Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark (12 page)

She did not have to feign shock. “My goodness!” She extricated her gloved hand from his grip and held it over her thumping heart. “That’s terrible!”

He shook his head. “The local magistrate did what he could to investigate her death, but I fear he is in the marquess’s pocket.”

“What are you saying, sir?”

“I would never say anything to insinuate, to imply… in short, to give anyone reason to think the marquess culpable.”

“Oh.”

“But then in February, just two short months ago, young Mr. Allengate’s sister, Fanny, died in exactly the same way!”

Anne’s stomach clenched, and the scene she had witnessed between Richard Allengate and Lady Darkefell took on a dreadful new meaning. “She… jumped? Is that what you mean?”

Grover shook his head, his florid cheeks flapping. “No one quite knows what occurred. It is said… but no, I should not retail gossip.”

Continuing her charade of avid spinster gossip, she said, “Tell me, sir, for I’m a stranger to all in those houses except my poor, dear Lydia, and I worry for her. She’s such a child, still, though a bride of four months.”

He lowered his voice, and his eyes goggled. “Miss Allengate had told some of her intimates that she would soon be engaged to the marquess, and then she tragically died. No one would say a word, except for the coincidence of the death occurring at the falls. The girl a year ago, Jacob Landers’s daughter, Tilly—

“Jacob Landers, the postman?”

“The same.”

“Well, that explains Mr. Landers’s distaste for the family, if his daughter died on Darkefell land.”

“The apple of Jacob’s eye—he’s never been right since her murder.” He put one fleshy hand over his mouth, and his eyes widened.

“
Murder?
” Some London gossip came back to Anne. “I recall some gossip, sir, at the time—Lord Darkefell’s brother was accused of causing her death.”

“Yes, but some say Lord Julius Bestwick was covering for his brother—they were twins, you know, and very close. Someone saw the marquess at the falls, but Lord Julius claimed it was he and that he saw Tilly fall to her death. Lord Julius was about to be charged with her murder when he disappeared, then turned up in Upper Canada, and then died. Perhaps it all ended as it should. It troubles me to see the sons of that family cause their dear mother so much turmoil. It never would have happened if their father had lived.”

“I had no idea of any of this,” she said. “And I must daily face these people while I visit poor Lydia!”

He shook his head. “My lady, it troubles me to speak ill of my friends.”

“Though you seem to have no friendship for the current marquess, sir,” Anne said tartly. Grover drew back. Anne had allowed her real personality too much freedom. “I mean,” she said, softening her voice, “the marquess, as I have said, is a difficult gentleman to like. Very high-handed. He claims you have reason to dislike him because he corrupted your son, Theophilus.”

Stiffly, Mr. Grover said, “That is not true. He
tried
to lead my son astray while they were in school, but Theophilus was impervious to such debauched temptation—he’s now a highly respected man of the cloth and will be bishop some day. Lord Darkefell’s jest was poorly done.”

“An ill-timed bit of humor,” she murmured. “I must go, sir, for the pony has been left standing with my tiger long enough.”

He walked her toward the door and said, “I did not mean to become pokerish, but Theophilus is the pride of my life, and the marquess has no right to make sport. He is a rash young man—I regret repeating such filth, but it is said that Tilly was at the falls that fateful day to tell him that she was carrying his child.”

Anne did not try to hide her shock. “How can you say such a thing?”

“I’m sorry, my lady, for saying things unfit for your ears, but it’s galling to hear him lauded as a good landowner and this and that, when the truth is that he is a fornicator and a trial to his mother. Ask him! Was he not Tilly’s lover? That poor girl had fallen from grace with him and carried his child—just ask him to deny it!”

She felt sickened inside and regretted the worm of doubt about Darkefell that wriggled into her, but it did not escape her notice that, though Mr. Grover had said he would not speak of it, he did ultimately reveal some of the evidence against the marquess. Malice or honesty? “I thought it was Lord Julius who was seen near the waterfall that day?”

With a sly tone and raised eyebrows, he said, “Twins, my lady, and very close—’twas an anonymous note to the magistrate that exposed the marquess’s presence there that day. Lord Julius may have thought he was saving the family name. Sometimes a ne’er-do-well will try to redeem himself with a grand gesture, and Julius was a bit of a ne’er-do-well. After his death, all talk was hushed.”

“How convenient for the marquess that his brother died, then. What about Richard Allengate’s sister?”

“Poor Fanny.” He shook his head and made a tsk-tsk sound between his teeth. “A good girl led astray, I’ve always thought, by the blandishments of a powerful man.” He opened the door for Anne.

“But her death cannot be laid at the door of Lord Julius,” Anne said, strolling out into the sunshine and turning back toward Mr. Grover. “Was it suicide?”

“Her brother does not think so, I can tell you that. The poor fellow is distraught.”

“I admit, sir, that I’m puzzled by all of this, how a family of such seemingly good character can have had such a rash of deaths and terrible events befall them. And now these werewolf sightings and sheep slaughter, and poor Cecilia Wainwright’s murder, for such it must be called. I can’t believe that was an animal act.”

“I cannot explain it. The barbarity of such an action! It’s deeply distressing.” He sighed. “I have given it much thought and have decided that I will be leaving my home here.”

“Leaving?” She stood on the doorstep and gazed up at him. Whatever she had expected to hear, it was not that.

“I can no longer live here alone. With my son about to marry, I think to sell and purchase a cottage near him and his lady. I no longer wish to be burdened with running this estate. I inherited when I was a lad and spent the best years of my life here, but the once-honorable marquessate has changed in the hands of such a man as the current Lord Darkefell.” He paused and looked back into his house. “That is why you see my home so empty and with no butler or footmen. I have been selling or moving my possessions and letting go of staff. It is a long process and difficult, but I’m ready to move now.”

“I wish you luck in your new home, sir. To whom do you sell?”

“I suppose it is no harm to tell, though it’s not yet final. Lord Darkefell will be purchasing my home.” He sighed heavily. “He’s been after me for years to sell it to him. He’ll get his wish.”

Anne wasn’t surprised; Mr. Grover’s acreage was like a hole in the Darkefell estate, a hole that would now be filled. “What do you think is the answer to the mystery of the werewolf sightings, sir?”

“At first I thought it horseplay, but then sheep were slaughtered and left to rot, among them some of my own.” He frowned. “Perhaps a pack of dogs?”

He took her arm and led her out to the pony cart and handed her up into it. He bowed, then, and said, “I have been heartsick, my lady, about these awful events. My greatest hope is that the perpetrator of these foul deeds shall be identified and receive his just rewards, a meeting with the hangman.”

The jaunt into Hornethwaite was uneventful. She left the pony trap at the livery stable, and then, with Robbie, strolled to the village center. Hornethwaite was everything she had expected Staunby to be: quaint, active, and busy. The high street was built on a hill that climbed steadily to green vistas beyond it. Each building and bridge, parish wall, church, and spire was built of dun-colored stone with slate roofs, but far from appearing dull, it had a harmonious glow, the spring green of the surrounding countryside in the distance and village green setting it off nicely.

She bought unnecessary ink at the stationer’s, superfluous ribbon at the dry goods shop, and gratuitous headache powder at the chemist’s, engaging in polite conversation at every stop. Finally, she had exhausted her shopping and her feet. The people of Hornethwaite were closemouthed, and numerous sallies to try to pry information from the reticent Yorkshire folk shut them up tighter.

Even an arch reference to the werewolf did nothing but draw a frown of remonstrance and a barely understandable rebuke that such talk was “trammel”—Anne took that to mean nonsense or trash—though it was acknowledged that some girls of the village had been troubled by the creature. It was thought that they were “gauvies”—simpletons, she guessed—easily frightened. She was tired, discouraged, and thirsty. The coffee shop was to be her last stop. Followed by Robbie, she returned to the far end of the high street, near the livery stable and inn.

There was a dirty-looking fellow lingering outside of the taproom. As she strolled past, he accosted her, begging for a pittance with which to purchase a beverage. Never one to deny a thirsty man relief, she dug in her reticule and handed him a farthing.

“Thank’ee, ma’am.” Then he leaned in closer, his sour breath making Anne’s nose twitch. “I ’eard you arskin’ ’bout yon weerwolve,” he said, his Yorkshire accent broad. “If yer lookin’, look no farver than yon African, from t’markwis’s castle—’e be stricken wi’ an African curse, turning ’im inta wolf at night.”

Her brow wrinkled, Anne waded through his accent and asked, “Are you speaking of Mr. Boatin?”

“Yers. ’E had no right,” he said, then followed with a string of unintelligible words.

He bumbled toward the taproom door. Anne followed, grabbed his sleeve, and said, “Whatever do you mean? What are you saying?”

His expression was blank, though, and he said, shaking his head, “Niver you mind, marm.” He broke free of her restraining hand. His bloodshot eyes widened, and he shook his head. “I niver said nothink ’gainst yon blackamoor, but whut he’s doing what he oughtint wiv girls he oughtint tooch. I saw ’im.”

He disappeared through the taproom door, and it was not an establishment into which Anne could follow. Puzzled by the man’s oblique reference to Osei Boatin—his dialect was far thicker than any of the other Hornethwaite residents she had so far spoken with, but it sounded as though he was implying he’d seen Osei with a girl, Cecilia, perhaps. She pondered his words as she entered the dining room that was on the other side of the inn entrance. Robbie eagerly agreed to milk and cakes in the landlady’s own kitchen, while Anne ate in solitary splendor in the dining room.

When the landlady, a Mrs. Haight, came to serve her, Anne looked her over. She was a comfortable-looking lady of middle years and clearly well-entrenched in local affairs, as was proved by her familiar greetings to many of the locals who entered.

“Thank you, Mrs. Haight,” Anne said as the woman set down a tray of scones with creamy butter, a pot of preserves, and a steaming china teapot. “May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly, milady,” she said, curtseying.

She appeared flattered to be spoken to on such familiar terms by the daughter of an earl. Anne knew villages; her exact lineage was common knowledge by now, as was her friendship with Lydia and her stay at Ivy Lodge. A woman in Mrs. Haight’s position would dispense gossip along with the best Gunpowder Green and China Black.

“I’m visiting Ivy Lodge. My dear friend, Lady John Bestwick, has been sorely troubled by the goings-on in the area. What do you think of it all?”

The woman appeared to be taken aback by such open questioning, but Anne had little time and less patience for obliqueness. When Mrs. Haight was silent for a long moment, Anne added, watching her face, “She has been so frightened by talk of a werewolf, or a wolf, and I wish to set her mind at ease with what the more
astute
of local inhabitants think.”

The flattery worked. The bosomy lady murmured, “Well, milady, we ’ave our suspicions.” She glanced around, and when Anne waved at the chair opposite her, she sat on the edge of it. She leaned forward, her bosom resting on the edge of the table. “Haight an’ me, we think the werewolf is joost local tricksters, harassin’ the marquess an’ his family.”

“Yes?” Anne said encouragingly.

She glanced around the room and lowered her tone, saying, “But the murderin’ savage whut has plagued us hereabouts… that’s another matter.”

“Three young women dead, whether by the same hand or different ones, is distressing. I see you separate the events—the supposed werewolf and the deaths—and I think that’s wise, for given the difference in the gravity of the two affairs, they truly do not seem to be committed by the same person.”

“Aye, milady.”

“Three young local women dead. And all on the marquess’s property!”

“An all wi’ a man o’ th’estate as a beau!” The woman’s eyes widened, and she put her work-worn hand over her mouth.

Digesting what she meant, Anne slowly said, watching the woman’s eyes, “All with a man of the estate as a beau… you believe the gossip about Tilly Landers and the marquess, then?”

She was clearly conflicted, but Mrs. Haight finally said, “Well, noow, he’s a man, in’t he? Can’t be expected to do without, not but whut he normally keeps such affairs to London.”

Anne’s stomach turned. “Were they still… involved… at the time of her death?”

“Some says yes, some says no.” She began to stand.

Her mind whirling with speculation, reeling from the unexpected confirmation that Darkefell was entwined with Tilly Landers, Anne searched for a way of inquiring further and finally said, “Do the people of Hornethwaite think the awful event of two nights ago is connected with those who live at Ivy Lodge or the castle?” It was the most delicate way she could think to ask.

The woman made a sound through her teeth and seemed undecided for the moment, but then sat back down and said, “I’m of two minds. I don’t like to be th’one to say, but my window overlooks the high street—I saw wi’ me own eyes a certain young man cooming back to his home in Hornethwaite in the airly hours of the morn’ after that poor girl was murdered t’other night… tho’ I didn’t know it at the time, did I? I’m not one to gossip, but where was he? When we heard about the terrible deed the next day, I told Haight ’bout seein’ him, walking down the high street in the dark, the moon shining down on him, like as if he were in a daze.”

“What did your husband say? Of whom do you speak?” Anne asked when it appeared the woman had no more to say.

She frowned and shook her head. “Haight asked the young gent, an’ ’e said ’e was out walkin.’ Out walkin’? At that hour, I says?” She shook her head and straightened. “But Haight sees nothin’ strange in’t.”

A young man of the village; could Mrs. Haight be speaking of Richard Allengate? He was the only one she could think of, but then she didn’t know the local population. She opened her mouth to ask, but just then more customers came in and Mrs. Haight rose, her candid expression shuttering into well-mannered distantness with just a trace of regret.

“Good afternoon, milady,” she said, with a hasty curtsey. “I’ll be beggin’ that you don’t take whut I’ve said amiss. I know naught and shouldn’t be flapping me gums on such things.”

Anne, familiar from personal experience with the feeling of having said more than she ought on a subject, suspected that Mrs. Haight, flattered by her attention, had said more than she intended and wouldn’t respond to questions about the identity of the young man. It was too late, anyway, as the landlady was moving away, returning to her duties.

Two genteel-appearing ladies who had just entered took a table near Anne and proceeded to gossip, throwing her occasional glances of avid curiosity. Unfortunately they spoke of people unfamiliar to Anne, so the conversation did not interest her. Never had she regretted the divisions that prevented her from starting conversations with strangers, and the reticence her position in society as an earl’s daughter imposed. If she had been a shopgirl or servant, she would have learned more in two minutes than she had so far learned in two hours.

Not finding any reasonable solutions in her own mind for the crimes of which she had heard that morning, her mind drifted to the intolerably high-handed Lord Darkefell, the kiss he had inflicted on her the day before, and the indubitable perfection of his technique. Was she so simple, then, that a skillful kiss could knock good sense out of her? She still regarded him with suspicion, more so now that she knew of his reported affair with Tilly Landers, speculative though it might be. But still, her heart beat faster at the thought of his dark eyes and overtly masculine form, and that was the reaction of a silly woman, the sort she had disparaged more than once in conversation as beneath contempt. Perhaps in future she would not be so judgmental.

She abandoned that train of thought. His lordship would not physically impose on her again. He was mocking her, deliberately teasing her because he knew his effect on her. It was in his eyes when he spoke to her, and in his tone. He was a handsome man and aware of it. She was a foolish woman and feared he was aware of that, too. Thus the kiss. If he wished to mislead her, that was the behavior of a devious fellow with something to hide; she could not forget that.

Those thoughts led to another more painful train of thought in the wake of the information Mrs. Haight had given her. She had said all three girls were involved with those at the estate. Did that mean his lordship, as was the way with some men of power, dallied even with the maid, Cecilia Wainwright? Had she threatened him with exposure or told young Jamey? Or confessed her pregnancy and demanded… something? Even if her interest was in Jamey, the groom, a marquess would be a greater catch even just as a lover, and she was a lovely young woman. She could have engaged in a tryst with him for the gifts and favors he could bestow upon her. If she had told Jamey she was moving on to another affair, would he have hurt her in retaliation? Or perhaps jealousy of his lordship was reason enough for Jamey to hurt her?

She didn’t like the direction her mind was taking and turned away from those thoughts.

The tea was good, the delicate scones better, and the preserves indescribably delicious, but it was time she returned to Ivy Lodge. She was getting no further in Hornethwaite and had more unanswered questions than she had started with, thanks to Mr. Grover. How had Tilly Landers died? And Fanny Allengate? Were those deaths connected with Cecilia Wainwright? If it was Richard Allengate that Mrs. Haight spoke of, why was he coming back to the village in the early hours of the morning? She could think of no scenario that would cause young Allengate to murder an innocent maidservant, even if he was angry with or suspicious that one of the men of Darkefell Castle had hurt his sister. Too many questions and too few answers.

“Excuse me, my lady,” one of the genteel young women said. They had both risen and stood by her table.

“Yes?”

“I believe we have an acquaintance in common,” she said and named a young woman with whom Anne had gone to school, Miss Henrietta Copeland.

“Ah, yes! I remember Miss Copeland. How is the dear girl?”

“Actually, she is now Mrs. George Lange and lives in Leeds. George is my brother, a barrister there. I am Miss Beatrice Lange.”

Anne eyed her with interest; she was a buxom young woman, very pretty, with rosy cheeks and a pert bonnet perched on dusky curls. She indicated the empty chairs at her table. “Would you sit with me for a few moments and tell me, how is dear Henrietta? As you can see, I have no other acquaintance here, and was just regretting that fact.” As they chatted, Anne examined both young women. They were well dressed, their stomachers and petticoats fine brocade and silk, even if the lace trim was lower quality and the style of their clothes a year or so out of date. Addressing Anne as she had was wrong of Miss Lange—it was too forward an action—but Anne forgave her the impertinence, as it suited her own needs so perfectly.

“I’m temporarily resident at Ivy Lodge,” Anne offered. “My dear friend Lydia is now married to the youngest son, Lord John Bestwick.”

The two ladies exchanged significant looks; Anne had told them nothing they didn’t already know. Anne almost rubbed her hands together at the prospect of a couple of local gossips. They knew some of what was going on at Darkefell and perhaps conjectured more, but drawing them out was a delicate process. Her first question, regarding Mr. Osei Boatin, provoked mostly silence; neither girl knew anything about him beyond his sad history, nor, they claimed, had they heard any gossip. He was only rarely in town and then went about his business and returned to the Darkefell estate.

The other young woman’s name was Mrs. Lily Jenkins, and as Anne chatted with them, it became apparent to Anne that she, while duly flattered at the notice of a woman of Lady Anne’s stature, was full of her own importance. She was the wife of the eldest son of a local brewer, and as such, one of the premiere families of Hornethwaite. She had too little learning to be interesting, but enough money to be frivolous, a deadly combination.

But useful. Miss Lange was more careful, wiser, more charitable; so soon Anne turned her full attention to Mrs. Jenkins. The young woman gleefully gossiped about Tilly Landers’s death; the daughter of the local postmaster, Jacob Landers—of whom Anne had no good opinion—she was a barmaid at the inn’s taproom, a vain, trifling, catty girl, and “no better than she should be,” according to Mrs. Jenkins. It was rumored that she thought to trap one of the men of Darkefell into marriage by claiming to be pregnant with his child.