“I blame myself.”
Wrung, he took refuge in an angered response. “Don’t be absurd!”
“But I do,” she protested. “That quarrel was my fault, for I set Molly off. She thought Hannah had said something, especially when I threatened her with Pilton.”
“What the devil has that to do with anything?”
She waved the fork roughly, and the meat flew off onto the floor.
“Don’t you see, Fan? It was the fight with Hannah that fully triggered Cassie’s vision, which must have given the murderer the idea.”
“Then he must have been looking for an excuse,” Francis objected tersely, rising to retrieve the errant morsel and disposing of it on the tray. “You can’t take the blame for that.”
“And who better than Molly for a victim?” Tillie went on, disregarding this. “Just the creature most likely to set the villagers in a riot.”
Francis understood well enough, but he cast about for excuses, anything to take away the agonised expression in that beloved face.
“You are forgetting he used the Blue Pig. That must have been a deliberate attempt to throw suspicion on Hannah Pakefield.”
“Oh, a convenient side issue,” uttered Tillie, her tone distraught. “The vision was seen in the coffee room; it involved the coffee room. It was meant to set the village onto Cassie.”
A knock at the door sent Francis to his feet. “The coffee.” Setting down his platter, he added in a murmur, “If that wretched girl had not seen fit to bruit the story of the vision abroad, you could at least confine your suspicions to those present in the coffee room at the time.”
As predicted, Patty was standing outside the door, her youthful features a combination of nervousness and harassment. She was holding a small tray containing a single cup and saucer, accompanied by a silver coffeepot, a jug of cream, and a sugar bowl. A tankard of ale stood alongside.
Francis took it from her and thanked her for her trouble. Patty dropped a curtsy.
“It’s no trouble, sir.”
She hurried away, and Francis shut the door, setting the tray down on the already overburdened table. Then he realised Tillie was staring into space.
Arrested, he watched her. Just so had she looked once or twice last year when she was making some connection in her thoughts. Then he had been unwilling to delve, feeling intrusive. Now, in the intimacy of marriage, he had no such qualms.
“What is in your mind?”
Her eyes focused upon him, and she reached out for the coffeepot, suddenly brisk. “That we had best eat quickly. I want to look for signs outside to see if Molly was dragged in by the front or the back.”
“I telled her not to go, I telled her.”
The words, delivered in a hoarse monotone, bore witness to the state of shock that had enveloped the landlord of the Cock and Bottle. Forcibly removed from the fateful coffee room by Ryde and Meldreth, Tisbury had sunk down onto the stairs in the Blue Pig’s gloomy hallway. Ottilia had come upon him as she descended and, despite her spouse’s protest, had promptly sat down beside him and taken hold of his slack hand.
“Why did she go, Tisbury?” she asked gently.
He answered dully, staring before him. “A message it be.”
“What sort of message? Was it written or did someone bring it?”
Tisbury’s head shook slowly from one side to the other. “Bain’t writ. Nor I don’t know who brung it.”
“What did the message say?”
“I bain’t knowing more’n it said for Molly to go by the lock-up. Molly said as all the world be a-going to know once for all as the witch done for Duggleby.”
Ottilia’s blood chilled. An obvious trap, and the woman had fallen for it.
“But how should Molly think that might benefit her?” she asked, struggling to maintain a casual tone.
Tisbury’s broad, ruddy features turned to her, his eyes lacklustre. “Knew as you thought it be her as done for Duggleby.”
Ottilia exchanged a quick glance with Francis, standing close by — for fear of the man turning surly with her, Ottilia suspected.
“How could she know that?” he demanded sharply.
Tisbury did not answer. He was still gazing at Ottilia, and a measure of life had begun to return to the fixed stare.
“It be you as said it. Molly done it and come to me after, for as I’d brung the roof down and set a fire going in the smithy.”
“Will again!” burst from Francis. “By heavens, but that tapster of yours has a deal to answer for!”
“What do you mean, Lord Francis?” cut in Meldreth.
“He has a pack of females in his train who eavesdrop on his behalf. And one of them is the maid here. She must have had her ear to the door last night and could not wait to run to him with the news.” He regarded the bereaved man with a kindling eye. “Is that it, Tisbury? Did Molly have it from Will?”
Tisbury snapped suddenly. “And if’n he bain’t said, we bain’t knowing as you be fetching Pilton on my Molly next. Her bain’t touched Duggleby, nor I bain’t brung down the roof nor set the fire on, neither.”
“We know that now,” Ottilia said quickly, in an attempt to hold back the tide of his growing anger.
“Now, aye. Now as Molly’ve took and died, too, at the hands of that cursed witch!”
He was making to rise, his eyes fixed on Ottilia, and Francis hastily gripped her arm and pulled her up from the stair. She found herself behind him.
“Ryde, to me!”
The groom left his post at the coffee room door and flanked Francis, his fists raised.
To Ottilia’s relief, the doctor moved in, catching at Tisbury’s arm.
“Calm yourself, Tisbury. There will be no fighting in the presence of the dead. Show respect to your wife, man!”
Peeping from behind the protection of her husband’s broad back, Ottilia saw the man’s high-coloured cheeks deepen to a richer red, and the burgeoning fire in his eyes died down.
“Aye, I’ll do none a mischief with Molly laying by.” His tone strengthened. “But if’n Pilton nor that there Lord Henbury don’t take up that witch, I’ll see to her myself.”
Ottilia could not let this stand. She pushed past Francis and confronted the man.
“Have a little sense, Tisbury, do. Why in the world should Mrs. Dale call Molly out in the middle of the night? Especially if Molly went to discover something about Mrs. Dale being responsible for Duggleby’s death.”
But Tisbury was ready for that. “It be a trick, bain’t it? A witch her be. Likely her spelled whomsoever brung the message. Then as her’ve lured Molly out, her’ve killed her.”
“But if she was able to use magic, what need had she to bring Molly out of the Cock?” pursued Ottilia, refusing to despair of making the fellow see reason. “Why not simply make magic to ensure she died in her bed?”
“For as her’ve had them visions, bain’t her? Her’ve seen as Molly be dead in the Blue Pig. Her tricked her so’s her’d do her here like her’ve seen.”
“But Molly was not killed here, Tisbury,” Ottilia protested. “Ask Doctor Meldreth if you do not believe me. She was dragged here and put in the position she is in just so that you would think it the mirror of Mrs. Dale’s vision. Don’t you see? A trick has been played, yes. More than one, perhaps. But it had nothing to do with Mrs. Dale.”
She thought for a moment that she might have got through to the man. His jaw hung slack as he stared at her, blinking slowly as if he tried to take in the sense of her words. His eyes swung to Meldreth.
“It’s true, Tisbury,” said the doctor, to Ottilia’s relief. “Molly was killed elsewhere. If the message took her to the lock-up, it’s likely that was the place.”
For a moment the outcome hung in the balance. Ottilia discovered she was holding her breath and silently let it go, her eyes never leaving the man’s face.
It began to work a little, his mouth moving as if speech was struggling to come out. His eyes reddened, glistening, and
a trickle of moisture dripped from one nostril. When the voice came at last, it was low, painful with suppressed grief.
“Her said as you be on the witch’s side, Molly did. Her said as Lady Fan be one with the devil, too. Now Molly be killed and all. Her be sitting in there with Hannah Pakefield’s skewer in her neck!”
His voice rose towards the end, but Francis had not waited. Ottilia was shifted bodily out of the way, and by the time Tisbury reached the end of his accusation, Francis had him by the edges of his brown frock coat.
“You dare speak of my wife in such terms! Lord help me, but if you lay a finger on her, I shall thrash you within an inch of your life!”
“My lord!” Thus Meldreth.
Ottilia saw him close in, trying to wrench Francis’s hands from the man’s coat. She stepped quickly forward.
“Fan, leave him be, I pray you! He is bereaved. He is not responsible for his words.”
Her plea fell on deaf ears. “Then he had better be responsible for his actions,” Francis growled.
But he let go, thrusting the man away from him. Tisbury dropped back onto the stair and sat there, dumbly staring at the floor between his knees.
Ottilia seized the opportunity to drag her husband away, whispering urgently.
“As well he is too numb to respond, Fan. I wish you will not take up the cudgels so violently.”
The wrath was still in his face as he eyed her, speaking low. “I mean it, Tillie. The fellow is ripe for any violence, and I will not have you become a target for his rage.”
“I am sure he speaks only from his grief, Fan.”
“Well, so am I not. You keep away from him, do you understand me?”
Ottilia put a finger up to his cheek and stroked it, venturing a smile. “I will do whatever you wish, my dearest one.”
A little of his fury seemed to abate, but he took her strongly by the shoulders. “Yes, but will you? I know you, Ottilia. When you become involved in the moment, you are utterly reckless of your own safety.”
Ottilia set her hands against his chest. “I promise I will be careful.”
He still looked dubious, but there was no further opportunity to thrash the matter out, for the main door to the building burst open, and the elderly little figure of Mr. Wagstaff thrust limping into the hall.
“Where be her? Where be my Moll?”
Francis, ready for any fray, left Tillie and strode forth to take on this ancient progenitor of the deceased woman.
“You’ve arrived, have you? Let me tell you, Wagstaff, if you are bent upon supporting your son-in-law in his ridiculous accusations of my wife —”
“My lord, let be!”
He found Meldreth at his side and stopped short. “Let be? After what has been said?”
“Mr. Wagstaff is unlikely to support any such notion, I think you will find.”
“Which notion be that, hey?” chimed in the ancient, glaring up into both their faces.
Francis took this without hesitation. “Your son-in-law had the gall to suggest that my wife is in league with the so-called witch.”
“Tisbury believes Mrs. Dale is responsible for your daughter’s death, Wagstaff,” said Meldreth, taking it upon himself to elucidate.
The old man’s eyes snapped. “Bain’t no witching in Witherley. Daft they be as say so, ’cluding my girl, if’n her be gone and all.”
“I am sorry to say she has gone, Wagstaff,” returned Meldreth.
Francis watched the confirmation hit the old man squarely. He did not shift from his antagonistic stance, but his eyes narrowed, his face went grey, and his knees wobbled slightly so that he leaned the heavier on his staff.
“Dead, then,” he said dully. “As like her ma as nowt to ninepence. Knew as her temper ’ud do for her one day.”
Arrested, Francis stared at the man. “Your meaning?”
The rheumy eyes found his, and there was black hatred in their depths. “Bain’t no secret. Seen by all the village it be. My Moll scratched her face for her, and her’ve took revenge. Bain’t need to look no further than Hannah Pakefield.”
Chapter 12
Francis could not resist a flying glance towards his wife.
Tillie had foreseen this outcome, but her anticipation had been for Henbury to make the jump. Her frowning look at the old man Wagstaff told Francis this came as a surprise, but she did not speak. Meldreth took the matter up.
“That is highly unlikely, Wagstaff. It was Hannah who found your daughter this morning.”
“That be nowt,” argued the old man. “If’n her found her that be no proof as her bain’t put Moll there.”
“That is true, but —”
“If’n you bain’t done it yet,” interrupted Wagstaff, “it be time as Pilton be sent for.”
“I have already sent the stable boy for both Pilton and Lord Henbury.”
A grunt of satisfaction greeted this statement. “Then it be nowt but a moment afore Hannah Pakefield be fetched to lock-up. If’n you be ready, Doctor, I’ll take and see my girl now.”
“And me,” piped up Tisbury, coming alive again.
Francis saw no point in arguing. “Ryde will remain with you, Meldreth.” He turned to his groom. “Make sure neither of them touches anything.”
Ryde nodded and crossed to enter the coffee room ahead of Meldreth, who preceded the two most nearly concerned with the deceased.
Tillie had shifted out of their way, and as Francis turned, she motioned towards the front door.
“While they are occupied, let us go and see if there are marks to be found.”
Francis nodded. “The place will be swarming with villagers in no time. You can hope to find nothing if it has all been trampled.”
She looked struck and quickened her pace. Francis opened the front door for her, and she paused on the threshold.
“And then we must make a thorough search of Hannah’s chamber.”
Shocked, Francis very nearly forgot to follow her out. “What in the world will you look for?”
She did not answer immediately, her eyes travelling across the green. Already there were huddles of villagers, whispering and pointing in the direction of the Blue Pig.
“Not a moment too soon,” Francis commented, forgetting he had not received a response to his question.
Tillie headed out across the cobbles, her eyes trained upon the ground. Francis did likewise but could see nothing to suggest a body had been dragged across the area. He joined Tillie.
“Do you see anything?”
“I don’t expect to right here. Her shoes were scuffed, but that is unlikely to show on the cobbles.”
Francis watched her raise her head and scan the road intervening between the green and the cobbled yard. He glanced across and saw only footprints in the dust, which could have been made by a number of persons who had been to and fro already this morning, including Kinnerton and the doctor.
“Ah, there we are.”
Tillie was moving fast, and he followed, his eyes coursing the area for whatever she might have seen. When she halted, he followed the direction of her gaze.
“There, do you see?”
Two grooves led out across the road, directly out of the edge of the green. The grass was a trifle overgrown, and Francis could clearly see a pattern where it had been flattened. He looked towards the lock-up, but the drag did not reach as far.
He automatically moved when Tillie did, following the pattern for a matter of a few feet. Then she halted, carefully examining the grass.
“She was killed here, I think,” Tillie said. “Whoever it was must have persuaded her to come this far. Look if there are bloodstains on the grass, Fan. See how it is flattened? She must have fallen on this spot.”
There was no shape to be made out, but a small patch of the greensward did indeed look as if something heavy had been laid upon it for a while. Squatting, Francis made a careful examination.
“I can see no blood. There are one or two brown stains, but that might be an
ything.” He wiped at one and lifted the finger to the light. “No, I can’t tell.”
“Never mind it,” Tillie said, turning and retracing her steps back to where the grooves began on the road.
Rising, Francis followed and looked where she pointed.
“The grass must have been wet enough to cause the dirt to turn to mud. See, it fades out quickly.”
He followed the line, where the heels of Molly’s shoes must have dragged, rapidly drying over the dirt. Then he made a discovery.
“It turns to the side.”
“Yes.”
Tillie’s gaze rose, and she looked towards the side of the Blue Pig, where the archway gave onto the back premises.
“They headed for the stables.”
But when Francis accompanied his wife to the archway, he was disappointed to find no further trace of grooves, either on the road or on the gravelled track that led around the side of the building. Following past the stables and all the way to the two back doors, he could see nothing to indicate the passage of a person hauling a body.
“You will not convince Henbury with this,” he said grimly.
But Tillie was standing by the door nearest to the side, scrutinising the area around it. She swept a hand in an arc to encompass the yard.
“Do you suppose Hannah’s servants are so scrupulous as to sweep the yard on a daily basis?”
Francis’s mind jumped, and he cast his eyes down again. Sure enough, there were clear signs of brushstrokes crisscrossing one another.
“Very thorough was our murderer,” Tillie said, an echo of the old mischief in her voice.
Awed, Francis agreed. “Indeed. But then how was it he did not think of the grooves or the flattened grass?”
Tillie shrugged. “I daresay the business of arranging the body suitably drove it from his mind.”
“Or hers, if it was Hannah.”
“It wasn’t Hannah.”
Francis frowned. “You are very positive.”
“Yes, but that does not mean I am confident of proving it.”
“And there is still the matter of a key,” he pointed out. “I cannot think the servants leave the back doors unlocked.”
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 55
