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

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “You be telling her nowt!” shouted Tisbury, foolishly releasing his hold and striding forward. “I’ll not have my wife scared silly by your witching spells! You shut your mouth, if you’ve a mind to live!”

  “Tisbury!” Aidan stepped between them. “How dare you? Will you utter foolish threats before witnesses? If this is your temper, man, you may find yourself hanging for Duggleby’s murder.”

  Tisbury shrank a trifle but did not back down. “I never killed Duggleby. I never touched him.” His hand shot out, accusing. “It were her! Her be the witch, bain’t her? Now her’ve seen visions of Molly, her said. Her ought to be burned afore her’ve a chance to kill us all!”

  With which, he turned and grabbed his wife by the wrist, dragging her away towards the green. Aidan watched them go, aware of the crowd hovering, half anxious to follow and half afraid to miss anything. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Cassie Dale start in pursuit.

  Without thought, he strode after her and seized her by the arm.

  “Stay!”

  She turned her lustrous dark eyes upon him, and Aidan read the despair within. He smiled at her briefly but did not release his grip.

  Then he turned to the onlookers. “About your business, all of you. The show is over.”

  A high-pitched cackling sounded over the mutters that broke out, and Aidan turned irritable eyes upon the ancient hobbling towards him as the rest of the company began to drift away.

  On his feet, Pa Wagstaff proved a slight old fellow, small like his daughter, though he had lost the wiry strength he must have had in youth.

  “You be a mighty big man with words, Reverend,” he commented. “But how be you hoping to keep ’em from setting up faggots and tying that there missie to the stake? More of they than you, I’m thinking.”

  Aidan looked down into the crabbed and gleeful features. “Since your comments have proved less than helpful, Mr. Wagstaff, I don’t propose to burden you with my plans.”

  The ancient took a moment to digest this. Then he grinned toothlessly up at Aidan. “You be stumped, Reverend. Reckon they’ve got more plans nor you.”

  With which, he cackled again and made off with a surprising turn of speed.

  Aidan was forced to admit, if only to himself, that the wretched fellow was in the right of it. He stared after him for a moment and only came to a remembrance of his surroundings when Mrs. Dale drew his attention.

  “Aidan, you are hurting my arm.”

  With an oath, he released her, turning his gaze quickly towards her. A hesitant little smile hovered on her lips.

  “You are upset,” she said. “I know because you were gripping me so tightly.”

  He was conscious of a flush of warmth in his chest, but it was overborne by an immediate feeling of guilt.

  “I beg your pardon. You are right. Wagstaff made me excessively angry. I hope you did not take his words to heart.”

  She drew in a shuddering breath. “Is it just words? Do you think they truly mean to use me so?”

  Something twisted in Aidan’s gut, and he grasped her shoulders.

  “They will not get the opportunity, I promise you that. No one will be allowed to harm you.”

  Her lips parted as she stared at him, such a mixture of hope and fear in her expressive eyes that Aidan was hard put to it not to draw her close that he might demonstrate his assertion with a more tangible proof than his words could afford.

  Conscious, he looked about and discovered that the courtyard was deserted, apart from Tabitha Hawes, standing off at a discreet distance and pointedly looking another way. Hannah Pakefield had evidently been taken inside, accompanied by the rest of the gentry.

  On impulse, Aidan jerked his head towards the still open door. “Let us go in. I think we can all do with a little peace and quiet.”

  She made no demur but turned in that direction and walked beside him.

  “I do fear for Molly,” she said, and Aidan noted the little shiver that shook her. “The vision was vile.”

  Ottilia was glad to have been relieved of the necessity to minister to Hannah Pakefield’s hurts, that task having been taken over by Miss Beeleigh, with the doubtful assistance of the widow Radlett and the Blue Pig’s overworked maid, who had been despatched to fetch lint and salves while the rest of the party repaired to the coffee room. It left Ottilia free, once the necessary introductions had been effected, since Francis had not previously met these women, to put her attention on recent events.

  In a low-voiced conversation with her husband, she was able to furnish him with an unvarnished account of her visit to Bertha Duggleby.

  “Then you think she is innocent?”

  “Yes, but that is mere conjecture on my part. There can be no doubt she was in the perfect position to do all that was necessary to bring about her husband’s death.”

  “But not,” Francis suggested, “to shift the blame onto Cassie Dale?”

  “Just so.”

  “After the encounter outside, I am much inclined to place my wager on Molly Tisbury.”

  Ottilia shook her head. “You will lose.”

  A crease appeared between his brows. “With that temperament? The woman is a shrew.”

  “True, but her temper is too quick. Can you truly conceive of Molly planning anything? No, she is the type to charge in without premeditation.”

  “Granted, but having hit Duggleby with the hammer in a fit of temper, isn’t it conceivable she was capable of working out how to conceal the crime?”

  A little laugh escaped Ottilia. “I submit she is far more likely to have fled the place screaming. But you are right. We cannot dismiss her.” She sighed as the inevitable thought occurred. “Which means I must tackle her direct.”

  “Leave it for tomorrow,” Francis suggested. “She may have cooled by then.”

  Further discussion was cut off by the entrance of Patty, the Blue Pig’s maid of work, bearing a tray of accoutrements to aid in the succour of her mistress. As she was closely followed by the vicar and Cassie Dale, further private conversation became impossible.

  Glancing at them both, Ottilia divined a certain consciousness in the Reverend Kinnerton. She looked to Mrs. Dale to see if she was similarly affected, but Cassie’s eyes had gone instantly to where Hannah Pakefield was seated, hissing in breaths as Miss Beeleigh began to dab at her wounds with a piece of lint dipped in some sort of solution in a glass dish. Mrs. Radlett’s exclamations being punctuated with the lamentations of the maid, there was a considerable commotion in that side of the room.

  Francis rose to greet Kinnerton. “My dear fellow, you must stand in crying need of a restorative. And, I may add, so do I. Pakefield!”

  The landlord, who had proved of little use throughout the drama, was hovering helplessly on the fringe of the little group about his wife. He turned at Francis’s peremptory call.

  “Bestir yourself, Pakefield. We are all gasping here. Mrs. Dale? Would you care for wine?”

  It took several moments to sort out exactly what was required by all parties. To make matters worse, Mr. Netherburn entered the coffee room in the midst of the discussion. Having missed all the excitement, he was immediately regaled with a garbled version of events by Mrs. Radlett, punctuated with terse corrections from Miss Beeleigh, still engaged upon her mission of nursing the afflicted landlady.

  Ottilia caught Francis’s glance, and he cast up his eyes and bodily removed the landlord, taking the parson with him. There could be no doubt he would reappear in due course, having bullied the bemused Pakefield into supplying the needs of the assembled company.

  Turning her attention to Cassie Dale, Ottilia was a trifle alarmed to see her staring at an empty chair on the other side of the round table from where Ottilia was seated. She did not hesitate.

  “What is it, Mrs. Dale?”

  Cassie’s large eyes were deeply distressed, and her face registered her horror. She raised a shaking hand and pointed her finger at the chair.

  “I see Molly there.
”

  A sliver of impatience almost overtook Ottilia. She overcame it with difficulty, forcing herself to speak with all her usual calm.

  “Whatever you see, my dear, it is but a fantasy.”

  The dark eyes turned on her, fierce in their intensity. “Fantasy? I only wish it were! Do you think I wish to see such things? Do you think it gives me a macabre pleasure to talk of them?”

  “I did not say so,” said Ottilia coolly, rising from her seat and starting around the table.

  Cassie threw up both hands in a gesture of protest. “Don’t try to humour me! You cannot know what it is like to be cursed as I am. Are you in my head? How do you dare to belittle what I see?”

  Ottilia saw nothing for it but to backtrack. She would get nowhere by further antagonising the girl.

  “I make you my apologies, Mrs. Dale. I had no intention of upsetting you.”

  The girl’s lips worked a little, but the fire died out of her eyes.

  “I daresay you mean well,” she uttered grudgingly. “I know you do. But if you could see it!”

  The last was an agonised plea. Aware that everyone in the room had stopped speaking and turned to stare, Ottilia threw up a hand to enjoin their continued silence and gentled her tone.

  “Tell me, Cassie.”

  Mrs. Dale’s eyes left hers, flitting aimlessly to and fro. She began to shiver, and her features gave evidence of the dismay her thoughts engendered.

  “It began when I met her this morning,” she said, speaking in rapid tones, her breath catching here and there. “I felt the fog begin, but it passed without revealing what lay inside. With the fighting, it came back. Then I saw it.” She brought her fingers to her mouth where they trembled against her lip. “Molly, sitting there, unmoving. In her neck — something vile.” The vileness of the something was in her eyes.

  “What was it, Cassie? What was in her neck?”

  Cassie threw her head up, fear in the look she cast at Ottilia.

  “I don’t know. I cannot see. It is sunken in. A knife? A dart?”

  “Is she bleeding?”

  Cassie looked confused. “She should be, should she not? There is a trickle, I think.” She threw her hands over her face, and her voice came muffled. “Oh, it is vile! Horrible! I cannot bear to see it!”

  There was movement in the doorway, and Ottilia looked to find the Reverend Kinnerton standing in the aperture, his face naked and forgotten. Compassion, and something more.

  Before he could act, another figure pushed through from behind him.

  “Begging your pardon, Reverend, but I must get through.”

  Mr. Kinnerton stepped to one side automatically, and the woman Ottilia had seen with Cassie at the smithy came bustling inside. The vicar’s features returned to his normal expression, and Ottilia was relieved for his sake that the exposure of his state of mind had been unremarked by the rest of the persons in the room, whose attention had been all on Mrs. Dale.

  One glance revealed their various reactions. While Hannah Pakefield’s blank look showed she had taken in nothing of this macabre vision, Miss Beeleigh’s features expressed both disgust and disbelief. Mrs. Radlett was wreathed in that sort of suppressed delight that accompanies the contemplation of horrific ideas, although Mr. Netherburn looked perturbed and confused. The maid Patty was staring, open-mouthed with shock.

  The newcomer, a matronly figure whom Ottilia took to be the maid Tabitha, appeared unmoved as she headed directly for her charge and put an arm about her shoulders.

  “Come on, Miss Cassie. Let me take you home.”

  Unresisting, the girl allowed herself to be shepherded from the room, not even sparing a look for the Reverend Kinnerton. Ottilia could not but wonder at the potential of a union which promised to be fraught with periodic tensions. Or would the vicar prove even more adept at handling the creature than her maid had been?

  The departure of Mrs. Dale had the effect of releasing stopped tongues. Mrs. Radlett, her eyes big with anticipation, came over to Ottilia’s table. But before she could speak, Miss Beeleigh was bending over the landlady.

  “You should lie down upon your bed, Hannah. Can you get up?”

  Mrs. Pakefield was dishevelled, but the fright had left her face, and she looked merely dejected. She rose carefully, holding on to the table.

  “Poor dear Hannah,” mourned Mrs. Radlett. “Shall I help you to bed?”

  She made no real attempt to be of service, merely flapping her hands in a hopeless kind of way. Not much to Ottilia’s surprise, Miss Beeleigh vetoed this suggestion.

  “Not you, Evelina. Horace, give Hannah your arm. You may escort her to the door of her room. Patty, you run ahead and make the bed ready for your mistress.”

  The maid dropped a curtsy and tripped out of the room with more haste than dignity, and Ottilia guessed she was still reeling from Cassie’s revelation. Obedient, but without abating one jot of his habitual gallant air, Mr. Netherburn took charge of the landlady and led her to the door. Here Mr. Kinnerton detained them.

  “Are you feeling a little recovered?”

  Hannah nodded bleakly. “I wouldn’t have done it, Reverend. Not if Molly hadn’t flown at me.”

  To his credit, the vicar smiled at her. “I gathered as much. Take care of yourself.”

  Mrs. Pakefield nodded wearily and allowed herself to be led from the room. The widow Radlett immediately gave tongue.

  “Oh, how could Cassie Dale have thought of such a thing? It very nearly brought on my palpitations. Horrible! Do you suppose it might come to pass, Lady Francis?”

  This last was uttered with a look of such avid anticipation Ottilia was hard put to it to refrain from a cutting rejoinder. She was saved having to reply by Miss Beeleigh.

  “Never mind that now, Evelina.” She came across to Ottilia, her face grim. “Wanted to be rid of Hannah, for I’ve found out what set Molly off.”

  Ottilia had a pretty good notion herself, but she raised her brows.

  “Have you indeed?”

  The other nodded. “Seems she’d heard you’d been told some rigmarole of a quarrel between Tisbury and Duggleby. What’s more, rumour has it you’re one to find out everything about everybody.”

  Ottilia had already surmised that they had been overheard when Pilton told his tale. She was fairly sure she knew which ears were listening at the time, but she made no mention of it.

  “This was yesterday, I take it?”

  Miss Beeleigh nodded. “Put Molly into a foul temper.”

  “Yes,” Ottilia agreed. “She was less than pleasant when we met her coming from Bertha Duggleby’s home.”

  “Ah.” The other nodded. “Must’ve been then she took the idea into her head that Hannah had been feeding you tales about her.”

  Undoubtedly, from Ottilia’s memory of the conversation. She chose not to reveal as much, however. “Well, I did say I wanted to talk to her.”

  “Which I’ll be bound she didn’t take to.”

  “No, indeed. I was obliged to threaten to send Pilton to fetch her to me for questioning.”

  A bark of laughter escaped Miss Beeleigh’s lips. “No wonder she panicked. Seems she came here directly and accused Hannah of speaking ill of her and Tisbury.”

  “Oh yes,” threw in Mrs. Radlett, nodding vigorously enough to shake her golden curls. “Molly said she knew Hannah was jealous of her, which of course is quite true.”

  “They quarrelled?” asked Ottilia.

  “Dreadfully. Hannah says Molly threw all manner of insults at her, but she was in such a state she couldn’t recall the half of them.”

  “Don’t matter, Evelina,” snapped Miss Beeleigh, taking up the tale again. “That’s irrelevant. What’s important is Hannah protesting she’d no reason for jealousy and boasting of her privileged association with the most important visitor Witherley has seen in a twelvemonth. Seeing Molly purple with envy, the misguided cloth head then announced she’d not scrupled to tell Lady Francis what she thought of Molly. At which
, Molly flew at her.”

  The ridiculous nature of the quarrel excited Ottilia’s amusement, but it was overborne by the reflection that her brief discussion with the Tisbury female had been instrumental in causing the altercation. She felt doubly culpable in that she had made little real progress in uncovering the murderer.

  At this moment, Francis, whom she had not even noticed re-entering the room, set a cup of coffee down before her. She smiled up at him, grateful to be spared the necessity of responding immediately.

  By the time Francis had distributed the contents of the tray held by the landlord, who still looked to be in a state of bemusement, Ottilia had gathered herself and was able to speak with all her usual calm.

  “I was going to leave the interview until tomorrow, but perhaps I had best see Molly sooner rather than later.”

  “You’ll get nothing out of her today,” stated Miss Beeleigh positively. With a sidelong glance at the vicar, who had remained noticeably silent, she added, “Can’t think Cassie Dale has helped the situation, either.”

  Ottilia saw Mr. Kinnerton’s blue gaze flash as he looked up from studying the dark-coloured liquid in the tankard supplied to him by Francis. Her husband, not having been in the room to hear what Cassie said, glanced across at her with a questioning frown.

  “Mrs. Dale has had an unfortunate vision concerning Molly Tisbury,” Ottilia said briefly, with a look intending him to understand that she would relate the details presently.

  “Mrs. Dale is in a highly nervous condition,” stated the parson evenly, but the edge of anger was evident.

  “Take leave to point out, Kinnerton, that it’s habitual with her,” returned Miss Beeleigh flatly.

  “Is that surprising, in the circumstances? Did you not hear the threat Tisbury made?”

  “Pooh!” scoffed the spinster. “So much hot air! Set up a stake in this day and age? Wouldn’t dare.”

  The blue eyes flashed again. “You think not? You think because we are allegedly civilised there cannot be a swift descent to an ancient barbarism?”

  “Not so ancient,” put in Francis, echoing Ottilia’s thought. “The last witch burnings must be less than a hundred years ago. What is more, it is not much over five years since our justices ended the practise of female murderers being burned at the stake.”