The Deathly Portent (45 page)

Even in the gloom, Ottilia could see that the faces round about were intent. But at this came a chorus of sucked-in breaths and murmurs of dismay. One lone voice, unknown to Ottilia, piped up a protest.

“How be it a woman could deal a blow to kill a man?”

Wagstaff took that one. “Bain’t nowt to that. Bain’t seen no man here nor strong as Miss Beeleigh, if’n her’d a mind to clout him.”

“Nor her bain’t one to need no man’s help,” put in Staxton. “Seen her chopping wood. If’n any got strength for to lug a ladder here and back to Uddington’s, it be Miss Beeleigh.”

Tisbury, drawing a sleeve across his eyes after his brief bout of weeping, here entered a question. “Be you saying as her fired the forge and all? Why, if’n the storm be coming?”

“I don’t think Miss Beeleigh expected the storm to break so quickly,” Ottilia answered, relieved to find interest in the workings of the crime had overtaken disbelief. “When she had brought down the beam, most of the rotting timbers came down with it, along with half the tiles. I think she took a burning brand from the forge and set fire to the timbers around Duggleby’s body.”

“Lucky the storm put out the fire.”

“Quite right, Mr. Uddington. If the storm had broken later, the body would have been burned, and it would have been unlikely, if not impossible, for Doctor Meldreth to discover that Duggleby had received a hammer blow.”

Meldreth, who was still frowning as he followed the tale, responded to Ottilia’s questioning look. “Highly unlikely.”

A murmuring broke out as the villagers turned to one another, but the round pulpit tones of Kinnerton rose above it.

“In which case you would, all of you, have hounded an innocent woman with your false accusations of witchery.”

A reminder that was greeted with a shuffling of feet and a
few sheepish looks. Tisbury was notably defiant, looking the parson in the eye, although he refrained from saying anything. Wagstaff, who seemed to have constituted himself spokesman for the group, gestured to the body on the ground.

“What be you going to do with her now, Lady Fan?”

Ottilia breathed more easily. The worst was over. “I will leave that to Doctor Meldreth.”

Upon which, the doctor took charge, calling for volunteers to carry the corpse back to his surgery. The move to accomplish this had the effect of breaking up the gathering, with Kinnerton assisting to direct operations since he must of necessity accompany Miss Beeleigh’s body to perform his part following the woman’s untimely end.

In the general shift of persons, Ottilia was able to remove from the limelight at last. She went to Francis, who caught her hand and held it tightly.

“A brave effort, my love.”

She let out a relieved breath. “I could not have managed it without Bertha.”

“Lady Francis?”

Meldreth was at her elbow. A hollow feeling entered her bosom as she turned to face him. In the rays of the moon under the open roof, she could see his face more clearly and read the portent of his stern look.

“Oh dear.”

“Indeed,” he said, with a faint relaxation of his features, although he did not quite smile. “This was no suicide, Lady Francis.”

Before Ottilia could say anything, Francis intervened, roughness in his tone.

“This is neither the time nor the place, Meldreth. No doubt your investigations in your surgery will yield more answers than we can give at this moment.”

The doctor’s glance went from Francis back to Ottilia. “I take your point. Tomorrow morning? Before Sunday service, assuming Kinnerton still intends to hold it?”

Ottilia nodded. “Yes, for we need him, too. Also Lady Ferrensby.”

Meldreth’s lips pursed. “Leave them both to me.”

With which, he turned to follow the men who had already left with Miss Beeleigh’s body, accompanied by several of the villagers who seemed unwilling to disperse altogether.

Ottilia turned to Francis. “And now for Evelina.”

F
rancis could not have supposed anything could be more unnerving than the earlier events of the night. But he had not bargained for the necessity to transfer the wretched Mrs. Radlett, in the greatest secrecy, from Bertha Duggleby’s abode to that of Mr. Netherburn.

The elderly gentleman’s house was situated quite on the other side of the village, one of a row set in front of the church, close to Meldreth’s surgery. They had perforce to wait long enough to allow the village to settle into quiet before the cavalcade set off. Which meant that the moonlight was fading and the skies were just beginning to grey over at the horizon.

Huddled in her concealing cloak, with Ottilia’s arm about her shoulders, and still in a state of benumbed shock, the widow Radlett was escorted slowly to her destination, with Francis in the lead and the two women flanked by Sam Hawes and Ryde. It was hoped that if they were seen, they would look but a straggling group that none would recognise.

In view of Evelina’s condition, the journey was necessarily taken at a snail’s pace. Tracking the length of the green, Francis felt it was like the hazardous foray of a scouting party from his army days, interminable and open to enemy fire. Not that one would expect to be shot at in the midst of a country village, but events had become so unpredictable that Francis could not avoid a creeping sensation of eerie apprehension.

He was never more glad to reach his destination until, after knocking gently on the door, he was faced with the
sight of Horace Netherburn, clad in his nightshirt, with a dressing gown hastily thrown over it and his nightcap on his wigless head. The fellow’s mouth was at half cock, and the expression on his face was one of comical dismay.

“We need your help, Mr. Netherburn,” Tillie told him in an urgent undervoice. “Pray let us in.”

“I
believe the poor man was more shocked by the impropriety of Mrs. Radlett staying in his house overnight than by the horrific events I outlined for him,” Ottilia told Lady Ferrensby the following morning, unable to prevent herself from emitting a spurt of laughter.

The great lady of the village looked little amused, her own poise having clearly been shattered at the outcome of the adventure.

“I am not surprised. Horace is a stickler.”

Meldreth had spared Ottilia the difficult task of apprising Lady Ferrensby of Miss Beeleigh’s death and the circumstances of her guilt in the murders. But it had fallen to Ottilia’s lot to pass on the unvarnished truth of what had happened. The meeting was taking place in the Blue Pig’s coffee room, where they might be assured of privacy, Ottilia having ascertained that, with the landlady somewhat recovered, Patty had been given a day’s holiday after her recent exertions and was not in the house.

“But how will it serve to leave Evelina at Netherburn’s?” asked Lady Ferrensby.

“Oh, we cannot leave her there,” Ottilia said frankly. “It was the safest place last night, for I dared not risk Patty’s wagging tongue here, and the creature could hardly be expected to sleep in Miss Beeleigh’s house after what transpired.”

“Ah, poor thing,” came with a gush of compassion from Cassie Dale, who had arrived with Lady Ferrensby.

At first surprised, Ottilia rather thought she understood when she noted the Reverend Kinnerton choose a seat next
to Cassie’s and take possession of one of her hands. Highly entertained, Ottilia had sought, by way of faintly raised brows and a flicker of her eyes, to draw this suggestive action to her spouse’s attention.

But Francis, whose mood had lightened considerably now that all danger had passed, had his attention on Lady Ferrensby.

“Mark my words,” he had warned his wife earlier, when they went to snatch a few hours’ sleep in their chamber, “you will not easily secure Lady Ferrensby’s complicity in hushing the matter up.”

“Then I rely on you to back me to the hilt,” Ottilia had retorted. “She sets great store by the example of her deceased husband, so I daresay she is one of those females who respect the opinions of the superior male.”

“Unlike some I could mention.”

Which had set Ottilia into such a fit of the giggles as afforded them both a much-needed release from the tensions of the evening.

Cassie Dale, however, despite an evident newfound happiness seen in the bloom on her cheek, proved an ally in this respect.

“How dreadfully poor Mrs. Radlett will feel it! The guilt and the grief combined. How will she bear it, I wonder? I wish I could help her.”

“Well, you may, if you so choose,” said Ottilia, seizing on this. She gave a grimace as her gaze turned back to her ladyship. “I’m afraid I have committed you in your absence, Lady Ferrensby. I think it will seem most natural for you to take Evelina back to the Hall for a time.”

“Do you indeed?”

The tart tone did not deter Ottilia. “Yes, I do.”

“Yes, and so do I,” uttered Cassie on a passionate note. “Where else is the poor thing to stay?”

“Poor thing?” Lady Ferrensby’s brows went up. “So poor a thing that she turns a gun upon her friend and benefactor?”

“Yes,” agreed Meldreth heavily. “There is no getting away from the fact that Mrs. Radlett has committed a murder.”

“You might call it a mercy killing,” cut in Francis loyally.

“I might call it anything I please,” retorted Lady Ferrensby acidly, “but that does not alter the facts.”

Ottilia sighed. “What would you, ma’am? The culprit has been discovered. Bertha Duggleby’s confession has persuaded the villagers to believe our version of events. What will it profit you, or indeed anyone, to pursue Evelina Radlett to the limit of the law?”

Meldreth was nodding, but he entered a caveat. “Although you know as well as I, Lady Francis, that one such killing may blind a person to the evil of their deed.”

“There is such a thing as compassion, Meldreth,” came sharply from the Reverend Kinnerton. “A sinner may recant. And I am persuaded Mrs. Radlett is not a true murderer.”

“But suppose she were to kill again?” argued the doctor. “Only look at Miss Beeleigh.”

“Miss Beeleigh was a very different creature,” stated Ottilia flatly. “One might almost call her insane.”

“Oh, come now,” protested Lady Ferrensby.

“She is right, you know,” Francis broke in sharply. “Can you truly count it the act of a sane woman to murder for such a reason as she did? And then to do so again, merely for the purpose of incriminating Mrs. Dale? Not to mention her extraordinary conduct in life. What sort of female goes about mending coach wheels and chopping wood?”

Lady Ferrensby shifted uncomfortably. “Merely because she had odd habits does not make her deranged. Eccentric, certainly, but—”

“You are missing the point, Lady Ferrensby,” said Ottilia calmly.

The cool gaze looked across at her. “Well?”

“Figure to yourself, ma’am. Evelina’s dog is beaten almost to death. Alethea Beeleigh is obliged to watch the woman she cares for most in the world weeping her heart out as she
nurses the animal through the night. In compassion, Alethea ends its suffering, perhaps wishing she was instead aiming her gun at Duggleby.”

“Well, that is natural enough,” said the reverend.

“Yes, Mr. Kinnerton. But a normal mind, distressed by these events, would be prompted to take issue there and then with the fellow. Alethea does not do this. Instead, she dreams up an elaborate plot in order to destroy him utterly.”

“I grant you that,” conceded Lady Ferrensby. “But how must Evelina Radlett have been driven to do as she did?”

“Driven, yes,” cried Cassie. “She could not have intended it.”

“I believe Evelina was driven by fear,” Ottilia said. “Indeed, it was her conduct on the day Molly was found that made me certain we had Miss Beeleigh to thank for these killings.”

Lady Ferrensby was frowning. “How so? And why in the world could you not have voiced your suspicions?”

“Because of ears glued to the walls,” snapped Francis. “She told you as much yesterday.”

“Very well, but what made you suspect?”

“Oh, I suspected them both days since,” Ottilia confessed. “But I dismissed the notion on account of the dog. It seemed just as far-fetched to me, ma’am, as it does to you. I thought it had been Evelina who committed the deed, and Alethea was merely guilty of a cover-up. But Evelina was transparently dismayed on the day of Molly’s death. As she told us last night, she had seen too much. When Miss Beeleigh objected to Jenny Duggleby being sent for to help here, Evelina thought it meant that Jenny had taken the message to Molly. She also looked fearfully at Alethea, which alerted me more than anything else.”

There was silence for a moment, but then Mr. Kinnerton spoke up, his question a surprise. “Forgive me, Lady Francis, but is it not possible that Mrs. Radlett shot her friend to prevent the truth coming out?”

“I thought of that last night,” said Francis, “but Miss
Beeleigh as good as confessed when she was confronted by her friend.”

“Besides,” Ottilia pursued, “to be candid, I could not suppose Evelina capable, either of planning for the roof to fall in or of incriminating Cassie. Her intelligence is by no means on the order of Miss Beeleigh’s, which was frankly awesome.”

“That at least is true.”

Lady Ferrensby sounded despondent, and Ottilia could not blame her.

“Moreover, Evelina is far too squeamish to have contemplated the necessary actions to dispose of Molly.”

“She was not too squeamish to pull the trigger on her friend,” Meldreth pointed out.

“Oh, she did not even think it through. If you question her when she is in a better frame of mind, I daresay you will discover that the gun she took was Miss Beeleigh’s and that she knew it was always kept loaded. I suspect she thought only of trying to prevent Bertha Duggleby from being killed. When she found us there and Miss Beeleigh accused, Evelina believed there was only one thing she could do for her friend. All she would say afterwards is that she could not bear to see Miss Beeleigh hanged.”

Cassie was openly weeping, and Mr. Kinnerton had his arm about her. Even Lady Ferrensby’s expression had softened, and Ottilia thought her handsome countenance looked positively hagged. She felt sorry for the woman, left to deal with the aftermath of this terrible week.