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

by Elizabeth Bailey

  Ottilia eyed the woman with no little degree of suspicion in her mind. Was not this a little too pat? Could Mrs. Radlett have got wind of the queries made at the Cock about the night before Duggleby’s death? If so, why should she seek to throw her friend into question? Or was it a ploy designed to assure Ottilia that she had been hors de combat and therefore unable to have carried out the necessary preparations in the smithy?

  How much of what had been discovered about that night had she discussed with Miss Beeleigh? They both knew of the hacked beam and that a ladder had been in use. Ottilia found it hard to believe that the widow Radlett had put two and two together for herself. Was she afraid of being accused?

  “Shall we walk together to the Blue Pig?” Ottilia suggested pleasantly. “I daresay Miss Beeleigh and Mr. Netherburn will join us there.”

  Mrs. Radlett fell in with alacrity as Ottilia set off down the aisle, but she entered a caveat nonetheless. “Will not Lord Francis expect to find you here?”

  “Oh no. I told him I might wander back on my own.”

  The sun hit brightly as they exited the church, and Ottilia put up a hand to shade her eyes. A few of the villagers had begun to filter back towards the green, so it seemed safe to assume that the graveside ceremony was nearly at an end.

  “Have you yet formed any opinion as to who did the deed, Lady Francis?”

  Ottilia had a feeling that Mrs. Radlett had been longing to ask this question. Whether she did so out of curiosity or for a purpose of her own was a moot point.

  “I’m afraid it is not near as simple as I had hoped. There are many factors to be taken into account, and far too many people who cherished a grudge against the blacksmith.”

  “Yes, but you cannot think anyone who had a grudge could be guilty of such a horrid thing,” uttered the widow on a note of near panic.

  So that was it. She had remembered that Ottilia was privy to the details about her dog. No doubt, had she had the forethought to imagine herself to be potentially suspect, she would have refrained from speaking of it. If she supposed she could thus easily be let off the hook, however, she was mistaken.

  “Dear me, no, Mrs. Radlett. But one must always look for a motive. It is unfortunate that Duggleby was a man uniformly disliked by his fellows. It makes for a very wide field indeed.”

  Ottilia glanced at the widow as she spoke and was almost betrayed into a laugh. The creature’s face had fallen mightily, and she looked decidedly out of countenance.

  “I must say I shall be glad of a cup of coffee,” Ottilia said pleasantly, strolling gently on just as if nothing untoward had occurred. “I do hope Hannah is sufficiently recovered by now to be able to resume her duties as hostess.”

  Mrs. Radlett appeared to have difficulty in putting words together. “Oh. Yes, I am sure. Or, no. She may have stayed for the burial, for the sake of appearances, you know. But Patty must have returned by now.”

  “Patty, of course. A girl much given to throwing her tongue about, I fear.”

  “Oh, they all do so,” said the widow in a tetchy tone. “Though young Alice is a good child on the whole.”

  “Alice?”

  “Alethea’s maid of work. Poor child, she tries so very hard to please.”

  Yes, Ottilia could well imagine that Miss Beeleigh made an exacting mistress. Any maid of hers must be crushed beyond bearing, unless she were of the ilk of Patty or Bessy. Evelina’s “good child” epithet argued otherwise.

  By the time they reached the Blue Pig, Mrs. Radlett appeared to have recovered somewhat from her erstwhile confusion. She entered with Ottilia and sank down into one of the coffee room chairs with a sigh of relief, putting a hand to her bosom.

  “I fear the walk has tired you, Mrs. Radlett,” said Ottilia, moving to pick up the brass handbell on the table.

  The widow nodded. “It is my heart. I am not strong, you know.”

  Another ploy to plead innocence? Ottilia replied suitably and was glad to see Patty enter the room.

  “Coffee, if you please, Patty. Or would you prefer tea, Mrs. Radlett?”

  “If it is not too much trouble,” replied the other, glancing apprehensively at the maid.

  Patty tossed her head. “No trouble. Cook only got dinner to prepare, after all.”

  Ottilia sighed as the door closed with a snap behind her. “That girl wants manners as well as discretion.”

  Mrs. Radlett’s glance came swiftly in her direction. “Discretion?”

  “I am afraid so. We have Patty to thank for the world being apprised of Cassie Dale’s latest vision. Not to mention poor Molly Tisbury. She is terrified, of course.”

  A shudder shook the widow’s frame. “I am not surprised. It terrifies me, and I am not even the supposed victim.”

  But was she the victim’s intended assailant? A pity Cassie’s visions did not encompass the action of the deed as well as the aftermath, Ottilia reflected, sighing. It would make her task so much easier.

  By the time her husband entered the coffee room, Ottilia was heartily wishing Mrs. Radlett otherwhere. Had she said anything to the purpose, it might have been worth the pain of endurance, but the widow confined herself to a long and excessively dull history of her late husband’s prolonged and lingering illness, which had dissipated the little fortune he had on medical assistance. While sympathetic, Ottilia could drum up no enthusiasm for a tale uniformly depressing, and she hailed the advent of Mr. Netherburn and Miss Beeleigh with unqualified relief.

  Hardly had the newcomers had time to drink the regulatory cup of coffee, however, when Francis came in, accompanied, to Ottilia’s surprise and gratification, by Lady Ferrensby. Before anyone else could say anything, Mrs. Radlett was off. “Dear Lady Ferrensby! Gracious, is it you indeed? I thought you would come, for I felt sure you must wish to take advantage of the opportunity to increase your so brief acquaintance with Lady Francis.”

  The lady moved gracefully into the room and extended a hand to Ottilia, who had risen upon seeing her.

  “Very true, Mrs. Radlett,” came drily from her mouth in a low and musical voice. A keen hazel gaze met Ottilia’s. “I am a trifle tardy, Lady Francis, and I fear my welcome comes too late to be of the least use. From what I hear, I imagine you have already developed an ardent distaste for Witherley.”

  Ottilia laughed. “Not in the least, ma’am. My husband will vouch for it that I have come by my deserts, for I blundered in out of sheer curiosity.”

  The business of making space for the lady to sit down, along with the general greetings and murmurings over the funeral, gave Ottilia the opportunity to appraise the patroness of the village more closely than she had been able to do in the church.

  She saw a mature but handsome countenance, topped off with luxuriant locks just silvering along the temples and caught under a feathered black bonnet. Her air of assurance spoke volumes, and her greeting had impressed with a mix of common sense and humour. Here at least Ottilia might hope for an intelligent and unbiased appraisal of events.

  It was plain the widow Radlett was anxious to make one of the gathering, for she did not hesitate to enter upon a matter for conversation.

  “What do you think of your new man, Lady Ferrensby? The vicar, I mean. I thought he did very well indeed, did not you?”

  The lady’s brows rose. “Kinnerton? Oh, I think he will do.”

  Mrs. Radlett’s face fell. “Is that all?”

  Lady Ferrensby smiled. “My dear Mrs. Radlett, you cannot expect me to pronounce in public upon the poor fellow’s opening performance without speaking to him first upon the matter. But if it will make you happy, let me assure you I think he has shown himself to be an estimable young man.”

  “Oh, indeed,” agreed the widow, nodding frantically. “Such a tower of strength as he has been in these dark days.”

  “Yes, to Cassie Dale,” came on a scoffing note from Miss Beeleigh. She ignored Mr. Netherburn’s pointed cough, and did not wait for anyone’s response to this, but lost no time in frustratin
g her friend’s design. “Come, Evelina. No need for us to stay and do the pretty.”

  “Oh, but I —”

  “Evelina! Her ladyship don’t want us cluttering up the place. Here to talk to the Fanshawes.”

  She glanced at Lady Ferrensby as she spoke, but the latter made no effort to gainsay her despite a pleading look from the widow. She sat in elegant silence, evidently placing trust in Miss Beeleigh’s ability to prise her reluctant companion from the room.

  Seeing no help was forthcoming from that quarter, Mrs. Radlett next cast her gaze upon Mr. Netherburn, whose greeting of the newcomer had been more than ordinarily elaborate. But the redoubtable Miss Beeleigh was quick to block this silent appeal.

  “You, too, Horace. Make yourself useful and escort us.”

  There could be but one answer to this, and words of farewell being kept to a minimum, it was not many minutes before Ottilia and Francis were alone with Lady Ferrensby.

  “Wine, ma’am?” offered Francis, moving to pick up the handbell.

  The lady waved a hand. “I want nothing, I thank you.” Her gaze came across to Ottilia, who had taken a seat opposite. “Would you both dine with me tomorrow evening, Lady Francis?”

  Ottilia lifted her brows. “Dear me, ma’am, is that why you came?”

  A flicker of amusement showed in the hazel gaze. “Ostensibly.”

  Behind her Francis laughed and came to take a chair. “We thank you, ma’am. A kind thought, but such subterfuge is unnecessary. How can we serve you?”

  Lady Ferrensby looked at him. “I should very much appreciate an account of your activities. Preferably unvarnished.”

  Her eye left Francis upon the last phrase, and Ottilia responded to an unspoken question. “I daresay you may have been given a much garbled version.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  The dry note was pronounced, and Ottilia warmed to the woman. “Then I think we may untangle things a little.” She put up a warning finger. “However, I cannot say I am at all sanguine about any possible conclusion at this stage.”

  Lady Ferrensby nodded. “That is understood.” She smiled, catching Francis’s eye. “You may be interested to learn that I am acquainted with Justice Ingham.”

  Ottilia jumped, casting an apprehensive glance at Francis, for Sir Thomas Ingham, the Bow Street Justice, had been very much involved in last year’s events, and she knew her spouse hated such reminders.

  But he was laughing. “I’ll wager he sang my wife’s praises.”

  “He was indeed voluble on the subject,” confirmed her ladyship. “He gave me to understand that Mrs. Draycott, as I believe she was then, was instrumental in uncovering the truth.”

  “Instrumental? He did not know the half of it.”

  “Come, Fan,” Ottilia protested, warmth rising to her cheeks, “pray don’t exaggerate.”

  The look he threw her was intense. “If anything, I am understating the case, and you know it.”

  Ottilia let out an exasperated breath and turned to Lady Ferrensby. “Pray don’t allow my husband’s enthusiasm to raise your hopes too high, ma’am. I am by no means certain of a happy outcome in this case. There are far too many factors to be taken into account, and I cannot promise to unravel them satisfactorily.”

  Lady Ferrensby’s intelligent gaze was compelling, with a gleam in its depth that was once again oddly reminiscent of Cassie Dale. Ottilia became doubly convinced there was something here to discover.

  “Believe me, Lady Francis, I will be grateful for any light you may shed on the business, since I am forced to accept that Duggleby was indeed murdered. Until this occurrence, I had entertained the hope that Cassie — Mrs. Dale, I mean — might settle into some promise of normality. But it seems —”

  She broke off, making, as Ottilia surmised, an attempt to recover her former pose of calm insouciance. Was it a pose? Or was she merely disturbed by present events?

  “For that matter,” Lady Ferrensby resumed, “it is distressing for everyone to be placed under suspicion of wrongdoing.” A sudden smile lightened her countenance. “And it will hardly surprise you to learn of my lack of confidence in Henbury.”

  Ottilia was obliged to laugh, while Francis emitted a derisive snort.

  “The man’s a nightmare. For my money, he will do little but hamper the investigation.”

  “But we need him,” Ottilia reminded him. She gave Lady Ferrensby a rueful look. “I fear I have used him shamelessly, making pretence of his having asked me to institute enquiries.”

  “Well, if anyone protests, you may say with truth that I have asked you,” said Lady Ferrensby tartly. “And it is no boast to say that you will make more headway using my name.”

  “Excellent. Then it only remains to provide you with the explanation you seek. But a moment of caution first.”

  She got up and went to the door. Glancing back into the room, she put a finger to her lips and abruptly turned the handle and jerked the door open. The hall was empty. Satisfied, she returned to her chair and noted Lady Ferrensby’s raised brows.

  “I have discovered that young Patty rivals Bessy at the Cock in a mutual penchant for Will the tapster. Patty is apt to pass on anything of interest she may hear in this place.”

  “Such as the details of Cassie’s last vision, I surmise?”

  “Just so. We will, if you please, conduct our conversation in lowered tones.”

  This being agreed, Ottilia proceeded to lay out as much as she felt pertinent of what she had discovered to date, including her reading of Duggleby’s character captured from what had been said by various members of the community. She left Francis to describe what had been found at the forge but spoke of Uddington’s ladder and the possibility of someone having used it the night before.

  “Then you are saying the murder was premeditated?” asked Lady Ferrensby, losing a little of her coolness of manner and looking a trifle upset.

  “Things point that way, but I cannot be sure. One cannot rule out the possibility of the murder having been done first.”

  A little sigh escaped the lady. “You’re right about Duggleby, at all events. The man was dissolute and a brute. If it were not for the manner of his death, the village would be well rid of him.”

  “So I gather,” Ottilia agreed. “Though I fear the Tisburys are only one degree less repellent.”

  “Oh, Tisbury is not a bad fellow,” said Lady Ferrensby, regaining a little of her earlier light manner.

  “No, and I think I believe his version of his fight with the blacksmith,” cut in Francis. “But that wife of his is another matter.”

  Lady Ferrensby nodded. “A termagant is Molly.”

  “And much to blame for her husband’s temper, I imagine.”

  “That is so, Lord Francis, but not as much as her wretched father.”

  “Pa Wagstaff?”

  Lady Ferrensby threw her eyes heavenwards. “Jeremiah fancies himself a wit and does not scruple to use the privilege of his years to exercise it at the expense of his unfortunate son-in-law, who is barred from taking any form of revenge. The result, I’m afraid, is that Tisbury takes it out on others.”

  Ottilia digested this. “Which suggests, if Tisbury did the deed, that it was in a moment of aberration.”

  “But he claims he would never have hit Duggleby from behind,” objected Francis, “and I am inclined to believe him.”

  “In addition,” said Ottilia, “do we deem him level-headed enough to cover his tracks by bringing down the roof and starting a fire?”

  “He does not lack intelligence,” Francis said. “Though he is hardly in Uddington’s league.” His head turned. “What of him, Lady Ferrensby? Is he the kind of man to murder?”

  A tiny pause drew Ottilia’s attention. Then the woman shrugged eloquently. “How in the world can one know? He had reason enough, of course.”

  Ottilia eyed her with new interest. “His wife died recently, and it seems Duggleby may have attended the funeral.”

  The lady’s
brows drew sharply together. “You mean Uddington has held thoughts of revenge and waited his moment?”

  Ottilia did not reply, confident that Lady Ferrensby would answer her own question. She glanced at Francis and gave an infinitesimal shake of her head. She noted from his narrowed gaze that he understood she wished him to keep silent.

  At length Lady Ferrensby put her hands together and raised her fingers to her lips, letting her breath go. Then she dropped her clasped hands to the table and looked across at Ottilia.

  “His is a sad case. He sold his heritage for gold, I’m afraid.”

  “And took his father-in-law’s name. Yes, he told me as much. But he would not tell me his real identity.”

  Lady Ferrensby looked a little dismayed. “It is of trifling significance.”

  Ottilia’s senses came alive. Was there something personal here? She did not speak, letting the silence work its way into the other lady’s conscience. Lady Ferrensby unclasped her hands, and one set of gloved fingers drummed upon the table for a space. Becoming aware seemingly, she looked down, ceased to fidget, and splayed her fingers. An impatient exclamation escaped her.

  “Oh, why dissemble? The fellow was a connection of my late husband.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Distantly,” added the other on a sharp note.

  “Far enough distant to allow for impartiality?” asked Ottilia straightly.

  Lady Ferrensby’s eyes flashed and sank again quickly. She gave a defeated shrug. “If you mean to imply that it will trouble me to find him out a murderer, then your answer is obvious.”

  Ottilia felt it politic to steer clear of this issue. “I take it that is why Uddington was able to set up his business in Witherley?”

  Lady Ferrensby nodded. “I was but a bride at the time, but my husband wrote to Uddington senior to suggest it.”

  “Was that wise?” Francis broke in. “If the fellow had dropped out of his proper sphere, did it not present a difficulty to Lord Ferrensby to have him so close since he might not acknowledge him?”

  The question was productive of another sigh. “I believe he felt it. But they say blood is thicker than water. We are all apt to make such errors on the altar of family loyalty.”