The Deathly Portent (19 page)

“You shut it, Pa! Tisbury, her’ve broke my nose!”

“Hush, now, Molly. You scratched her face good.”

Which was true enough, Aidan thought ruefully, glancing back at the other woman’s lacerated cheeks. But he could not neglect his duty.

“You have come by your deserts, both of you,” he stated coolly. “Is this a sample of the conduct I may expect from my parishioners? I take leave to inform you that this sort of thing will not be tolerated. Understand me, for I mean it.”

“Do you think I care for your reprimand, Reverend?” Molly shrieked, bursting out of her husband’s restraining hold. “Bain’t one of Staxton’s boys you be talking to now.”

She was quickly recaptured by the farmer and her husband, but her fists flailed wildly, and Aidan wondered briefly if his cloth was sufficient to save him from attack.

“You have shown yourself not one degree less badly behaved than Staxton’s boys, Mrs. Tisbury,” he retorted levelly. “By rights, I should summon Pilton and have the two of you thrown into the lock-up for disturbing the peace.”

“You wouldn’t never, Reverend!” gasped Tabitha Hawes, and Aidan caught the glee in her features as he glanced at her.

Before he could answer, an interruption occurred. He had forgotten the presence of Cassie Dale, but she erupted suddenly out of the circle, running towards the Tisbury woman.

“Molly, beware! You are in danger!”

In the ensuing silence, the Cock and Bottle’s landlady turned features abruptly blanched towards Mrs. Dale, a look of utter terror in her eyes. She backed a step, clearly without realizing what she did.

“Mrs. Dale,” Aidan began, low-voiced, intent on preventing further confrontation.

But Molly’s stupefaction was short-lived. Recovering, she launched into verbal attack. “You hear? You hear the witch? Her be threatening me now!”

“No, no, Molly, you mistake,” cried Cassie. “I am trying to warn you. Only listen to me! I can see it clear. How could I bear not to tell you of it?”

“You be telling her nowt!” shouted Tisbury, foolishly releasing his hold and striding forward. “I’ll not have my wife scared silly by your witching spells! You shut your mouth, if you’ve a mind to live!”

“Tisbury!” Aidan stepped between them. “How dare you? Will you utter foolish threats before witnesses? If this is your temper, man, you may find yourself hanging for Duggleby’s murder.”

Tisbury shrank a trifle but did not back down. “I never killed Duggleby. I never touched him.” His hand shot out,
accusing. “It were her! Her be the witch, bain’t her? Now her’ve seen visions of Molly, her said. Her ought to be burned afore her’ve a chance to kill us all!”

With which, he turned and grabbed his wife by the wrist, dragging her away towards the green. Aidan watched them go, aware of the crowd hovering, half anxious to follow and half afraid to miss anything. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Cassie Dale start in pursuit.

Without thought, he strode after her and seized her by the arm.

“Stay!”

She turned her lustrous dark eyes upon him, and Aidan read the despair within. He smiled at her briefly but did not release his grip.

Then he turned to the onlookers. “About your business, all of you. The show is over.”

A high-pitched cackling sounded over the mutters that broke out, and Aidan turned irritable eyes upon the ancient hobbling towards him as the rest of the company began to drift away.

On his feet, Pa Wagstaff proved a slight old fellow, small like his daughter, though he had lost the wiry strength he must have had in youth.

“You be a mighty big man with words, Reverend,” he commented. “But how be you hoping to keep ’em from setting up faggots and tying that there missie to the stake? More of they than you, I’m thinking.”

Aidan looked down into the crabbed and gleeful features. “Since your comments have proved less than helpful, Mr. Wagstaff, I don’t propose to burden you with my plans.”

The ancient took a moment to digest this. Then he grinned toothlessly up at Aidan. “You be stumped, Reverend. Reckon they’ve got more plans nor you.”

With which, he cackled again and made off with a surprising turn of speed.

Aidan was forced to admit, if only to himself, that the wretched fellow was in the right of it. He stared after him for a moment and only came to a remembrance of his surroundings when Mrs. Dale drew his attention.

“Aidan, you are hurting my arm.”

With an oath, he released her, turning his gaze quickly towards her. A hesitant little smile hovered on her lips.

“You are upset,” she said. “I know because you were gripping me so tightly.”

He was conscious of a flush of warmth in his chest, but it was overborne by an immediate feeling of guilt.

“I beg your pardon. You are right. Wagstaff made me excessively angry. I hope you did not take his words to heart.”

She drew in a shuddering breath. “Is it just words? Do you think they truly mean to use me so?”

Something twisted in Aidan’s gut, and he grasped her shoulders.

“They will not get the opportunity, I promise you that. No one will be allowed to harm you.”

Her lips parted as she stared at him, such a mixture of hope and fear in her expressive eyes that Aidan was hard put to it not to draw her close that he might demonstrate his assertion with a more tangible proof than his words could afford.

Conscious, he looked about and discovered that the courtyard was deserted, apart from Tabitha Hawes, standing off at a discreet distance and pointedly looking another way. Hannah Pakefield had evidently been taken inside, accompanied by the rest of the gentry.

On impulse, Aidan jerked his head towards the still open door. “Let us go in. I think we can all do with a little peace and quiet.”

She made no demur but turned in that direction and walked beside him.

“I do fear for Molly,” she said, and Aidan noted the little shiver that shook her. “The vision was vile.”

O
ttilia was glad to have been relieved of the necessity to minister to Hannah Pakefield’s hurts, that task having been taken over by Miss Beeleigh, with the doubtful assistance of the widow Radlett and the Blue Pig’s overworked maid, who had been despatched to fetch lint and salves while the rest of the party repaired to the coffee room. It left Ottilia free, once the necessary introductions had been effected, since Francis had not previously met these women, to put her attention on recent events.

In a low-voiced conversation with her husband, she was able to furnish him with an unvarnished account of her visit to Bertha Duggleby.

“Then you think she is innocent?”

“Yes, but that is mere conjecture on my part. There can be no doubt she was in the perfect position to do all that was necessary to bring about her husband’s death.”

“But not,” Francis suggested, “to shift the blame onto Cassie Dale?”

“Just so.”

“After the encounter outside, I am much inclined to place my wager on Molly Tisbury.”

Ottilia shook her head. “You will lose.”

A crease appeared between his brows. “With that temperament? The woman is a shrew.”

“True, but her temper is too quick. Can you truly conceive of Molly planning anything? No, she is the type to charge in without premeditation.”

“Granted, but having hit Duggleby with the hammer in a fit of temper, isn’t it conceivable she was capable of working out how to conceal the crime?”

A little laugh escaped Ottilia. “I submit she is far more likely to have fled the place screaming. But you are right. We cannot dismiss her.” She sighed as the inevitable thought occurred. “Which means I must tackle her direct.”

“Leave it for tomorrow,” Francis suggested. “She may have cooled by then.”

Further discussion was cut off by the entrance of Patty, the Blue Pig’s maid of work, bearing a tray of accoutrements to aid in the succour of her mistress. As she was closely followed by the vicar and Cassie Dale, further private conversation became impossible.

Glancing at them both, Ottilia divined a certain consciousness in the Reverend Kinnerton. She looked to Mrs. Dale to see if she was similarly affected, but Cassie’s eyes had gone instantly to where Hannah Pakefield was seated, hissing in breaths as Miss Beeleigh began to dab at her wounds with a piece of lint dipped in some sort of solution in a glass dish. Mrs. Radlett’s exclamations being punctuated with the lamentations of the maid, there was a considerable commotion in that side of the room.

Francis rose to greet Kinnerton. “My dear fellow, you must stand in crying need of a restorative. And, I may add, so do I. Pakefield!”

The landlord, who had proved of little use throughout the drama, was hovering helplessly on the fringe of the little group about his wife. He turned at Francis’s peremptory call.

“Bestir yourself, Pakefield. We are all gasping here. Mrs. Dale? Would you care for wine?”

It took several moments to sort out exactly what was required by all parties. To make matters worse, Mr. Netherburn entered the coffee room in the midst of the discussion. Having missed all the excitement, he was immediately regaled with a garbled version of events by Mrs. Radlett, punctuated with terse corrections from Miss Beeleigh, still engaged upon her mission of nursing the afflicted landlady.

Ottilia caught Francis’s glance, and he cast up his eyes and bodily removed the landlord, taking the parson with him. There could be no doubt he would reappear in due course, having bullied the bemused Pakefield into supplying the needs of the assembled company.

Turning her attention to Cassie Dale, Ottilia was a trifle alarmed to see her staring at an empty chair on the other side of the round table from where Ottilia was seated. She did not hesitate.

“What is it, Mrs. Dale?”

Cassie’s large eyes were deeply distressed, and her face registered her horror. She raised a shaking hand and pointed her finger at the chair.

“I see Molly there.”

A sliver of impatience almost overtook Ottilia. She overcame it with difficulty, forcing herself to speak with all her usual calm.

“Whatever you see, my dear, it is but a fantasy.”

The dark eyes turned on her, fierce in their intensity. “Fantasy? I only wish it were! Do you think I wish to see such things? Do you think it gives me a macabre pleasure to talk of them?”

“I did not say so,” said Ottilia coolly, rising from her seat and starting around the table.

Cassie threw up both hands in a gesture of protest. “Don’t try to humour me! You cannot know what it is like to be cursed as I am. Are you in my head? How do you dare to belittle what I see?”

Ottilia saw nothing for it but to backtrack. She would get nowhere by further antagonising the girl.

“I make you my apologies, Mrs. Dale. I had no intention of upsetting you.”

The girl’s lips worked a little, but the fire died out of her eyes.

“I daresay you mean well,” she uttered grudgingly. “I know you do. But if you could see it!”

The last was an agonised plea. Aware that everyone in the room had stopped speaking and turned to stare, Ottilia threw up a hand to enjoin their continued silence and gentled her tone.

“Tell me, Cassie.”

Mrs. Dale’s eyes left hers, flitting aimlessly to and fro. She began to shiver, and her features gave evidence of the dismay her thoughts engendered.

“It began when I met her this morning,” she said, speaking in rapid tones, her breath catching here and there. “I felt the fog begin, but it passed without revealing what lay inside. With the fighting, it came back. Then I saw it.” She brought her fingers to her mouth where they trembled against her lip. “Molly, sitting there, unmoving. In her neck—something vile.” The vileness of the something was in her eyes.

“What was it, Cassie? What was in her neck?”

Cassie threw her head up, fear in the look she cast at Ottilia.

“I don’t know. I cannot see. It is sunken in. A knife? A dart?”

“Is she bleeding?”

Cassie looked confused. “She should be, should she not? There is a trickle, I think.” She threw her hands over her face, and her voice came muffled. “Oh, it is vile! Horrible! I cannot bear to see it!”

There was movement in the doorway, and Ottilia looked to find the Reverend Kinnerton standing in the aperture, his face naked and forgotten. Compassion, and something more.

Before he could act, another figure pushed through from behind him.

“Begging your pardon, Reverend, but I must get through.”

Mr. Kinnerton stepped to one side automatically, and the woman Ottilia had seen with Cassie at the smithy came bustling inside. The vicar’s features returned to his normal expression, and Ottilia was relieved for his sake that the exposure of his state of mind had been unremarked by the rest of the persons in the room, whose attention had been all on Mrs. Dale.

One glance revealed their various reactions. While Hannah Pakefield’s blank look showed she had taken in nothing
of this macabre vision, Miss Beeleigh’s features expressed both disgust and disbelief. Mrs. Radlett was wreathed in that sort of suppressed delight that accompanies the contemplation of horrific ideas, although Mr. Netherburn looked perturbed and confused. The maid Patty was staring, openmouthed with shock.

The newcomer, a matronly figure whom Ottilia took to be the maid Tabitha, appeared unmoved as she headed directly for her charge and put an arm about her shoulders.

“Come on, Miss Cassie. Let me take you home.”

Unresisting, the girl allowed herself to be shepherded from the room, not even sparing a look for the Reverend Kinnerton. Ottilia could not but wonder at the potential of a union which promised to be fraught with periodic tensions. Or would the vicar prove even more adept at handling the creature than her maid had been?

The departure of Mrs. Dale had the effect of releasing stopped tongues. Mrs. Radlett, her eyes big with anticipation, came over to Ottilia’s table. But before she could speak, Miss Beeleigh was bending over the landlady.

“You should lie down upon your bed, Hannah. Can you get up?”

Mrs. Pakefield was dishevelled, but the fright had left her face, and she looked merely dejected. She rose carefully, holding on to the table.