The Deathly Portent (14 page)

The man’s evident suspicion abated not one jot, but he allowed himself to be deflected, asking for specifics and then going behind his big counter to delve into a deep drawer. Pushing aside a couple of boxes, he made space on the counter’s surface and proceeded to lay out a number of articles for Ottilia’s inspection.

She took time to sift through a selection of combs and scented bars of soap, at the same time approving the tooth powder and toothbrushes and asking to see what might be had by way of night attire.

While Mr. Uddington rummaged for the latter, taking, to Ottilia’s satisfaction, some little time to uproot nightshirts and nightgowns from the recesses of his drawers, she felt safe enough to resume discussion of pertinent matters.

“Are you by any chance handy with a hammer, Mr. Uddington?” she asked, wading knee deep immediately.

He was bending at the time, but he shot upright, startled into losing his pince-nez. Ottilia leaned across and deftly caught them as they fell off, holding them out. Uddington’s hand shook as he took the spectacles, but instead of replacing them on his nose, he folded them and set them down on the counter, placing both hands either side with his fingers pressed heavily into the wood.

“Is that an accusation, my lady?”

His tone was harsh, and the skin of his cheeks had gone a chalky grey. Ottilia kept her voice even.

“Should it be one?”

Naked, his eyes showed the puffy sag of suffering underneath and the cold glint of residual enmity within.

“Oh, I don’t doubt you’ve been told the whole. I’ll not deny my distaste for the man. But hatred enough to kill? And in such a fashion? No, I’d not swing for Duggleby.”

Ottilia waited to see if he would develop this theme, but he said nothing more, setting the ball firmly in her court. He was not going to prove an easy witness. She chose to throw him off the scent altogether.

“I hear you are taking up a collection for the widow.”

His frown reappeared. “I’ve nothing against the woman. The opposite, if anything.”

“You feel for her as the other injured party?” suggested Ottilia.

Uddington looked down and appeared to notice the stiffness of his fingers. With a look of distaste, he relaxed them. Then he picked up the pince-nez and slipped them into place on his nose. The earlier mildness of manner returned as he regarded Ottilia over the top of them again.

“Bertha Duggleby had more to complain of than I. My wife’s desertion saved me from further humiliation. Bertha was obliged to put up with whatever came. She had not the means to take such a step.”

“Whereas your wife had such means?”

The shopkeeper nodded. “My father-in-law took care of her. He has the means.”

“He is a merchant?” Ottilia guessed, adding as he nodded again, “And well to do, I take it?”

“Uddington set us up with this shop.”

“Uddington?” Startled, Ottilia stared at him. Enlightenment dawned. “Ah, I begin to see. You took his name when you married beneath you. Who are you really?”

For the first time, a hint of bitterness crept into the false Uddington’s features. “I am nobody, my lady. Oh, don’t pity me. I am content to have it so.”

Ottilia let it lie. She had a feeling there was more to be discovered here, but it would not do to probe too fiercely at this juncture. She tried a different tack.

“I take it your true identity is not generally known.”

“If you mean, do the local gentry recognise me, no,” he said calmly.

“And I was given no hint of any mystery concerning your past,” Ottilia mused, although in fact there had not been time for any detailed discussion of the subject, but Uddington did not know that. “I cannot think it would have been left out.”

“Not if you were informed of my wife’s infidelity with Duggleby.”

Ottilia eyed him, searching for the erstwhile betraying signs. “You are remarkably sanguine on the subject, sir.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Yet the desire for revenge, I have heard it said, burns no less fierily for the passing years. Indeed, it can be the more dangerous for growing cold.”

Mr. Uddington said nothing. Instead, he indicated the items Ottilia had picked out. “Will you be requiring anything else, my lady?”

“Yes,” Ottilia said tartly. “A response to my first question. Are you capable of wielding a hammer?”

Once again, the corners of Mr. Uddington’s lips were uplifted in that slight acidic smile. “I am no longer a young man, your ladyship. I call upon the locals to attend to all that sort of thing.”

Balked, Ottilia wondered how next to proceed. Before she could decide, the entrance bell tinkled and her new friends of the coffee room stepped into the shop. They greeted her without surprise, and Ottilia instantly suspected she had been observed entering the establishment. She could only be glad she’d had opportunity to tackle Uddington ahead of their arrival.

Ottilia waved briefly and turned back to the shopkeeper with a smile.

“I will take one each of the nightshirts and gowns, if you please. And perhaps you will be kind enough to wrap
everything up and have it conveyed to the Blue Pig? My husband will settle up with you presently.”

The shopkeeper’s defiant manner had disappeared upon the entrance of new customers, and Ottilia was treated to a spurious urbanity.

“As your ladyship pleases.”

She was quick to note the ironic inflexion and flashed him a straight look before turning to Mrs. Radlett, who was hovering at her elbow.

“I thought I saw you come in here, Lady Francis,” said the latter breathlessly. “I see dear Mr. Uddington has been able to supply your needs.”

“Indeed, yes.”

“Take it that means you’ll be staying,” came from Miss Beeleigh, brusque as ever. “Good thing if you are, for Hannah is already chivvying the maid to make ready her best bedchamber.”

Ottilia laughed. “Is she indeed? Then we had better not disappoint her.”

Mr. Netherburn, who had remained near the door perforce as the ladies crowded in, now threw out one of his flourishes, one hand swirling as he bowed in Ottilia’s direction.

“Too kind, too kind, dear ma’am. But I can assure you poor Hannah will look after you splendidly.”

“She’s not much else to do,” snapped Miss Beeleigh, “so I should think she’d better.”

With firmness, Ottilia cut into what promised to be a prolonged discussion.

“We are not fastidious, I assure you. But I must not keep you, Mr. Uddington. You have been most helpful, and I thank you.”

A suspicious frown came at her from over the merchant’s spectacles, and Ottilia met it with a bland look. Before she could make a move to leave, however, Miss Beeleigh addressed the man.

“Hope the storm didn’t bring any of your roof tiles down again, Uddington.”

A glint showed in Uddington’s eye, but his voice retained the same servile tone. “I do not anticipate it, ma’am. The journeyman did an excellent job.”

“I hope so. Can’t have you toiling up and down that dreadful ladder of yours at your time of life.”

Even as Ottilia’s ears pricked up, she saw the merchant’s features pinch, paling a little.

“Gracious, no!” exclaimed Mrs. Radlett. “We do not want you breaking your neck, Uddington.”

“Bad enough losing Duggleby,” pursued Miss Beeleigh. “Not that he had half your efficiency, Uddington, I’ll say that much.”

Ottilia was convinced this must be disingenuous. Had Miss Beeleigh an ambition to turn investigator? She had intended to expose the fact that Uddington owned a ladder high enough to reach the smithy roof.

His deferent manner unmatched by the coldness in his eyes, Uddington was bowing. “I am flattered, Miss Beeleigh.”

“No, no, dear fellow, she is perfectly in the right,” Mr. Netherburn chimed in. “I dare not think how we would fare without you, Uddington.”

“No, indeed,” gushed Mrs. Radlett. “It is enough that dear Mrs. Uddington has passed away.”

When? The thought leapt into Ottilia’s startled mind. In the ensuing silence, a chill entered the atmosphere. Clearly realising her faux pas, the widow flushed, clapping a hand to her mouth. Miss Beeleigh threw her an admonishing look, and Mr. Netherburn emitted a delicate cough.

Uddington stiffened, but he did not speak. When did the errant wife die? Had it been a recent event, thus prompting a long-awaited revenge? Glancing at the man, Ottilia perceived the same closed look she had before observed and conceived an alternative plan to an outright question.

“Well, I have everything I need for the present. I will leave you ladies to conduct your own purchases.”

Without pausing for an answer, she went past them, putting out a hand towards Horace Netherburn.

“My dear sir, may I trouble you to escort me back to the inn? My husband would not like me to be wandering around the village unattended.”

This was perfectly true, although Ottilia guiltily reflected she would have no compunction in doing just that should it prove expedient. But she knew there could be but one answer from Mr. Netherburn.

True to form, he made an elaborate leg, expressing his immediate willingness to be of service, and opened the door for her. Ottilia passed through as the bell tinkled, inwardly chuckling at having spiked the guns of the two women. If they’d had no intention of buying anything, they now had no choice but to make a play at least of inspecting Uddington’s goods.

Outside the shop, she tucked her hand into Netherburn’s offered arm and adopted a confiding air. “I was hoping for a moment to talk to you privately, Mr. Netherburn.”

An apprehensive expression creased his lined features as he looked down at her. “Indeed, ma’am?”

Ottilia smiled at him. “Do not look so troubled, sir. I merely wished for a point of information which I believe you may be able to provide.”

His face cleared, and a trifle of self-importance made him step out more boldly. “If I may be of assistance to you, Lady Francis, you have only to say the word.”

Nothing loath, Ottilia waded in. “When did Mrs. Uddington die?”

The arm in which her hand was resting jerked, and Netherburn turned startled eyes upon her. “Why do you wish to know?”

“Is it a secret?” she countered.

“No, no, only we do not like to talk of it. When the woman
has been disgraced, one could not expect Uddington to accept condolences he must deem hypocritical.”

“So when did she die, Mr. Netherburn?” pursued Ottilia.

“A little over three months ago. At least that is when we heard the news.”

“Did Mr. Uddington attend the funeral?”

Netherburn’s sallow cheeks took on a trifle of colour. “No, but it is said that Duggleby did.”

Ottilia drew in a sharp breath. “It is said? By whom?”

“How can one know how such news originates?” protested the gentleman, just as if his contribution did not add to the spread of this and any other gossip.

Ottilia refrained from pointing this out, instead murmuring what he might take for agreement if he chose, before resuming her catechism.

“Is it known whether Duggleby was absent from the village at the time of the funeral?”

Mr. Netherburn gave a fervent nod. “Indeed, yes, which is what makes it peculiarly troublesome if one wishes to disbelieve the rumours. The fellow claimed he had gone to Coventry to fetch in a fresh set of rods for nail-making, but one is forced to wonder why he chose exactly that time to do it.”

Indeed, Ottilia thought. They had taken a shorter path across the green, Mr. Netherburn having assured her that the grass had been well dried by the sun that had been shining all day, and they were by now approaching the Blue Pig. As Ottilia was digesting the information supplied by her escort, she did not at first do more than note the presence of a gig standing to one side of the house just before the archway. The driver, who had alighted, was talking to someone largely obscured by his bulk, but the booted legs Ottilia could just see became abruptly familiar. At the instant she realised it was Francis, she recognised the tilt of the driver’s head. Ryde!

A wave of consternation went through her. Had the groom arrived to fetch them? Would Francis insist upon their departure? Just when she was getting somewhere!

T
he bed, despite its utilitarian proportions, was remarkably comfortable. Francis, clad not in the new coarse cotton nightshirt thoughtfully provided by his wife but in one of his own made up in fine lawn, was sitting against the banked pillows, partaking of a nightcap of brandy.

“This liquor is quite tolerable,” he said, watching the rhythmic stroke of Tillie’s hairbrush as she plied it energetically through the soft brown waves that reached partway down her back. His fingers itched to caress them, but he knew Tillie’s attention was still concentrated upon the puzzle of the blacksmith’s murder.

“Then at least I need not trouble my head about the satisfaction of your palate,” she responded, looking round as she spoke.

The mischievous gleam he loved was in her eye, and Francis could not resist.

“It’s not the only satisfaction I crave.”

A delicious thread of colour raced into her cheeks, visible in the light of the candelabrum she’d set upon the dressing table.

“Francis!”

He grinned and turned the subject. “Other than this Uddington fellow, whom have you in your mind?”

She had looked away, and Francis hid a smile at having made her conscious. As ever, she recovered herself swiftly. It was one of the skills he admired in Tillie, that she was not easily put out of countenance, and then only briefly.

“Oh, Uddington is by no means the only one with a grudge against the blacksmith.”

Francis agreed. “Tisbury, by Pilton’s account, for one.”

“Yes, and his wife, Molly.”

“Why so?”

“On account of losing her kitchen maid to his amorous activities, of course.”

“I was forgetting that,” Francis said, musing as he took a sip of the golden liquid in his glass. “What about his wife? Duggleby’s, I mean.”

“Bertha? Yes, I think we must include her. And unlikely as it seems, I cannot ignore Evelina Radlett’s dog.”

He had been regaled with this tale, among others, but Francis was dubious.

“Does a female plot to kill someone because she suspects he beat her dog?”