The Deathly Portent (31 page)

Patty’s sobs redoubled, and Ottilia decided she did not need to point the moral any further. There could be no doubt the maid’s own intelligence had told her she was in part responsible for Molly Tisbury’s death. An abject lesson. Let her reflect on it and perhaps do less inadvertent harm in the future.

O
ttilia could not but be struck by Miss Beeleigh’s efficiency. She arrived with Netherburn, announced straitly that Mrs. Radlett was too much distressed by the news to be able to come over just yet, and said that she herself had come with the intention of proving useful.

“Now, Lady Francis, what is the situation here?”

A trifle taken aback, Ottilia, who was in the hall with Francis at the time, gave a necessarily expurgated account of the events of the morning. Miss Beeleigh took it in her stride.

“If Patty is rushed off her feet and Hannah too bowed down to operate, we’ll have to make shift for ourselves,” she pronounced.

“In that case, the most urgent need is to clean up in the coffee room,” said Ottilia. “They are in the process of taking Molly’s body now.”

Lord Henbury having seen it, Doctor Meldreth had sanctioned its removal from the Blue Pig. Not before time, Ottilia had reflected, for the corpse had deteriorated. Rigor was passing, and the limbs and torso were beginning to sink in a fashion that contorted the poor woman’s posture horribly. Even Uddington had blanched a trifle at the sight of the unfortunate Molly. He had arrived at the Blue Pig a short time earlier, presumably dragged thereto by Tisbury and Wagstaff, who accompanied him, along with a couple of stout village men carrying the coffin.

Miss Beeleigh did not turn a hair. Mr. Netherburn was despatched to her house to fetch her maid Alice, who was to be put to work along with the Blue Pig’s stable boy to make the coffee room habitable again.

“Send Alice over, Horace, and then remain with Evelina until she feels up to coming across. By then I daresay we may have got the place back into use.”

She then declared her intention of bearding the cook in her kitchen, or making the coffee herself if need be, and
vanished into the nether regions, what time Mr. Netherburn hurried off on his errand.

Once the coffin cavalcade was on its way to Meldreth’s surgery, where the postmortem was to be conducted, the rest of the party, at Francis’s suggestion, repaired to the Blue Pig’s taproom across the hall, where Ottilia at once ran afoul of Lord Henbury, who had apparently taken the advent of a second murder as a personal insult.

“Damme, I won’t have it! What is the place coming to? Corpses littering the village, hey? Mad, the lot of them!”

“I thought it would save time, my lord,” said Ottilia, in a bid to stem the flow, “if I made a thorough search of Hannah’s clothing.”

Henbury glared at her. “Hey? Search her clothing? Who are you to go searching the woman’s clothing? What the devil for?”

Thankfully Meldreth chose to cut in at this point. “You will recall the stab wounds, my lord. The perpetrator must have got blood on his or her clothes.”

“Perpetrator? That Pakefield woman is the perpetrator. Knew it at once. Pilton will have her under lock and key in no time.”

Ottilia cast an exasperated glance at her spouse, who had constituted himself tapster behind the counter and was busy taking tankards of ale off the draught. He threw his eyes heavenwards but could offer no other comfort. Sighing inwardly, Ottilia tried again.

“Before Pilton does his part, my lord, would it not be politic to search for evidence?”

“Evidence? What more evidence do you need? Fighting in the open street one day, and the next, one of the party is sitting in the Blue Pig with a skewer in her neck. Know who to blame. Obvious.”

“Nevertheless,” Ottilia pursued patiently, “would it not be well to ensure that there is no miscarriage of justice? After all, we have no evidence to support the notion that Hannah
Pakefield also killed Duggleby. Unless you think there are two murderers at large?”

At last Henbury looked a trifle less sure of himself. “Two? Good Gad, never thought of that.” He turned to the doctor. “Hey, Meldreth? Could it be the same hand, do you think?”

Doctor Meldreth shot Ottilia a questioning glance, and she briefly nodded. “It would seem unlikely that there is more than one guilty party.”

“Ha! In that case, Pilton had best search the house. Probably find ropes and ladders and all sorts of stuff, as well as blood on her clothes.” He rounded on Ottilia. “Bloodstains! Found some, did you?”

“I did not,” Ottilia replied, relieved to have got this far. “Nor is it likely that Hannah could have burned any bloodstained clothing, for there has been no fire alight until an hour or so ago, and the wood-burning stove is not used at this season.”

“Well, I will have Pilton search the whole place from top to bottom.”

“Except that you have already set him on guard outside Hannah’s chamber, my lord,” Meldreth reminded him.

“Well, he need only do that until Hannah is sufficiently recovered from her ordeal to continue her duties,” Ottilia suggested. “There are surely enough of us to ensure that she does not leave the Blue Pig, do you not think? I can guarantee she is not going to escape by way of a window. She is far too stout.”

This was productive of a bark of loud laughter from Henbury. “Ha! Well, well, I daresay the search can wait. Evidence won’t be going anywhere. I’ll see Pilton, and then I’ll be off to Lady Ferrensby. Best keep her informed.”

Thanking Providence for a much needed reprieve, Ottilia bade the man farewell with a lighter heart. Meldreth took his leave after downing the ale thoughtfully provided by Francis, heading for his surgery to begin upon the postmortem.

“A moment to ourselves, thank the Lord,” Francis said,
taking a seat on one of the wooden benches, armed with a tankard of his own.

“Indeed,” Ottilia agreed, sinking down on another.

The taproom was dingy and dark by comparison with the coffee room, and smelt of stale smoke and ale. Ottilia guessed it was little used, even the few male members of the gentry preferring to take their potations at the more lively Cock and Bottle. But it served the present purpose.

“What about the knife, Tillie?” Francis said abruptly. “Molly was stabbed, remember.”

“Well hidden, I suspect.”

Francis grunted and then quirked an eyebrow at Ottilia. “What next?”

“The messenger,” she said without hesitation. “Someone lured Molly out of the Cock.”

He nodded. “But how you are to find out who it was defeats me.”

“I have no notion how. But find out I must, for I cannot think that person’s life is worth a moment’s purchase.”

T
heir privacy proved momentary, for at the sound of arrivals, Francis went out into the hall to prevent anyone’s going into the coffee room. Next moment the widow Radlett, hanging on the arm of a solicitous Mr. Netherburn, came into the taproom. She appeared quite unlike her usual self, and at the urging of her escort, she sat gingerly upon a bench in dismal silence.

Ottilia noted the worried look cast upon the widow by Mr. Netherburn, as he accepted a tankard of ale from Francis, still playing tapster. Returning to the bench, he caught Ottilia’s eye and spoke in a hushed tone, as if in the presence of a sickbed.

“Poor Mrs. Radlett is severely overset.”

The widow looked up at the sound of her name, and a fluttering sigh escaped her. Her voice was a thread. “Dreadful! It is so very dreadful.”

Ottilia eyed her in no little surprise, not to mention suspicion. Under the paint, which had been applied somewhat sketchily, as if the hand that did the honours were full of
tremors, the widow’s features were pasty with smudges of blue about her eyes.

Intent, Ottilia exchanged her seat for one next to the woman and quietly possessed herself of one of the widow’s hands.

“You look a little pale, my dear Mrs. Radlett. You cannot have cherished a fondness for Molly Tisbury, surely?”

“Oh no, not that.”

A wan pair of eyes slipped upwards, and Ottilia thought she read there more of fright than dismay. Mrs. Radlett’s hand lay slack in her hold, but the fingers quivered.

“What is it, then?”

The widow’s lips trembled into shaky speech. “It is all so very horrid. How could Mrs. Dale have known? So exactly like.”

“Just so,” Ottilia agreed. “Far too exact indeed.”

Now there was more than fright. Mrs. Radlett’s eyes widened, and she looked upon Ottilia as if at her nemesis.

“What do you mean, Lady Francis?”

Ottilia struck hard. “I mean that poor Molly was placed in a chair in the coffee room in just the position outlined by Cassie Dale, and that a skewer was thrust into her neck.”

A whimpering cry escaped the widow. Snatching her hand away, she put the back of it to her mouth. Mr. Netherburn set down his tankard and, casting a reproachful look upon Ottilia, stepped quickly up to the bench and dropped to his haunches before her.

“Do not upset yourself, dear Evelina,” he uttered warmly, seizing her free hand and beginning to chafe it with rather more enthusiasm than Ottilia felt was warranted. “Try not to think of it, dear lady.”

“Not think of it! Oh, dear God, I shall have nightmares for weeks!”

Ottilia glanced at Francis, and he gave her a questioning look, not without a touch of reproach within it. She kept her gaze bland, and his brows drew together. Devoutly hoping
he would realise she had a sufficient purpose, Ottilia pursued the widow with a ruthless hand.

“Oh dear, Mrs. Radlett, I had no intention of distressing you further,” she uttered on a spurious note of contrition. “A horrid way to be killed, of course, but in fact Molly was already dead.”

The widow’s breathless whimpers ceased abruptly. Both she and Mr. Netherburn turned startled faces towards Ottilia. But before either could say anything, Miss Beeleigh spoke from the doorway.

“What the deuce is to do?” She came into the taproom and closed the door, her gaze roving from one to the other. “Evelina?”

Glancing round, Ottilia spied a look almost of revulsion in the widow’s face as she stared at her friend. It vanished in a second, and Ottilia was left wondering, had it been still an effect from the deliberate shock of her own words, or was it possible Evelina’s reaction had been to Miss Beeleigh?

Whichever it was, the widow sat up straighter and pulled her hand from Mr. Netherburn’s grasp. “Nothing to fret over, Alethea. Lady Francis was telling us how Molly died, and I was startled, that is all.”

The smooth tones of the woman’s voice amazed Ottilia. How had she recovered herself so swiftly? Or was she something of an actress perhaps?

“Coffee room is habitable again,” announced Miss Beeleigh, apparently accepting the explanation. She looked around the present accommodation and wrinkled her nose. “Can’t say I fancy sitting in the coffee room after what has passed, but anything is better than this fusty taproom. Patty will bring coffee through presently.”

“Oh, I shall be glad of it,” said Mrs. Radlett, almost in her usual tone. Watching her, Ottilia thought there was yet a telltale quiver in her chin, and the message of her eyes had not fully mended.

Mr. Netherburn had risen, and Miss Beeleigh noted him
picking up his tankard again. “Best bring that with you, Horace. Unless you choose to drink coffee with us? Come along, Evelina.”

Obedient to her mentor’s instruction, Mrs. Radlett got up—a little shakily, to Ottilia’s hawkeyed glance—and made the best of her way out of the taproom, Netherburn following.

Francis was hanging back, and Ottilia caught his fixed regard. She waited for him in the doorway, and his whisper caught her at once.

“You don’t suspect her, do you?”

Ottilia looked back, murmuring, “She knows something.”

“You drove her pretty hard.”

“I meant to. A pity Miss Beeleigh chose that moment to come in.” She eyed him. “Did you remark how quickly Mrs. Radlett recovered herself?”

He frowned. “You think she was faking it?”

“Not the upset, no. I think she is faking now, however.”

Francis looked across the hall, where Mrs. Radlett was apparently balking at the coffee room door.

“Oh dear, I am almost afraid to enter.”

Miss Beeleigh’s hand was immediately at her back. “You must steel yourself, Evelina. Can’t be deprived of our foremost meeting place or we’ll have nowhere to be sociable.”

The widow shuddered. “Yes, but it seems so callous.”

“Nonsense,” said her mentor, giving her a shove into the room. “No use giving way to sensibilities at a time like this.”

“I feel quite sick,” complained Mrs. Radlett in a voice that would have belied the statement had the earlier episode not occurred.

“We must go in,” Ottilia whispered. “Something important may be said.”

She darted across, Francis behind her, and entered the coffee room in time to see Miss Beeleigh push the unfortunate woman into the very chair at which the victim had been sitting.

“Sit down and don’t think of it.”

Ottilia refrained from pointing out the faux pas, hoping the widow would not recall the precise chair Cassie Dale had indicated when talking of her vision. Ottilia was abruptly struck with the recollection herself. How very precise had this murderer been. He had not missed a trick.