Danger at Thatcham Hall

by Frances Evesham

  Olivia swallowed. Lord and Lady Thatcham insisted the woman was harmless, but these were poisonous plants in a kitchen garden. Why were they there?

  Anyway, it must be time to go. Miss Dainty, who’d spent the past few minutes seated under a hawthorn bush, jumped to her feet. John backed round the corner of the cottage, happy and muddy, boasting a scratch on a grubby nose and filthy fingernails, dragging a log half his size. He heaved it onto the neat pile near the front door and wiped muddy hands on ruined breeches.

  Traces of tension lingered in Olivia’s shoulders as the trio walked the now-familiar path. Not even John’s excitement over the rabbits he’d seen in Theodore’s hutches managed to chase off a nagging sense of unease.

  John insisted Theodore join them, and the two boys led the way, skipping over tree roots, planting footprints in every patch of mud.

  “What was that?” John stopped. “Aunt Selena, I heard something.”

  Apprehension tight in Olivia’s throat, she tilted her head to listen.

  “There it is again. Over there. I think it’s a deer. Come on, Theo.” The boys left the path and ran. The young ladies followed, but the boys disappeared through the trees.

  “John, come back at once!” He was too far ahead to take notice of his aunt. Olivia put on a burst of speed as panic gripped. Who knew what John had heard? It could be a wild boar. She wrestled through tangled branches, hardly feeling the tug of thorns, her chest starting to ache from the effort.

  What was that? A thin scream echoed through the wood. She stopped. There was silence once more.

  “What can that be?” Miss Dainty caught up.

  “I don’t know… It’s close—”

  They set off again, Olivia in the lead once more, fear for John driving her forward. Miss Dainty stopped to release the skirt of her gown from a clutching thorn bush.

  Olivia broke through a thicket into a burst of sunshine. The light exploded in her head. She lost footing and fell, hands outstretched, clasping only air as she tumbled, headfirst, down a steep and muddy slope.

  The world went dark.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nelson strolled into the village, determined to find solutions. He needed to think. A brisk walk should help, so long as it took him away from Miss Martin’s unsettling presence. Finding the two young ladies outside the chapel had caught him off guard. Once more, she’d discovered the solution to one of Thatcham Hall’s mysteries. Nelson’s pride stung.

  No time to waste thinking about that just now. He’d keep to the task. There was still a thief about, and one with a grudge against Thatcham Hall. Maybe the village held a few answers.

  Nelson drew near to a bend in the lane that marked the edge of the village. Animal snuffles and the clatter of heavy hooves warned he was not alone. The warm, milky smell of cattle hit his senses just as the first animal lumbered into view. More cows.

  It took only seconds for the herd, slow moving and heavyweight, to block the lane. A tall man grunted behind, waving a stick at a straggler who paused to snatch a mouthful of grass. “Giddon wi’it, lass.”

  Nelson stood back to let them pass. “Morning.”

  “Morning, sir.” The cowherd, tall, thin and stooped, touched a finger to his cap. His smock bore fresh splatters of milk. “Pardon these beasts. They’re on the way back to the field over yonder.”

  “The field where the young man, Daniel, was found?”

  “Ay. That’s the one.” The cowman squinted. “What’s that to you, then?”

  “I found him.”

  “Ah. That so?” A wary gaze flicked over Nelson. “Ain’t seen you around before.”

  “I’m staying up at the Hall.”

  “Ah.” The man nodded, a shade less suspicious. “Well, sir, I must be off and get these beasts back before they find something to eat they shouldn’t and give themselves the bellyache. Good day to you.” He tapped his cap again.

  “Wait a moment. I’ll walk with you if I may.”

  The cowman shrugged assent.

  Nelson cleared his throat. “Lived here long, have you?”

  “A while.”

  “Knew Daniel, did you, Mr. er…?”

  “Ah. Jackson’s the name.”

  Nelson walked and waited. The story of the cow maiming would be all round the village, and Nelson was willing to bet the villagers had heard about the thefts at the Hall. Asking questions seemed to put the man on his guard. He’d let Jackson talk when he was ready.

  Sure enough, the cowman broke the silence at last, pulling off the worn cap to rub thin grey hair into spikes. “That Daniel never had the sense he was born with. Stupid lad. Used to play with my boy when they were young. Accident-prone, that’s what he was. Shouldn’t have let him have a scythe, that’s my opinion.”

  “Newlywed, I hear.”

  “To as good a wife as he could want. Better than he deserves, if you ask me.”

  “Oh?” Nelson let the question hang in the air.

  The cowman shot him a sideways glance. “Ay. Daft boy. Liked bad company.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Not so as I know.” Jackson’s mouth snapped shut, as though he’d said too much. With a burst of speed, he caught up with the cattle, slapping the loiterer’s rump.

  Nelson tried again. “Your son. Does he work with you?”

  “Ah. My Bob does the evening milking. But he ain’t had dealings with Dan, not for years now. My Bob, he’s a good boy.”

  So, Daniel’s past had driven a wedge between him and a long-time friend. Nelson let another silence fall, waiting. Jackson burst out, “When that business of the cow-damage ’appened, everyone looked at my Bob, but I can tell you, he had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.”

  “And Daniel?”

  The cowman shook his head. “Don’t ask me. Who knows what that lad got himself into? And now, sir, I’ve got to get these beasts tucked up safe in their field, so I’ll bid you good day.”

  Nelson let him go. Maybe Bob would have something to add on the subject of Daniel.

  Turning back, Nelson made his way down the lane, following a trail of cowpats leading at right angles to the village. With luck, Bob would be easy to find at the farm buildings.

  He was in sight of a five-barred gate when a pile of timber and rags set in the hedge to the right caught Nelson’s attention. An old black pot lay on its side, a jagged hole in the bottom evidence it had been abandoned, outside a structure Nelson could now see was a rough hut, dilapidated and tumbledown, but bearing unmistakable signs of recent habitation: a patch of burnt ground, the site of a recent fire, still smelled of smoke and roasted animal, although it was cold to the touch, and a scrap of rabbit fur looked like the remains of a poacher’s dinner.

  “Old Epiphanius has gone for the summer, if that’s who you’re seeking.” The lad at Nelson’s elbow bore a convincing likeness to his father. Long, vigorous and upright, and as thin as Jackson himself, Bob had sandy hair, yet to turn grey, sticking at right angles from the labourer’s cap. Bright blue eyes, startling in the brown leathery face of a man who spent his days in the open air, whatever the weather, met Nelson’s for just a second, then slid away.

  Nelson sighed. Did every member of the Jackson family have a suspicious nature, or was lack of trust of a stranger the natural result of the mysterious events at Thatcham Hall? “Epiphanius?”

  “Old Epiphanius lives here in the winter, on rabbit stew and pigeon pie from the woods, but he set off on his travels a couple of days ago.”

  “Travels?”

  “Knife-grinder, that’s his business. Gets all over the country. But he always comes back.” At least Bob was more garrulous than Jackson. “You that lawyer come to catch the cow maimer?”

  “I am that. I think I just met your father. You must be Bob.”

  Bob nodded, but gave no sign of touching his cap. He grinned. “Reckon things’ll get back to normal now Epiphanius is gone.”

  Nelson raised an eyebrow.

  “
Aye, he’s got light fingers, has old Epi.” Bob turned away. “I better be getting along.” He was gone.

  Nelson watched the lad’s back. So, that’s what I’m to think. Epiphanius gets the blame.

  Nelson returned to Thatcham Hall via the kitchen. Mrs. Bramble, despite a sharp tongue, had proved to be an easy source of illicit slices of pie, and Nelson had worked up an appetite.

  The servant’s hall was abuzz, the occupants gathered round Mrs. Rivers, the housekeeper, in a tight knot. “Well, it’s nothing to do with me, so there.” The scullery maid, cap askew, was indignant.

  “Nor me neither,” Violet declared.

  “Everyone knows it’s that tramp.” James took his fiancée’s arm. “Don’t you fret.”

  “Nobody’s blaming anyone.” Mrs. Rivers, arms folded, raised her voice above the babble. “Now, settle down. Mr. Mayhew will be down in a moment, so you’d better be about your business.” She caught sight of Nelson. “Oh, Mr. Roberts. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there. What can we do for you?”

  With all eyes turned his way, Nelson saw no point in pretending he hadn’t heard the noise. “Well, I was hoping for pie, but it seems there’s a problem. Perhaps I can help.”

  “Well. I don’t know about that.” Mrs. Rivers rubbed a short, freckled nose with one finger.

  Mayhew appeared from the stairs. “It’s all right, Mrs Rivers. Mr. Roberts has his lordship’s confidence.” He approached, a decanter in one hand. “Mr. Roberts, I’m afraid Lord Thatcham has been unable to locate a locket belonging to the previous Lady Thatcham: Lady Beatrice, I mean. It was in his bureau yesterday, but has now disappeared.” Nelson knew the earl had been married before, and that his first wife had died in a riding accident.

  Mayhew continued, using a spotless cloth to polish the already-gleaming decanter. “As you know, sir, this is not the first item to go missing. Some members of staff are a little concerned that they may take the blame.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen that locket, not for years.”

  Mayhew quelled Violet with a frown. “I think we’re all agreed the most likely culprit is Epiphanius.”

  Nelson went to speak, then stopped. If the servants were unaware the tramp had already left the district, he would not disabuse them; not yet. If the thief felt safe, he or she might take less care and be easier to catch.

  With a nod and smile, he escaped from the kitchen, a large slice of apple pie on a plate, and retired to think.

  From an upstairs window, open to the breeze, Nelson watched a distant farmhand sowing seed, followed by swarms of gulls, just tiny white dots on brown fields. How sad that so peaceful a scene of English tranquillity should hide the same undercurrents of resentment and evil as the reeking stews of London.

  There was the herd of cows, just visible in the meadow, far away to his left. A half-formed memory tugged at the edges of Nelson’s mind. Where had he heard of something similar?

  He turned to a well-thumbed copy of Archbold, the lawyers’ bible. Yes, there was a case. Seven years deportation for cutting cattle tails.

  With such a penalty, why would anyone want to do such a thing? Could there be a link to the theft of personal objects at the Hall? Was Daniel’s death just an accident? Bob and his father had sown doubt in Nelson’s mind.

  Lord Thatcham had suggested he talk to Grandmother Caxton. “She’s a strange old woman, but she keeps her ear to the ground,” he’d said. “She knows more than anyone else about the goings-on outside the walls of Thatcham Hall.”

  Nelson didn’t at once follow the path into the trees but took the path that wandered down to the river as he’d done before. This time, there was no flame-haired goddess to tease, just the herd of foolish cattle. “If you could talk,” Nelson spoke sternly to the lead heifer, “what would you tell me?” She gazed at him, silent, with liquid brown eyes. “Who could want to harm you, my beauty?”

  It was dark and a little gloomy amongst the trees. Nelson listened, alert, but all he heard was the swish of leaves in the trees, bright in the green of late spring, dancing in a sharp little breeze. He was glad he’d worn his great coat, for the sun hadn’t yet reached the heat of full summer.

  A creature rustled through the undergrowth and Nelson started, turning too late to catch a glimpse of movement. Rabbits, perhaps…or deer. He walked on, preparing the questions he’d ask Grandmother Caxton.

  What was that noise? It sounded like a human cry, high-pitched, shrill.

  Crows rose into the air, the clamour of their raucous calls echoing through the wood, drowning all other sound.

  In the grip of sudden apprehension, Nelson broke into a lopsided run, heading deeper into the wood, where the sound originated.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Olivia opened her eyes, but the sunlight hurt. She squeezed them closed.

  “Miss Martin.” The voice sounded familiar.

  “Mm?” She tried again to open her eyes, shading them with one hand, squinting. Mr. Roberts, silhouetted in the light, looked down.

  John stood nearby, face paper white. Miss Dainty hovered, one hand at her throat. “Oh. Thank Heaven you’re alive.”

  Olivia sat up with great care. She felt the back of her head. “Ouch.” A lump the size of a cuckoo’s egg throbbed like a metronome. The pounding grew in strength, painful enough to overcome the mortification of such a predicament. Mr. Roberts would laugh. She peered into his face but saw no sign of amusement. Why, he even looked pale, shocked.

  “Let me see.”

  He bent over, so close that a lock of hair caressed Olivia’s cheek. She drew a shaky breath, savouring a masculine hint of warm, mellow tobacco and leather.

  Mr. Roberts’ fingers touched her head and she shivered. “Did that hurt?”

  “No.”

  Mr. Roberts smiled. “Your eyes are dark green.”

  What? Had he really said that? His voice was so soft she couldn’t be sure she heard correctly.

  Olivia’s head swam. She swallowed. What had happened? Oh, wait. She’d been chasing John. She’d heard animal noises and the boys had run off. Where was John? Was he safe? She tried to look around but the movement made her head thud. Tracing the painful lump on her head, her fingers brushed Mr. Roberts’ hand. He pulled his arm away and stepped back. Olivia felt a pang of disappointment.

  John peered around Mr. Roberts and whistled. “Look, real blood.”

  Olivia tried a shaky laugh. “I was trying to find you, John. Where did you go?”

  “I heard something and chased after it, but then you screamed, so I came back.”

  There was Theodore, a few paces away. “He was halfway to the Hall, Miss. I’d just caught up with him when we heard a scream. It must have been a stoat catching a rabbit.” The boy leaned forward to look at Olivia’s head. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Miss, it’s willow bark you need. You’ll have a bad headache otherwise. I’ll fetch you some.”

  He was off, slipping through the trees, quick and silent.

  Miss Dainty took Olivia’s hand. “Are you well enough to move?”

  “Of course. It’s only a little bruise.”

  Mr. Roberts held out a hand. Olivia took care to look straight ahead, suddenly shy, as she grasped it. The fingers felt pleasantly warm and dry. As Olivia stood up, pain exploded in one ankle. She cried out, hopping on one leg, mortified at such another loss of dignity. Mr. Roberts’ steadying arm slid around her waist.

  Olivia leaned against him. “I must have turned my ankle.”

  “Then I shall carry you.” Suddenly, Olivia was in his arms. The long scar was just visible behind the neat beard. A desire to stroke one finger along its length almost overcame Olivia. What could have caused it? The same thing that had left him with a limp? His expression was unreadable.

  Olivia’s stomach fluttered. She let an aching head rest on Mr. Roberts’ broad shoulder, breath slowing in harmony. A pulse beat in his neck. The rhythm increased, faster, more insistent, Olivia’s heart keeping time.

  A de
ep breath shuddered through Mr. Roberts’ chest. “We must take you back to the Hall.” Olivia’s eyes closed.

  “Oh no! The ball!” Miss Dainty’s shriek startled her back to reality. “Will you be able to dance?”

  Mr. Roberts’ arms tightened around Olivia. He spoke in a voice so soft that only she could hear. “If you can’t dance, perhaps you’ll sit with me a little to admire the other dancers?”

  Olivia whispered. “Of course.”

  She hardly heard Miss Dainty’s continuous stream of exclamations, promises to send at once for a doctor, and hopes all would be well before the ball, for Mr. Roberts’ arms held her close. She breathed in his scent, filling her lungs with the warm spiciness. His mouth drew near, lips parted. A tremor shook Olivia’s body.

  “Whatever will Mama say if Miss Martin’s leg is broken?” John’s treble broke the spell. Mr. Roberts’ head jerked back. He blinked as if dazed, then set off, gaze fixed on the path ahead. Olivia, still safe against his chest, closed her eyes.

  ****

  By the time they arrived back at the Hall, Nelson’s arms ached from carrying Miss Martin. John had run ahead to spread the news, despite instructions that he should avoid alarming the household.

  Lady Thatcham had arranged for afternoon tea in the morning room, where cushions were piled on a soft sofa for the invalid. She scolded John for disobeying Aunt Selena and running away. “Just see what trouble you caused.”

  John hung his head, but insisted, “It wasn’t all my fault. There was someone in the woods. I was chasing them.”

  “Nonsense. I’m sure it was just deer or rabbits, John. Who else would be in the woods?”

  “It wasn’t rabbits.” John’s lower lip stuck out.

  Nelson mentally replayed the scene. He hadn’t seen Miss Martin fall, but he’d heard a cry. Had he caught a glimpse of another, shadowy figure, just beyond the clearing? Perhaps John was right. Nelson couldn’t be sure. In any case, even if there had been another presence in the wood, it may have had nothing to do with Miss Martin’s tumble. The fall was simply the consequence of running without paying attention to the path. That was all it was.