Danger at Thatcham Hall

by Frances Evesham

  “You’re right.” Nelson groaned. “And I was imagining everything was settled.” Something gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. He tried to catch it. “I’m afraid there’s something we’ve missed. What can it be?” A dull ache throbbed in his head, and a knot formed in the pit of his stomach. What had he neglected? “We must think. The things that went missing—were they all belonging to the family at the Hall?”

  Miss Martin nodded. “Yes, but I thought that was part of Hodges’ vendetta, that he was trying to get Grandmother Caxton into trouble with the law.” She frowned, seeing her lack of logic. “But, why? What would he have against her?”

  Nelson clapped his hand to his head. “I’m such a fool! Of course. It’s not Hodges at the bottom of it all. And we’ve left them alone.”

  “Alone? Who. Not Grandmother Caxton?” Miss Martin’s voice shook.

  “Yes, she’s alone with Theodore. She’s in terrible danger. I must get back.”

  Olivia refused to remain behind. Nelson whipped a reluctant horse, doubtless longing for a rest, hard around the track that led the back way to the cottage. “Hodges is just a puppet on a string. He’s been manipulated, made to look like the villain. Oh, God, what if we’re too late?”

  The cart rounded a corner to a spot where the lane led through the trees to the cottage. Miss Martin cried out, “There’s too much smoke. Nelson, look, the cottage is on fire!”

  His heart pumping, Nelson hardly noticed she’d called him by his Christian name. He threw the horse’s reins over a bush and ran. Black smoke squeezed around the door and window. Taking a deep breath and covering his face with his arm, he fought through the murk, into the single room.

  The atmosphere was thick and choking. Smoke scorched Nelson’s lungs as he hurtled across the room and swept Grandmother Caxton into his arms. She weighed no more than a bird. Tears filled his eyes as he struggled to find the door. Blind, he ran into the wall, feeling his way round until he found the door and burst out, lungs burning, gasping for air, into the blessed night air.

  He wasn’t a second too soon. Wood exploded all around, the noise deafening. Flames swept into the sky, blocking the doorway. Miss Martin screamed. “Theodore! He’s still in there.” Nelson deposited the woman on the grass and ran back to the cottage.

  The flames had taken hold. The roof was burning, wood crackling, spars falling all around. Where was Miss Martin? Nelson couldn’t see her. “Olivia! Where are you?” The fire drowned his voice. Oh God, had she gone back inside?

  He took a breath of clean air, then ducked under the flaming lintel, coughing, spluttering and certain his lungs would burst. Through the smoke he saw Olivia, crouched against the wall, arms shielding her face. He grabbed at her skirt but she tried to pull away, screaming, “Theodore!”

  “Let him be! You can’t reach him.” Nelson’s voice was almost gone. He heaved Miss Martin onto his shoulder, ignoring her sobs and the fists pounding on his back, and staggered into the first light of dawn, setting her gently down, pulling her close.

  “He’s still inside.” She was crying quietly, her face pressed against Nelson’s shoulder.

  He held her tight, “We can’t help him. No one could.”

  She raised a tearstained face to his. “What do you mean?”

  “Later.”

  They turned, to watch the fire finish the job. No one could save the cottage. The thatch of the roof threw orange and yellow flames high into the sky.

  Olivia staggered to the tiny stream, bringing scant handfuls of water, holding Grandmother Caxton’s head as the poor soul tried to drink, spluttering, choking, and coughing.

  “What happened?” Nelson sank to his knees, too exhausted to speak.

  Olivia was bent over the grandmother. “It was all Theodore, wasn’t it?”

  The woman looked up, dim eyes red-rimmed, coughed and moaned. Nelson strained to make out the words. “Yes. You should have let him go, tonight. The poison would have finished him and no one would ever know what he’d done.” She coughed again, her head lolling sideways.

  Miss Martin, eyes wide with horror, laid the old woman’s head on the ground. “Is she dead?”

  Nelson nodded and closed the old woman’s eyes with gentle fingers. “It’s what she wanted. I should have known.”

  He was so tired. All he wanted to do was sleep, but Eliza and Miss Martin stared at him, expectant.

  Eliza frowned, puzzled. “Theodore’s in the cottage? Dead?”

  Miss Martin was shaking. “I don’t understand. We’d saved him, hadn’t we? We brought him back to Grandmother Caxton. He was going to be all right. So who started the fire?”

  “His grandmother. She knew, you see, that Theodore killed Lovell. Not the baker. Theodore. He was behind everything. I should have seen it. Theodore’s brother, Grandmother Caxton’s son, was in the regiment. He died out there in the desert, because of Lovell.”

  Nelson sank onto the damp, dewy grass of dawn. With a final roar, the cottage roof tumbled into the fire. Soon, the place was just a pile of smouldering charcoal and ashes. Miss Martin’s voice was so quiet Nelson had to lean forward to hear. “It’s all because of Lovell’s wickedness.”

  “Theodore wanted revenge. When his grandmother realised what he’d done, she knew he’d be caught and hanged. Instead, she and Eileen sent him off with the poisoned food. Eileen knew.”

  His laugh was bitter in a throat raw from smoke. “We spoilt it all by rescuing Theodore. His grandmother had to put on a show of curing him, but as soon as we’d gone, she set the fire. I suppose she had nothing left to live for, either. She’d have thought fire an appropriate way for an old witch to die.”

  Nelson struggled to his feet. “We must get back to the Hall. The constable can round up the witches without our help.” He pulled Miss Martin to her feet. She winced, fresh tears springing to her eyes. “You’re hurt.”

  The skin on her fingers was red and blistered, like his own. Rigid with horror, he grasped her elbows. “Your hands.”

  She tried to laugh, but the sound was a sob. “They’re no worse than yours.”

  Their eyes met, bright with shock. Her hands, those precious pianist’s hands, were burnt and charred. Nelson swallowed. “We’ll get you to a doctor.”

  Shivering, her lip trembling, Olivia tried to smile. “D-don’t worry, they’re not very painful.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Olivia allowed Miss Dainty to fuss. The self-indulgence of letting the earl’s sister adjust a costly shawl around tired shoulders, offer a luxurious cushion for an aching back and pour yet another cup of tea, seemed heaven on earth compared with the horrors of the night hours. Her tired voice, hoarse from heat and smoke, wobbled. “We were too late to save either Theodore or his grandmother.” A tight knot of grief in her chest pressed against aching ribs.

  Miss Dainty’s eyes opened, round as dinner plates, her rosebud mouth in an O of amazement. “So, the villain behind it all was Theodore? Well, who would have thought it possible?” She brought Olivia another cushion. “How could we not have seen what was happening? Theodore and Hodges and their cronies must have been using the chapel for many months. I suppose it was easy enough for Theodore to get hold of the key from Mayhew’s room, because we all felt sorry for him.”

  A clatter on the stairs heralded Mr. Roberts’ arrival. The sudden swell of warmth in Olivia’s toes rose all the way to her cheeks. She forced herself to look up and smile, as though he were any regular acquaintance, not the unsuitable, exasperating lawyer and ex-soldier, damaged and angered by experience, who’d stolen her heart. He’d bathed and changed his clothes, but the sharp smell of smoke from the ruined cottage still hung about him.

  Since returning to the Hall, Olivia had spent a few short hours in bed, dog-tired but unable to sleep. The imprint of that single shared kiss lingered on her lips. Her body quivered at the memory of Nelson’s muscles pressed hard against her breast until she felt his heart beating alongside her own. She longed, in a most unladylike way,
to slide eager hands inside his shirt and run tingling fingers over that powerful chest.

  Last night, she’d thought he felt the same way. He crossed the room to inspect the bandages that swathed both Olivia’s hands and asked politely after her health. Miss Dainty, though, in almost a fever of concern, soon claimed his attention. “Mr. Roberts, my brother returns later today, and will, I’m sure, have plenty to say about your adventures. Philomena will be down shortly, longing to speak to you. I wanted to be the first to thank you for what you have done for us all and to beg you to explain everything.” She smiled earnestly into Mr. Roberts’ face. “How did you know Theodore was behind all the dreadful things that have been happening at the Hall?”

  Miss Dainty looked so delightful, cheeks pink with excitement, long eyelashes fluttering. Olivia’s heart sank. How could any man resist such beauty? Miss Dainty would soon overcome her distress at Major Lovell’s death, when she knew of his villainy. She liked dashing officers and enjoyed Mr. Roberts’s company. Olivia licked sore lips, swallowed, and fixed her attention on the vase of fading pink roses.

  “I must go back a little in order to explain,” Mr. Roberts said, “to the cottage in the woods, where I happened to be alone for a few moments. I saw a rope, with feathers stitched into the strands. Intrigued, I returned to the library at my London chambers, and found the origins of just such an item, associated with witchcraft.”

  Miss Dainty drew a sharp breath. “Why, I had seen the rope before, but never wondered what it could be. How clever of you, Mr. Roberts.”

  He coughed. “It’s not clear exactly what the rope was for, but it seems most likely intended for casting spells. Many old women like Grandmother Caxton have kept the old knowledge, even though the law imagines the practises to have died out.”

  Olivia, drawn in to the story, had to smile. “Have you tasted her tea?”

  He laughed. “Indeed I have, and I hope that people won’t forget some of the good she’s done in the village and will use some of the herbs left in the garden. I’ve found nothing better than her concoctions for easing aches and pains.”

  Miss Dainty interrupted. “Mr. Roberts, please go on with the story. What else did you discover?”

  “I can’t take credit for everything. Miss Martin discovered the truth of Eileen Hodges’ condition and even managed to extract the name of the villain. That Lovell, the scoundrel who abused her, along with the footman’s sister, Grandmother Caxton’s daughter and, probably, several other unfortunate girls, was a thorough blackguard. I knew of the man’s capacity for treachery myself.” He raised a hand to his shoulder and laughed. “I’m sure the secret of our duel is safe with you, ladies. I could be put before a court martial, you know.”

  Olivia hid a smile. Nelson, still unaware of the secrets uncovered in her trip to London, had no idea his commanding officer knew all the details. Serious once more, he continued the tale. “Indeed, in many ways, young Theodore did the world a service by disposing of such a poisonous individual.”

  Miss Dainty touched a lace handkerchief to damp eyes. “How could I have been so foolish as to allow any feelings for Major Lovell? But, then, I’d known him for so many years. He’d been such a frequent visitor to the Hall when we were young. Oh dear, perhaps Hugh is right. I seem to have very poor taste in men.” She smiled so sweetly at Mr. Roberts that Olivia had to bite her lip hard to keep it from trembling. If Miss Dainty’s affections, so readily engaged, had already transferred to the hero of the hour, no one could blame her. “But, why would village people hate us enough to make the scullery maid steal from us?”

  “When Eliza found a place at the Hall, Hodges knew enough about her to force her into the thefts. Part of the village was terrified of him, not knowing he just carried out Theodore’s work. By joining the coven, they kept themselves safe. That’s why Daniel was killed. His wife, and Bob, his old friend, persuaded him to leave the coven. Theodore couldn’t let him talk.”

  “His poor wife.” Miss Dainty shook her head.

  Nelson raised an eyebrow. “She’s well comforted, I can assure you. Bob’s looking after her.”

  Olivia stole a glance at Miss Dainty, but her friend didn’t appear to notice any irony.

  “Who attacked Miss Martin? Was that Theodore, as well?”

  He nodded, glanced at Olivia and quickly away. “The hatred of all army officers that clouded his mind included me.” He walked away, to the window. Olivia could no longer see his face. “He left one of his brother’s regimental buttons, to make it look as though I attacked her. It was part of the plan to murder Lovell and put the blame on me. It nearly succeeded.”

  Mr. Roberts turned back, deep lines etched on his face. He looked exhausted, as though, like Olivia, he’d been unable to sleep. “I suggest you invite the rector to perform a cleansing ritual in the chapel, to put the minds of the god-fearing majority at rest.”

  “I hope you’re right, Mr. Roberts, although we’ll find it hard to forgive those who used the chapel for evil purposes.”

  Olivia’s heart ached. She’d been foolish to believe Mr. Roberts cared. Kisses were nothing to a man of the world, and the lovely, wealthy Miss Dainty would be a wonderful match.

  If only things had turned out differently. She’d thrown away the only hope of making a life in music with that clandestine, ill-considered trip to London. She’d be a governess, after all. She was tempted to regret that journey into the fog, if it weren’t that she’d discovered the real Nelson Roberts there; not selfish, arrogant and heartless, as she’d thought, but a war hero, damaged by terrible ordeals, hiding deep feelings beneath a carefree shell.

  Which pain was worse; the despair of finding the one man she could love for ever, only to watch him marry another, or the misery of letting the musical life she’d dreamed of slip through careless fingers?

  “Excuse me.” Olivia rose and, head high, left Mr. Roberts and Miss Dainty alone.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Refusing to give in to the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks, Olivia arrived at the music room. Here, she’d always found solace. She thrust open the door, stumbled toward the piano, laid a throbbing head on the beloved instrument her burned hands couldn’t play and cried for the loss of her two great loves.

  At last, eyes red and sore, Olivia’s sobs faded. She would collect her belongings and leave the Hall. She couldn’t bear to stay a moment longer. She had always intended to leave after the ball. Today, she would return to the misery of a new home at Fairford Manor and a depressing, lonely future.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, Olivia longed for Mama. She needed someone to put her to bed with a cup of hot chocolate and promise everything would turn out for the best. Mama, despite failing to understand her too-clever, too-impetuous daughter, always offered a mother’s unfailing affection. Olivia needed such comfort. She was tired of being a guest in someone else’s house.

  She raised her head. There were noises downstairs—excited cries of delight. Silently, her heart a lead weight, Olivia slipped across to the head of the stairs and leaned, careful to remain out of sight, squinting down at the door of the morning room as it flew open. Miss Dainty skipped out, laughing, followed closely by Lady Thatcham and Mr. Roberts. Every face was wreathed in smiles.

  Miss Dainty’s voice, shrill with happiness, floated up through the stairwell. “I’m so very happy. I can’t wait until my brother returns to give permission, although it was his own idea, so that will be no problem. Philomena, thank you for being so kind.”

  Lady Thatcham, laughing, scolded Miss Dainty. “Now, you must wait for Hugh before you tell everyone, my dear. Try to be a little calmer. Mr. Roberts, I beg of you to take Miss Dainty for a calming walk.”

  Olivia leaned against the wall, hands clenched at her throat. So, he’d done it. All that was wanted was Lord Thatcham’s permission, and he would not refuse it.

  Feet dragging, Olivia returned to the room where she’d woven impossible fantasies, ringing for Violet to help pack her few
possessions. It was only a short trip to Fairford Manor. That would be home for a while. The last she would know, for a governess had no home of her own.

  Olivia lingered in the room, deciding which dress she’d give to Violet as a present and filling a small wooden box with mementos of the short stay at Thatcham Hall. Every keepsake caused a stab of pain. There was the emerald she’d worn at the ball, when Mr. Roberts had kissed her. She screwed her eyes tight shut, to clear the memory. Here was the glove she wore, meeting Mr. Roberts outside the baker shop, dropping one of the macaroons from the basket, and this was the handkerchief he’d used to wipe mud from Olivia’s cheek when she fell in the woods.

  It was foolish to keep such things. Olivia knew it, but she couldn’t throw them away. One day, in years to come, she’d see Mr. Roberts’ name in the newspaper, as the eminent Queen’s Counsel, triumphant defender of some poor soul wrongly accused of a heinous crime. He’d make a mark in the world. On that day, perhaps Olivia could look back without such dreadful, sharp pain and remember the adventures at Thatcham Hall with fondness.

  If only she could slip away from the Hall without speaking to anyone. For a moment, Olivia hesitated, tempted, but no, she wouldn’t repay the kindness of them all, from Lady Thatcham to the staff in the servants’ hall, with such rudeness. They richly deserved a farewell visit.

  Olivia dressed for confidence in her best walking dress, knowing its vibrant green showed off her ridiculous hair and pale skin to their greatest advantage, and descended the stairs, prepared both to congratulate Miss Dainty on her great fortune and to resist the wicked temptation to poke out her friend’s eyes with a pencil.

  “Ah, dear Miss Martin. Are you on your way to a visit?” Lord Thatcham swept into the Hall and threw his hat and coat at Mayhew, just as Olivia reached the lowest step.