The Deathly Portent (27 page)

“Your husband will be here presently, Hannah. I think it best you retire to your own parlour.”

Mrs. Pakefield’s head moved, and she wafted a vague hand in the direction of the fallen tray and its wrecked contents.

“Must clean up.”

“Later,” said Ottilia firmly. “Are you able to stand?”

Hannah made a motion upwards but failed to lift her bulk from the chair. Hopelessly she sank down again, casting a glance up at Ottilia in which apology and despair were mingled.

A riffle of urgency chafed Ottilia, and she began to wonder where in the world Pakefield could be and whether Francis had managed to make him understand that his presence was required.

It was imperative she make an examination prior to Meldreth’s arrival so that neither one could be influenced by the opinion of the other. Her brother Patrick’s dictum had been that no two doctors should work together on the preliminary examination of a corpse to avoid accusations of collusion. She was no expert, but she hoped she knew enough to be able to answer the inevitable questions that must arise. In particular from the woman’s husband. Ottilia shuddered to think of the consequences when Tisbury discovered his wife’s death to be an exact copy of the vision expounded by Cassie Dale.

This thought so worked upon her imagination that Ottilia dropped Hannah’s hand and made for the door. It opened before she reached it, and Francis came quickly in, the landlord’s lanky form behind him.

“Francis, thank heavens!”

Before she could say more, Francis pulled at the landlord, dragging him inside. “See to your wife, man! Take her away and give her a brandy.”

He was watching the fellow cross the room, and Ottilia was obliged to catch his attention.

“Francis, where is Ryde?”

Her spouse’s glance came back to her, a frown leaping to his brow as her altered tone got through to him. “In the stables, harnessing the gig. Why?”

Ottilia caught his arm, only half aware of the convulsive nature of her grip.

“Leave the gig. He must go instantly to Cassie Dale’s cottage. He may find that without difficulty if you tell him. He must wake Sam Hawes and have him bolt every door in the place. Neither Sam nor Tabitha must leave Cassie alone for an instant.”

Francis’s frown intensified, but he was already ahead of her. “You think Tisbury will act against her?”

“I am certain of it. Don’t you see how closely this killing resembles the vision I told you of?”

Francis glanced back at the dead woman seated so bizarrely at the round table. Shock was in his gaze as he turned back.

“I had not taken it in.”

“Because you did not hear her say it. We need Kinnerton, Fan. Let Ryde go directly to the vicarage once he has been to Cassie’s cottage. He may tell him the truth and bring him back here.”

“Would it not be better to despatch him directly to Mrs. Dale?”

“No, for his calling demands his presence here first. Then at least we may reassure Tisbury that everything needful has been done.”

Her husband’s brow quirked. “Are you mad, Tillie? The man will go off at half cock like a loaded pistol!”

“Yes. But we must make every effort. Has Patty gone to get the doctor?”

“Yes, and for my money, when she returns, we had best send her off again for Henbury and Pilton and be done with it.”

“Let Meldreth do so. It is his responsibility.”

Francis gave a curt nod. “I’ll find Ryde.”

He was gone from the room in an instant, and Ottilia turned her attention to the Pakefields.

It took several precious moments to induce the landlord, his wits predictably slowed by this latest disaster, to do anything other than stare owlishly at Molly Tisbury’s body. But at last Ottilia, by dint of a combination of hectoring and persuasion, managed to be rid of them both. Drawing a steadying breath, she went to the table to make a preliminary examination of the corpse.

W
atching Doctor Meldreth’s methodical approach, Ottilia was reminded irresistibly of her brother. Not for nothing had she dwelled with Patrick and his family since the tragically early demise of her first husband in the American wars. Finding insufficient distraction in the care of her two young nephews, Ottilia had insinuated herself into her brother’s surgery. Her first desire to keep at bay the memories that were apt to plunge her into melancholy had soon given way to intrigue and interest.

Patrick had allowed her to assist him and begun—in a bid to give her thoughts a different direction, Ottilia suspected—to initiate her into the mysteries of his profession. She had grown rapidly enthused, absorbing this new knowledge like a sponge.

On Meldreth’s arrival at the Blue Pig, Ottilia had retreated to the bedchamber to dress as swiftly as she might, leaving Francis bullying Pakefield into organising the provision of some sort of breakfast. She had then returned to the coffee room to find the doctor’s attention concentrated upon the area of Molly’s neck where the skewer had penetrated, bending this way and that as he examined it closely.

He glanced up, saying without preamble, “The gullet is perforated, but I should have expected a deal more blood.”

Ottilia felt a riffle of anticipation. Was he leaping to the same conclusion she had?

“More than a trickle, certainly,” she agreed, moving to join him. “Much debris will have spilled into the chest, but inevitably it must have oozed from the wound.”

The doctor was peering into Molly’s face. “Pupils are well dilated, but both, which tells us nothing more than that she is dead.”

He was studying the face with what Ottilia thought to be a critical eye. Her excitement mounted. “What is it, Doctor Meldreth?”

He glanced at her. “She is too pale. She has been dead some hours, for rigor has set into the limbs.”

“Can you estimate the time of death? I find it exceptionally difficult to judge.”

“Six or seven hours, I should say. At what time did you find her?”

“About a half hour since, I think, and it is after seven now, for I checked when I was upstairs.”

Meldreth pursed his lips. “Four hours in this room at the least, I surmise. She may have been killed an hour or so earlier.”

“Around one or two in the morning?”

“Or as early as midnight. Though why Molly Tisbury should be abroad at such an hour, I cannot think.”

Ottilia eyed him, certain she had guessed aright. “You said she was too pale.”

“In the face, yes.”

“Which means the blood has not sunk and pooled where her cheek is lying.”

His brows rose. “Quite so. From which we deduce?”

The tone was rather like a teacher to his pupil, but Ottilia was too eager to care. “She was not killed here. And the skewer was inserted after death.”

Meldreth smiled. “Well done, Lady Francis. Did you look elsewhere for another wound?”

She nodded, unable to prevent herself from casting a swift
glance at the woman’s back. Meldreth took the direction and shifted his position so that he might examine the bent over back more closely. Ottilia saw him reach out to touch at a point to the left of Molly’s spine.

“Bloodstains. This looks like a stab wound.”

“There is another in the front,” Ottilia said, forgetful of her resolve to allow the doctor to make his own judgements without her assistance. Gratified to see him immediately move around and drop down to try and see what she had seen, Ottilia added, “I think she was struck twice.”

Meldreth rose. “There is a deal of blood around her bosom. A collapsed lung, I suspect. The heart will have given out somewhat rapidly.”

Ottilia went towards the table, hardly aware of her own eagerness. “Or her lungs and chest could have bled profusely, cascading blood into the chest cavity. In which case, she will have died painfully, fighting for her breath.”

Meldreth stared at her. “There is that possibility. Only a postmortem will confirm which it was.”

“And the state of the naked body,” Ottilia pointed out. “If there is a large degree of colouring to the skin around the lower ribs—”

“Then we may assume your theory is correct,” he finished, a look on his face of growing respect. “You have indeed learned well, ma’am.”

Ottilia smiled. “That is a worthwhile encomium, and I thank you. But look at this, if you please,” she added, dropping to her haunches and lifting the curtain of petticoats to expose Molly’s feet.

She found Meldreth beside her. “What have you found?”

Ottilia pointed to the heels. “Mud and grass on her shoes, do you see? They are badly scuffed, too. And here.”

She pulled the petticoats round to show a deep rim of discolouration along the hem, and the linen had small rips. The stains, green and brown, continued for some way up the back of the skirts, lightening as they went.

Ottilia stood up. “She was dragged across the green.”

“The cobbles, too,” suggested Meldreth. “The wonder is no one heard it.”

“Perhaps someone did,” said Ottilia. “They might not recognise the sound for what it was.”

The doctor shifted out into the room, rubbing his chin. “But how did the killer get into the Blue Pig? Pakefield is assiduous in locking up, for fear of thieves.”

Ottilia was still looking down at Molly, but she glanced round. “Yes, it is possibly the one thing at which he demonstrates efficiency. And unfortunately it is the one thing that stands against Hannah.”

Meldreth looked startled. “Mrs. Pakefield? Good God, are you suggesting she did the deed?”

Ottilia shook her head. “I am fairly certain she did not. But this is her coffee room. She was heard to mutter of revenge after the fight with Molly on Wednesday, and she was present when Cassie Dale had her vision. Take these facts together with the locked front door and I guarantee Lord Henbury will have Pilton arrest her inside five minutes!”

Meldreth gave a bark of laughter, which he changed rapidly to a cough, casting an apologetic look at the deceased.

“Well reasoned, Lady Francis. Though it seems to me a foolhardy act to recreate this vision in her own house, if Hannah Pakefield was indeed responsible.”

“Just so. Besides arguing a mind rather more convoluted than I fear poor Hannah possesses.”

At this moment they were interrupted by the entrance of Francis, accompanied by the vicar. Kinnerton came quickly into the room, took one look at the body settled so conveniently into the posture of Cassie’s vision, and blanched horribly.

He was hatless and out of breath, and his hands rose to his head where his fingers ran into his hair and held there.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely. “No! Who has done this? Who could be so cruel?”

Ottilia exchanged an eloquent look with her spouse and was relieved to see Francis take a hand to the man’s elbow.

“Steady, Kinnerton. Sit down. I’ll get you a brandy.”

But the parson’s hands came down, and he waved the offer away, his legs apparently firm. The bright blue gaze swung around to Ottilia.

“Who did it? Has Tisbury been told?”

“Not yet,” said Francis, answering for her, and staying close, a wary eye on Kinnerton’s profile. “We thought it better to fetch Meldreth first.”

The vicar nodded, and Ottilia took a step towards him, half extending a tentative hand, as she uttered words she hoped might comfort.

“I sent to warn Sam Hawes. They will have secured the doors, and neither he nor Tabitha will leave Cassie, I assure you.”

The vicar’s breath left his throat in a bang, and he nodded. “That was well thought of. Thank you.”

“As for who did it,” pursued Ottilia, “I fear it may be some time before we can tell.”

Francis looked from her to Meldreth, a frown creasing his brow. “What of your findings? Does Meldreth concur?”

The doctor took this before Ottilia could answer. “We are at one on the premise that the deed was done elsewhere.”

“Then it was deliberate,” said Kinnerton, a bitter note in his voice. “Is there no end to the petty cruelties of this village?”

“A trifle more than petty,” Francis cut in, his tone severe.

Kinnerton shook his head, throwing a hand into the air. “I meant the manner of posing the body in this way.”

“It is all of a piece,” said Ottilia coolly. “It is less a cruelty, I fear, than a case of expedience.”

Kinnerton erupted. “Expedience! To what purpose? Lord knows I did not take to Mrs. Tisbury, but what possible motive could anyone have to kill her?”

Ottilia drew a breath. “None whatsoever.”

“What?” exclaimed the doctor. “But there must be a reason.”

“There is,” said Ottilia doggedly. “I disliked the creature excessively, but I must pity the circumstance of her murder.”

“So must we all,” put in Francis, “but why so particularly?”

Ottilia looked at each questioning face, lingering a little on the distress already evident in Mr. Kinnerton.

“Because,” she said with resolution, “I very much fear Molly Tisbury has been sacrificed on the altar of incriminating Cassie Dale.”

L
eaving Ryde to guard the body, Francis had managed to persuade his wife to repair to their chamber to eat a breakfast which could have better been described as a picnic. Pakefield having proved utterly insensible to the needs of his guests, Francis had been obliged to rely upon the services of the maid.

“I had the girl Patty bring the tray in here, since one can scarcely partake of food in the coffee room. I understand the cook is prostrate, and the maid has done the best she can.”

He plied Tillie with a plateful of cold pork and buttered a couple of slices of bread for her.

“Eat,” he ordered tersely. “You will collapse if you are obliged to deal with Tisbury and the rest on an empty stomach.”

Ottilia laughed. “To tell you the truth, I am more dismayed at the notion of Henbury descending upon me.”

“Lord, if I hadn’t forgotten him,” groaned Francis, providing himself with a more substantial plate of similar fare to that he had presented to his wife.

“Did you think to ask Patty to bring coffee?” asked Tillie, swallowing down a mouthful of pork.

“Do you think I could forget?” he retorted, being fully conversant with her propensity to drink the beverage upon
every possible occasion. “I am convinced you are addicted to the stuff. It will be here presently.”