The Deathly Portent (25 page)

Her eye left Francis upon the last phrase, and Ottilia responded to an unspoken question. “I daresay you may have been given a much garbled version.”

“Undoubtedly.”

The dry note was pronounced, and Ottilia warmed to the woman. “Then I think we may untangle things a little.” She put up a warning finger. “However, I cannot say I am at all sanguine about any possible conclusion at this stage.”

Lady Ferrensby nodded. “That is understood.” She smiled, catching Francis’s eye. “You may be interested to learn that I am acquainted with Justice Ingham.”

Ottilia jumped, casting an apprehensive glance at Francis, for Sir Thomas Ingham, the Bow Street Justice, had been very much involved in last year’s events, and she knew her spouse hated such reminders.

But he was laughing. “I’ll wager he sang my wife’s praises.”

“He was indeed voluble on the subject,” confirmed her ladyship. “He gave me to understand that Mrs. Draycott, as I believe she was then, was instrumental in uncovering the truth.”

“Instrumental? He did not know the half of it.”

“Come, Fan,” Ottilia protested, warmth rising to her cheeks, “pray don’t exaggerate.”

The look he threw her was intense. “If anything, I am understating the case, and you know it.”

Ottilia let out an exasperated breath and turned to Lady Ferrensby. “Pray don’t allow my husband’s enthusiasm to raise your hopes too high, ma’am. I am by no means certain of a happy outcome in this case. There are far too many factors to be taken into account, and I cannot promise to unravel them satisfactorily.”

Lady Ferrensby’s intelligent gaze was compelling, with a gleam in its depth that was once again oddly reminiscent of Cassie Dale. Ottilia became doubly convinced there was something here to discover.

“Believe me, Lady Francis, I will be grateful for any light you may shed on the business, since I am forced to accept that Duggleby was indeed murdered. Until this occurrence, I had entertained the hope that Cassie—Mrs. Dale, I
mean—might settle into some promise of normality. But it seems—”

She broke off, making, as Ottilia surmised, an attempt to recover her former pose of calm insouciance. Was it a pose? Or was she merely disturbed by present events?

“For that matter,” Lady Ferrensby resumed, “it is distressing for everyone to be placed under suspicion of wrongdoing.” A sudden smile lightened her countenance. “And it will hardly surprise you to learn of my lack of confidence in Henbury.”

Ottilia was obliged to laugh, while Francis emitted a derisive snort.

“The man’s a nightmare. For my money, he will do little but hamper the investigation.”

“But we need him,” Ottilia reminded him. She gave Lady Ferrensby a rueful look. “I fear I have used him shamelessly, making pretence of his having asked me to institute enquiries.”

“Well, if anyone protests, you may say with truth that I have asked you,” said Lady Ferrensby tartly. “And it is no boast to say that you will make more headway using my name.”

“Excellent. Then it only remains to provide you with the explanation you seek. But a moment of caution first.”

She got up and went to the door. Glancing back into the room, she put a finger to her lips and abruptly turned the handle and jerked the door open. The hall was empty. Satisfied, she returned to her chair and noted Lady Ferrensby’s raised brows.

“I have discovered that young Patty rivals Bessy at the Cock in a mutual penchant for Will the tapster. Patty is apt to pass on anything of interest she may hear in this place.”

“Such as the details of Cassie’s last vision, I surmise?”

“Just so. We will, if you please, conduct our conversation in lowered tones.”

This being agreed, Ottilia proceeded to lay out as much
as she felt pertinent of what she had discovered to date, including her reading of Duggleby’s character captured from what had been said by various members of the community. She left Francis to describe what had been found at the forge but spoke of Uddington’s ladder and the possibility of someone having used it the night before.

“Then you are saying the murder was premeditated?” asked Lady Ferrensby, losing a little of her coolness of manner and looking a trifle upset.

“Things point that way, but I cannot be sure. One cannot rule out the possibility of the murder having been done first.”

A little sigh escaped the lady. “You’re right about Duggleby, at all events. The man was dissolute and a brute. If it were not for the manner of his death, the village would be well rid of him.”

“So I gather,” Ottilia agreed. “Though I fear the Tisburys are only one degree less repellent.”

“Oh, Tisbury is not a bad fellow,” said Lady Ferrensby, regaining a little of her earlier light manner.

“No, and I think I believe his version of his fight with the blacksmith,” cut in Francis. “But that wife of his is another matter.”

Lady Ferrensby nodded. “A termagant is Molly.”

“And much to blame for her husband’s temper, I imagine.”

“That is so, Lord Francis, but not as much as her wretched father.”

“Pa Wagstaff?”

Lady Ferrensby threw her eyes heavenwards. “Jeremiah fancies himself a wit and does not scruple to use the privilege of his years to exercise it at the expense of his unfortunate son-in-law, who is barred from taking any form of revenge. The result, I’m afraid, is that Tisbury takes it out on others.”

Ottilia digested this. “Which suggests, if Tisbury did the deed, that it was in a moment of aberration.”

“But he claims he would never have hit Duggleby from behind,” objected Francis, “and I am inclined to believe him.”

“In addition,” said Ottilia, “do we deem him levelheaded enough to cover his tracks by bringing down the roof and starting a fire?”

“He does not lack intelligence,” Francis said. “Though he is hardly in Uddington’s league.” His head turned. “What of him, Lady Ferrensby? Is he the kind of man to murder?”

A tiny pause drew Ottilia’s attention. Then the woman shrugged eloquently. “How in the world can one know? He had reason enough, of course.”

Ottilia eyed her with new interest. “His wife died recently, and it seems Duggleby may have attended the funeral.”

The lady’s brows drew sharply together. “You mean Uddington has held thoughts of revenge and waited his moment?”

Ottilia did not reply, confident that Lady Ferrensby would answer her own question. She glanced at Francis and gave an infinitesimal shake of her head. She noted from his narrowed gaze that he understood she wished him to keep silent.

At length Lady Ferrensby put her hands together and raised her fingers to her lips, letting her breath go. Then she dropped her clasped hands to the table and looked across at Ottilia.

“His is a sad case. He sold his heritage for gold, I’m afraid.”

“And took his father-in-law’s name. Yes, he told me as much. But he would not tell me his real identity.”

Lady Ferrensby looked a little dismayed. “It is of trifling significance.”

Ottilia’s senses came alive. Was there something personal here? She did not speak, letting the silence work its way into the other lady’s conscience. Lady Ferrensby unclasped her hands, and one set of gloved fingers drummed upon the table for a space. Becoming aware seemingly, she looked down, ceased to fidget, and splayed her fingers. An impatient exclamation escaped her.

“Oh, why dissemble? The fellow was a connection of my late husband.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Distantly,” added the other on a sharp note.

“Far enough distant to allow for impartiality?” asked Ottilia straightly.

Lady Ferrensby’s eyes flashed and sank again quickly. She gave a defeated shrug. “If you mean to imply that it will trouble me to find him out a murderer, then your answer is obvious.”

Ottilia felt it politic to steer clear of this issue. “I take it that is why Uddington was able to set up his business in Witherley?”

Lady Ferrensby nodded. “I was but a bride at the time, but my husband wrote to Uddington senior to suggest it.”

“Was that wise?” Francis broke in. “If the fellow had dropped out of his proper sphere, did it not present a difficulty to Lord Ferrensby to have him so close since he might not acknowledge him?”

The question was productive of another sigh. “I believe he felt it. But they say blood is thicker than water. We are all apt to make such errors on the altar of family loyalty.”

Ottilia’s ears pricked up again. Family? Was this a reference to Cassie Dale? Had Lady Ferrensby followed her husband’s example of generosity and compassion? If so, what had befallen Cassie to make it necessary to hide her true identity?

Francis was still frowning, and Ottilia cast him a questioning glance. One eyebrow rose, and he turned back to Lady Ferrensby.

“Forgive my bluntness, ma’am, but Uddington’s attitude seems to me highly suspect. So much so I was moved to warn my wife against having made a dangerous enemy.”

“Dangerous?” repeated the other lady, startled.

“How else would you describe a killer? Especially if he feels he may be cornered.”

Watching closely, Ottilia thought she read an instant of panic in Lady Ferrensby’s eyes. Then it was veiled.

“What will you do if the murder is brought home to Uddington?” pursued Francis relentlessly.

“I do not know, Lord Francis,” returned Lady Ferrensby on a tart note. “Nor do I propose to burden myself with the question unless it becomes necessary to do so.”

“Then let us hope the blame will be found to lie elsewhere,” said Ottilia soothingly. “There are, of course, other persons with reason to dislike Duggleby.”

“Half the village, no doubt,” snapped the other, her eyes sparking.

Ottilia said nothing, merely allowing her gaze to remain steady upon Lady Ferrensby’s face. Francis, having cast a frustrated look at his wife, sat back.

In a moment or two, the heightened colour in Lady Ferrensby’s cheeks died down. “I am more dismayed by all this than I had supposed.” She gave a tiny smile. “I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps that you had drawn a useful conclusion and found out some stranger was responsible.”

Ottilia gave her a sympathetic smile. “I fear it rarely is a stranger.”

“Count yourself fortunate,” cut in Francis, an edge to his voice. “I was obliged to suspect my own brother.”

A tiny gasp issued from Lady Ferrensby’s throat. “Yes, I know. I beg your pardon, Lord Francis.”

He shrugged, and Ottilia read his discomfort. She changed the subject. “What is your opinion of Bertha Duggleby, ma’am?”

“A sadly downtrodden creature,” said the other at once. “I can’t imagine she would have the strength, never mind the will, to raise a hand against her husband. You suspect her, then?”

The eager note did not escape Ottilia. It was plain that any other name than Uddington was acceptable to the great
lady of the village. In the circumstances, Ottilia could not blame her.

“One must invariably look askance upon those closest to the victim,” she said, with an apologetic glance at her husband as he winced. “In this case, there is a possible reason why Bertha might dispose of her husband.”

“Which is?”

“Duggleby boasted to her of being in possession of a pot of gold, as she phrases it.” She smiled at Lady Ferrensby’s expression. “Yes, I was quite as sceptical. But it occurs to me the blacksmith might have been remembered in Mrs. Uddington’s will.”

“Gracious heavens!” Her ladyship was frowning. “It’s true, as you said, that he is rumoured to have gone to the funeral.”

“Or perhaps he was summoned to a reading of the will. He would not, I surmise, bruit the matter abroad for fear of Uddington coming to hear of it.”

“Indeed, no.” Lady Ferrensby gave a little shiver. “How macabre it all is!”

“And too close for comfort?” put in Francis, his tone rigid with the memories of last year. “I know just how you feel, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Lord Francis. I must admit it comes as a shock to think there are several persons who might have wanted the dratted fellow dead.”

“Just so,” sighed Ottilia. “Suspicion must fall upon anyone with a grudge against the blacksmith. Including, ridiculous as it may seem, the widow Radlett.”

A disbelieving laugh was surprised out of Lady Ferrensby. “Evelina? You are not serious? Why in the world would she want to murder Duggleby?”

“Revenge,” said Ottilia stonily. “She believes Duggleby killed her dog. Or at least that he beat the animal half to death so that it had to be shot.”

Lady Ferrensby stared. “Yes, but—I mean, I know of that, of course, but …” Her voice died, her imagination evidently boggling at the notion.

“You are thinking she could not have cut the beam, brought down the roof, and started the fire,” said Ottilia in a matter-of-fact tone. “That is true. But someone might have done it for her.”

“Once she had struck the man with a hammer,” said Francis.

“Just so.”

Lady Ferrensby was shaking her head. “No, this is fantastic. Who would she ask? Netherburn? At his age, the fellow is incapable of climbing a ladder. Nor is he discreet.”

“Not Netherburn,” Ottilia agreed. “But what of Uddington? Or, come to that, Miss Beeleigh?”

“Alethea Beeleigh? Now you are being absurd.”

“Well, she told me she could replace a wheel on a coach,” pursued Ottilia imperturbably. “It is not beyond the bounds of probability that she could climb a ladder and hack at a beam.”

“Unlikely, I submit,” put in Francis. “A difficult task, not to be undertaken without considerable risk.”

“But if Mrs. Radlett came to her friend for help, having hit Duggleby over the head,” said Ottilia blandly, recalling the curious intimacy she had noticed at their first meeting in the coffee room, “I cannot think Miss Beeleigh would refuse to aid her.”

Francis nodded. “Granted, but she need not do the job herself. There are men enough in the village, and I daresay a fat purse would serve to keep some fellow’s mouth firmly shut.”

Lady Ferrensby’s glance had gone from one to the other of them, Ottilia noted, although she had said nothing. But this proved too much for her.

“Fiddle! No, no, stop. This must be nonsense.”

Ottilia was obliged to laugh. “Yes, I think it probably is. But we cannot afford to disregard the flimsiest of possibilities.”