The Deathly Portent (17 page)

“Bain’t close enough to the forge. ’Cepting if’n the flames had took hold and jumped the gap, like Tisbury said.”

“Tisbury suggested this?” Ottilia asked at once.

“Said as how they would’ve if’n the storm bain’t come.”

“But the storm did come,” protested Mrs. Dale, in that intense way she had. “I told Duggleby it would come. I warned him. I said the storm would bring the roof down.”

Bertha Duggleby eyed Cassie Dale in a dull way, but she said nothing. Before Ottilia had a chance to take this up, however, Mrs. Winkleigh intervened.

“I’ve need of a girl at the vicarage, Mrs. Duggleby. I hear you’ve a daughter who might do.”

For the first time, a hint of animation entered the widow’s look and voice.

“My Jenny? You be wishful to take my Jenny?”

Mrs. Winkleigh backtracked a little. “Provided she’s a willing worker.”

“Her be a good girl, m’am,” said Mrs. Duggleby, almost eager, rising from her seat in the neat room obviously kept for visitors and meant for a parlour, if a house this size could be said to have one. “Her be willing, all right. I’ll fetch her.”

With which, the widow dragged herself to the door and disappeared through it. Ottilia looked at the housekeeper.

“I trust she may be found satisfactory, Mrs. Winkleigh. I daresay you may find it hard to repudiate her after this.”

Mrs. Dale stretched out her hands to the woman. “Oh,
take her, take her, I beg you! And when Bertha is forced to leave this house, perhaps you may have Jenny to live in the vicarage.”

Mrs. Winkleigh frowned. “Not so fast, Mrs. Dale. She’s to prove herself first. I’m sorry for the woman, but I’ll not keep the girl from charity.”

Ottilia noted the tragic look in Cassie Dale’s eyes and wondered how it was the creature had grown so very unworldly. It was clearly not given to her to recognise how the housekeeper’s own work must suffer should she be burdened with inefficient help. As well not have anyone at all.

But when Bertha Duggleby returned with her daughter, a strapping child of perhaps thirteen years of age, it was evident to Ottilia there was no need for concern. Intelligence showed in her eyes and in the deference she accorded her prospective employer, although she looked a trifle askance at Cassie Dale.

Mrs. Winkleigh appeared to have judged the girl in much the same light, for she lost no time.

“I tell you what, young Jenny. You come with me to the vicarage this moment, and I’ll show you what I need. If you think you can manage it, we’ll make our arrangements then and there.”

Jenny dropped a curtsy. “Bain’t afeared of hard work, m’am. I been helping Ma to make nails for the forge nor five year or more.”

Which evidently satisfied Mrs. Winkleigh. While the departure of the housekeeper with the girl was in train, Ottilia took time to wonder at the coming fate of Mrs. Duggleby. A new blacksmith would no doubt be installed in due course, and she could only suppose the local community would take responsibility for the widow, if she was destitute. Which, according to Miss Beeleigh, remained a question.

As soon as the business concerning her daughter was concluded, there was an instant deflation of the little animation
that had illumined Bertha Duggleby momentarily. Ottilia tried a throw to revive her.

“Well, there is one of your troubles on the way out, Mrs. Duggleby.”

The woman raised her head, the dull gaze training on her visitor. “Bain’t nowt but a drop. There be the boy to think on.”

“How old is he?”

“No more’n six. He be learning his pa’s trade, but the forge be gone now. Bain’t no call for ’prentices round here, not at six year.”

Cassie Dale’s eyes filled. “He will be cared for, Bertha, I promise you. Lady Ferrensby will see to it.”

The widow nodded, but the gloom of her bearing turned sour. “Like him it be to leave all to her ladyship. Provide for his family? Not he. Bain’t his way.”

Ottilia pounced on this. “But your husband was in a very good way of business, by all accounts, Mrs. Duggleby. I gather he was not dependent merely on this village, but took his customers from miles around.”

Bertha Duggleby looked across at Ottilia, and there was sudden venom in her gaze. “Bain’t saying as the forge’d done bad. Bain’t saying as he’d not kept a roof over our heads, nor food on the table, neither. Only where be the new gown he promised me nor five year? Where be the schooling as he boasted all around for his own boy? I tell you where. On the backs of his string of ladyloves be where. Perfumes and toys and neck-handkerchiefs and I don’t know what more besides. My new gown, for all I know. If’n there be a pot of gold hid like he boasted, bain’t hid here.”

“Pot of gold?” Ottilia repeated, stemming the onslaught.

Bertha shrugged. “Gold guineas, he said. I bain’t seen ’em. Nor I bain’t seen no goods bought for this household as had ought to be if’n he’d seen half such wealth.”

Cassie was looking distressed, but Ottilia wasted no time
in idle commiserations, though there was little doubt the woman had been hard done by.

“When did he tell you about this gold, Mrs. Duggleby?”

The brief fire had died, returning the widow to apathy. She barely made the effort to shrug. “It be nigh three month he’ve been boasting of it. Never believed him at first.”

The precise period of time caught at Ottilia’s interest. Did it not tally with the death of Mrs. Uddington? She filed it away in her mind.

“When did you begin to believe in this gold, Mrs. Duggleby?”

“Don’t know as I did. Not ’til he said as he caught me looking for it and beat me.”

A wave of sympathy for the woman came over Ottilia, and she glanced at Cassie Dale, expecting to see horror in her face. Instead she found only pity. A surprising creature, Mrs. Dale.

“I fear you were unfortunate in your husband, Mrs. Duggleby. Did you dislike him? Hate him perhaps?”

Bertha’s eyes burned briefly at Ottilia. “Enough for to kill?”

“No,” Ottilia said, keeping her gaze steady on the woman’s face. “I daresay you might have killed him for the money. But not for hate.”

To her surprise, the widow nodded. “Aye. But not the forge. I’d never burn the forge.”

Satisfied, Ottilia rose. “Thank you, Mrs. Duggleby. You have been most helpful.”

Cassie got up, too, but she was looking puzzled. “Is that all?”

Ottilia smiled. “I think so.” Then a thought occurred to her. “Stay! Mrs. Duggleby, did you know your husband was carrying on with Molly Tisbury’s kitchen maid?” She heard Cassie’s shocked gasp and smiled at the widow, who had not turned a hair. “You have been quite frank with me, Bertha, so I do not scruple to ask you such a question.”

“She be with child, I heard,” said Mrs. Duggleby, her voice back to the dull monotone of their early conversation.

“Yes, she decamped in the night.”

Bertha nodded. “Likely her’ve got a few of them gold guineas.”

“If they exist.”

“Aye.”

Ottilia took a chance. “And Mrs. Uddington is dead.”

Bertha jumped in her seat. That got through, thought Ottilia with satisfaction. The woman’s eyes were wide as she stared up at her visitor.

“What is it you mean, Lady Fan?” asked Cassie Dale in a hushed tone, her gaze going from one to the other.

Ottilia did not take her eyes off the widow. “Bertha knows what I mean. It was the first betrayal, was it not, Bertha? That was the one that hurt. Did you think he meant to set you aside? He could not have done so, you know. Mrs. Uddington was disgraced. Duggleby could not have married her.”

At last the woman spoke, her voice hoarse with dread. “I thought as he’d kill me. Poison so’s none’d know. He wanted her bad, I know that. If I be gone, he’d have her.”

Disgust rose in Ottilia, and she went across to lay a hand on the widow’s shoulder. “Did he tell you so?”

She nodded numbly. “Aye.”

“You poor creature. It was an empty threat, Bertha. More boasting, I suspect. You must be relieved to be rid of him.”

At that, the woman’s features crumpled and she burst into noisy sobs. Cassie Dale ran across and knelt at her feet, catching the creature into her arms and holding her tightly. Through the cries came words, only just coherent.

“Hate him? No. Loved him, I did, spite of all. Aye. Bain’t nowt but a fool, me.”

Ottilia waited until Cassie pulled back and caught her gaze.

“I will await you outside,” she said softly and quietly let herself out of the parlour.

“W
hy did you push her so? Is it not enough that she is bereaved?”

Cassie Dale’s tone was reproachful, and Ottilia turned to look at her as they made their way around the back of the forge.

“If we are to find out who is responsible for Duggleby’s death, my dear Mrs. Dale, we cannot afford to leave any stone unturned.”

The dark eyes scanned her face, searchingly, as if their owner could not fathom what she saw. “You can’t think Bertha murdered her own husband?”

“I’m afraid it is all too possible. Violence within families is far more likely than outside of it. And there is the matter of the gold.” She smiled at the girl. “However, I am inclined to think Bertha is innocent. But that does not mean I am right.”

“You hold by this theory of Doctor Meldreth, then? That the poor man was hit with a hammer?”

Ottilia raised her brows. “Well, he was certainly not killed by any supernatural means.”

A flush mantled the girl’s cheek, and she looked away. “I thought it was the roof falling on him, until Sam told me otherwise.”

“No. That was a deliberate blind to hide the truth, as was the fire.”

Mrs. Dale halted in the smithy courtyard and turned to look at her, a plea in her dark eyes. “Then it was not my fault? I did not cause it to happen?”

“Of course you did not,” Ottilia said, catching at the creature’s thin shoulders. “I wish you will rid yourself of any shadow of blame.”

The girl drew a shaky breath. “I wish I might. Yet even could I do so, the rest of the village will not.”

Ottilia released her, a sharp note entering her voice. “No,
because our killer chose his time well. He took advantage of your warning.”

Shock leapt in Mrs. Dale’s eyes. It was plain this notion had not previously occurred to her. “Deliberately? To set the villagers on to hound me?”

“Yes,” said Ottilia frankly, believing the more she understood, the less she would fear. “You were a convenient scapegoat.”

Pain crossed the girl’s vision, and the tragic look returned. “Cruel! But it was ever so.”

Ottilia frowned. “What do you mean?”

Cassie shivered. “Even my siblings used my propensity to see things, even if I had not. They used to tell my father that their mischief had been foretold, as if they had no control of it. As if I made them do it.”

Small wonder the poor girl was so chafed. “What you need, my dear, is someone to guard you from such cruelties.”

“I have Tabitha and Sam.”

“Your servants?”

“My maid and her husband.”

It was plain to Ottilia that Mrs. Dale had little understanding of her meaning. She probed a little. “I daresay your own late husband was of help, too.”

Something flashed in Cassie’s eyes. She glanced away and back again, and Ottilia thought she saw a rapid change of emotions cross her features—shock, fear, and dismay.

Before she could enquire into the meaning of this extraordinary response, a hail from the bridge took her attention.

“Mrs. Dale!”

She turned to see the Reverend Kinnerton coming towards them. He spied her at the same instant.

“How do you do, Lady Francis?”

“I am well, I thank you, sir.”

Ottilia was amused to note that her answer had barely been acknowledged, for the pastor had his attention almost wholly on Cassie Dale. She in her turn was staring at him, a
telltale blush creeping into her cheeks. Romance in the wind already? So much for the fond hopes of Horace Netherburn!

Meanwhile, Mr. Kinnerton had reached them.

“I was fortunate to catch Mrs. Winkleigh on her way to the vicarage with the blacksmith’s daughter,” he said, speaking exclusively to Cassie Dale. “I am glad to find you are not alone. How are your bruises? Are you a little recovered?”

A tentative little smile wavered on the girl’s lips. “Yes.”

He frowned. “Forgive me, but you don’t look it. You are regrettably pale, and there are blue smudges under your eyes.”

Mrs. Dale’s fingers went to the spot as if to cover the blotches. “I did not sleep well.”

“Nightmares?”

The girl let out a gasp. “How did you know?”

Kinnerton smiled, and his tone was gentle. “I have them myself on occasion.”

Highly entertained, Ottilia forbore to make any teasing comment, though several rose to her mind. Francis had mentioned the vicar had been obliged to abandon his missionary work due to severe sickness, and perhaps he yet suffered from the aftermath. He clearly had a strong empathy with the passions of this little “witch.” Then Mrs. Dale’s expressive eyes changed to question.

“Sam told me you spoke to Staxton’s boys to excellent effect. Pray tell me what you said.”

A gleam of amusement entered the blue eyes. “Oh, I merely asked them to think carefully about what sins each of them had committed so that I could decide just how many stones should be thrown at them in retribution.”

Ottilia was amused, perhaps more by the sheer amazement in Mrs. Dale’s face. “Ingenious, sir. Did they oblige you?”

He laughed, although he barely glanced at her. “No, indeed. But I bade them not to abandon the notion, for I would be keeping a suitable store of weapons in my pocket for the purpose at any time they felt able to answer the question.”

Cassie Dale’s expression altered. “You will not do so, will you?”

“Of course not. But I am in hopes they will not guess that. Besides, I will be at pains to regard them with interest and pat my pockets whenever I catch sight of them in the village.”

At last Mrs. Dale smiled, and the transformation astonished Ottilia. She looked at once younger and lighter of heart. Mr. Kinnerton’s bright gaze showed his admiration. An excellent development, for Ottilia might count him an ally.