The Deathly Portent (3 page)

Ottilia’s mind was buzzing. “Do you say someone administered a blow to the man’s head before the roof fell in on him?”

Ryde grimaced. “It’s what the tapster in the tavern told me. Only the constable can’t go arresting the witch because she’s took sanctuary in the vicar’s house.”

A ripple of unholy delight ran through Ottilia. “It sounds the most glorious muddle.”

But her husband’s attention had reverted to their own difficulties. “What the devil are we to do now?”

“Nothing for it but to wait for Williams, m’lord.”

Ottilia ignored her husband’s fluent curses and once more claimed the groom’s attention. “Is there a decent hostelry in this village, Ryde?”

“In Witherley, m’lady? But there ain’t no point in going there.”

“Is it a pretty place?” pursued Ottilia, wholly ignoring this rider.

“Tillie, what are you about?”

She heard the suspicious note in Francis’s voice, but she did not answer, merely putting out a hand to enjoin his silence.

The groom looked both puzzled and suspicious, and his answer was brief. “It’s well enough, m’lady.”

“And does it have a decent hostelry?”

The repetition made Ryde frown and cast a glance at his master. Ottilia turned to smile blindingly at her husband. His gaze narrowed a little, but he did not fail her.

“Answer, man.”

Ryde’s patent disapproval increased, but he did as he was bid. “I did see a likely place across the green from the Cock and Bottle.”

“Excellent,” said Ottilia. “Francis, why should we not rest there for a while? You may satisfy your hunger, and I can—”

“Ryde, go and check on the horses,” said Francis, cutting in without apology.

Ottilia gathered her forces while Francis waited until the groom was out of earshot. The moment he turned on her, she caught his hand.

“I know what you are going to say, Fan, but—”

“Tillie, no!”

“—it will be only for an hour or two, and I am excessively thirsty—”

“An hour or two? I know you better than that, my love. And pray don’t give me any fiddle-faddle about thirst and hunger.”

Ottilia released his hand. “Well, but you said you were starving, and I could kill for a cup of coffee.”

“And there you have uttered the operative word. Tillie, I will not have you embroil yourself in this business.”

Ottilia could not suppress a giggle. “Well, I will admit to being intrigued, but I promise you I only mean to satisfy my curiosity.”

“Promise forsooth! Do you take me for a flat? If I allow you to set foot in the place, as sure as check you will be hobnobbing with all and sundry and hunting down this witch.”

“Not necessarily,” objected Ottilia without thinking. “Merely because the villagers are silly enough to fall for a lot of superstitious nonsense does not make the woman guilty.”

Francis threw up his hands. “I knew it! You are going nowhere near the place. Besides, how will you get there?”

“On foot, of course.”

“You’ll walk half a mile or more?”

“I am not made of china, Fan. I was bred in the country, you know.”

“That is all very well, but we are due at Polbrook in a matter of days.”

“Who said anything about days?” said Ottilia mildly. “I was only thinking of remaining there until Williams has found somewhere more suitable.”

“Yes, and when Williams arrives to fetch us, I suppose you will meekly get into the carriage and allow yourself to be driven away just when you have uncovered half a dozen clues to set you on the trail of the murderer? No, Tillie. I know you too well.”

Ottilia smiled at him. “But are you not the teeniest bit curious?”

Her husband’s eyes narrowed, the beloved features growing ever more suspicious. “Don’t waste your cajolery, Tillie, for I am adamant.”

Ottilia blinked rapidly and fetched an elaborate sigh. “I did promise obedience.”

Francis was almost betrayed into a laugh, but he managed to suppress it. “You did. And if I remember rightly, you declared after the business with my family last year that one murder was quite enough for you.”

Mischief flitted across her face, and he could feel his resolve weakening.

“Astonishing, is it not, how one can be mistaken? But although it was all perfectly horrid in the end, you must recall that at the outset I was highly entertained.”

Which was perfectly true, Francis was bound to admit. At the time, his world turned upside down by the discovery of his sister-in-law’s death and his brother’s subsequent disappearance, he had been too upset to think beyond the immediate
necessity to handle the aftermath. That very day he had met his future wife, and been grateful thereafter for her calm good sense as she set about uncovering the culprit, and indeed for the playful manner that had done much to lighten those dark days. His heart softened despite himself.

Abruptly, he turned to call to his groom. “Ryde, exactly how far is this Witherley?”

A hand stole into his and squeezed. “An hour or two, no more.”

Francis looked down at his wife. He knew that smile. He groaned inwardly. Let Tillie but get her teeth into this and nothing would serve to bring her away until it was all over. All he could hope was that it would prove but a storm in a teacup.

S
tepping into the village tavern for the second time, Aidan was a trifle wary. Last night, led thither by the maid Tabitha once his visitor had been delivered into the hands of his housekeeper, he had done little more than introduce himself, give his condolences to the bereaved family, and say his piece over the body of the dead man.

He had found the doctor in attendance, the blacksmith’s corpse having been brought in and laid upon a long table in the taproom of the Cock and Bottle, an establishment of cheerful aspect at odds with the night’s dismal events. Brasses and copper gleamed off the wooden beams in the candlelight, which was mostly concentrated around the table. There was a wide fireplace, innocent of flame to its piled up logs despite the chill left by the storm, and a collection of wooden settles, in one of which sat a huddle of weeping women and children.

None had questioned Aidan’s presence, but he had sensed a mood of surly suspicion, particularly from the landlord Tisbury and his wife. Nothing was said, but he caught a number of alien looks, the reason for which he very soon found out.

As he had turned for the door, he was accosted by the doctor, who had made himself known by the name of Meldreth.

“Are you for the vicarage, Mr. Kinnerton? My house is in your way. Allow me to accompany you.”

Aidan accepted gracefully and waited by the door while the doctor lingered.

“Have Duggleby’s body conveyed to another room, Tisbury. One with an adequate window, if you please. I must examine him again by daylight on the morrow.”

They left together, and once outside, the doctor paused, his keen glance appraising Aidan from under a grizzled wig. “A word of caution, Mr. Kinnerton.”

Turning, Aidan surveyed him, stiffening a little. “Which is, sir?”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of the doctor’s mouth. “No need to poker up. It is not I who would censure you.”

Relaxing, Aidan returned the smile. “The villagers, you mean? There was a degree of sullenness in my reception, I noticed.”

“Yes, they are not pleased. Mrs. Dale was seen to enter your house, you see.”

Aidan frowned. “Mrs. Dale?”

“The young female they believe to be a witch.”

Recalling the maid’s “Miss Cassie,” Aidan was surprised, but he let it go for the moment. “Ah, yes. She warned me there would be repercussions.”

“Worse than she supposes, I’m afraid.”

An interrupted rhythm disturbed Aidan’s pulses. “What do you mean, sir?”

“There is already a move towards blaming Mrs. Dale for Duggleby’s death, but that is merely due to her having seen a vision of the roof coming down.”

“So I understand. But then?”

The doctor hesitated, drawing a sighing breath. “There can be little doubt that Duggleby received a blow to the head before the roof fell in on him.”

A sense of deep foreboding entered Aidan’s breast. “You are saying he was murdered?”

The doctor nodded. “I believe so. I have no choice but to fetch the justice of the peace and call in the constable in the morning.”

“But do you tell me these people will suppose Mrs. Dale to be guilty of striking the man? They cannot be so prejudiced.”

“Yes, but I’m afraid they are, Kinnerton.”

“Then I must scotch such thinking without delay.”

“I should leave it for the morning, if I were you,” suggested Meldreth. “The mood is ugly, and I suspect a drowning of sorrows tonight may make it worse.”

This advice seemed sound to Aidan. Now, in the new day, having swallowed his breakfast and ascertained from his housekeeper that Mrs. Dale—or “Miss Cassie,” as the maid addressed her—was still sleeping, he lost no time in bearding the lions in their den.

The landlord fairly glared as Aidan walked into the taproom. “What be you wanting, Reverend?”

Unsurprised by the bitter note, Aidan regarded the man’s bloated countenance, the red-veined nose and cheeks arguing an unhealthy addiction to the fleshpots and the bottle. The sleeves of his frock coat clung to thick arms, and his waistcoat and breeches slumped over a protruding belly.

Aidan gathered his forces and fired the first broadside. “I have come, Tisbury, to do what I may by way of making peace in an unnecessary war.”

The landlord’s brows drew together in puzzlement. “What be your meaning?”

Holding the man’s bloodshot eyes, Aidan pursued a forthright course. “I understand there is talk against Mrs. Dale.”

Tisbury looked taken aback for a moment and then rallied, coming back with vigour. “Aye, that there be. Mighty ill it be to see Duggleby brought down for the spite of that devil’s daughter.”

“Devil’s daughter? You speak of such before me, Tisbury, a man of the cloth?”

“And why wouldn’t he?” came from behind Aidan in a snapping tone.

He turned to confront the female he recalled as the landlord’s wife. “Ah, Mrs. Tisbury, yes.”

She was a small scarecrow of a woman, with a mean mouth and piggy little eyes which sparked up at him as she spoke. “Aye, and I’d like fine to know as why you bain’t damned that witch, seeing as you be parson round these parts.”

“My dear woman,” Aidan retorted, dangerously quiet, “we are not living in the Middle Ages. Exorcising evil spirits forms no part of my function here.”

“No, for you takes and hides ’em in your house instead.”

A young fellow in homespuns, whom Aidan recalled as the tapster, intervened at this point. “Bain’t no spirit, Mistress. The witch it be, for as Farmer Staxton’s boys said last night. Her’ve run away to the vicarage.”

“If’n she bain’t flown there on a broomstick,” cackled an elderly individual from the corner, removing a clay pipe from his mouth.

“Aye, you be free enough with your jesting, Pa,” snapped the landlord’s wife, “but she’ve gone too far this time.”

“She bain’t got no broomstick, Mr. Wagstaff,” asserted the tapster, who had apparently no ear for wit.

The landlord stepped in again. “Broomstick or no, I’ll see to her personal if’n she bain’t thrown in the lock-up.”

An uneven ripple disturbed Aidan’s heartbeat, but he was buoyed by the familiar rush of iron that entered his backbone. He had not faced a tribe of spear-wielding savages without learning a trick or two. He allowed his voice to fall into the round, authoritative tones of the pulpit.

“That will do!”

The tavern fell silent. Both Tisbury and his wife looked thoroughly astonished, and the tapster’s mouth fell open. Before they could recover themselves, Aidan swept on.

“The facts, it appears, have so far escaped your attention, but know this. Last night I gave shelter to a lady who was being treated in as barbaric a fashion as I have encountered. I have been out of England for some little time until recently, so I must plead ignorance to any possible changes in manners or custom. Yet it hardly seems possible that pelting a woman with stones has become common accepted practise.”

Tisbury had the grace to look shamefaced, and the tapster reddened. Aidan looked from one to the other and then allowed his gaze to encompass the rest of the villagers present. They were few this morning, most presumably already at their work, but as Aidan’s gaze shifted from face to face, each dropped his eyes. At length, the aged jokesmith broke the tension.

“That’s right, Reverend. Give ’em pepper. And if’n they won’t see sense, take and knock their heads together.”

“You shut it, Pa.”

Alone in the assembly, the landlord’s wife remained undeterred. Confronting Aidan, she thrust up her chin and her eyes snapped.

“No one bain’t saying as them boys had ought to throw stones, Reverend. But that there Mrs. Dale bain’t no ordinary female. Dangerous her be. And if’n her bain’t gone and killed poor Duggleby, then my name bain’t Tisbury, neither.”

A surrounding murmur, possibly of agreement, was backed up by the woman’s husband, although his belligerence had lessened. “It bain’t nowise nothing but the truth, Reverend. Mrs. Dale done it, and if’n I had my way, I’d send Will here for to fetch Constable Pilton to lock her up straight.”

He flicked a hand at his tapster as he spoke, and the young fellow, recovering his countenance, perked up and nodded assent, yet looking ridiculously scared. “Bain’t the first time as her’ve said as her seen things, and then they happens. Her done it, Reverend, bain’t no doubt of that.”

For a moment Aidan weighed what he might say. How much did they know? Was it common knowledge yet that
Meldreth believed the blacksmith had been murdered? He tested it out, keeping his tone even.

“And how, may I ask, did she perform this feat? Did she climb up onto the smithy roof? Or are you supposing she recited incantations to bring on the storm?”

His sarcasm was rewarded by a fit of high-pitched laughter from Mr. Wagstaff, but his daughter stood her ground, directing a venomous glare up at Aidan.

“Her bain’t got no need to climb up no roof, Reverend. A witch, bain’t her? Her’d only to call up her devil master and ask him to throw the roof down on Duggleby.”