The Deathly Portent (11 page)

Ottilia could not resist. “What, that Miss Beeleigh took you in? It sounds a most charitable proceeding.”

“No, no, I don’t mean that.”

“Nothing in it,” said Miss Beeleigh in a flat tone that gave the lie to an odd expression of intensity in the almond eyes. “We were schoolfellows. When I heard how things had been left when Radlett died, seemed sense to pool our resources. We deal well together.”

“Indeed we do,” agreed the widow, but with a darting look of doubt at Mr. Netherburn that caught Ottilia’s attention.

“I understand,” she said, “but what of this Mrs. Uddington? Why did she run away?”

Although Miss Beeleigh threw in another of her habitual
snorts and Mr. Netherburn shook a grave head, Mrs. Radlett’s attention focused instantly.

“It was said she’d betrayed her husband. And who do you think was the culprit?” Ottilia guessed from the portentous pause just what was coming but forbore from stealing the woman’s thunder. “Duggleby.”

M
rs. Radlett sat back with an air of satisfaction. Ottilia knew her duty.

“Dear me, you don’t say so? The blacksmith himself?”

“Pah! None knows the truth of it, of course.” Thus Miss Beeleigh.

Mr. Netherburn leaned in, excitement throwing pink into his cheeks.

“I had forgot it. But don’t you see how this changes everything? How may anyone blame poor Mrs. Dale when there is Uddington with the strongest of grudges against the dead man?”

“But why should he wait seven years to take his revenge?” objected Ottilia.

Her auditors looked struck; all but Miss Beeleigh, who nodded.

“True. Don’t make sense.”

“It is a consideration,” agreed Mr. Netherburn, sitting back again, but with disappointment in his face.

“Well, but he might bide his time, waiting for an opportunity,”
offered the widow, patently unwilling to relinquish this promising avenue.

Ottilia smiled. “Perhaps Mr. Uddington is not the only man to hold a grudge against this Duggleby. He does not seem to have been a popular fellow. Who were his friends, do you know?”

“Always been thick as thieves with Tisbury,” stated Miss Beeleigh.

“Not forgetting Staxton,” put in Mr. Netherburn. “One could not take oneself into the Cock without finding the three together.”

“Yes, and Bertha Duggleby said she’d had comfort from Molly Tisbury last night,” added Mrs. Radlett.

Ottilia put up a finger. “I would not set too much store by settled friendships. I have had occasion to observe that broken friendships produce the greatest enmity.”

Miss Beeleigh was nodding. “You are very right, Lady Francis. Horace, had you noticed of late any reduction in amity among those three men?”

Mr. Netherburn sipped his coffee, evidently subjecting the question to examination. At last he shook his head.

“I cannot say I have noticed anything of the kind. But I am bound to state that all three were apt to exhibit an ill-tempered manner on occasion.”

“It would be unlikely to manifest at this present,” Ottilia said, “for people tend to band together in times of trouble, do you not think?”

“They are certainly banding together against poor Mrs. Dale,” said Mr. Netherburn, a peevish note entering his voice.

“Indeed yes,” agreed Mrs. Radlett. “Had the vicar not intervened last night, I must say I dread to think of the consequences.”

Miss Beeleigh set down her cup with a snap. “I’d forgot the new vicar. His arrival should content you, Horace. Another face to add to the social circle. Young, too. Daresay he might winkle Cassie Dale out of her shell.”

Ottilia watched Horace Netherburn colour up and noted the dagger look cast upon her friend by Mrs. Radlett. By good fortune, she caught motion through the window in the periphery of her vision and looked out.

“Oh, there is my husband. Dear me, is that perhaps the vicar with him?”

As one, the three visitors turned to look out of the window.

“Is it?”

“Not met the fellow yet, so we can’t know.”

“Ah yes,” came from Netherburn. “He’s the fellow on the right. I caught a sight of him earlier and thought it must be Kinnerton.”

This was enough for Ottilia. She rose swiftly. “Pray excuse me for a moment. I must speak to my husband.”

Without pausing for a response, she darted to the door and was into the hall and outside before any could think of accompanying her. She had no wish to make the vicar’s acquaintance in the company of the village gossips, who would undoubtedly hamper her in a bid to discover all she might of the witch’s champion.

She waved to Francis as she sped down the path through the cobbles and was relieved to see him halt on the green to wait for her.

“We were just on our way in to find you, my love,” he said and turned to his companion. “Allow me to present my wife, Lady Francis Fanshawe. This is the Reverend Mr. Kinnerton, who has only just taken up his living at the vicarage.”

As Ottilia held out her hand, she took stock of the young man. She liked what she saw. He was personable, without being handsome, but the clarity of his blue gaze sat well with her.

“My dear sir, I am enchanted. I have heard how you aided the young creature who has been so unfortunate as to incur the enmity of the village.”

The severity of Mr. Kinnerton’s expression disappeared,
and Ottilia was treated to an appraising look. Her hand was taken in a firm clasp, warm to the touch.

“I thank you, but anyone would have done the same.”

“You are too modest, sir. I have already heard of several persons who, by all accounts, would indeed have done otherwise.”

A frown appeared. “You are very well informed, ma’am.”

Ottilia laughed. “I have been in conversation with Miss Beeleigh and Mrs. Radlett, whom I believe you have not yet met.”

A gleam appeared in his eye. “Ah. Yes, I was warned—er—advised as to the identities of the gentry hereabouts.”

“But not about Mrs. Dale, I take it?”

The gleam vanished, and a faint look of steel entered those intense eyes. “Astute of you, Lady Francis.”

“My wife is renowned for her keen mind, sir.” Ottilia could not help but feel a flush of pleasure at the bristle in her husband’s voice. “Witherley may yet have cause to be grateful for her presence.”

Now the vicar looked merely puzzled. His glance went from Francis to Ottilia and back again. A faint ripple of irritation crossed his face.

“Would you care to explain your meaning, my lord?”

“By all means,” said Francis, with a promptness that caused Ottilia to set a warning hand upon his arm. He glanced at her, but the steel in his voice did not abate. “I don’t know if you are familiar with the scandal that overtook my family last year?”

The vicar shook his head. “I was in no condition to take in very much at that time.”

Ottilia saw Francis relax and threw him a questioning glance. He caught it and gestured towards the parson.

“Mr. Kinnerton had the misfortune to be ill for some little time. Briefly then, sir, an intimate relation was murdered. It is entirely due to my wife’s tireless investigations
and her ingenious mind that the perpetrator was discovered. She saved my family’s reputation and our sanity.”

The vicar looked thunderstruck, as well he might. Ottilia thought it well to lessen the impact.

“My husband exaggerates,” she said cheerfully. “If I have a knack, it is in noticing what others might not. And those persons nearly concerned in events are apt to be a trifle blinded, do you not think?”

All at once the Reverend Kinnerton smiled and his whole countenance underwent a change. “It appears we are fortunate in your misfortune. Would it be selfish of me to hope that your carriage is not mended too quickly? Any aid you can offer in diverting suspicion from Mrs. Dale will be only too welcome, I assure you.”

Ottilia held out her hand, and the vicar clasped it with both his own. She smiled at him. “I had best confess, lest the heavens strike me down. Our groom came here in search of a blacksmith, and when he brought news of the storm, the smith’s murder, and a hunt for the local witch, I’m afraid curiosity overtook me.”

Kinnerton laughed. “Lady Francis, I am not your confessor. What will you do?”

Francis intervened. “I have been hoping you may be able to help. The tapster tells me the blacksmith’s body is still housed in a back room at the Cock and Bottle. It is imperative my wife has a sight of it.”

The vicar looked startled, his glance flying back to Ottilia’s face. “My dear ma’am, surely you cannot intend to subject yourself to such a spectacle?”

Ottilia saw Francis bristle again and cut in swiftly. “I am a hardy spirit, Mr. Kinnerton, and have confronted several such spectacles.” She saw disbelief in his face and could not forbear a laugh. “Perhaps I should explain that my brother is a doctor. Until recently, I lived in his house and had opportunity to partake of his activities.”

“Believe me, I was quite as shocked as I can see you are, Kinnerton,” Francis put in, “but she is speaking the truth. I can vouch for it that she will not flinch.”

The vicar spread his hands. “You leave me with nothing to say.”

“But can you help?” Francis pursued, with an impatience Ottilia could not but deprecate. She said nothing, however, merely waiting upon Mr. Kinnerton’s pleasure.

He frowned. “You wish me to insinuate Lady Francis into the house? I’m not sure my word will carry much weight with Tisbury.”

“Nonsense,” scoffed Francis. “You have sufficiently demonstrated your authority in that quarter.”

Ottilia watched in fascination as this idea appeared to penetrate the vicar’s mind. A slow smile crept into his face.

“I cannot deny that the notion of spiking the fellow’s guns appeals to me. Shall we essay it?”

Francis looked taken aback. “Now?”

Just then a clock began to strike somewhere nearby. The parson looked towards the church. “Two and thirty. We have time yet. If you are ready, ma’am?”

T
he covered corpse lay on a wooden bedstead near an open window, for which Ottilia gave thanks. The natural aromas accompanying death were muted, but the heat of the day had undoubtedly worsened the body’s condition, drawing flies like a magnet and pervading the atmosphere with the faint tang of rotting meat. The insects buzzed around the area and dotted the sheet with resting spots of black.

It had not taxed the vicar’s ingenuity unduly to effect an entrance through the back premises of the Cock and Bottle. Tisbury, it appeared, was absent, and the tapster proved no match for Mr. Kinnerton. Within a few short minutes, he came out to where Ottilia waited with Francis, accompanied by a plump maidservant.

“Miss Bessy will conduct us to the blacksmith’s present resting place,” he said, with a gesture at the girl, who goggled at Ottilia as she bobbed a curtsy.

“How very kind,” Ottilia said instantly, smiling at the maidservant.

Bessy blinked and curtsied again. “Bain’t nowt, m’am, if’n you be minded to see him. Though why any’d wish to I can’t for the life of me think, what with the stink and all.”

“I am sure it will be excessively unpleasant,” Ottilia conceded, “but I must steel myself to the task.”

Mystified but obliging, the girl led the way around the tavern to the back door, which entered into an area clearly set aside for the living quarters of the family. The deceased was housed in a small room given over to a servant’s chamber and temporarily unoccupied. Due, so Bessy informed the assembled company, to the kitchen maid having “loped off in the night” some weeks back and not yet having been replaced.

“Why did she lope off?” demanded Ottilia, instantly intrigued.

Bessy shrugged. “No one don’t know for sure, though Mistress thinks as her be got with child.”

“By whom? Or is that not known, either?”

A trifle of unease entered Bessy’s round features at this, and Ottilia caught the almost imperceptible flicker of the girl’s eye towards the mound by the window. She cast a more obvious, and somewhat nervous, glance at Mr. Kinnerton, and a flush entered her cheeks.

“Bain’t right, talking of such before the Reverend,” she muttered, now fixing her gaze on the floor.

“Indeed, no,” said Ottilia at once. “I must thank you, Bessy. We will not detain you further.”

She let the girl curtsy herself out of the room before turning to the two gentlemen. “Duggleby without doubt.”

Francis frowned. “How do you know?”

“Bessy looked instantly at the body when I asked the question.”

Mr. Kinnerton’s blue gaze was intent. “You are very observant, ma’am. But how can you be sure this girl knew the truth?”

Ottilia laughed. “My dear sir, servants are privy to all sorts of secrets. The maids in a household cannot hope to hide anything from one another, in particular when it comes to amorous adventures. Besides, I have already ascertained that Duggleby was something of a ladies’ man.”

“What did I tell you?” cut in her spouse, a species of triumph in his tone. “Believe me, she will know more about this blacksmith than half the village before the day is out.”

A ripple of laughter escaped Ottilia at the parson’s raised eyebrows. “My husband’s confidence is a little overstated perhaps. What I do know is that the shop owner, a Mr. Uddington, is said to have lost his wife to an amour with Duggleby.”