The Deathly Portent (21 page)

“Bain’t what her said to me, but what her said to you, ‘Lady Fan,’” Molly threw at her, laying violent emphasis on the nickname.

“But Hannah said very little to me about you, Molly,” Ottilia told her calmly, choosing to use the promising weapon of intimacy.

“Oh? Oh? And bain’t her said as she’d telled you agin me so’s you be thinking I be a bad ’un?”

“Nothing of the sort.”

“You be knowing from Pilton as I banged Duggleby and Tisbury both that night as they took and fought like boys,” pursued Molly unheeding. “And bain’t you going for to think as I banged Duggleby with that there hammer?”

“Nothing Hannah said to me could make me think that,” said Ottilia evasively.

The woman’s piggy little eyes sharpened. “But her said
summat agin me, nor you wouldn’t take and fright me with Pilton. Her’ve got you in her’s house. What’s to stop her telling all and more?”

Ottilia’s senses went on full alert. “All what, Molly?”

The woman’s countenance, already deeply coloured from her injury, reddened still more. Her eyes shifted away, and her shoulders twitched.

“Nowt.”

“Oh, come now, Molly,” Ottilia said gently. “What was it? Were you a target of Duggleby’s roving eye perhaps? Was your husband jealous?”

Molly snarled. “Nowt to speak on. If’n Duggleby set to flirting now and now, what of it? Tisbury knowed it were nowt.”

“Did he indeed?”

“Aye, he did,” snapped the woman crossly. “Nor you don’t need to look at me like as if’n I lied.”

Ottilia smiled. “It is a little difficult, Molly. I know about your kitchen maid, you see.”

Shock leapt into the creature’s eyes. “That fussock? Her’ve gone and good riddance.”

“I gather she ran off during the night. Duggleby was responsible for her condition.” Deliberately, Ottilia made it a statement rather than a question.

For a moment the Tisbury woman held her spleen, but the venom would not be contained. “Couldn’t keep his hands off, Duggleby couldn’t. Nor he wouldn’t even when Tisbury telled him. Bain’t first one of my girls he ruined, neither. Took and done it with my housemaid afore Bessy, and her’ve gone and all. I telled him I wouldn’t stand for it, not again. But he bain’t one to care weren’t Duggleby.”

“What did you do?” Almost hushed, Ottilia hoped the woman’s concentration was too much on her own wrongs to remember she was being questioned.

“Telled Bertha.”

“Why did you not do so upon the first occasion?”

“For as her be my friend.”

This matter-of-fact-pronouncement served to raise Molly’s stock in Ottilia’s eyes, but she pursued her nevertheless.

“But this time you did so. How did Bertha take it?”

Molly looked merely sulky now. “Laughed in my face her did. Don’t mean nowt to Bertha seemingly. Said as if’n her cared nowt for Mrs. Uddington, her’ve nowt to think on for a kitchen maid. Nor I don’t blame her.”

Molly fell silent, and Ottilia contemplated her next move. If she was not mistaken, the creature was softened up. Might it be politic to throw in a different topic?

“Tell me about the watered wine, Molly. Was not your husband accused by Mrs. Radlett?”

The woman’s head shot up, and the familiar gleam of fury was in her eyes.

“Not her. Her never said it. Nor her couldn’t tell, neither. It were t’other one as come over highty-tighty. Rung a peal over Tisbury as the whole village bain’t heard nor Domesday. Nor it weren’t watered, not one bit. A fair man be Tisbury, and her’ve no call to say different. Likely as that Mrs. Radlett done it herself, for to hide as her’ve drunk it.”

Shock ripped through Ottilia, and she spoke without thinking. “You mean she drinks in secret?”

Molly shrugged. “Bain’t as I’d know. Though wouldn’t be first time as her’ve been walking round the village looking hangdog, like as if’n her’d drunk too much the night afore.”

“Looking hangdog how?”

“Grey-faced like, and heavy at the eyes.”

Which could be drink. But the widow Radlett showed no sign of the hardened drinker’s red-veined nose and cheeks. Could there be another, even more harmful, addiction? But it seemed Molly had not completed her disclosures.

“Bain’t saying as she’ve got no reason. Any’d take to drink if’n they’d to put up with her.”

“Miss Beeleigh?”

“Aye. T’other one’s well under her’s thumb. Nor it won’t
be the way of Uddington when his wife up and left him, if’n Mrs. Radlett be set on leaving that Beeleigh for to wed Mr. Netherburn.”

“In what way?” asked Ottilia, almost holding her breath.

“Miss Beeleigh don’t forget and forgive.”

“Whereas you think Mr. Uddington did?”

Molly snuffed a snorting breath through her mouth. “He’ve done nowt yet.”

Had he not? But Ottilia did not put the question. She had no intention of revealing Uddington to be at the top of her list of suspects.

Her initial animosity towards Molly Tisbury had dissipated. She was conscious of a sliver of pity for the creature, locked as she was in a cocoon of bitterness. What was more, Ottilia entertained a lively suspicion concerning Cassie Dale’s unfortunate prediction. On impulse, she leaned forward.

“I wish you will take care, Molly. Not that I suppose there is anything in Mrs. Dale’s visions, but—”

She got no further. Molly Tisbury leapt from her chair, eyes blazing.

“You and all, Lady Fan? Bain’t enough as the witch have put her curse on me!”

“That is not what I—”

“Her’ve marked me for the devil, bain’t her? Her’ve said as how I’ve nowt to hope for more in this life. What’ll I do? What’ll I do? Hide in the cellar all day and night?”

Ottilia wished fervently that she had held her tongue, but there was nothing to be gained by that. Rising from her chair, she tried to stem the flow.

“Calm yourself, Molly. I meant nothing of the kind.”

“You be on her’s side! I said it afore. You be on her’s side, Lady Fan.”

“And I told you I am on no side but that of truth. Molly—”

“Go! You bain’t welcome here. Her’ve got you, just like Hannah Pakefield. You be one with the devil, too, bain’t you, Lady Fan?”

She was shrieking now, and Ottilia despaired of getting through to her. Turning, she headed for the door and paused there, looking back.

Molly was breathing fast, one hand at her thin bosom, her eyes as wild with fear as were those of Cassie Dale with passion. In some ways, Ottilia thought ruefully, they were two of a kind.

Ottilia lifted a hand in farewell. “Be careful, Molly. Don’t go out alone.”

Feeling defeated, she quietly left the parlour.

I
n the full flood of oratory, the parson was impressive. The whole village appeared to have crowded into the church to attend Duggleby’s funeral, women as well as children, despite the prevailing custom of confining mourners to the male sex. Finding that Lady Ferrensby had the intention of going, according to the widow Radlett and her friend, who were both also in attendance, Ottilia felt justified in presenting an appearance herself.

She had wanted to be there, primarily for the purpose of taking stock of how certain individuals conducted themselves. The aged and highly decorated dark wooden pews reserved for the gentry at the front were conveniently placed, being set sideways to the nave, whereas the rest of the congregation faced the altar. Dressed in the most sober gown she had with her, of dull bronze silk, unadorned beyond a frill or two and made high to the throat, Ottilia was able to observe without fear of drawing attention.

Within minutes of the start of the service, she felt doubly relieved when she noticed that Cassie Dale had crept into the tiny minstrel’s gallery at the back. She was aware that Mr. Kinnerton had advised Cassie to stay away, since the story of yesterday’s vision had swarmed across the village like a malignant hive of bees. Ottilia had her own suspicion of where to lay the blame for this, having done a mental review of the
persons present in the coffee room yesterday when Cassie revealed the horrid picture. The notion Francis had put forward of Will the tapster eavesdropping from outside she dismissed. He had no need to do so, if Will himself had an informant who had been present in person.

Thank heavens none of the villagers were likely to catch sight of Cassie peeping from behind the wooden bars below the rail up there! She dreaded to think of the consequences should the girl be spotted. Ottilia strongly suspected Mrs. Dale had disregarded the vicar’s advice rather for his sake than Duggleby’s. In Cassie’s place, she would have been as much tempted to witness Mr. Kinnerton in action.

Nor could Cassie be disappointed. So far from the quiet gentleman one had come to know in day-to-day contact, the vicar proved, in his official capacity, to have a magnetic presence, both vocally and otherwise. He had developed a trick of looking round the congregation in silence before a pertinent clause, and then delivering the words in ringing accents of emphasis that echoed around the vaulted ceiling.

“Jesus said, Thou shalt do no murder.”

Judging from the expressions on the faces of the villagers, which ranged from stunned to terrified, his oratory was supremely effective. Then softly, he continued:

“And Jesus said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.”

The shuffling of many feet followed this, as well as sliding glances from one to another as if to register which neighbour might be next in line for a swift exit to heaven. There was more in the same vein, but Ottilia’s attention wandered as the vicar took time to elaborate on these quotations from the Bible in his sermon.

Her eyes travelled first to Uddington, whom she had found to be preparing for the funeral when she had visited his premises yesterday. The merchant was not in the front when she and Francis entered to the tinkling of the shop bell, and the sound of hammering greeted them as the tinkles died away.

“Uddington?” Francis called. “Shop, ho!”

Abruptly the noise stopped. There was a soft clunk, and then footsteps in the back. A door in the panelling opened, and the snowy head of the shopkeeper appeared, dipping so he could look over his half spectacles to discover the identity of his visitors.

“Good day, Mr. Uddington,” said Ottilia pleasantly.

The merchant pokered up at once, hesitating in the doorway. “To what am I indebted for the honour, my lady?”

Ottilia felt her spouse stiffen as alarmingly as Uddington himself.

“If you are minded to take that tone, fellow, it will be the worse for you.”

Uddington gave an ironic bow. “As your lordship pleases.”

Francis’s teeth came together with a snap, and Ottilia thought it prudent to intervene.

“I am sorry to incommode you, Mr. Uddington. I gather you are occupied?”

He came towards them into the shop. “I am putting the lid on Duggleby’s coffin, ma’am, if that interests you.”

Despite herself, a little shiver shook Ottilia, and she was obliged to struggle to maintain her sangfroid. Not that the body, which she had examined in detail, had the power to unnerve her. It was rather the macabre twist of fate that found Uddington, still under suspicion of bludgeoning the fellow to death, attending to the needs of Duggleby’s cadaver in order to send it to a final resting place.

“I did not realise you were responsible for such tasks,” Ottilia managed to say as coolly as she could.

Uddington peered at her over the top of his spectacles, his pale eyes steady. “It is not unusual for the proprietor of a shop such as this to include the performance of undertaker in his duties to the local populace.”

Glancing at her spouse, Ottilia saw a grim look in his features. His tone was biting. “It is, however, a trifle bizarre, in the circumstances.”

The merchant’s lips tightened. “Because your good ‘Lady Fan,’ as I hear it, chooses to number me among those held to be accountable for Duggleby’s death.”

“Possibly held to be accountable,” Francis corrected flatly.

Acid entered Uddington’s voice. “The distinction escapes me, my lord, for it fails to alter the insult.”

By this time, Ottilia had recovered herself, but she chose not to respond to this. Instead, she said coolly, “Will you be so good, Mr. Uddington, as to show us where you keep your ladder?”

A startled look leapt into the merchant’s features, and his animosity visibly deepened, though he said nothing of it. “It is out the back.”

Francis threw out a hand. “Lead on, sir.” He glanced at Ottilia. “After you, my love.”

This time Uddington was determined not to be interrupted by any more unwelcome visitors. Crossing first to the front door, he shot a bolt at its top before leading the way through to his back premises. Following him down a narrow corridor, Ottilia took opportunity to glance past an open door into the room behind, where the plain dark wood coffin containing Duggleby’s remains was resting on a pair of trestles.

When they exited by the back door, it was immediately apparent that Uddington was not the only person to have access to his ladder. It lay on its side, tucked neatly against the back wall. Anyone might have taken it at any time.

“Is it always kept here?” Francis asked, and Ottilia saw him take stock of its inordinate length.

Uddington nodded. “It’s too long for the shed.”

“How would you know if it had been used by another?” Francis asked, his mind clearly jumping with Ottilia’s conclusions.

“I wouldn’t,” came sourly from the merchant. “All the village knows it is here. Most have the courtesy to ask if they wish to use it.”

“But others don’t?” Francis surmised.

“I have found it missing on occasion. As long as it is returned, I have nothing against it.”

“I suppose it is too much to ask if you noticed it missing at any time before Duggleby was killed?” Ottilia cut in.

Uddington sagged a little. “Believe me, my lady, if I had I would have notified you before this.”

She eyed him with interest. “Why? What should make you suppose I was interested in a ladder?”

He shrugged in his customary fashion. “It was not a conjecture. I heard of Lord Francis’s discovery at the smithy, as did the whole village, I make no doubt.”

“And you made the connection.”