The Deathly Portent (12 page)

Mr. Kinnerton looked across at the misshapen sheet. “An unlikely Lothario, one would have thought, from the look of the fellow.”

“Oh, he was undoubtedly a brute,” agreed Ottilia. “But that does not preclude his being unnaturally attractive to the opposite sex. Certain females have a preference for the rough male, do you not find?”

“I do not,” stated the vicar flatly. “But I cannot pretend to an intimate knowledge of the sex.”

“You may take it from me she is right,” Francis put in. “But should we not pursue the business of the hour? I understand you are pressed for time, Kinnerton.”

With obvious reluctance, the vicar moved towards the corpse, reached for a corner of the sheet, and twitched it away, causing a sudden ascent of a cloud of flies. Ottilia noted the wrinkle at his nose and the distaste in his features.

“I daresay his condition has deteriorated since you saw him last night.”

Kinnerton nodded, putting a hand over his nose and mouth and moving aside to give her access. Ottilia moved in, casting a quick look at her spouse, who had whipped out his pocket
handkerchief and had it firmly in place against the noxious smells that permeated the chamber more completely. She hoped it was not too horrible a reminder of what he had endured last year. He caught her glance, however, and clearly noted the question in her mind, for he shook his head and gestured for her to attend to what she must.

The mattress had been set aside, and the corpse lay directly on the wooden slats. It was cold to the touch despite the warmth of the day, and the still damp and dirty clothes clung to the softened limbs, for rigor had already passed. Ottilia noted the onset of discolouration turning the slack face faintly green. She reached out and lifted each lid of the blacksmith’s closed eyes and found one of interest.

Becoming aware of Francis at her elbow, she nodded towards the eye.

“The pupil is dilated.”

“What does that mean?”

“Bleeding into the brain.”

Bending to that side, Ottilia looked into the man’s ear. A trickle of dried dark red liquid emanated from within. She checked the other ear but found none.

“Now for the skull.”

Her fingers felt along the base, moving gently towards the side indicated by the pupil and the fluid from the ear. She found what she was seeking easily enough.

“Ah, there it is.”

“What is it?”

“A depression. It is very distinct.” She probed a little more, closing her eyes to increase her sense of touch. The sensation of two edges came to her.

“The skull is cracked. The poor man was definitely struck. He will have had a severe blood clot.”

“Enough to kill him?”

“Oh yes. If the blood has nowhere to escape, it will pool under the skull and compress the brain. He was probably dead well before the roof fell in on him.”

A
s Ottilia preceded the two gentlemen out of the tavern’s back door, she instantly noted a party approaching with the clear intention of entering via the same place. One was a man of middle years attired in a grizzled wig, who, with a hand at one elbow, was supporting the doddering steps of a spindly legged old gentleman, and bringing up the rear came a burly young fellow sporting the long coat, slouch hat, and staff that marked him for a constable.

From behind, she heard the vicar’s muttered words. “Just in time, for here is Meldreth.”

“The doctor, you mean?” asked Francis.

“Then his companion must be Lord Henbury,” Ottilia guessed, recalling the catalogue of local gentry put forward by her new friends of the Blue Pig coffee room.

The elderly gentleman apparently caught his name, for he peered across in a myopic fashion.

“Hey? Hey? Who’s that? Trespassing, are you? Nosy villagers, I’ll be bound.”

“Shades of your godmother,” murmured Francis close to Ottilia’s ear.

She was obliged to bite down upon a spurt of laughter, but she wasted no time on her questioner, instead turning to Kinnerton.

“Will you do the honours, sir?”

The parson stepped forward and performed the introductions, not without some repetition for the benefit of Lord Henbury’s deficient hearing. He was obliged to call upon the doctor to explain his own status, what time Francis took opportunity to vent his frustration.

“If I’d had an inkling we would run into another such cantankerous deaf adder, nothing on this earth would have induced me to consent to your coming to this cursed village.”

“Maddening, is it not?” Ottilia returned, desperately covering the gurgle that escaped her with an unconvincing cough.

Francis eyed her balefully. “If you don’t take care, my girl, I will abandon you to the wretched fellow, who will hamper you more than somewhat, if I am any judge.”

Before Ottilia had a chance to respond to this, the Reverend Kinnerton was at her elbow.

“Forgive me, ma’am, but I must go. I have an appointment with Staxton and his boys.”

Ottilia instantly held out her hand. “Of course, and thank you. Your help has been invaluable.”

Kinnerton bowed over her hand, and with a brief word of farewell to the rest of the company, he was gone. Ottilia turned her attention to the doctor, knowing better than to make any attempt to explain her presence to Lord Henbury.

“I understand you believe the victim to have been struck on the back of the head with a hammer,” she said.

“I’m sure of it,” Meldreth returned, looking a good deal surprised. “I can only wish I had been more circumspect when I spoke of it.”

“Yes, we understand the tapster heard you,” Francis put in.

The doctor grimaced. “Will has one of the longest tongues in the village, and that is saying something.”

Ottilia laughed. “I rather gathered as much. I can’t think Witherley differs in that respect from any other village, however.”

“No, it is endemic to the life, more’s the pity.”

“Oh, to all life, doctor, do you not think? Find me the person who is not given to gossip of his neighbour on occasion and you will show me a saint.”

This had the unfortunate effect of rousing Lord Henbury. “Saint? Saint? Balderdash! Fellow was a downright rogue. I’d not have him shoe my horse for a fortune. Can’t now, since the fellow’s dead. Not that I set any store by all this talk of murder.”

Ottilia raised her voice. “Oh, he was most certainly murdered, sir. There can be no doubt of that.”

This statement was productive of a sudden silence. Lord
Henbury looked positively affronted. The constable goggled, his jaw dropping open. And Meldreth regarded her with a startled frown.

Suppressing her inevitable amusement, Ottilia raised her brows at the latter. “You noted the depression in the skull, of course. Which was cracked, I think you will agree. And the dilation in the left eye, taken with the liquid from the ear on that side, together suggest a severe hematoma, do you not think? I cannot suppose the poor man long survived the blow that felled him.”

She had deliberately kept her tone low, feeling the less Lord Henbury heard the quicker matters might be despatched. He had a hand to his ear, and his indignant look was now accompanied by a spattering of “Hey? Hey?” as he struggled to grasp what had been said. But the doctor’s frown had given way to a lurking smile and a twinkle in the eye.

“So that is what you are doing here. Is it your common practise to examine dead bodies, Lady Francis?”

Ottilia automatically put a hand out to Francis as she felt him poker up beside her, and she smiled at the doctor. “Not invariably. But my brother is also a doctor, and I have had occasion to assist at more than one postmortem.”

The doctor let out a laugh. “Extraordinary, ma’am.”

“Is it not?” said Ottilia in the friendliest of tones. “I was dreadfully nauseous at first, but that soon wore off when Patrick began to explain the science of his findings.”

She was interrupted.

“What’s that? What’s the woman saying?”

To Ottilia’s relief, Meldreth took it upon himself to relay her words to his lordship, sensibly confining himself to the briefest disclosure of the evidence supplied by the body.

“In a moment, my lord, I will show you what has been found.”

“One thing I cannot tell is the time of death,” Ottilia added quickly in a lowered tone.

“Difficult at any point,” agreed Meldreth. “Almost impossible at this juncture.”

“Yet you saw him after they brought him out last night, did you not?”

He nodded. “It was gone eleven by then, and as far as I could tell, he had been dead for a couple of hours. Stiffening had barely begun, but the discolouration on the underside of his body was already tending to purple. As a rough guide, I must put the hour at about eight or nine.”

A connection struck Ottilia. “What time did the storm break?”

The doctor’s brows shot up. “Good God, ma’am, but you have a head on your shoulders!”

Beside her, Francis gave a short laugh. “You will find my wife remarkably acute, sir. Do the times match?”

“Perfectly,” nodded Meldreth. “I had just supped when the first lightning gave warning. The heavens opened shortly thereafter.”

An explosive shout from Lord Henbury cut through this interesting development. “Hey? What’s that you say? Opened him up, have you? Found anything?”

The doctor turned, raising his voice and speaking with remarkable patience. “We are talking of the time of death, my lord.”

“Well, what the deuce has it to do with her, hey? Who is the woman?”

“This is Lady Francis Fanshawe, my lord. The vicar presented her, if you remember. She has been examining the body.”

Lord Henbury turned his choleric eye upon Ottilia. “Think it’s a peep show, hey? The man’s dead. Don’t need silly females gawping at him!”

Noting her spouse’s gathering frown, Ottilia put a staying hand on his arm and dropped her voice as she addressed the doctor.

“I must leave you to explain my advent, sir, though I fear his lordship will be horribly shocked. You, too, perhaps?”

Meldreth smiled. “On the contrary, Lady Francis. I am rather astonished at your level of interest in anatomy.”

“Dear me. Do you credit us females with wishing to know nothing beyond the frivolous?”

He laughed. “Not if I am to judge by Lady Ferrensby, whose brain is as good as any man’s. Nor, I may add, by Miss Beeleigh. She is renowned for poking—I mean, interesting herself—”

“Poking her nose into matters better suited to the male of the species? Yes, I gathered as much from her discourse. But you cannot accuse Mrs. Radlett of being other than feminine.”

“No, indeed,” he agreed, laughing. “I see you have the measure of our little community already.”

Ottilia could not answer, for Lord Henbury was making noises indicative of his impatience which became too vociferous to be ignored.

“Damme, I won’t have it! All this talk of murder. Who the devil would want to murder the blacksmith, I’d like to know? Don’t make sense. Besides, roof fell in on him.”

“True, my lord, but—”

Meldreth got no further, for Francis intervened, his voice redolent with scorn and raised more in annoyance, Ottilia suspected, than simply to be heard.

“My dear sir, if that is all you know, you have been told less than the truth. It is not merely a matter of the body’s condition. There is more, if you will take the trouble to examine the smithy.”

“What do you mean, Lord Francis?” asked the doctor. “I intend to take Lord Henbury there shortly, but I cannot say I noticed anything untoward myself.”

To Ottilia’s delight, her spouse instantly gave an enthusiastic account of their visit to the blacksmith’s forge and what he had spotted there.

“None with the slightest degree of common sense could suppose that beam came down only with the storm,” he finished. “It has been hacked through. Someone wanted to be very sure the roof fell in.”

“Balderdash,” snapped the elderly justice of the peace, apparently having had no difficulty in hearing what was said. “Wouldn’t hold up in a court of law. And if the matter is brought before me, I shall dismiss it out of hand.”

Seeing her spouse’s cheeks darken with unaccustomed ire, Ottilia risked all on a single throw.

“Oh, surely not, my lord,” she said pleasantly, pronouncing her words distinctly and at a level generally reserved for distance. “I cannot believe you would suffer an innocent female to be harmed in this cause.”

Lord Henbury stared at her as if she was out of her senses. “Hey? What the deuce are you talking of, woman?”

“I am talking of Mrs. Dale.”

“Dale, hey? You don’t mean that flibberty little thing Lady Ferrensby brought here? What’s she got to do with it?”

“The villagers are blaming her, my Lord Henbury. They say she is responsible for Duggleby’s death.”

“Hey? Hey?” Henbury blinked confusedly and fastened his gaze upon the doctor. “That so, Meldreth?”

“Yes, my lord. It is indeed so. Mrs. Dale was stoned by the village boys last night in retribution.”

“Stoned? Stoned? Never heard such flummery. Why should anyone do that?”

“Because,” said the doctor patiently, “they think she killed Duggleby by witchcraft.”

Lord Henbury stared at him for a moment in silence. Then he exploded.

“Mad! Mad as March hares, the lot of them. Well, I won’t have it.” He turned on the luckless constable. “What the deuce are you doing standing there, Pilton? Do your duty, man. Arrest them! Throw them into the lock-up.”

The constable blinked confusedly. “What, them boys, my lord? Or did you mean—?”

“You cannot expect the poor man to arrest half the village,” Ottilia cut in, prompted to action again. “And I believe Reverend Kinnerton is dealing with the boys.”

“I’ll not have it, I tell you.”

Ottilia pointedly ignored her husband, whose anger, by his shaking shoulders, had given way to an emotion far more contagious.

“No one could expect it of you, sir. But would it not be a far better solution to demonstrate conclusively that some other party had done the deed?”

Lord Henbury looked struck, but he entered a caveat. “How is that to be done?”

“I believe, Lord Henbury, you are about to examine the body.”

“Ha! Yes, that’s right.” The old man turned on Meldreth. “What the devil are you waiting for, Meldreth? Get on, do. Lead me to the fellow’s remains.”