Death Comes to Kurland Hall (5 page)

“Yes. Mrs. High and Mighty ordered me to go and help. She threatened to have me dismissed for pilfering.” Mrs. Fielding's eyes flashed. “As if me giving my nephew the odd piece of meat for a stew is a crime!”

“It certainly isn't. We all know that you support your sister's family to the best of your ability.”

“I do my duty, Miss Harrington, and for that old harridan to suggest that the rector would dismiss me just for that was ridiculous. And I told her so, and she threatened to tell him about—” Mrs. Fielding stopped speaking and busied herself with finishing the port in her glass.

“About what?”

Cook stood and drew the tea tray toward her. “Good night, Miss Harrington. I'm sure we will have a busy day tomorrow, what with dealing with all the callers to the Miss Chingfords. I'll have to bake some more cake and funeral meats.”

“Good night, Mrs. Fielding.”

Lucy turned and reversed direction to the hall. She paused for a moment outside her father's study, but there was no sound from within, and she didn't have anything to say that he wouldn't misconstrue and make her feel guilty about. Picking up her skirts, she headed up the stairs. It seemed that Mrs. Chingford had even found out something detrimental about the rectory cook. And Cook had been at Kurland manor all day....

The trouble was, Lucy could easily imagine Mrs. Fielding losing her temper and pushing Mrs. Chingford down the stairs. She had long considered Lucy's father her own personal property both in bed and out of it, and the rector had seemed quite happy to accept the arrangement. Until he'd met Mrs. Chingford, who had threatened to dismiss Mrs. Fielding at the earliest opportunity.

But what was Mrs. Fielding concealing from her father? Was it possible that she was considering leaving the rectory for another position or, even worse, another man? Lucy made a mental note to ask Betty for any new scandalous details about Cook's love life.

Lucy caught a yawn behind her hand and decided to undress herself rather than call for her maid. There was much to arrange on the morrow. The Chingfords needed help to organize their mother's burial rites, and the entire village would probably insist on descending on the rectory to find out exactly what was going on. It would make the day difficult, but it would give her an opportunity to study the other wedding guests to see if any of them had red marks on their necks or admitted to losing a piece of jewelry.

Major Kurland would probably tell her to curb her imagination and stick to the facts. In her experience, getting involved in investigating a murder often led to the murderer having designs on oneself. She really ought to learn to let things be.

As she undressed, she rediscovered the battered locket and placed it beside her bed. If the locket didn't exist, she might be more willing to listen to the major's advice. But someone owned it, and she'd wager a hundred pounds that it wasn't Mrs. Chingford.

Chapter 5

“G
ood afternoon, Miss Harrington, Major Kurland. Do come in.”

Dr. Fletcher opened the door to his house himself and ushered them inside. Instead of steering them toward the front parlor, he indicated that they should follow him to the back of the house, where, Lucy knew, there was a separate entrance to his medical practice.

The faint smell of chemicals and harsh cleaning agents made her fumble for her handkerchief and press it to her nose. The last time she'd been in a scientific laboratory, someone had died horribly.

“You don't have to go in there, Miss Harrington,” Major Kurland said quietly. “You can wait for us in the kitchen.”

Lucy stiffened her spine. “I'm quite all right, Major.”

He looked down at her and then stepped aside. “Stubborn as ever, I see.”

She ignored him and swept past him, all too aware of the still figure laid out on the cold marble slab in the center of the room. Gathering her courage, she approached Dr. Fletcher, who was writing a note in a large book.

“Did you discover the cause of Mrs. Chingford's death?”

He looked over the book at her. “Her neck was broken.”

“By the fall?”

“I'm not sure.” He put the book down and approached the dead woman, then pulled the sheet down slightly to expose her throat. “Her throat is very bruised. That could be because of the way the bones broke, pushing outward and into the flesh or . . .”

“It could be because someone strangled her,” Major Kurland said.

Lucy looked around, startled at his blunt words. “Why do you say that?”

His mouth twisted in distaste. “I've seen such injuries before. I dealt with several unpleasant and unexplained deaths in the army. At least three of them involved soldiers strangling women.”

Lucy's fingers crept to her own throat. “If she was strangled, then one must assume that someone wanted her dead.”

“Yes.” Major Kurland turned to the doctor, who was following their conversation intently. “Is it possible?”

“That she was strangled? I was an army surgeon. I've seen the same sights as you have, Major.” He shrugged. “Those marks could easily be fingers. The thing is, she might have died just from the fall itself. It is impossible to tell.”

“Perhaps someone wanted to make sure that she was dead,” Lucy commented.

“Well, they certainly succeeded.” Major Kurland moved away from the body, and Dr. Fletcher covered it with the sheet. “I have a favor to ask of you, Doctor.”

“And what would that be?”

“I'd appreciate it if you kept this information to yourself. I'd prefer the wedding guests and villagers to assume Mrs. Chingford died from a tragic accident.”

Dr. Fletcher's green eyes narrowed. “I won't lie for you.”

“I understand that. But if Miss Harrington and I are going to catch a murderer, we will require your discretion.”

“That I can manage. If anyone asks me directly how she died, I will simply say that she broke her neck. That covers all eventualities.” Dr. Fletcher went to the door and held it open for Lucy and the major to pass through. “Do you really believe you can find out who did this?”

Major Kurland looked down at Lucy. “Miss Harrington and I are becoming rather accomplished at discovering murderers. If we can't bring this off, I doubt anyone can.”

After bidding Dr. Fletcher a subdued good-bye, Lucy allowed the major to accompany her back to the carriage and then suddenly stopped.

“Could we walk for a while?”

“If you wish.” He gestured at his damaged leg. “I doubt I can make it the whole way home, but I will do my best.” He shouted to Reg. “Wait for me in the village square.”

“All right, sir.”

The carriage moved off. It was a cloudy day, but there was no hint of rain as they walked together down the narrow country road toward the center of Kurland St. Mary.

“So what shall we do now?” Lucy asked.

“Our best to discover a murderer.” He sighed. “What an appalling thing to happen on Andrew's wedding day.”

“Perhaps we should start by listing those who might have wished Mrs. Chingford dead, or at least might have become involved in an argument with her, resulting in an untimely fall,” Lucy said. “One would assume that if it had been an
accident
, then someone would have come forward by now, or at least remained with the body and raised the alarm.”

“You'd be surprised how people behave in such situations. Even if it was an accident, the person might not even have realized Mrs. Chingford had fallen so badly. They might have gone on their way, thinking they'd taught her a lesson.”

“But now we all know she is dead.”

“And whoever did it might be too frightened to confess or might have left the wedding immediately afterward and returned home, none the wiser.”

Lucy glanced up. “You have a very jaundiced view of people's morals, Major.”

“I was in the army. I know all too well that civilized behavior is a very thin veneer. It doesn't take much to make otherwise perfectly decent men behave like savages.”

They continued for a moment in silence, the only sound the tap of the major's cane on the hardened mud.

Lucy considered as she walked. “Dorothea Chingford seemed at odds with her mother, Mrs. Fielding disliked her immensely, as did Mr. Stanford's sister and Mrs. Green, and . . .”

“And you. Don't forget to put yourself on that list. Has it occurred to you that as you found the body, gossip might assume you are the guilty party?”

Lucy stopped walking to meet his level gaze. “You know I wouldn't have killed her.”

“Yes, but I'm not everyone. You also had a very good reason to dislike her. No woman likes to be replaced.”

“You are quite wrong about that, sir. I cannot begrudge my father another chance at happiness and would never stand in the way of him acquiring a new wife.” She hesitated. “In truth, I would be delighted to relinquish his care into another woman's hands, just not into Mrs. Chingford's.”

“Others might not believe that,” he said flatly.

“You truly believe I might be implicated in Mrs. Chingford's death?”

“I would almost guarantee it, Miss Harrington.” He hesitated. “If you feel threatened in any way, please be assured that I will stand your friend.”

“I appreciate that, Major, but I doubt I will have need of you.” She continued walking, and after a moment he joined her. “As far as I know, everyone considers Mrs. Chingford's death a tragic accident rather than a murder.”

“Then let's hope it remains that way,” he muttered as they reached the village square. “Now, how can we keep the wedding guests here in Kurland St. Mary so we can investigate this matter properly?”

“I had a thought about that.” Lucy was relieved that his attention had moved on from her. “I wonder if the Chingfords could be persuaded to hold the funeral at our church.”

“That's an excellent idea. Perhaps I should be the one to mention it to the rector. I can suggest to my guests that they are welcome to stay on at Kurland Hall for the funeral.” Major Kurland glanced down at her as they approached the carriage. “You will be careful, Miss Harrington, won't you?”

“Of course, sir.” She bobbed a curtsy. “I'll walk to the rectory from here. Thank you for taking me to see Dr. Fletcher. He seems a most agreeable man.”

“He's certainly just the kind of man one needs in a crisis. If it hadn't been for him, they would've amputated my leg to free me from under my horse.” He saluted and got up into the gig. “Good day, Miss Harrington.”

 

Robert arrived back in the stable yard just as his groom sat Andrew's son on the back of the oldest and most reliable mare in his stables. He still wanted to warn the boy to be careful—that horses were unpredictable beasts and could behave in ways no one expected. Despite the warmth of the sun, his skin was clammy, and he shivered.

“Are you all right, sir?”

He turned to see Thomas Fairfax and the widow, who had come down the path from the house to the stables.

“I'm a little cold.” Robert eased a step away from the oncoming horse. Andrew's son, Terence, was smiling and gripping the reins with great gusto.

“Look at me, Major Kurland! Look at me!”

Robert forced himself to acknowledge the boy and flinched when something touched his leg. Looking down, he saw Andrew's five-year-old daughter, Charlotte, staring up at him. She tugged on his breeches again, and he bent his head to her.

“I don't like horses, either, sir,” she whispered. “Don't tell Terence. He laughs at me.”

Robert patted her head. “I won't laugh, but you must remember that if you take care around a horse, it will never hurt you.”

They both took several nervous steps back as the groom encouraged the horse into a trot. Reaching down, Robert picked Charlotte up, placed her on the low stone wall, and then leaned against it beside her.

“That's not true is it, sir?”

“What isn't?” Robert said.

“That horses can't hurt you. Papa said your horse fell on top of you and hurt you very badly.”

Robert glanced down at his shattered leg. “That was slightly different. I was in the middle of a battlefield, and the enemy was shooting at us. It wasn't really my horse's fault that he panicked when he was hit.”

Charlotte patted his knee. “But it still hurt.”

“Yes, it did.” Robert held her gaze. “But I haven't let it stop me from . . .” He paused as he considered his current aversion to his own horses. “I'm not going to let it make me afraid that every horse will do that to me.”

Her smile was sweet. “Papa said you were very brave, and now I know why.” She sighed. “I wish I was brave.”

“I have an idea.” Robert picked her up and balanced her on his good hip. “Let's go on a visit.” As he passed Thomas, he nodded at him. “Can you keep an eye on Terence while I show Miss Charlotte something?”

“Of course, Major.”

Robert walked on into the stables, inhaling the familiar scent of horse manure, straw, and leather, which had once been his entire military existence. Now he came here only if he had to. Charlotte had made him think about his aversion to the place and question it anew.

There was a young boy stationed outside the closed door of the stall at the end of the row, and he stood up when Robert approached.

“Morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Arthur. Will you open the top door please so that Miss Charlotte and I can look inside, please?”

Charlotte's fingers tightened painfully around his neck, and he smiled at her. “Don't worry. There is nothing to be afraid of.” He said the words as much for himself as for her.

Arthur opened the door, and they both peered in.

“Oh . . . ,” Charlotte breathed. “It's a mother and her
baby
.”

“A foal that was born last night,” Robert said softly. “Isn't he beautiful?”

“Can I pet him?” She almost wiggled out of his arms in her efforts to get closer.

“Not yet. We can come back tomorrow if you like.”

She grabbed his ears and kissed his forehead. “Yes, please!” She touched her nose to his and stared deeply into his eyes. “You aren't scared of him, are you?”

“No, I am not.”

“Neither am I.”

They smiled at each other, in complete accord. She slid down his body, put her hand in his, and skipped back out into the paddock. While he walked, Robert took a moment to wonder how Miss Harrington was faring at the rectory and if she had had any success in identifying the owner of the locket. He had spent a surreptitious and uncomfortable few moments at the breakfast table, scanning his female guests' décolletages for signs of redness, and had seen nothing.

He'd also spoken to Mrs. Green, who had been very forthright in her opinion that Mrs. Chingford was better off dead and hadn't cared who heard her say it. She hadn't gone quite so far as to say she wished she'd done the deed herself, but she had come quite close. Either she was a master manipulator or she hadn't been anywhere near Mrs. Chingford when the event happened.

“Major Kurland?”

He looked up to find Mrs. Fairfax standing beside the carriage that had just been brought back into the stable yard with fresh horses.

“Good morning, ma'am. Are you taking the air? Splendid.”

Thomas bowed. “I'm taking Mrs. Fairfax down to the rectory to express her condolences to the Chingfords. I promise I won't be long.”

Robert patted his pocket. “Take your time. I wish to go over our plans for the stable expansion. I'll have my thoughts ready when you return.”

 

Lucy continued walking through the village, mentally cataloguing the wedding guests and their interactions with Mrs. Chingford. She would have to speak to Miss Stanford, Mrs. Green, and Dorothea. She almost hoped one of them would break down and confess all but considered it unlikely. In truth, if everyone assumed Mrs. Chingford had died from a tragic fall, there was no need to say anything. Perhaps it was a case of letting sleeping dogs lie....

But what if the person who owned the locket realized it was missing?

She entered the rectory and dealt with a couple of unimportant domestic issues in the kitchen before climbing up the stairs to Mrs. Chingford's bedchamber. After ascertaining that neither of the Chingford sisters was up and about, she opened the door and closed it quietly behind her. A waft of stale perfume rose to greet her as she tiptoed across the carpet.