed. “If, I said. But as I have no confidence in my ability to outthink your fearsome intelligence, my Lady Fan, I prefer to work with you rather than against you. Besides, together we may do the job faster and remove the sooner from a place I am speedily coming to loathe.”
“I fully sympathise,” said Ottilia, choosing the part of prudence. Yet she lost no time in turning it to good account, becoming brisk. “By the by, while you are showing that detestable old man your ingenious find, don’t forget the rope. Oh, and it occurred to me there might be advantage in raking through the ash in the forge.”
“What for?”
“The remains of a hammer, perhaps?”
Francis stared. “You can’t suppose the murderer was so idiotic as to try to burn the thing?”
“Even the cleverest people can be amazingly stupid, do you not find?” countered Ottilia.
Her spouse laughed. “Very well. But is he so clever?”
“Oh, without doubt. What sort of mind does it take, do you think, to plan a revenge with intent to ensure that any number of persons have motive enough to be guilty, in addition to throwing general suspicion upon a single individual?”
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 43
