The Deathly Portent (6 page)

“Yes,” he said, a tiny smile hovering at the corners of his mouth, “but I am very much recovered. And at present, I am the more concerned for your welfare. How are you this morning?” His eyes shifted past her, as if he would look into the room beyond. “Are you well guarded?”

Cassie’s heart skipped a beat. “Guarded?”

“Your maid is with you?”

He sounded a trifle impatient, and Cassie hastened to reassure him. “Tabitha is in the kitchen. And Sam is here, too.”

“Sam?”

“Tabby’s husband, Sam Hawes.”

Relief showed in his bright eyes. “You have a man on the premises? That is excellent news.”

From within, Lady Ferrensby’s voice called out. “Why do you not invite the gentleman inside, Cassie?”

Cassie felt warmth rise to her cheeks. She had forgotten the presence of her patroness. She hesitated, recalling the earlier reprimand she had endured. Did Lady Ferrensby mean to ring a peal over the pastor?

“Well, don’t keep the fellow standing about on the doorstep.”

Thus adjured, Cassie retreated back into her parlour, for want of a better name, and the vicar followed her in, closing the door behind him. Lady Ferrensby had risen from one of the straight-backed chairs about the table, which comprised the only seating accommodation Cassie’s meagre dwelling afforded. The reverend’s additional presence immediately dwarfed the place.

“Good morning, Kinnerton,” said Lady Ferrensby. “Still ministering to the village outcast, I perceive.”

The burn at Cassie’s cheek intensified, but before she
could protest, the vicar spoke. His tone was even, but Cassie thought she detected an edge to it.

“Indeed, ma’am. No doubt you are here on the selfsame errand.”

Lady Ferrensby looked a little taken aback, and Cassie noted, with relief, an amused glint in her eye. “Touché, sir. Though I suspect the need for such caution as you indulged in last night has been exaggerated.”

“How can you, ma’am?” uttered Cassie, distressed. “Mr. Kinnerton did not—”

“Allow me to reassure you, Lady Ferrensby,” cut in the vicar, his lean cheeks taut and a spark in his eye. “Mrs. Dale slept in a room adjoining that of my housekeeper, Mrs. Winkleigh, and the door between remained open. I did not set foot in the chamber.”

“Let us hope the members of our little community may be induced to believe as much.”

Cassie gasped, but the vicar came back strongly. “Your ‘little community,’ ma’am, is concentrated upon the far more serious matter of accusing Mrs. Dale of witchcraft. I doubt it will worry about a trifling issue of potential impropriety.”

“Trifling?”

“I trust you are not suggesting Mrs. Dale has been compromised. As a man of the cloth—”

“A very young and personable man of the cloth, Mr. Kinnerton, and one who is a bachelor. However, as you pointed out, I think we may escape censure on this occasion. I daresay the village has enough distraction today.”

Cassie leapt on this. “How can you talk of it so dismissively? Duggleby is dead! And they blame me for it.”

“Fiddle,” came briskly from her ladyship.

“You are too sanguine, ma’am,” said Mr. Kinnerton, on something of a snap. “I have already been to the tavern this morning, and the mood is ugly.”

Lady Ferrensby laughed. “I can readily believe it. They
have lost a friend and colleague. I have no doubt they will return to their senses in a day or two.”

Despairing, Cassie glanced at the vicar, but he had closed his lips, and his eyes were narrowed.

“Which puts me in mind of my duty,” pursued her ladyship. “I must see Bertha Duggleby and her children. And then I shall make the rounds and sympathise. If that does not serve, then whatever you may do in the direction of turning their minds from these silly superstitions, Kinnerton, will be of more practical value than acts of misplaced chivalry.”

To Cassie’s astonishment, the pastor laughed out at that. “Useless to tell you that I acted purely on instinct, I daresay.”

“Like Cassie,” said Lady Ferrensby with a smile. “I don’t doubt that.”

The vicar dipped his head. “You may rest assured, ma’am, that no witch hunt will be permitted to run free while I am vicar of this parish. I have made my views known. What is more, I intend to find and reprimand the boys responsible for attacking Mrs. Dale.”

“Excellent. My dependence is all upon you, sir. Good day.” She moved to the door, turning to look at Cassie. “Do try to keep up a modicum of common sense, Cassie. And don’t let the vicar stay too long.”

With which admonishment, she opened the door and swept out of the cottage, leaving Cassie with a burning resentment that found instant expression.

“She does not believe me. She thinks it is all in my mind. And she will not credit how much they hate me! Not that I blame them.”

“Well, I do,” came from the vicar. He moved a little towards her. “I cannot, like Lady Ferrensby, dismiss what I have heard. Nor will I minimise the danger in a bid to spare you pain. You need to know it, so that you will take the greatest care.”

Oddly, Cassie immediately felt less endangered. She was
so much accustomed to being contradicted upon the findings of her senses by those who had her best interests at heart. Acceptance was a novel feeling.

“You are an unexpected man, Mr. Kinnerton.”

His lips quivered, and amusement crept into his eyes. “Such an encomium from one with your gifts is equally so.”

Cassie’s world lightened suddenly, and she laughed. “But I don’t see character in people. Only images.”

“Then in that I have the advantage of you. In my profession it is a necessary skill.” He stood back. “I must not stay. Little though I relished her comments, Lady Ferrensby’s reprimand was just.”

He went to the door, and Cassie was conscious of the onset of disappointment. And a resurgence of her earlier suspicions. She obeyed an impulse to delay him.

“Mr. Kinnerton.”

He turned. “My name is Aidan.”

She took it in without pausing for thought. “How was it Lady Ferrensby engaged you?”

Puzzlement showed in his eyes. “It happened she was visiting in the vicinity of my family’s estate. A fortuitous meeting.”

Cassie did not pause to consider her words. “You are unmarried?”

She saw the frown in his eyes, but her need was too urgent for caution.

“Yes. Does it show?”

Cassie gave an impatient shake of her head. “No. How should I see such a thing? But of what degree is your family? Who are they?”

A brittle laugh escaped him. “Why the interrogation, Mrs. Dale?”

The question stopped her tongue. She could not tell him the truth. Nor did she know how to prevaricate. She had never been adept with social rules. Indeed, she’d flouted them so
badly it had landed her in this sorry condition, leading a life of lies and deceit. She sought in vain for a way out, blank of mind as she stared at him.

Mr. Kinnerton’s features softened, and a smile came. “You look like an infant caught out in mischief.”

Warmth raced into Cassie’s cheeks. She looked away. “I have no graces. I should not have questioned you.”

He took a hasty step towards her, throwing out a hand. “Don’t look so. It was not meant for a reproach, I assure you.”

At that, a sharp sliver cut at her from the well of guilt, and her gaze flew back to meet his. “Then it should have been. I am fit for nothing less.”

She watched in fascination a series of rapid changes in the blue eyes. She could not read them all, but the last struck her strongly. Compassion. His gaze did not leave hers as he came closer. He put out his palm in that odd gesture she recalled from last night, and Cassie automatically gave her hand into his keeping. The clasp was strong.

“I will not take you up on that today, but one day we will talk of it.”

“As a member of your flock?”

He did not flinch. “Yes, if you will. Or as a friend.”

He bent, lightly kissed her hand, and turned again for the door. He opened it and looked back. “Don’t go out without your maid for company, I charge you. And have this fellow Hawes remain within hailing distance at all times.”

Then he was gone, and Cassie was left to contemplate the closed door, all the confusions of the previous night rolling back to haunt her.

H
aving made a circuit of the green, the Fanshawes arrived at the sizeable establishment to the right, which lay more or less opposite a tavern, where, as Francis surmised, Ryde must have gathered his information.

The Blue Pig was set back from the lane with a cobbled frontage and a drive leading through an archway at the side towards the back, presumably to adjoining stables. Francis led the way along a pathway in the cobbles, and a battered inn sign came into view, indeed depicting a crude blue boar which resembled the homely pig more than a little.

Francis pushed open the heavy wooden entrance door, and Ottilia passed into the shadowy darkness of a substantial hall. It was eerily silent, and her glance took in more stout doors and stalwart wooden posts between the lath walls as Francis shut the main door and moved into the musty space.

“House, ho! What, is no one home?”

His shout echoed crazily into the oak beams above, and Ottilia had the oddest prescience of impending doom. She shivered a little.

“Cold?”

She turned and met concern in her husband’s eyes. Ottilia shook her head.

“A little disconcerted, that is all.”

His arm came about her shoulders for a moment. “That is not like you, my love.”

She gave him a quick smile. “It’s nothing. A silly fancy, no more.”

“Not, I trust, concerning ghosts of smothered little princes or a butt of malmsey wine?”

Feeling a degree lighter, Ottilia dutifully laughed. “Nothing so definite.”

Francis released her, his tone sharpening. “You may be pardoned. The place is like a morgue.”

Again, a tiny riffle of unease disturbed Ottilia’s senses, and she remembered the words of Cassie Dale.
A man died here last night.

Francis crossed to one of the doors and beat a rapid tattoo upon the wood. “Confound it, where the devil is everybody?”

Ottilia’s ears caught the sound of footsteps somewhere in the recesses behind the walls. “Listen!”

In the silence, the patter of feet grew louder. Ottilia saw Francis turn towards a door at the back. It opened, and a matronly figure bustled into the hall.

“Oh dear, I’m that sorry to have kept you waiting, sir,” said the woman, sounding out of breath, “only we’re all in a pother today.”

She came to a halt before them and dropped a curtsy, peering up at them through the gloom. Her head bobbed towards Ottilia.

“Beg pardon, ma’am, I’m sure. How may I serve you?”

Ottilia forestalled Francis as he opened his mouth to answer. Moving forward, she held out her hand and smiled at the woman.

“I’m afraid we are stranded. Our carriage is broken, and
we have no means of continuing our journey. Will you take pity upon us—Mrs. Pakefield, isn’t it?”

The woman looked astonished as she took the proffered hand. “Yes, it is, ma’am, but it beats me how you knew it.”

“We had the pleasure of meeting Miss Beeleigh and Mrs. Radlett on our way here. They kindly directed us to your house.”

Mrs. Pakefield looked gratified. “They’re good souls, both of ’em. But do you say you walked from the post road?”

“Oh, it was no hardship, Mrs. Pakefield. Only I would very much appreciate a glass of lemonade. And then perhaps a cup of coffee.” She interrupted the woman’s murmured assent with a gesture towards Francis. “And my husband—oh, this is my husband, Lord Francis Fanshawe.” Her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and she was able to note with satisfaction the instant startled lift to the woman’s head. “My husband would much appreciate a tankard of ale to begin with, but he is excessively hungry.”

“Yes, of course, ma’am—my lady, I should say—I’ll have Cook rustle up a repast in no time.”

“Some ham, perhaps,” said Ottilia, unable to resist throwing a mischievous glance at Francis. His lips quirked, but he said nothing.

Mrs. Pakefield at once launched into a recital of the range of viands at her disposal, ushering the visitors meanwhile through the door on which Francis had previously knocked. The atmosphere at once brightened, and Ottilia looked approvingly around a roomy apartment whose windows let onto the frontage, presenting an excellent view of the green and its environs. The sun streamed in, throwing latticed shadows onto a large round table. There was another long table near the opposite wall beyond the empty hearth, with a bench behind.

“What a pleasant room,” Ottilia said effusively, crossing to look out.

A swift glance took in the tavern opposite, flanked at a
little distance by several buildings on each side, a round little grey structure in the middle of the green—a lock-up?—and a row of houses at the far end, at either side of which the divided lane led away. Behind them at a little distance rose a tower that pointed the location of the church. Ottilia could not have hoped for better.

“This is so pretty, with the view and the sun coming in.”

She turned as she spoke to examine the landlady in the better light and was pleased to note the flush of pleasure rising into Mrs. Pakefield’s cheeks.