Death Devil's Bridge (25 page)

“I suppose he will,” Kate said, wondering what she should do with this new bit of information. Of itself, of course, the intelligence had little significance, but taken together with the rest of what had been learned that morning, it seemed important—very important, in fact. If the squire had sabotaged the balloon, very nearly resulting in the deaths of both Charles and the Honorable Mr. Rolls, was it possible that he had also tampered with the brake on Bradford's motorcar, resulting in Albrecht's death? That question reminded her of another, and she hastened to ask it.

“Mrs. Pratt, do you recall those three small crockery pots of mustard that were sent to us from France? I should like to see them, if you don't mind.”

Mrs. Pratt stared at her, her eyes narrowing. “The mustard pots? All three?”

“Yes. Is there some problem?”

Mrs. Pratt bit her lip nervously. “ 'Ow about two, yer ladyship? Will they do?”

“Where is the third?”

“The third? Well, ye see, yer ladyship ... That is, I—” She stopped, looked up at the clock, and cried, “Oh, laws, but it's time to start the luncheon!” Jumping up from the table, she went to the range, picked up a wooden spoon, and began to stir the soup, with rather more violence than was necessary.

Kate rose too, and went to stand beside her. “Mrs. Pratt,” she said gently, “did our Amelia borrow the third mustard pot?”

“Amelia!” Mrs. Pratt exclaimed, turning around. “Oh, no, yer ladyship!”

“If Amelia didn't take it, who did?” Kate asked gently. “Mrs. Pratt, the missing mustard pot, by itself, is of no importance to me. I am seeking only to get to the bottom of a very troublesome matter, and the pot may help to do so. Tell me, do, please. Who has the mustard pot?”

Mrs. Pratt hung her head. “I give it to Bess fer ‘er birthday, full o' quince jam. 'Twas the night she got tumbled into the ditch by Lord Marsden's motorcar, when she come to fetch the pig's blood.”

“Bess?” Kate asked, confused. “Pig's blood?” So then she had to hear the story of Bess all over again from beginning to end, or at least to the point on Friday night at which Mrs. Pratt had observed her lurking near Lord Marsden's motorcar. This time, Kate understood far more than she had before—enough to persuade her that she needed to speak to Bess Gurton immediately.

“This Bess,” she said. “Where may I find her?”

“Find 'er?” Mrs. Pratt asked wonderingly. “Why on earth wud yer ladyship want to—”

“So that I may
speak
with her, of course,” Kate said, impatient. “It's urgent that I learn what she was doing here on Friday night.”

Mrs. Pratt reflected. “Well,” she said at last, “ye must take the lane to the village, but ye don't go quite that far, jes' to Ashton Cross and one lane beyond, then turn to the right an' go as far as the lane which ends at Black Brook, an' after that—”

“Get your shawl, Mrs. Pratt,” Kate said, taking the spoon from her.

“Me shawl, ma'am?”

“And your bonnet. I shall never find that cottage by myself. And anyway, Mistress Gurton is more likely to be willing to speak to me if you are present, and encourage her. Now, come along.”

“But wot about luncheon?” Mrs. Pratt cried, hanging back.

“Luncheon can wait,” Kate said firmly, and marched her cook to the door. “This business is more important than a bit of cold joint and a pudding!”

A curse is like a stone flung up to the heavens, and maist like to return on the head that sent it.

—SIR WALTER SCOTT
Old Mortality,
1816

 

 

 

B
ess Gurton had had more shocks and surprises fall on her head in the past few weeks than ever before in her life, but the greatest shock of all came on Sunday morning, when she learned from her friend Sally Munby that Lord Marsden's motorcar had been destroyed in a crash on the preceding day.

“ 'Tis the Lord's doin',” Sally had pronounced piously over the low hedge that separated their back gardens.

“Or the devil‘s,” Sally's daughter Martha remarked from the doorway, as she spread the dish towel to dry on the rosemary bush. “They say the devil takes 'is due, an' o' course it ‘appened at Devil's Bridge. I 'eard that the man ‘oo was drivin' 'ad both ‘is legs cut off at the knees. 'E died a ‘orrible death.” She paused, savoring this information, then added, in a harder tone, “But 'e was a furriner.”

“ ‘Tis the Lord's doin',” Sally repeated. “I say, let this be a lesson to those ‘oo go bargin' down the roads, murderin' innercent old men.”

But Bess, when she had recovered her breath, knew otherwise. The wreck of Lord Marsden's motorcar was neither the Lord's doing nor the devil's, but
hers,
and the thought was distinctly unnerving. She hurried inside and shut the door and sat herself down before the fire. Her first thoughts were almost triumphant, as she recalled her ignominious leap into the muddy ditch, and the subsequent curses she had laid on the offending motorcar. That would teach them to treat Bess Gurton uncivilly, and to withhold from her the respect she deserved!

But as she continued to reflect, Bess's thoughts took on the color of remorse. Some poor man had got his legs cut off at the knees because of her, and died a horrible death. What was her dignity in comparison to a man's life, even though he was a foreigner? Who was she to take on such a fearsome responsibility?
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.
But she had exacted the Lord's vengeance—and the devil's due, too, come to that, and she thought fearfully that it might even be said in some quarters that she had done the devil's work for him.

This new thought banished the last shred of Bess's triumph and made her shiver to the very roots of her soul. Would the devil be offended at the way she had raised herself above herself? Or would he, seeing how effectively she worked, now come to her to ask her to do other jobs for him? Both ideas filled her with alarm. But what could she do? The deed was done and a man was dead, and there was no undoing either.

The clock on the shelf clanged the noon hour, but Bess, lost in thought, failed to notice. Finally, at half-past, she rose from her chair, made a pot of tea, boiled an egg, and toasted a bit of bread. But when she sat down to it, she found that she could scarcely eat, and after a while she pushed it away.

Bess was clearing this unfinished repast from the table when a knock sounded at the door. She opened it to discover, on her very doorstep, her friend Sarah Pratt, bonneted and shawled, and, standing with her, Lady Kathryn, in a smart brown wool suit and brown boots, with a woolen hat pulled over her ears and a very serious look on her pretty face.

“Lor',” was all she could say, before making a clumsy curtsey.

“Well, Bess,” Sarah demanded, for all the world as if she were accustomed to her friends dropping curtseys before her. “Ain't ye goin' to ask 'er ladyship to come in?”

Bess recovered enough to offer the invitation, which was accepted with alacrity. Introductions were brief and hurried, and then the kettle was refilled and placed on the fender, and the three took seats around the table, Sarah on a broken stool, her ladyship on Bess's chair, and Bess herself on an upturned wooden box.

“Lady Kathryn,” Sarah said sternly, “ 'as summat to ask ye, Bess, summat important. Ye must tell the 'ole truth, so 'elp ye God.”

That stung like a stone. “I don't want anybody to teach me ‘ow to tell truth, Sarah Pratt,” Bess said with asperity. “I wudn't tell a lie if you was to give me a gold sov'rin.”

“I am very glad for that, Bess,” Lady Kathryn said, in a grave but kindly tone, “for much depends on the truth you tell us. I understand that you came to Bishop's Keep a fortnight ago to obtain—” And she proceeded to recapitulate the tale she had been told (she said) by Bess's friend Sarah. Her
former
friend, that is, Bess thought, with a hard look at Sarah.

“Now, then, Bess,” Lady Kathryn said, having finished the story, “is all that true?”

“Well,” Bess said guardedly, “it's the truth that I came fer the pig's blood an' took the quince jam in a lit'le stoneware pot, which Sarah said was my birthday gift, along o' a cake.” She stopped, thinking how to tell truly what was required of her without telling
all.
“An' it's true that I came to see the balloon—”

“In the dark o' the night?” Sarah demanded.

“There was a moon,” Bess said defensively. “I cud see the balloon perfec'ly well.”

“And did you stop by the motorcars?” Lady Kathryn asked.

Bess nodded slowly.

“And did you touch Lord Marsden's car?”

“Well,” Bess replied, “not to say
touched.”
She raised her head and looked Lady Kathryn squarely in the eye. “I didn't touch the motorcar, yer ladyship. As God is me witness.”

Lady Kathryn looked back at her, equally squarely. “You are telling me that you did not tamper with it in any way?”

That presented Bess with a great difficulty, and she was silent for a moment. “Well...” she said, and stopped.

“Let us not quibble, Bess,” Lady Kathryn said firmly. “Tell me, please, exactly what you did.”

Bess saw that she was not going to evade her ladyship's questions. She hung her head and waited for the stone to fall. “I cursed it.”

Lady Kathryn stared at her. “You... cursed it?”

And then the simple story came out. She had first cursed the motorcar in anger the night she was forced to fling herself into the ditch. She had cursed it again on the night she had visited the balloon, not in anger, but with a cold resolution. “I'm not sorry the motorcar's gone,” she said at the end, with a touch of defiance. “But I didn't mean fer the furriner t' die. Fer that, I'm sorry.”

Lady Kathryn frowned. “There's more to this than a simple curse. What was in the mustard pot that you dropped into the gondola?”

Bess felt her breath catch in her throat. How did her ladyship know about
that?

When Bess did not immediately respond, her ladyship went on, “I must tell you, Bess, that we have the mustard pot, and that we have established a clear connection between the pot and the wrecked motorcar. Now, the truth!”

“A connection?” Bess asked, frowning. “Wot connection?”

But Lady Kathryn only shook her head, and Bess saw that there was nothing for it except to tell the truth. Again, her telling was short and the story simple, and when she was finished, she could see that her ladyship and Sarah were utterly amazed.

“Ye wanted to
fly
?” Sarah asked incredulously.
“That's
why ye wanted the pig's blood?”

“The receipt was in Gammer's book,” Bess said, “so I knew the ointment t'wud work.”

“The ointment,” Lady Kathryn said. “Just what did you put in it?”

Bess scratched her head. “Pig's blood,” she said, “an' goose grease an' honey, and some herbs, water hemlock and chicory, like, an' a few others.” She frowned, trying to remember what herbs she had added at her own inspiration. “Oh, an' raw plovers' eggs, an' a pinch of chimney soot.”

“Sounds like a witch's brew t' me,” Sarah said darkly.

“It sounds to me,” Lady Kathryn said, without batting an eyelash, “as if it might work very well. I should perhaps like to try it myself, Bess, if you don't mind.”

Bess was startled, but inexpressibly pleased that Lady Kathryn herself should want to sample her ointment. There was one drawback, however. “It smells.” she said, mindful of the faint scent of Lady Kathryn's floral toilet water. “Smells rather 'orrid, as a matter of fact.”

“Pshaw,” Lady Kathryn said. “Smell is no deterrent. Not if you really want to fly.”

Bess understood that she had at last met a woman after her own heart. “That's ‘ow I sees it,” she said, dropping a triumphant glance on Sarah. “ 'Ow I sees it ex-actly.”

“Once the ointment was made,” her ladyship asked thoughtfully, “what did you do with it?”

“I put it in the jam pot, an' in another little jar I had.”

“An' then you dropped the pot into the gondola?”

“I thought as if the ointment flew up in the balloon,” Bess said, “it might work all the better.”

“A logical assumption,” Lady Kathryn said. “Have you had an opportunity to test it? The ointment, I mean.”

Bess shook her head. “I meant to git it out o' the gondola, but when I ‘eard about the crash an' the pore furriner—” She swallowed, weighed down once again by the guilt of what she had done. “I'd be much obliged to 'ave it, if it's all the same to you, yer ladyship,” she said humbly.

Lady Kathryn thought for a moment. “You dropped the pot into the gondola, and then you went to the motorcar. Were you carrying your other jar of ointment with you?”

“I was,” Bess said, “but I lost it. I had it in me pocket, an' it fell out.”

“Where?”

Bess could only lift her shoulders and shake her head. She had no idea where she had dropped the jar—in fact, Sarah Pratt had so startled her with her loud question out of the dark that she had not missed it until she was well and safely down the lane.

Lady Kathryn leaned forward. “And you're certain that you did not touch the motorcar?”

“No, yer ladyship,” Bess said, with emphasis. “On me 'onor.”

“Well, then,” her ladyship said briskly, “I think we have learned what we came to learn.” She stood and held out her hand. “Thank you for your candor and helpfulness, Bess.” She paused reflectively. “Tell me, this desire of yours, this wish to fly—is it of long standing?”