The Deathly Portent (24 page)

“Well, Alice, I suppose I must thank you,” Tabitha said, her tone gruff.

The maid flushed, and her eyes registered disappointment as they flicked over to Cassie. “I only said it for to warn Mrs. Dale to take care. Mr. Tisbury be wild over it. And Miss Beeleigh said to me after as there be no knowing what might happen. But Miss Beeleigh said as her be on the lookout for trouble.”

With which assurance, Alice glanced again at Cassie, dropped another curtsy, and sped off in the direction of Miss Beeleigh’s house, which lay at a little distance past the Blue Pig.

“We’ll go home and bolt the door,” said Tabitha firmly. “But I know one thing. We’d best have Sam fetch down Lady Francis to the cottage tomorrow morning, so’s she can hear all that.”

S
ince it was not incumbent upon her to attend at the graveside, Ottilia left this duty to Francis and waited for the congregation to file out before taking a leisurely look around the church. It was of early date, one of these squat little stone buildings, with arched bays down either side of the nave containing memorials and a few crudely carved figures, plus a charmingly simple rose window on the east wall behind the altar.

Among the commemorative plaques set into the walls, she was interested to discover several village names, in addition to the plethora of departed Ferrensbys. The Pakefields looked to have come down in the world, while Miss Beeleigh’s family were clearly long-term tenants and Mr. Netherburn was seen to be a widower. How convenient for the widow Radlett, if she could manage to snare him.

“You did not fancy the graveside, either, Lady Francis?”

Startled, Ottilia turned to find the woman behind her, as if her thoughts had conjured her. She was correctly attired in
black for the occasion, but the unlikely golden curls still rioted under a very fussy bonnet. There was, however, a wary look in her eyes, and Ottilia wondered at it. She gave no sign, merely smiling in a friendly way.

“I cannot feel it is my place to follow the coffin.”

Mrs. Radlett gave a little shiver. “I do so hate the sight of that empty hole. It seems so final somehow.”

“We are fortunate perhaps in being female, in that we are not obliged to attend such affairs if we don’t wish to do so.”

“No, and thank heavens for it. Though Alethea was insistent we should put in an appearance in the church.”

Ottilia noted this peculiarity on Miss Beeleigh’s part with interest. “Indeed? She felt it as a duty?”

“Oh, Alethea must always partake of what is afoot, you must know.” A brittle laugh tinkled out of the widow’s mouth. “She is forever stigmatising me for a gossip, but at least I do not take it upon myself to interfere in the villagers’ lives. Nor to tell them what they should or should not do. She can be very fierce with them.”

Ottilia digested this in silence for a moment. Then she gestured to one of the plaques. “I see that the Beeleighs have been here for a long time. Perhaps Miss Beeleigh cherishes a sense of responsibility on that account?”

“As to that, it may well be so,” said Evelina grudgingly. “If only she would not be so very …” She faded out, looking a trifle guilty.

“Dictatorial?” suggested Ottilia, a hint of mischief in her voice.

The widow sighed out a breath of half laughter. “It is too bad of me to speak ill of her, when she has been so very good to me.”

“My dear Mrs. Radlett, even those we cherish most may on occasion drive us to distraction. It would be foolish to pretend otherwise.”

Evelina fell to nodding, setting her chins in motion. “Very true indeed. Why, only the other day, I declare I could
readily have killed—!” She broke off, throwing a hand to her mouth, horrified eyes peeping over the top of it.

Ottilia had to laugh. “Dear me, Mrs. Radlett. It comes to something when the simplest remark may be misinterpreted merely because of events. What did Miss Beeleigh do to warrant this murderous inclination on your part?”

A faint little gurgle was heard behind the hand, and the popping eyes softened into laughter, albeit briefly. Then the widow set the hand instead to one side of her mouth and leaned forward in a confidential way. In a bid to encourage her, Ottilia followed suit.

“She made my tisane the other night, for she insisted I was looking peaky. And I am very nearly sure she put laudanum in it, and I cannot bear the stuff. It makes me feel horrid the next day.”

Now thoroughly on the alert, Ottilia did not hesitate. “And did you? Feel horrid, I mean?”

“Oh, dreadful. My head was fuzzy, and I could not think. I had to go to bed in the end, which was why I heard nothing of what had occurred at the smithy until the next morning.”

Ottilia eyed the woman with no little degree of suspicion in her mind. Was not this a little too pat? Could Mrs. Radlett have got wind of the queries made at the Cock about the night before Duggleby’s death? If so, why should she seek to throw her friend into question? Or was it a ploy designed to assure Ottilia that she had been hors de combat and therefore unable to have carried out the necessary preparations in the smithy?

How much of what had been discovered about that night had she discussed with Miss Beeleigh? They both knew of the hacked beam and that a ladder had been in use. Ottilia found it hard to believe that the widow Radlett had put two and two together for herself. Was she afraid of being accused?

“Shall we walk together to the Blue Pig?” Ottilia suggested pleasantly. “I daresay Miss Beeleigh and Mr. Netherburn will join us there.”

Mrs. Radlett fell in with alacrity as Ottilia set off down the aisle, but she entered a caveat nonetheless. “Will not Lord Francis expect to find you here?”

“Oh no. I told him I might wander back on my own.”

The sun hit brightly as they exited the church, and Ottilia put up a hand to shade her eyes. A few of the villagers had begun to filter back towards the green, so it seemed safe to assume that the graveside ceremony was nearly at an end.

“Have you yet formed any opinion as to who did the deed, Lady Francis?”

Ottilia had a feeling that Mrs. Radlett had been longing to ask this question. Whether she did so out of curiosity or for a purpose of her own was a moot point.

“I’m afraid it is not near as simple as I had hoped. There are many factors to be taken into account, and far too many people who cherished a grudge against the blacksmith.”

“Yes, but you cannot think anyone who had a grudge could be guilty of such a horrid thing,” uttered the widow on a note of near panic.

So that was it. She had remembered that Ottilia was privy to the details about her dog. No doubt, had she had the forethought to imagine herself to be potentially suspect, she would have refrained from speaking of it. If she supposed she could thus easily be let off the hook, however, she was mistaken.

“Dear me, no, Mrs. Radlett. But one must always look for a motive. It is unfortunate that Duggleby was a man uniformly disliked by his fellows. It makes for a very wide field indeed.”

Ottilia glanced at the widow as she spoke and was almost betrayed into a laugh. The creature’s face had fallen mightily, and she looked decidedly out of countenance.

“I must say I shall be glad of a cup of coffee,” Ottilia said pleasantly, strolling gently on just as if nothing untoward had occurred. “I do hope Hannah is sufficiently recovered by now to be able to resume her duties as hostess.”

Mrs. Radlett appeared to have difficulty in putting words together. “Oh. Yes, I am sure. Or, no. She may have stayed for the burial, for the sake of appearances, you know. But Patty must have returned by now.”

“Patty, of course. A girl much given to throwing her tongue about, I fear.”

“Oh, they all do so,” said the widow in a tetchy tone. “Though young Alice is a good child on the whole.”

“Alice?”

“Alethea’s maid of work. Poor child, she tries so very hard to please.”

Yes, Ottilia could well imagine that Miss Beeleigh made an exacting mistress. Any maid of hers must be crushed beyond bearing, unless she were of the ilk of Patty or Bessy. Evelina’s “good child” epithet argued otherwise.

By the time they reached the Blue Pig, Mrs. Radlett appeared to have recovered somewhat from her erstwhile confusion. She entered with Ottilia and sank down into one of the coffee room chairs with a sigh of relief, putting a hand to her bosom.

“I fear the walk has tired you, Mrs. Radlett,” said Ottilia, moving to pick up the brass handbell on the table.

The widow nodded. “It is my heart. I am not strong, you know.”

Another ploy to plead innocence? Ottilia replied suitably and was glad to see Patty enter the room.

“Coffee, if you please, Patty. Or would you prefer tea, Mrs. Radlett?”

“If it is not too much trouble,” replied the other, glancing apprehensively at the maid.

Patty tossed her head. “No trouble. Cook only got dinner to prepare, after all.”

Ottilia sighed as the door closed with a snap behind her. “That girl wants manners as well as discretion.”

Mrs. Radlett’s glance came swiftly in her direction. “Discretion?”

“I am afraid so. We have Patty to thank for the world being apprised of Cassie Dale’s latest vision. Not to mention poor Molly Tisbury. She is terrified, of course.”

A shudder shook the widow’s frame. “I am not surprised. It terrifies me, and I am not even the supposed victim.”

But was she the victim’s intended assailant? A pity Cassie’s visions did not encompass the action of the deed as well as the aftermath, Ottilia reflected, sighing. It would make her task so much easier.

B
y the time her husband entered the coffee room, Ottilia was heartily wishing Mrs. Radlett otherwhere. Had she said anything to the purpose, it might have been worth the pain of endurance, but the widow confined herself to a long and excessively dull history of her late husband’s prolonged and lingering illness, which had dissipated the little fortune he had on medical assistance. While sympathetic, Ottilia could drum up no enthusiasm for a tale uniformly depressing, and she hailed the advent of Mr. Netherburn and Miss Beeleigh with unqualified relief.

Hardly had the newcomers had time to drink the regulatory cup of coffee, however, when Francis came in, accompanied, to Ottilia’s surprise and gratification, by Lady Ferrensby.

Before anyone else could say anything, Mrs. Radlett was off.

“Dear Lady Ferrensby! Gracious, is it you indeed? I thought you would come, for I felt sure you must wish to take advantage of the opportunity to increase your so brief acquaintance with Lady Francis.”

The lady moved gracefully into the room and extended a hand to Ottilia, who had risen upon seeing her.

“Very true, Mrs. Radlett,” came drily from her mouth in a low and musical voice. A keen hazel gaze met Ottilia’s. “I am a trifle tardy, Lady Francis, and I fear my welcome comes too late to be of the least use. From what I hear, I imagine you have already developed an ardent distaste for Witherley.”

Ottilia laughed. “Not in the least, ma’am. My husband will vouch for it that I have come by my deserts, for I blundered in out of sheer curiosity.”

The business of making space for the lady to sit down, along with the general greetings and murmurings over the funeral, gave Ottilia the opportunity to appraise the patroness of the village more closely than she had been able to do in the church.

She saw a mature but handsome countenance, topped off with luxuriant locks just silvering along the temples and caught under a feathered black bonnet. Her air of assurance spoke volumes, and her greeting had impressed with a mix of common sense and humour. Here at least Ottilia might hope for an intelligent and unbiased appraisal of events.

It was plain the widow Radlett was anxious to make one of the gathering, for she did not hesitate to enter upon a matter for conversation.

“What do you think of your new man, Lady Ferrensby? The vicar, I mean. I thought he did very well indeed, did not you?”

The lady’s brows rose. “Kinnerton? Oh, I think he will do.”

Mrs. Radlett’s face fell. “Is that all?”

Lady Ferrensby smiled. “My dear Mrs. Radlett, you cannot expect me to pronounce in public upon the poor fellow’s opening performance without speaking to him first upon the matter. But if it will make you happy, let me assure you I think he has shown himself to be an estimable young man.”

“Oh, indeed,” agreed the widow, nodding frantically. “Such a tower of strength as he has been in these dark days.”

“Yes, to Cassie Dale,” came on a scoffing note from Miss Beeleigh. She ignored Mr. Netherburn’s pointed cough, and did not wait for anyone’s response to this, but lost no time in frustrating her friend’s design. “Come, Evelina. No need for us to stay and do the pretty.”

“Oh, but I—”

“Evelina! Her ladyship don’t want us cluttering up the place. Here to talk to the Fanshawes.”

She glanced at Lady Ferrensby as she spoke, but the latter made no effort to gainsay her despite a pleading look from the widow. She sat in elegant silence, evidently placing trust in Miss Beeleigh’s ability to prise her reluctant companion from the room.

Seeing no help was forthcoming from that quarter, Mrs. Radlett next cast her gaze upon Mr. Netherburn, whose greeting of the newcomer had been more than ordinarily elaborate. But the redoubtable Miss Beeleigh was quick to block this silent appeal.

“You, too, Horace. Make yourself useful and escort us.”

There could be but one answer to this, and words of farewell being kept to a minimum, it was not many minutes before Ottilia and Francis were alone with Lady Ferrensby.

“Wine, ma’am?” offered Francis, moving to pick up the handbell.

The lady waved a hand. “I want nothing, I thank you.” Her gaze came across to Ottilia, who had taken a seat opposite. “Would you both dine with me tomorrow evening, Lady Francis?”

Ottilia lifted her brows. “Dear me, ma’am, is that why you came?”

A flicker of amusement showed in the hazel gaze. “Ostensibly.”

Behind her Francis laughed and came to take a chair. “We thank you, ma’am. A kind thought, but such subterfuge is unnecessary. How can we serve you?”

Lady Ferrensby looked at him. “I should very much appreciate an account of your activities. Preferably unvarnished.”