The Deathly Portent (20 page)

“Poor dear Hannah,” mourned Mrs. Radlett. “Shall I help you to bed?”

She made no real attempt to be of service, merely flapping her hands in a hopeless kind of way. Not much to Ottilia’s surprise, Miss Beeleigh vetoed this suggestion.

“Not you, Evelina. Horace, give Hannah your arm. You may escort her to the door of her room. Patty, you run ahead and make the bed ready for your mistress.”

The maid dropped a curtsy and tripped out of the room with more haste than dignity, and Ottilia guessed she was
still reeling from Cassie’s revelation. Obedient, but without abating one jot of his habitual gallant air, Mr. Netherburn took charge of the landlady and led her to the door. Here Mr. Kinnerton detained them.

“Are you feeling a little recovered?”

Hannah nodded bleakly. “I wouldn’t have done it, Reverend. Not if Molly hadn’t flown at me.”

To his credit, the vicar smiled at her. “I gathered as much. Take care of yourself.”

Mrs. Pakefield nodded wearily and allowed herself to be led from the room. The widow Radlett immediately gave tongue.

“Oh, how could Cassie Dale have thought of such a thing? It very nearly brought on my palpitations. Horrible! Do you suppose it might come to pass, Lady Francis?”

This last was uttered with a look of such avid anticipation Ottilia was hard put to it to refrain from a cutting rejoinder. She was saved having to reply by Miss Beeleigh.

“Never mind that now, Evelina.” She came across to Ottilia, her face grim. “Wanted to be rid of Hannah, for I’ve found out what set Molly off.”

Ottilia had a pretty good notion herself, but she raised her brows.

“Have you indeed?”

The other nodded. “Seems she’d heard you’d been told some rigmarole of a quarrel between Tisbury and Duggleby. What’s more, rumour has it you’re one to find out everything about everybody.”

Ottilia had already surmised that they had been overheard when Pilton told his tale. She was fairly sure she knew which ears were listening at the time, but she made no mention of it.

“This was yesterday, I take it?”

Miss Beeleigh nodded. “Put Molly into a foul temper.”

“Yes,” Ottilia agreed. “She was less than pleasant when we met her coming from Bertha Duggleby’s home.”

“Ah.” The other nodded. “Must’ve been then she took the idea into her head that Hannah had been feeding you tales about her.”

Undoubtedly, from Ottilia’s memory of the conversation. She chose not to reveal as much, however. “Well, I did say I wanted to talk to her.”

“Which I’ll be bound she didn’t take to.”

“No, indeed. I was obliged to threaten to send Pilton to fetch her to me for questioning.”

A bark of laughter escaped Miss Beeleigh’s lips. “No wonder she panicked. Seems she came here directly and accused Hannah of speaking ill of her and Tisbury.”

“Oh yes,” threw in Mrs. Radlett, nodding vigorously enough to shake her golden curls. “Molly said she knew Hannah was jealous of her, which of course is quite true.”

“They quarrelled?” asked Ottilia.

“Dreadfully. Hannah says Molly threw all manner of insults at her, but she was in such a state she couldn’t recall the half of them.”

“Don’t matter, Evelina,” snapped Miss Beeleigh, taking up the tale again. “That’s irrelevant. What’s important is Hannah protesting she’d no reason for jealousy and boasting of her privileged association with the most important visitor Witherley has seen in a twelvemonth. Seeing Molly purple with envy, the misguided cloth head then announced she’d not scrupled to tell Lady Francis what she thought of Molly. At which, Molly flew at her.”

The ridiculous nature of the quarrel excited Ottilia’s amusement, but it was overborne by the reflection that her brief discussion with the Tisbury female had been instrumental in causing the altercation. She felt doubly culpable in that she had made little real progress in uncovering the murderer.

At this moment, Francis, whom she had not even noticed reentering the room, set a cup of coffee down before her. She smiled up at him, grateful to be spared the necessity of responding immediately.

By the time Francis had distributed the contents of the tray held by the landlord, who still looked to be in a state of bemusement, Ottilia had gathered herself and was able to speak with all her usual calm.

“I was going to leave the interview until tomorrow, but perhaps I had best see Molly sooner rather than later.”

“You’ll get nothing out of her today,” stated Miss Beeleigh positively. With a sidelong glance at the vicar, who had remained noticeably silent, she added, “Can’t think Cassie Dale has helped the situation, either.”

Ottilia saw Mr. Kinnerton’s blue gaze flash as he looked up from studying the dark-coloured liquid in the tankard supplied to him by Francis. Her husband, not having been in the room to hear what Cassie said, glanced across at her with a questioning frown.

“Mrs. Dale has had an unfortunate vision concerning Molly Tisbury,” Ottilia said briefly, with a look intending him to understand that she would relate the details presently.

“Mrs. Dale is in a highly nervous condition,” stated the parson evenly, but the edge of anger was evident.

“Take leave to point out, Kinnerton, that it’s habitual with her,” returned Miss Beeleigh flatly.

“Is that surprising, in the circumstances? Did you not hear the threat Tisbury made?”

“Pooh!” scoffed the spinster. “So much hot air! Set up a stake in this day and age? Wouldn’t dare.”

The blue eyes flashed again. “You think not? You think because we are allegedly civilised there cannot be a swift descent to an ancient barbarism?”

“Not so ancient,” put in Francis, echoing Ottilia’s thought. “The last witch burnings must be less than a hundred years ago. What is more, it is not much over five years since our justices ended the practise of female murderers being burned at the stake.”

A shocked silence greeted this reminder, and Mrs. Radlett
shuddered, whipping out a pocket-handkerchief and applying it to her eyes.

“For shame, Francis,” said Ottilia reproachfully. “Poor Mrs. Radlett will be imagining that the creatures were burned alive, but it is not so. They were in general hung or strangled before the faggots were set on fire.”

“As if that made it better,” exploded the Reverend Kinnerton. “I tell you, ma’am, I have seen true natives living in conditions of near savagery, but not one of them was ever guilty of the petty cruelties I have here witnessed. They were simple people, and their punishments were harsh. But they did not indulge in a warfare of fear and persecution.”

He stopped, drawing in his fangs with an effort, Ottilia thought. Then he set down his half-empty tankard and gave a formal little bow.

“You will excuse me, I beg. I have duties in the parish.”

In a moment, he was gone from the coffee room, leaving behind him an atmosphere of embarrassed silence. It was broken by the widow Radlett.

“Well! Anyone would suppose it was our fault the villagers have taken against Cassie Dale.”

Her affronted tone very nearly overset Ottilia, who had been silently applauding the vicar’s vehement championship. But her amusement was short-lived.

Entering almost immediately upon Mr. Kinnerton’s departure came Horace Netherburn, looking perturbed.

“What in the world shall we do about Hannah?” he uttered without preamble, addressing himself as of instinct to Miss Beeleigh as unacknowledged leader of his little set.

She frowned. “What’s to do, Horace?”

He waved an agitated hand. “I tried to make her see reason, but I could make no headway.”

“What has she done, Mr. Netherburn?” asked Ottilia.

“Nothing. At least not yet. But she swears this is the last straw and she will be revenged on Molly Tisbury.”

F
rancis watched the landlord Tisbury pacing back and forth in his own cellar, whither he’d been run to earth. The afternoon was far advanced, for the aftermath of the fight had delayed the serving of a repast, and the trio of gentry had proved not to recognise when their presence might be dispensed with. But Tillie had been adamant that the interviews with the Tisbury couple must not be delayed.

Overbearing all opposition from the tapster Will, Francis had accordingly insisted on speaking with the landlord and suborned the maid Bessy into leading him to the wine cellar below the main rooms of the Cock and Bottle.

“I’m minded to slay that witch with my own bare hands,” raged Tisbury, hitting his fist against one of the huge barrels resting on its shelf.

“For pity’s sake, man,” uttered Francis, exasperated. “Set your mind to the matter at hand. We know Mrs. Dale is not responsible for Duggleby’s death. Therefore it is nonsensical to set any store by these ravings of danger.”

Tisbury turned, fixing Francis with a choleric eye from
within his veined countenance, richly dark in the dim lantern light that did little to render the cavernous cellar anything other than eerily shadowed.

“Danger? Nowt to speak on if it be only that. But it be death for my Molly, for Will heard it with his own ears.”

A chill went through Francis as he mentally reviewed the persons present in the coffee room of the Blue Pig when Cassie Dale had spoken of her vision. He had been absent himself, but Ottilia would remember precisely. But the tapster had been nowhere near the place. Had he not followed his master across the green? Curbing his tongue on the itch to refute Tisbury, he eyed the man narrowly.

“What precisely did Will hear?”

Tisbury spat on the floor. “Enough to say as the witch seen her dead, as like nor Duggleby as makes no matter.”

“Eavesdropping was he?”

The landlord glared. “Will’s my eyes and ears if’n I’m otherwhere.”

“Your spy, you mean.”

“If’n it be needed, aye.”

Francis let it go. There was little to be gained by antagonising the man. Remembering his wife’s methods, he tried what a soft approach might achieve.

“I sympathise with your wrath, my dear fellow. You have had much to vex you.”

“Aye.” But the glare turned suspicious. “Not as I be guessing who telled you.”

Francis did not enlighten him, preserving an enigmatic silence.

The fellow was frowning. “What be said then? Nowt to please me, I’ll be bound.”

Francis struck. “Will you tell me what was the cause of your quarrel with Duggleby?”

Tisbury’s head came up, and his eyes went from side to side. “Bain’t true as I quarrelled with the man.”

“Come, Tisbury, don’t be shy. Your father-in-law
provoked some sort of altercation, did he not? A month since, I believe.”

A snorting laugh was surprised out of the man. “That? That were nowt. Aye, we come to blows, but bain’t no bad blood betwixt him and me. Boys together we be, me and Duggleby.”

“Yet even the best of friends may turn to hatred, if there is reason enough,” Francis returned, offering up one of Tillie’s dictums.

“Aye, but there were nowt betwixt us two,” insisted the landlord, his features darkening again. “Nor there don’t need to be, for no one bain’t done for Duggleby ’cepting the witch.”

“Then how do you account for the hammer blow to his head? And what of the crossbeam which had been hacked in two to ensure the roof must fall? There is no magic in these facts, Tisbury. This is the work of mortal man.”

It was plain from the shock in the landlord’s eyes that the crossbeam came as news to him. He began to bluster. “Bain’t me as done it. Nor I wouldn’t go for to smash his head from behind. A fair fight or nowt.”

Francis was inclined to believe him, but he refrained from saying so. Better the fellow did not think himself safe from suspicion.

“I fear you must expect to be questioned, as will be every man in the village who had any sort of disagreement with Duggleby. You would do better to produce evidence that proves you could not have done it.”

Fright showed in the sag of the fellow’s shoulders and a hopeless look in his eye. “Nowt I can show.”

“Then who else disliked the man enough to kill him?”

Tisbury shrugged. “None as I can think on.” His eye brightened suddenly. “That there Mrs. Dale could’ve made all look like another done it for to put Pilton off the scent.”

Francis gave an inward groan. They were back to that, were they?

“How, pray?”

But Tisbury had an answer to that.

“Witchcraft. A witch, bain’t her?”

O
ttilia, interviewing the wife in the woman’s own parlour, fared little better. Molly Tisbury was still in a fury, and it took all of Ottilia’s ingenuity to persuade her to talk of anything but the iniquities of Hannah Pakefield.

“Bad as the witch her be,” Molly raged, one hand touching gingerly at the swelling about her nose.

She had cleaned off the blood and changed her clothes, but it appeared the age-old remedy of putting a key down Molly’s back had failed and Tisbury had been obliged to call in Doctor Meldreth to stop the bleeding. Her voice was nasal, owing to the linen plugs stuffed into her nostrils, though they did nothing to lessen the virulence of her speech.

“What did Hannah say to you to make you so angry?” asked Ottilia, feeling she would get nowhere until the woman had vented her spleen.