The Deathly Portent (33 page)

“What is it, Horace?”

The elderly gentleman was looking out of the window. He turned to Miss Beeleigh but gestured towards the green.

“Pouring out of the Cock, do you see? Half the village, you’d think.” He looked out again and dipped his head to one side as if to see better. “I think they’re heading for the bridge.”

Ottilia’s head shot round to find Francis and saw the same thought had entered his mind. He spoke even as she did.

“Cassie Dale!”

Francis went quickly to the window to join Netherburn. “Yes, they are heading for the cottage.”

To Ottilia’s instant relief, he took immediate charge, turning to face the room again. “You ladies stay here. Netherburn, to the vicarage with you and fetch Mr. Kinnerton on the double.”

“Try Doctor Meldreth’s surgery first,” Ottilia cut in. “The reverend was going to be present at the postmortem.”

Mr. Netherburn was already at the door, but he held back a moment to throw a plea to Francis. “Pray hasten, sir! If harm were to come to that poor young girl—”

“Trust me, nothing will happen to her.” It was the voice of the soldier, and Ottilia thrilled to hear her spouse in total command. “I will take Pilton and my groom for reinforcements. Now go, man!”

He thrust Netherburn from the room and paused on the threshold, looking back at Ottilia.

“Tillie, find Ryde for me, if you will. I’ll get Pilton, for I’m going upstairs for my pistol.”

Ottilia was on his heels and through the door, but Miss Beeleigh’s voice caught her as Francis took the stairs two at a time.

“Lord Francis!”

He halted on the landing, looking back with an impatient frown.

“I have a musket. Shall I fetch it?”

“No time,” he snapped back, once more on the move.

He disappeared from sight, and Ottilia hurried through the back door into the domestic area. She found Miss Beeleigh immediately at her rear.

“I can be home and back in five minutes.”

“Leave it to the men,” Ottilia said without thinking, intent upon her mission. “By the time you are able to load a musket, all will be over.”

“So easily? I fear you are too sanguine, Lady Francis. I take it Tisbury has broken out in his grief. He will not easily be satisfied.”

Ottilia paused at the kitchen door and turned back. “My dear Miss Beeleigh, if you are intent upon joining the fray, by all means do so. But for the present, I pray you let me alone to do my part.”

With which, she whipped through the door, shutting it in the creature’s face. The domestic staff, comprising the cook, Patty, Alice, and the stable boy, were gathered about the kitchen table, quaffing a no doubt much-needed drink. All four gaped at the intruder.

“Where may I find Mr. Ryde, if you please? My husband’s groom?” Ottilia looked at the stable lad. “Have you seen him lately?”

“Out back he be,” offered the boy.

“Go and tell him to come to his master in the hall—immediately.”

This last, uttered with all the authority at Ottilia’s command, had the effect of sending the boy scuttling for the back door.

Satisfied, Ottilia looked over the three women.

“There is mischief afoot on the green. I pray you all remain here where you are safe.”

She left them on the word, suspecting they would desert in a body the moment her back was turned. She reached the hall in time to see Francis about to leave the premises, with Pilton in tow, armed with his staff.

“Send Ryde after me as soon as may be.”

Ottilia’s heart lurched as she saw the heavy pistol in his hand. “Pray don’t shoot anyone, Fan.”

“It is not my intention. But we will be few against many, and I need a deterrent.”

“Is it loaded?”

“Don’t be absurd! What is the use of an unloaded pistol?”

Ottilia had no chance to respond to this, for the door to the back premises opened behind her and Ryde belted through.

“In good time,” Francis hailed him and headed out of the front door, throwing back a parting shot as he went. “Stay here, Ottilia!”

She watched him go, her heart thumping in her chest. Could he be in any real danger? How many were in the mob? What if they should turn violent towards those who sought to prevent them having their way? Francis could get in only one shot before they overwhelmed him. He would have no time to reload.

For several heart-stopping minutes, Ottilia stood frozen to the spot, regret teeming through her. Why had she insisted on coming here? If she should lose Francis, how could she ever live with herself? Bitterly she castigated herself for her selfishness. Never had it crossed her mind she could be sending her beloved into danger. She was little better than the murderer she sought.

Miss Beeleigh’s curt tone cut into her chaotic thoughts. “You’d best come and see this.”

Ottilia turned her head. “See what?”

Miss Beeleigh, who was standing in the doorway to the coffee room, jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

Hurrying across the hall, Ottilia felt heartily relieved to have suffered an interruption. As she struggled to pull herself
out of her unaccustomed panic, it came to her belatedly that Miss Beeleigh had opted not, after all, to join the male element. Had she ever truly intended it, or was it mere bravado?

There was no time to decide, for as she entered the coffee room and looked out of the window in obedience to Miss Beeleigh’s encompassing gesture, she was obliged to confront the full horror of the situation.

“Oh, heavens above, they are setting up a stake!”

H
er husband’s injunction notwithstanding, Ottilia wasted no time in weighing the advisability of remaining in the Blue Pig. Her mind reeling with shock, she thrust through the hall again and wrenched open the heavy front door.

It had never crossed her mind that the villagers would truly go to these lengths. Had they taken leave of their senses? Her fear for Francis returned tenfold, but her feet raced across the cobbles in tune with the increasing rhythm of her pulse. Straining to see across the green, her darting glance took in a couple of men a little way off the Cock into the common land.

One had hold of a pole which had been set into the ground, while another, perched unsteadily upon a chair, pounded the top of it with a serviceable mallet. Coming from behind the tavern a gaggle of boys were running, burdened with armloads of faggots.

Ottilia became aware of Miss Beeleigh panting behind her and wasting precious breath on useless imprecations.

“Imbeciles! Who is that fool banging in the pole? Can’t see. Is it Will?”

The tapster? Ottilia was little acquainted with the man, except in his capacity as a beau fought over by the maids. It mattered little. Only one thing was in her mind. To call a halt to these proceedings before mob rule made it impossible to prevent a hideous miscarriage of justice.

As she came within hailing distance of the little group, Ottilia saw that several of those involved had ceased their labours to watch her approach. Which gave her a desperate hope they were not yet wholly given over to the loss of reason.

She shuddered to a stop, one hand at her stomach as she fought for breath. She did not lose sight of her own common sense. Useless to berate them.

“Who—is in charge—here?”

They looked at one another but were prevented from answering by Miss Beeleigh, who chose to do precisely what Ottilia was trying to avoid.

“Have you all run mad? Will, I thought it was you! Foolish fellow, what the deuce do you think you are doing?”

She was addressing the man in possession of the mallet, and the irate tone served only to put up the fellow’s back.

“Burning the witch, we be. Afore her does for someone else.”

“Is this Tisbury’s notion?” pursued Miss Beeleigh, striding up to the stake and laying hold of it. “There’s some excuse for the wretched man, but as for the rest of you—”

She got no further, for a furious Will leapt off his chair and pushed her violently away.

“You get off that, missus!”

Ottilia shot forward and grasped his arm, speaking with what calm she could muster. “Are you in charge?”

The tapster turned towards her, and Ottilia noted the red-rimmed eyes and flushed cheeks that told her the man was drink-sodden. But not so far gone that his pride could not be pricked.

“Aye. Master give me the office to make ready for to burn the witch.”

Ottilia kept a steady grip upon the fellow’s arm, ignoring the muttered oaths emanating from Miss Beeleigh, who was righting herself from a near fall.

“Do you understand, Will, that what you are doing is against the law? It is murder, and you may be hanged for it.”

This proved an unfortunate remark, for the tapster’s nostrils flared and he shook her off.

“Murder, aye. Bain’t yon witch done murder? First Duggleby and now the mistress. If’n Pilton bain’t arresting her, it be for the likes of us to finish her for good an’ all.”

“They are mad,” snapped Miss Beeleigh. “See here, Will—”

“Leave it, if you please,” said Ottilia so sharply that the other woman was startled enough to desist. She turned back to Will.

“You will not be permitted to do this. Tisbury and his mob will not get to Mrs. Dale.” She waved towards the bridge where a dozen or more persons were gathered in an unmoving knot. “They are already stopped, do you see?”

For a brief moment, as all heads turned towards the bridge, Ottilia dared to hope for a propitious outcome. And then Miss Beeleigh ruined all.

“Ha! You see, you craven bullies? Did you think you could ride roughshod over everyone? Fools! Madmen! How dare you? How dare you behave like this?”

With a sinking heart, Ottilia saw the frenzy return to the tapster’s eyes. Ignoring both women, he jumped up on his chair again, calling to the loitering boys.

“Bring they faggots! Hold the stake, Dick, whiles I bang it in more.”

Miss Beeleigh, red in the face and scowling, came up to Ottilia.

“No use! You’d best come away.”

By no means, but Ottilia did not waste her breath saying so. There must be help at hand, if one could only fasten upon the right person.

Thinking furiously, she looked beyond the immediate group, who had resumed their labours, the boys now starting to lay faggots around the base of the stake as Will hammered wildly with his mallet.

Spying a few stragglers standing in the road, apparently forming no part of the action, Ottilia ran her eyes across them and recognised Bessy, the maid from the Cock. She hurried across.

“Bessy! Where is Mr. Wagstaff?”

The girl looked both excited and scared. “Up to the doctor’s house, m’am. Said as how he were a-going to watch over the mistress while her be cut up.”

Ottilia turned back, looking for Miss Beeleigh. She was standing watching the action, hands on hips, making no further attempt to intervene.

“Miss Beeleigh!”

Her head turned, and she strolled across just as if there were nothing untoward occurring. “What is it, Lady Francis?”

“Pray go to Meldreth’s house and find Wagstaff.”

The woman’s brows rose. “What can he do?”

“He will not countenance this. Fetch him, if you please.”

Miss Beeleigh shrugged and began to move off. “If you wish it.”

“And hurry, I pray you!”

Thus adjured, the woman picked up her pace. As Ottilia turned to watch her go, she saw the vicar on the road at the far end of the green, haring down in the direction of the bridge. Trotting valiantly some way behind came Mr. Netherburn. Ottilia was tempted to call to him to come to her aid here, but she dared not stop any help arriving at the bridge where by far the bigger part of the trouble was situated.

The rumble of voices from there was growing, and Ottilia guessed they would need all the assistance they could get. She looked across but could not see Francis, nor his acolytes. One or two of the crowd appeared to have made it through,
but as her eyes frantically searched towards Cassie’s cottage, she saw the burly form of Mrs. Dale’s servant Sam Hawes planted squarely ahead of the front door, awaiting them.

Breathing a faint sigh of hope, she looked around again for succour at her end of the proceedings and bethought her suddenly of Mr. Uddington.

Turning, she looked towards his establishment and saw him standing outside his shop door, watching. A flare of anger swept through her. Did he intend to do nothing to prevent this travesty? She raised her voice and waved.

“Mr. Uddington! Mr. Uddington!”

If he heard her, he made no sign, but continued to stand, his gaze fixed upon the growing pile of faggots about the improvised stake. Ottilia ran a little towards him and tried again.

“Mr. Uddington, will you not help me?”

His head turned, and sunlight glinted off his spectacles. But he did not raise his voice or a hand to acknowledge her. A horrid fear coursed through Ottilia. Had she read it wrong? Was it he, after all? Is this what he intended all along?

She began to feel desperate. Was there none here with enough humanity remaining to stop this madness? So be it. She must manage alone.

Turning, she crossed back towards the stake. As she did so, a voice suddenly called out behind her.