The Deathly Portent (9 page)

A
less likely friendship Ottilia could scarcely have imagined. The two ladies were so very different in both style and manner, it was hard to fathom what quality each found in the other to admire.

She was not much surprised, though indeed gratified, to find her casual invitation taken up with more speed than etiquette, and she suspected it was Mrs. Radlett who had instigated the visit. Francis had only just been despatched on his mission when the two ladies arrived in the coffee room.

Ottilia had noticed the difference upon first meeting, but it was intensified close to. Miss Beeleigh’s rough manner was utterly in contrast to the genteel Mrs. Radlett. Both looked to be on the shady side of five and fifty, although the spinster had a look of rugged strength which was emphasised by the severity of her greying locks pulled sharply back and strictly confined. Wholly in contrast, a quantity of improbable gold curls frizzed out beneath Mrs. Radlett’s frivolous bonnet,
which framed a face liberally decorated with paint and powder that did not quite conceal a collection of betraying wrinkles and a pasty look behind the rouge.

Miss Beeleigh evidently employed no aids to beauty and wore her years with pride. Or was it defiance? Of the two, Ottilia thought her the more handsome, with eyes fiercely dark and strong features that hinted at foreign ancestry.

The widow Radlett lost no time in ensuring she had gauged her hostess’s identity with accuracy.

“Forgive me, Lady Francis, but is not your husband related to the Marquis of Polbrook?”

The hushed expectancy in the question was not lost on Ottilia, and she met the menace head-on. “Indeed, yes. His brother.”

A sigh of exquisite satisfaction from the widow caused her friend to cast her a look of vexation, but Ottilia fluttered a hand and sighed on her own account.

“Pray do not trouble to conceal your knowledge of that terrible business last year. I daresay it is everywhere talked of still.”

The Radlett woman’s nod was all too eager. “Oh yes, even here.”

“Evelina!”

The sharp remonstrance from her companion made the widow snatch a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear, but I only meant …”

Ottilia smiled with exaggerated friendliness. “Think nothing of it, Mrs. Radlett. It was I who mentioned it, after all. It is so very trying, is it not, to be obliged to keep mum when one is bursting to know? I confess curiosity is my besetting sin.”

“Well but one could not help thinking of it,” Mrs. Radlett confided, “particularly at present.”

“You mean because of your blacksmith having been murdered?” said Ottilia, taking the bull by the horns.

A snort came from Miss Beeleigh as she tugged out a chair with unnecessary vigour. “Village gossip. I’ll not believe it until I hear it from Meldreth himself.”

She gestured her friend to take the chair, and dragging out a second, threw herself into it, stretching out long legs and crossing them at the ankles.

“But it was Meldreth who said so,” protested the other as she settled herself into the chair provided for her use, not without a good deal of fidgeting to arrange her petticoats suitably.

“By report only,” snapped Miss Beeleigh. “None but a nodcock could expect Duggleby to come out alive, especially once you had seen how much debris came down.”

Mrs. Radlett nodded at Ottilia, setting the ribbons on her bonnet dancing. “A shocking thing, Lady Francis. Why, I should think half the roof had fallen in.”

Ottilia concealed a burgeoning amusement. “Indeed, yes.”

“Place is a shambles,” said Miss Beeleigh. “It will have to come down altogether, no doubt of that.”

“It is certainly severely damaged by the fire,” Ottilia agreed. She put a tentative toe in the water. “I suppose it is not impossible that the roof did not come down by accident.”

The widow blinked out of eyes a trifle puffy, the skin faintly blue beneath them. “You did not see the storm. It was positively raging, you know.”

“Still, someone might have helped it along perhaps.”

Ottilia came under a gimlet beam from Miss Beeleigh’s extraordinary eyes. “You’re saying someone tampered with the roof beforehand?”

Mrs. Radlett’s eyes grew round, dissipating a little the oddly heavy look about them. “Oh no, surely not. Who could be so wicked?”

Ottilia smiled. “Well, murderers are not renowned for kindness, you know, Mrs. Radlett.”

“But it seems so horrid.”

“Yes,” agreed Ottilia gently. “Particularly for those who are left behind to mourn.”

The widow’s orbs rimmed liquid at this. “Poor Bertha Duggleby. We went afterwards to see her and the children. I daresay there is nothing to be done, but one had to ask.”

“Just so,” agreed Ottilia. “Will the poor woman be able to survive, do you suppose?”

“I believe so, yes, poor thing. And dear Mr. Uddington—our shopkeeper, you must know—is already taking up a collection.”

Miss Beeleigh snorted again. “Collection! If Duggleby had not a fortune stashed away, you may call me a dunderhead.”

“We don’t know that, Alethea.”

“What, when he’d had the business from the whole area for miles around for years?”

“Is there no other blacksmith in the vicinity?” Ottilia asked, her mind flying to Williams, who might have to hunt further afield to get the coach mended.

“The nearest is at Nuneaton,” Miss Beeleigh responded. “A fellow started up at Atherstone a year or two back, but Duggleby, as selfish a brute as you could hope to meet, made sure he didn’t prosper.”

Mrs. Radlett was moved to pout. “That is too bad of you, Alethea, when you have just remonstrated with me. You can’t say for certain Duggleby interfered with the fellow at Atherstone.”

“I don’t need certain knowledge,” stated Miss Beeleigh, with a supreme confidence Ottilia could not but admire. “I know the type of man Duggleby was. Moreover, I’m surprised to hear you speaking for him after all that has passed.”

Ottilia seized the cue. “It does not appear the man was very well liked, from what I have gathered.”

She received a sharp glance from eyes tending to almond in shape. “Hannah Pakefield? She’s hardly likely to speak
well of the man. He was thick as thieves with the Tisburys, and Hannah can’t abide Molly Tisbury.”

“Yes, I rather caught that impression.”

“Poor Hannah,” mourned Mrs. Radlett, sighing deeply. “It’s hard for her to see the Tisburys prosper. We do our best, you know, coming to drink coffee nearly every day. If only Witherley were closer to the post road, I daresay the Blue Pig would very soon become a profitable house.”

Miss Beeleigh nodded at Ottilia. “I said Hannah would be over the moon to see you, Lady Francis. You planning to stay the night?”

Several, by the look of things. But Ottilia did not say as much.

“I’m afraid we have little choice.”

Miss Beeleigh’s brows lowered. “An axletree is serious. You’ll need a highly competent smith to make a half-decent job of it. Good thing you don’t have to rely on Duggleby. He’d have botched it so badly, you’d have found yourself stranded again within ten miles. If you take my advice, you’ll send to the coachmakers at Coventry. It’ll take longer, but at least you’ll stand a chance of making it to journey’s end.”

Thoroughly taken aback, and not a little dismayed, Ottilia blinked at the woman. “Dear me. You had better have a word with my husband, Miss Beeleigh. It begins to look as if we might be here some days.”

The other nodded, as if this was a matter of course. “Where is your coach? I could take a look at it.”

Ottilia was half aware of showing her astonishment but was unprepared for the other’s swift comprehension.

“You are surprised. Merely because one is a woman, ma’am, it don’t mean one can’t understand such things. I’d not trust myself to effect a repair to an axletree, but I’ve reset a wheel to a carriage before now.”

Mrs. Radlett was nodding with vigour. “It’s true. Alethea
is excessively handy with all manner of things of that nature. And it is a fact Duggleby was careless. He hated doing anything for us because he thought Alethea was too exacting.”

“Certainly wouldn’t tolerate his usual slapdash way of going about things. Lazy, that was Duggleby. He’d do just enough to get the job done. Soon learned who called the tune when I was paying the piper.”

Ottilia did not doubt it. “Did not others also complain if his workmanship was shoddy?”

“Most wouldn’t dare, for fear of having to trek for miles to get their needs seen to. Besides, Duggleby knew which side his bread was buttered. He’d not serve the likes of Lady Ferrensby so, nor Tisbury—though he’s another rogue.”

Mrs. Radlett’s cheeks showed red through the white paint. “Now, Alethea, you promised never again to make mention of that wretched watered wine.”

“I didn’t. You did.”

“Well, because you said he was a rogue and you’ve no other reason to say so. In any event, it didn’t taste watered to me.”

“That’s because you have no palate. If you’d bought it here as I told you, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“And you’d have had no call to stigmatise poor Tisbury a rogue. Not that he isn’t, for I’ve heard Mrs. Dale’s Tabitha say he tried to shortchange Sam Hawes once, and Sam threatened to send for Pilton.”

“More like it was that fool of a tapster who couldn’t count correctly if he were to be hanged for it.”

For all her acuteness, Ottilia’s brain was whirling. “Pardon me, but I am a little lost. I had the good fortune to meet Mrs. Dale and—Tabitha, was it?”

“Her maid, that’s right. And Sam is Tabitha’s husband,” supplied Mrs. Radlett.

“Pilton is our constable, for all the use he is,” said Miss Beeleigh.

“Now that is unfair, Alethea. To my way of thinking Pilton is a sensible young man. But you could not expect him
to do well when the poor fellow has Lord Henbury to contend with.”

“Ah, I think Mrs. Pakefield mentioned him,” cut in Ottilia, committing all this information to memory. “But you mentioned Mrs. Dale. I must say she did not seem much like a witch to me.”

Miss Beeleigh threw Ottilia a frown. “Witch! Piece of nonsense.”

Mrs. Radlett was moved to protest. “Well, but she does see things, Alethea, you know she does.”

“I know she says she does.”

“But everyone knows she has been right time and again,” objected her friend, not a little indignant.

“A few lucky guesses prove nothing.” Miss Beeleigh threw up a hand as the other opened her mouth to argue. “No use going on, Evelina. You’ll not convince me.”

The widow sighed. “I wish you were not so stubborn, Alethea.” No response being forthcoming beyond an enigmatic stare, she turned back to Ottilia. “I am excessively sorry for the girl, you must know, even if it were true. Anyone would suppose with Sam and Tabitha to look after her, dear Cassie Dale could come to no harm, but it isn’t so. She’s a slip of a thing, too, poor soul. I hear those horrid boys chased her last night, all the way to the vicarage. They were throwing stones. So horrid and cruel.”

“Very nasty,” Ottilia agreed.

“Expect the little beasts were egged onto it by their seniors,” stated Miss Beeleigh in a tone so matter-of-fact that Ottilia was startled.

Where Mrs. Radlett’s eyes had begun to water when speaking of this particularly savage proceeding, the spinster evinced no vestige of sympathy. Ottilia was moved to probe.

“What a disagreeable notion. Do you truly think so ill of your neighbours, Miss Beeleigh?”

Ottilia was treated to a stony look, but there was no trace of annoyance in the woman’s voice.

“Stupidity and ignorance may be found anywhere, Lady Francis. The most civilised persons can be brought to savagery by mob rule.”

“Very true. And the young are apt to ape their elders.”

“The boys? That is nothing to the purpose. Mrs. Dale’s manifestations are insufficient to give children such a false idea of her state. Be sure these notions originated in the heads of such persons as the Tisburys, Farmer Staxton, and Duggleby himself.”

“Oh, I would believe anything of Duggleby,” said Mrs. Radlett, reentering the lists. “You could teach that horrid man nothing of cruelty, and I should know.” Her eyes brimmed. “He killed my dog!”

Ottilia blinked at this unexpected turn. “Killed your dog?”

The ribbons on her bonnet rippled as she nodded, large tears squeezing out of her eyes. “Indeed he did.”

“Evelina, my dear, you don’t know that.”

For the first time, Miss Beeleigh’s tone held a measure of gentleness, and Ottilia cast her a swift appraising glance. There was a hard glow in the dark eyes, but the lips were oddly pinched.

“He did,” came in tearful protest from the other woman. “He beat the poor thing half to death.”

“Someone did, yes,” returned Miss Beeleigh, still in the same tone, as if the gentleness were enforced.

Ottilia had the impression this identical discussion had been gone over many times. She caught Miss Beeleigh’s glance, and the woman grimaced.

“He had to be shot.”

“How very dreadful,” Ottilia said automatically. “But why would the blacksmith do such a thing?”

“Because he was a horrid, evil-tempered man,” the widow said, dragging a handkerchief from her sleeve, “and I’m glad he’s dead.”

“Evelina, for heaven’s sake, don’t let anyone hear you say so!”
And to Ottilia. “Toby was a roamer. Apt to run amok in the village on occasion. Duggleby wasn’t the only one to complain of him.”

“He was a good dog,” insisted Mrs. Radlett, sniffing as she wiped at her tears. “He only barked at the horses because that beastly man cursed at him and threatened him with his whip. It was Duggleby he was attacking, not the horses. It was self-defence.”

“Stuff and nonsense. Dog was a menace. I don’t say the blacksmith was within his rights if he did beat Toby, but his annoyance was perfectly understandable.”

Mrs. Radlett positively glared at her friend. “Next you will say you were glad to shoot poor Toby.”

“No such thing. But I’d more pity than to leave the poor creature to suffer in that condition.”

“I nursed him through the night, you know,” disclosed the widow, dissolving into tears again. “He whimpered so, it broke my heart.”

“No point in raking it all up, Evelina,” came gruffly from the other. “It is best forgotten.”