The Deathly Portent (37 page)

“Don’t look so dismayed, Cassie. After all, you are well supported in Mr. Kinnerton, are you not?”

At mention of his name, a light flared briefly in the girl’s face, and then died again. “He has been inexpressibly kind.”

“More than that, I think,” suggested Ottilia with a meaning look.

Cassie’s eyes instantly clouded. “No.” Her gaze swung this way and that. “At least—it might be that he wishes—but it cannot be.”

Glancing at the maid, Ottilia noted a troubled expression in her face. Deliberately, Ottilia threw the matter into play.

“What do you think, Mrs. Hawes? Have you not noticed a certain warmth in Mr. Kinnerton’s regard when he looks at Cassie?”

Tabitha compressed her lips. “It don’t matter what I notice, ma’am. She won’t pay me no mind.”

Cassie leapt up from the bed, confronting her nurse. “Because I know you are in Lady Ferrensby’s confidence, Tabby. It is all of a piece! I daresay you knew all along she meant for this to happen.”

The maid retreated to the window. “Ain’t no manner of use carping at me, Miss Cassie. How should I know what is in her ladyship’s mind?”

“Because the two of you are forever making plans for me without my knowledge,” cried Cassie, like a thwarted child. “Do you think I cannot tell? Not all my visions are laden
with doom, Tabby. Do you think I cannot see the picture that is in Lady Ferrensby’s head?”

Her voice had thickened with the hint of tears, and Ottilia swiftly cut in. “Dear Cassie, pray do not upset yourself. If your aunt—or godmother, or whatever she is to you—has such images, they are only a hope for your happiness.”

Both visitors were staring at her. Shock and dismay were in Cassie’s eyes, but Tabitha’s had narrowed with suspicion.

“Her ladyship told you, then, did she?”

Ottilia laughed. “Dear me, no, Tabitha. I am confident Lady Ferrensby would never betray Cassie.” Her eyes went to the girl. “What is she to you, Cassie? I feel sure the relationship is close.”

“She is my aunt,” Cassie uttered, still looking utterly confounded.

“Then you came here under a cloud, I must surmise,” said Ottilia calmly, holding out a hand to the girl in invitation.

Walking as if in a dream, Cassie came back to the bed and took her hand. Ottilia drew her down to sit again on its edge.

“Pray don’t look so astonished. I assure you it is not second sight. My gift, if you can call it that, lies in an ability to notice things others might not.”

Tabitha gave a grunt and resumed her seat on the dressing stool. “How did you guess it, ma’am?”

“Oh, by a number of things,” Ottilia said airily, not wishing to upset Cassie with the notion of how easy it had been to make this deduction. “For one thing, in a certain light you have a look of your aunt, Cassie. Then I’m rather afraid I embarrassed you by referring to Mr. Dale.” She gentled her tone, holding the girl’s hand rather tighter. “There is no such person, is there?”

Cassie sighed. “Aunt Ida chose the name from Armadale.”

“That is your real name? Charis Armadale?”

A film of liquid reamed Cassie’s eyes, and she looked down. “It is as well I do not use it, for I have disgraced the name.”

Ottilia wasted no time on spurious question, going directly to the heart of the matter. “Who was he, Cassie?”

She jumped, her downcast eyes flying up to Ottilia’s face. She was taken too much by surprise, Ottilia guessed, to prevaricate.

“Our neighbour.” The characteristic passion deepened her voice. “It was wicked of me.”

“Wicked of him, too, Cassie.”

“You tell her, ma’am,” came gruffly from Tabitha Hawes. “I’ve said it often and often, but will she listen?”

Having formed a fair opinion of the child’s depth of self-loathing, Ottilia was not much surprised. That the fellow had not been induced to behave honourably by Cassie told its own tale.

“If he was already married, he was doubly wicked.”

Cassie sucked in a rabid breath. “You guessed that, too?”

Ottilia chose not to answer this. “Could the scandal not have been hushed up?”

“That’s what I said,” groaned Tabitha. “Only the silly wench couldn’t keep her tongue.”

“How could I?” Cassie uttered wretchedly. “I felt so dreadfully. I knew it was wrong, but he offered me comfort at a time when—when—”

“At a time when you were made unhappy by what you see as an unfortunate talent?”

“Yes.”

Ottilia took her other hand and held both of them, looking the girl directly in the face. “And now you believe you are unworthy to deserve Mr. Kinnerton’s affections.”

Cassie burst into sobs. Ottilia promptly drew her into a comforting embrace. Over the heaving shoulders she saw Tabitha diving a hand into the recesses of her costume. The maid came out with a pocket-handkerchief, but instead of bringing it over to her charge, she applied it to her own wet eyes. A little amused, Ottilia waited for the girl to recover sufficiently to sit up again, and then Ottilia signalled to the
maid, who handed over the handkerchief. Ottilia watched Cassie wipe her eyes.

“I believe you do Mr. Kinnerton an injustice, Cassie.”

She heaved a sobbing sigh. “Oh, I could not. I admire him greatly.”

“Yes, but you do,” Ottilia insisted.

The dark eyes surveyed her, registering doubt. “What do you mean, Lady Fan?”

Ottilia smiled. “I think I will allow the gentleman to speak for himself, which I cannot doubt he must do in the very near future.”

This prophecy appeared to alarm Cassie Dale so severely that Ottilia was almost betrayed into merriment. But the door opened just then to admit her husband, and one look at Francis’s face served to shatter any inclination to laugh.

“Oh, what is it?”

Francis moved into the room and shut the door. “Pilton has found a bloodstained kitchen knife in Hannah Pakefield’s commode.”

T
he atmosphere in the taproom of the Cock was subdued, although the place was crowded. Bessy the maid had taken office behind the counter, while Tisbury and his cohorts were sitting in a morose group on the benches around the hearth. The landlord had his head in his hands, elbows on his knees, while Staxton had placed an awkward arm across the fellow’s bent shoulders.

No one had troubled to glance up as Aidan led Lady Ferrensby into the room. Then the maid, catching sight of so unusual a spectacle, gave a shriek.

“My lady! Master Tisbury, my lady be here!”

From the immediate reaction all around, it was evident that the exclamation stigmatised but one person. Heads shot up. One after the other, blurry-eyed men surged to their feet,
snatching off hats and wiping greasy hands on sweat-stained breeches.

Farmer Staxton looked up, his jaw dropping, and Aidan saw him slap his companion on the back and mutter something into Tisbury’s ear. The landlord unfolded his torso, revealing features haggard and red-eyed with weeping. And no doubt a liberal ingestion of ale, came Aidan’s cynical thought.

“M’lady?” mumbled Tisbury confusedly.

Lady Ferrensby’s hand left Aidan’s arm, and she went forward. Wholly ignoring everyone else, she stopped before the landlord, who made a clumsy movement as if to rise and failed.

“Don’t get up,” said her ladyship.

But beside him, Farmer Staxton shoved a hand under the fellow’s arm and tugged him to his feet, holding him there even as Tisbury sagged a little at the knees. It was evidently a momentous thing for the great lady of the village to enter the tavern. There could be no doubt of the high level of respect in which she was held.

“I am sorry for your loss, Tisbury,” she said evenly, “which provides some little excuse for your conduct.” Then she turned, surveying the remainder of the company. “As for the rest of you, I have only one thing to say. If you are determined on bringing back barbaric practises, let us have the stocks set up, shall we? Then you may all take your turn in them.”

Aidan watched with grim satisfaction as the battery of faces turned sheepish, eyes dropping to the floor. Muttering broke out, together with an embarrassed shifting of feet. He saw Staxton swallow hard and open his mouth.

“I’ll see to them boys of mine, my lady. I promise you that.”

Lady Ferrensby looked him up and down. “And will you see to yourself, Staxton? I understand you made one of the party intent upon raiding Mrs. Dale’s cottage and dragging her forth.”

Staxton shuffled his feet and wiped his free hand on his breeches. Her ladyship waited, but he did not venture upon a retort. Lady Ferrensby nodded.

“Very good. I see you realise your error. You will do better to comfort your friend than to engage upon criminal pursuits. Yes, I said ‘criminal,’ Staxton.”

This in response to a sudden fearful look as the man’s eyes rose swiftly to glance at her briefly.

“I hope to dissuade Lord Francis from pressing charges, since I believe you have all of you acted somewhat out of character. But I cannot promise any of you”—with another slow look around to encompass the whole company—“that you will not find yourselves in the dock at the next Assizes.”

A flurry of excited whispering broke out at this, and a couple of men called out to protest that they were not of the party bent upon mayhem. Aidan intervened to scotch this at once.

“None need attempt to escape retribution, for we have witnesses enough to know just who was involved.” His tone hardened. “And, I may add, if you stood by while these events were in train and did nothing to help Lady Francis, nor to stop your fellows behaving in this disgraceful fashion, you may well be accused of conspiracy.”

This threat caused a mass retreat upon the part of the onlookers, who shifted back, one going so far as to sidle to the door in a bid for freedom.

“Where be you off to, young varmint?” came a senile voice from outside.

Seconds later, the escapee returned, with Pa Wagstaff’s fingers attached to his left ear, the old man demonstrating surprising strength. Aidan was obliged to bite down on a laugh as the fellow squealed. Released, he scuttled behind a collection of bodies and dropped out of sight.

Wagstaff’s rheumy eyes travelled around the room and discovered Lady Ferrensby. “Giving ’em snuff be you, my lady?”

She moved towards him. “You have my heartfelt condolences, Jeremiah. It’s a tragic day for Witherley.”

The old man’s gaze turned sour. “Aye, so it be, when the whole village be crazed.”

“Which is exactly why I am here,” said Lady Ferrensby, turning back to the rest. “This must stop, do you understand me? We are in enough trouble as it is, what with Duggleby’s murder and now Molly.”

Muttering broke out again, and Tisbury spoke up at last.

“Bain’t no wind of who killed Duggleby, if’n the witch bain’t done it. Nor I don’t believe as there be another who killed Molly, neither.”

Aidan strode up to the man. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Tisbury. You may count yourself highly fortunate if your antics today have not driven away the very person who has pledged to get to the bottom of these murders.”

At this, Staxton burst in. “If’n it be yon Lady Fan you mean, it be her as said Molly and Tisbury done for Duggleby.”

“Nothing of the kind,” snapped Lady Ferrensby. “And I should know, for I was present at the Blue Pig yesterday when the matter was spoken of. Be that as it may, take this for a warning. One more trick of this nature and Lord Henbury will have the lot of you taken to Warwick gaol to await the Assizes. I trust I make myself plain.”

The murmuring started up again, and a few nods were seen. Lady Ferrensby passed one more glance about the taproom and turned to Aidan.

“Mr. Kinnerton, your arm, if you please.”

But before he could escort her out, the sound of pounding footsteps seized the full attention of the taproom, and a murmuring started up. Seconds later, the door burst open and Will the tapster flung into the room, his accomplice and the three Staxton boys crowding in his rear.

Wagstaff lifted his staff, and for a moment Aidan thought he was going to use it to swipe at the newcomers. But his words forestalled any action.

“Be it done?”

Mystified, Aidan was about to demand enlightenment when Tisbury took the floor.

“What be you doing here, Will? Bain’t Lord Henbury said as you be for the lock-up nor morning, you and the boys?”

Despite his dishevelled appearance and the grime and dust upon his face and clothes, Will’s eyes were blazing with excitement.

“He’ve let us go, Master, for as Pilton have locked up Hannah Pakefield.”

“What?” burst from Lady Ferrensby.

“ ’Tis true, my lady. Pilton said as how it be Hannah done for Molly.”

W
ith Tillie on the warpath, Francis had no choice but to relax his dictum that she remain in their chamber for the rest of the day. Besides, he was almost as hot against the doddering justice of the peace as was his irate wife. Without any other evidence than this conveniently placed kitchen knife, Henbury had acted.

“It is a plant,” Tillie repeated yet again, pitching her voice at a level that the fellow could not fail to hear. “There can be no other explanation.”

“Twaddle, woman! Who’d shove the thing in a drawer, except the murderer?”

“Just so, sir. But that does not mean that the murderer was Hannah.”

“Hey? Hey? When the body was found in her coffee room? Got the body. Got the weapon. What more do you want?”

“Proof, Lord Henbury. This is proof of nothing save that the body was where it was and the knife was found in Hannah’s commode. It does not say who put them there.”

The argument was taking place a little way off the old
lock-up, but Lord Henbury’s deafness made it unlikely that the woman inside would not hear what was being said. The round little building of grey stone gave off a truly depressing air, the domed stone roof rising directly from the walls and topped off with an ornamental ball. A stout wooden door, barred for extra strength with rusty nails, contained one small rectangle of an opening in the top, and the only other windows—if one could call them that—comprised a couple of small slits near the top at either side. The place could not have been more than six feet in diameter, and Francis could well imagine the fetid air and stinking condition of the interior.