The Deathly Portent (7 page)

“Thank you kindly, ma’am.” Crossing to the table, she took hold of a large brass handbell set there and rang it violently, bobbing a curtsy towards Francis. “I’ll fetch Pakefield to you, my lord, for the ale.”

“That will be most welcome,” he said, setting a chair for Ottilia at the round table.

She did not immediately take advantage of the opportunity to sit down, instead fixing her attention on Mrs. Pakefield. There was an anxious look in the woman’s eyes, which Ottilia suspected was not entirely due to the presence of her unexpected guests.

“You look a little dismayed, Mrs. Pakefield,” she ventured.

The landlady visibly pulled herself together. “No, my lady, it’s only … Well, I was wondering … You see, we don’t run to a parlour. But if you’ll make shift with this room, I can see to it that you’re private. We’ve none but the local gentryfolk at this present who come in for coffee each day. Leastways, the ladies do, and Mr. Netherburn if he don’t go across to the Cock. They won’t mind giving it up for once.”

But this would not suit Ottilia in the least. She smiled as she at last took her seat. “Do you mean Mrs. Radlett and Miss Beeleigh? I should not dream of depriving them, Mrs. Pakefield. Besides, I like company, and what in the world should we do with ourselves all alone here until such time as our carriage can be mended?”

Relief flooded the woman’s features. “It’s good of you to say so, my lady. And today of all days. I can’t think as the ladies won’t come in.”

Ottilia caught her husband’s eye briefly as he pulled out a chair for himself and sat down. She allowed her eyelids to flicker a message, and one of his brows went up.

“Yes, we understand this is a difficult day for you all,” he said pleasantly.

Ottilia sighed thankfully and threw him a look meant to convey that she would reward him for this indulgence presently.

Mrs. Pakefield immediately began to look flustered again. “Oh dear, you’ve heard, then? I wouldn’t have spoke of it, sir, only—I mean, my lord—”

“Pray don’t stand upon ceremony,” Ottilia interjected. “So tedious to be forever having to remember such things, do you not find?”

The landlady looked relieved. “Thank you, ma’am. Though I ought to be able to remember, for there’s Lady Ferrensby as is the great lady hereabouts, and Lord Henbury as is justice of the peace, but he’s rickety these days and don’t come into the village that frequent.” Her shoulders jerked suddenly. “Though like as not he’ll be sent for if so be it’s true as Duggleby were killed unlawful-like.”

Mrs. Pakefield then gasped, snatching a hand to her mouth as if she sought to thrust the words back in. Before Ottilia could seize on this cue, the door opened to admit a tall and rather skinny individual with a long face which struck Ottilia as appropriately lugubrious.

The landlady turned with obvious relief. “Pakefield, here’s visitors as has had their coach broke. This here’s my husband, my lady.”

In the act of approaching, the landlord halted, his jaw dropping. “My lady?”

“It’s Lord Francis Fanshawe and his good lady, Pakefield.”

The man’s eyes went from one to the other, but his jaw remained slack. Ottilia cast a look at her husband, and he at once rose to the occasion.

“Ah, Pakefield, in good time. I will be obliged if you can furnish my wife with a glass of lemonade and a tankard of your finest ale for myself.”

The landlord looked once more at the visitors and then stared blankly at his wife. Ottilia saw the woman dig an elbow roughly into the fellow’s ribs, and he winced.

“Get you gone, Pakefield,” she prompted in an audible undertone. “Ale for the gentleman and lemonade for the lady. Be quick now.”

His wife’s urging seemed to affect the landlord, for he nodded several times, still apparently bemused, and then turned for the door. Mrs. Pakefield’s manner became apologetic.

“He’s that put about, ma’am, what with all the excitement. I hope you’ll forgive it.”

Ottilia leapt on the refreshed opportunity. “By all means. You are speaking of your blacksmith, I daresay. I gather there are suspicions that the poor fellow was murdered?”

The word acted powerfully upon the landlady. Her face went white, and she swayed alarmingly. Ottilia rose, but Francis was before her, seizing a chair and thrusting it behind the woman in time for her to sit down plump upon its caned seat.

“I am so very sorry,” said Ottilia, leaning over the woman and taking up one of her slack hands. “I shocked you, Mrs. Pakefield.”

The landlady shook her head numbly. “I never thought of it ’til you said it. To think of such a happening in our village. Murder!”

“It is a horrid word,” Ottilia agreed gently, chafing the woman’s hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted Francis slipping quietly out of the room into the hall and interpreted his departure as tacit permission for her to pursue her
investigations. Or else he placed little trust in the reliability of the landlord to fulfil his needs without prompting, which seemed only too likely.

She released Mrs. Pakefield’s hand and drew her chair closer, with the intention of creating an atmosphere of intimacy.

“Come, Mrs. Pakefield, I wish you will unburden yourself. You may speak freely to me, I promise you.”

The tone had its effect. A little colour returned to the woman’s cheeks, and she sat up straighter in the chair.

“It’s a dreadful business, my lady, what with Duggleby buried in the wreckage and all the men digging to fetch him out.”

“It seems there is a neighbourly spirit in your village, Mrs. Pakefield.”

The landlady seemed dubious. “What else could anyone do? Not but what half of them hadn’t had their differences with Duggleby. A surly, disobliging man he was, and I don’t care who hears me say so. But I’d take my oath no one in the village were that much his enemy as to take a hammer to his head.”

“Yet it appears someone did so.”

“So Molly Tisbury says. Not that I’d believe nothing she said, for a worse fibster you couldn’t hope to meet.”

Ottilia’s mind was already afire. There was enmity enough to be sought for, it would seem. But she wasted no time in idle comment. At any moment, Mrs. Pakefield might recollect her place and clam up.

“Who is Molly Tisbury?”

The woman’s head came up at that, and there was malice in her eyes. “Runs the tavern over yonder, where they took and brought Duggleby last night. Not that there’s need for her to crow over that, for I’d not have had the brute on no table in my coffee room, that I can swear to. And if she thought to make me jealous by such a boast, she knows by now she’s disappointed.”

It was evident to Ottilia that a lively rivalry existed
between the two public houses, despite their different functions in the area. It was not hard to seek a reason, for it was obvious that while the Blue Pig catered for the genteel part of the population, the greater part must of necessity patronise the Cock and Bottle. It did not take much imagination to perceive how jealousies might arise in either bosom. Ottilia made a mental note to send her husband off as soon as she could to glean what he might at the more common tavern. And to find out where the body was now.

“Was Duggleby found dead where he lay, do you know, or did he die later?”

“He were dead in the forge,” sighed the landlady. “The wonder is the whole place weren’t burnt to a cinder.” She drew in a sharp breath. “Which is as well, for I daresay it wouldn’t have took much for them devils to fling poor Mrs. Dale into the flames instead of setting the boys on to stoning her.”

“Dear me,” said Ottilia. “I had not heard about the stoning. I must say she did not look very much like a witch to me.”

Bewilderment wreathed Mrs. Pakefield’s features. “You’ve seen her?”

“I met her at the smithy a little while ago.”

“She went in there, did she?” Shaking her head, the landlady tutted. “She’d have done better to have stayed away.”

Ottilia brought her ruthlessly back to the point. “How widespread is this belief that the poor creature is a witch, Mrs. Pakefield?”

The landlady’s features formed into a glare. “Ignorance, that’s what it is. Not that I’d expect nothing less from as silly a female as you could hope to meet.”

“Molly Tisbury?” Ottilia guessed.

“Yes, and if it don’t show how fitted she is for her station, I don’t know what does. She’s the ringleader.”

“Indeed? And how many is she leading?” asked Ottilia, unfailingly persistent.

“All of ’em, far as I can see,” snapped the landlady. “Can the girl help it if she’s got the sight? To think that creature
dared to dictate to me in my own home, saying as I should turn the poor young thing away from my door and refuse to serve her. As if I would!”

Ottilia played an ace. “How fortunate you are not among those who choose to persecute her. She must be glad of your sympathy.”

Mrs. Pakefield looked a little uncomfortable at this. “Well, she don’t come in often. She ain’t what you’d call one of them as seek society, Mrs. Dale ain’t. A bit of a loner, she is.”

“Well, if she is shunned by half the countryside, that is scarcely surprising,” said Ottilia tartly before she could stop herself.

The landlady flushed, and her tone sharpened. “I’ve said as I ain’t one of them, ma’am.”

“Good gracious, of course not,” Ottilia said at once in a conciliatory tone, trying to retrieve her slip. “I was rather thinking of such persons as Molly Tisbury and her ilk.”

The glare returned to the landlady’s face. “Yes, well, she may change her tune soon enough. Seems the Almighty has produced a new champion in Reverend Kinnerton, and by all accounts he ain’t best pleased. I hope he thunders at ’em from the pulpit come Sunday.”

This was intriguing, to say the least, but Ottilia let it alone for the moment. She was anxious to learn more of Cassie Dale.

“What of Mrs. Dale’s husband?”

“Dead. Leastways, she came here a widow. Tragic it is, for she can’t be much more than eighteen. Though it don’t show in her manner, for she’s one as talks as if an old head were on her shoulders. And she’s prickly, if you know what I mean.”

With which Ottilia could not but agree, though she refrained from saying so. “If she is regarded in such an unfriendly light, that is natural, do you not think?”

Mrs. Pakefield frowned. “Yes, but that’s not it, ma’am. You can’t pass the time of day with her like most folks. She’s
apt to go off random-like in the midst of talking, as if her thoughts are out of tune with her speaking.”

Which did not come as much of a surprise. Small wonder the villagers found her out of place. Oddities of conduct combined with second sight? A recipe for disaster. Ottilia was conscious of a lively desire to see more of Cassie Dale.

“Where does Mrs. Dale live?”

Mrs. Pakefield sighed. “She’s in the last of the cottages up by the river.”

“You mean the ones we passed as we came into the village?”

“That’s right, ma’am.”

Satisfied, Ottilia sought another point of information. Rising, she crossed to the window. “Is that a lock-up in the middle of the green, Mrs. Pakefield?”

Mrs. Pakefield shivered. “A nasty old place it is. Not much used, thank goodness. To my mind, it had ought to be demolished. It’s like a well in there after the rain, damp and smelly, not to speak of the rats.”

“Though your village is otherwise very pretty, Mrs. Pakefield,” soothed Ottilia. “And you appear to have everything you need. Is that a shop?” She pointed to the building nearest to the Cock and Bottle.

“Uddington’s, that is.”

“Might one obtain such items as soap and tooth powder there, do you think?” She saw a hopeful look creep into the landlady’s eyes and hastened to build it up. “There is no saying how long it may take our coachman to find someone to effect a repair, and our groom cannot leave the carriage unattended to bring our luggage here.”

Mrs. Pakefield was rubbing her hands. “Never you fret, my lady. If so be as you need anything, you’ve only to ask. And you’ll find all such necessities at Uddington’s. He’s an odd one is Uddington. Keeps himself to himself, so to speak. Getting on in years he is now, but he’s a good sort of man in his way and does the best he can.”

Devoutly trusting that Francis would raise no serious
objections to remaining overnight, Ottilia thanked the woman, making a mental note to pay a visit to the village shop before the day was out. Although no doubt she might trust Mrs. Pakefield’s servants to clean off the dirt adhering to the hems of her petticoats and to clean her husband’s boots.

The door opened, and Francis himself came in, bearing a tray upon which reposed a tankard, a jug, and a large tumbler. Mrs. Pakefield, reminded of her duties, exclaimed, moving swiftly to relieve him of his burden.

“Beg pardon, my lord. You should’ve let Pakefield bring it.”

Ottilia watched her husband’s practised smile appear. “I fear your spouse is still a trifle overcome by these sad events.”

The landlady set the tray down and lifted the jug. “It’s upset the whole village, my lord.” And to Ottilia, “Beg pardon, my lady. I should have seen to your needs instead of standing here gossiping.”

“I cannot accuse you of that, Mrs. Pakefield,” Ottilia said gently. “In your place, I should have been as much discomposed.”

The woman dropped a curtsy. “It’s kind of you to say so, my lady. But I’d best go and see to finding something to satisfy his lordship’s hunger. I’m that put about to have kept you waiting, my lord. It shan’t be long.”

With which, she hurried to the door and disappeared through it. Ottilia took a sip of her lemonade and realised she was excessively thirsty. For several moments, her whole attention was concentrated upon downing the contents of the tumbler. When she emerged, she found Francis’s amused eye on her and laughed.

“There is no need to look at me like that. I daresay you did much the same with your first tankard.”

He grinned. “Wretch. How came you to guess that this is my second?”

“You’ve been gone too long.” She reached out her hand, and his fingers curled around it. “Not that I object, for I have
been most usefully employed, pumping Mrs. Pakefield. How did you fare with the husband?”