The Deathly Portent (8 page)

Francis lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it before releasing her. “Not as well as you, I suspect. The fellow seems to have been knocked sideways. Besides having a disposition to regard everything he discloses in the most pessimistic light.”

She laughed. “I rather gathered as much from his aspect. What had he to say about this business?”

As she sipped at her second glass, she listened to Francis’s unvarnished account of the accident, if it was one. None had doubted as much to begin with, the landlord had told him, until the doctor had expressed his dissatisfaction.

“However, the doctor was merely overheard last night telling the vicar of his suspicion, and you know how village gossip spreads. It may prove a complete fabrication.”

Ottilia eyed him. “Are you saying that only to put me off?”

Francis raised his brows at her. “After my feat at the smithy? I am resigned to allowing you a few more hours.”

Relieved, she laughed. “I shall need them, I fear. But that is excellent, for I have a task for you.”

He groaned. “Don’t tell me. I utterly refuse to go on any wild-goose chase on an empty stomach.”

“As if I would ask it of you.”

“Indeed? My experience of you in the mode of hunting down a murderer leads me to expect the worst.”

Ottilia took refuge in her lemonade. His tone was teasing, but she was guiltily aware of having already planned to impose upon him unmercifully. This was hardly the moment to disclose that she believed they might be obliged to stay the night. With the hope of distracting him, she seized upon an item in his narrative that niggled at the back of her mind.

“Did Mr. Pakefield say anything else about the vicar?”

Francis frowned. “No. Why?”

“Because I suspect he may be pertinent. Mrs. Pakefield spoke of him as a champion sent by the Almighty.”

“A champion of whom?”

“The witch.”

Light dawned in his features. “Ah, that explains it. I thought the fellow muttered something along those lines.”

“What, pray?”

“The witch took sanctuary in the vicarage, as we heard, but did not come out until morning, although her maid did. The village, according to Pakefield, feels this to be the devil at work again, tempting a man of God to evil.”

W
ith his hunger satisfied by the consumption of several large slices of an excellent pigeon pie in addition to the promised ham, the jaundiced view Francis had taken of events proved evanescent, and he was fully able to appreciate the necessity—expressed, to his amusement, with an excessive amount of charm by his darling wife—to gauge the temper of the local populace. Nor, since Tillie could not with decorum frequent the taproom of the local tavern, had it taken much persuasion for him to agree to do his part. The quicker the facts were uncovered, the sooner Francis might get her away from the place.

His ingenuity had not been to any degree tested. He had pointedly ignored the curious looks which must be accorded to any stranger in such an out-of-the-way place, merely ordering a tankard and taking an opportunity to engage the tapster in conversation.

“You’ve had a deal of excitement here, I take it.”

“Aye, we have that, sir,” the man responded, and then he frowned a little. “But how you got to know it has me beat.”

“I am staying with my wife at the Blue Pig,” Francis informed him pleasantly. “My carriage broke down.”

This piece of news appeared to interest the tapster unduly. “Broke a wheel, sir?”

“The axletree.”

“Ah. ’Tis a pity as poor Mr. Duggleby been and took dead, then, for he’d have had it put together in no time.”

A heavy sigh accompanied this pronouncement. Recognising his cue, Francis bethought him of his wife and did his duty.

“The blacksmith, do you mean? I hear the roof fell in on him.”

“Aye, it did that, sir. And the devil’s own job it be to dig him out.”

“I imagine so,” Francis agreed. “From what I saw at the smithy, it must have taken a deal of work and many hands.”

The tapster blinked. “You seen it, then, sir?”

“On the way in. There seems to have been something of a fire, too.”

“Aye, blazing it be when we brung him out, only the storm done for that soon enough.”

Francis kept his tone carefully casual. “I daresay it was inevitable, what with the fire going in the forge.”

A puzzled look crept into the tapster’s features, and he leaned confidentially across the counter. “That be the funny thing, sir. The fire be over where Duggleby lay, but there bain’t no path of flame to the forge which be out already, the bellows being still. Master Tisbury says as how the flames must’ve jumped by the roof afore it come down.”

Or perhaps, as Tillie had surmised, someone had taken a burning piece of tinder and deliberately set alight the area around the body. Which thought reminded Francis of his second task.

“Pakefield said your Master Tisbury had the smith brought here last night.”

“In this very taproom, aye. Master thought as it bain’t right to leave Duggleby lying in the smithy, with the roof down and all.”

“That was well thought of. Though I confess I am relieved the body has been removed.”

This produced a snigger, and the tapster went so far as to wink. “It be old Pa Wagstaff as said he hoped as he bain’t
expected to take his drink along o’ the dead, seeing as he bain’t minded yet to join Duggleby in the next world.”

“One can scarcely blame him,” said Francis with a smile, noting the nod in the direction of an ancient sitting on a bench near the fireplace. He looked to be a fixture, and his aged gaze, still keen, had more than once flickered in Francis’s direction.

“Aye, but it be nowt to do with old Pa as made Master set the body over to back of the house.”

“This house?”

The tapster nodded. “Have him took to another room, says the doctor, for as he’d to look at Duggleby by daylight.”

Francis caught the whiff of gossip in the fellow’s voice and looked a question. The tapster cast a glance around the watching patrons, leaned over the counter, and lowered his voice.

“I heard the doc say as how he bain’t satisfied as to how Duggleby died.”

“You heard it?” repeated Francis, rejoiced to have discovered so readily the source of the rumour.

The tapster nodded, his eyes alight. “I heard him say as it be a hammer to Duggleby’s head afore the roof come down. He be talking to the new reverend.”

The door to the hallway opened, and Francis looked round as the tapster glanced up.

“Here be the reverend now, sir.”

The fellow began to move away, but Francis held up a hand. “One moment. Has the doctor been here today to look at the body?”

If the tapster was surprised at the question, he did not show it, but nodded, his attention focused on the newcomer, who was coming towards the counter.

“He come early, but told Master to leave Duggleby where he be. He’ve gone off to fetch Lord Henbury as be justice of the peace, and Pilton, which be constable hereabout.”

With which, the fellow moved to where the parson now
stood, and Francis shifted his position, eyeing the man even as he racked his brains for a means to introduce Tillie into the room where the corpse lay.

T
he vicar was a slim-featured gentleman with a serious expression and a pair of startlingly blue eyes. The black garb and clerical collar proclaimed his calling, and he spoke with a quiet assurance that instantly drew Francis’s interest.

“Will? Is Tisbury here?”

“In the back, Reverend. Shall I fetch him to you?”

“If you please.”

The tapster disappeared through a doorway behind the counter, and the vicar stood back, glancing around the taproom. He met Francis’s eye briefly but made no comment, instead focusing his gaze upon a bench flanking the fireplace.

“What you done with that there witch, Reverend? Time to set up the faggots, be it?”

A high-pitched cackle accompanied this challenge, and Francis turned to find the comment emanated from the old country fellow stigmatised as Pa Wagstaff. A smoking clay pipe was in his fingers, and he sported a greasy smock and a battered hat.

The vicar nodded towards him. “I’ll thank you not to jest upon such a subject, Mr. Wagstaff.”

The ancient sniggered the more and waved his pipe. “And I’ll thankee if’n you be minded to take a stick to my fool daughter, Reverend.”

Before the parson had a chance to respond, the tapster returned with a portly individual whose unprepossessing countenance took on a discontented expression the instant his eyes fell on the vicar.

“Oh, it be you, Reverend. What be you wanting this time?”

A slight edge entered the vicar’s voice. “I shall be obliged, Tisbury, if you will furnish me with the names of the village boys.”

The landlord scowled. “What, all on ’em?”

“All who may answer to the charge of stoning Mrs. Dale.”

The fellow Tisbury looked recalcitrant. “How’s I to know which on ’em done it?”

Francis watched the blue eyes set steady upon the landlord’s face. “Yet I am certain you do know.”

No response being forthcoming, the vicar glanced again around the tavern. Francis saw a swift shifting among the assembled men, all but the aged Wagstaff refusing to meet the vicar’s eyes.

“They won’t none on ’em tell you, Reverend,” said this worthy, who seemed to find every one of his own utterances matter for mirth. “What’ll you do, dust they jackets for ’em?”

The parson ignored him, turning back instead to the landlord. “Have you boys of your own, Tisbury?”

“Mine’s growed,” returned the man, his tone sullen.

“And are they good citizens?”

“Only be one, and he be ’prenticed.”

“Excellent. Now, which boys do I look for on this occasion?”

Tisbury scowled the more. “If’n you want the ringleaders, you best try Staxton’s boys. Lawless little varmints they be.”

“I thank you.”

The vicar turned to go, but at that moment, the door opened again and a burly fellow came in, attired in rough homespuns.

“Here be Staxton himself,” pronounced the landlord.

The man who had entered halted abruptly, his glance going from the landlord behind the counter to the vicar, who was facing him. Francis heard a collective intake of breath and looked more closely at the fellow Staxton, taking in the raw and ruddy cheeks and a look of fierce defiance in a pair of bloodshot eyes. It struck him the village was chock-full of bad-tempered men. Or was it due to the happenings of the hour?

“Farmer Staxton?”

The man stood his ground, his frowning gaze fixed on the vicar. “Reverend?”

The parson unexpectedly held out his hand. “We have not met. I am Kinnerton.”

The farmer looked at the hand, wiped his own against his breeches in a gesture Francis took to be both habitual and unconscious, and shook it.

“Saw you last night, Reverend,” said Staxton, his voice a low growl.

Kinnerton smiled. “Indeed? I regret I could not take in all the faces.”

A faint twitch of the man’s lips might be taken for an attempt at a smile. “It ’ud take a tidy good memory.”

“True.” The vicar fell back a step. “Staxton, I need your help.”

“Aye?”

“Do you know any of the boys who threw stones at Mrs. Dale last night?”

There was a perceptible pause. Francis saw the man’s eyes flicker. Deciding whether to lie? Then he nodded briefly.

“Aye.”

“Will you furnish me with their names, if you please?”

This time the man’s chin came up, but he did not hesitate. “Bart, Josh, and Abe. T’other two be only followers.”

Francis watched Kinnerton’s face with intense concentration. Not a muscle shifted, and the blue eyes remained steady on Staxton’s own.

“I thank you. Where may I find them?”

“Over to the farm. My boys they be.”

“I see.”

For a moment neither spoke, and Francis found he was holding his breath. Then Kinnerton opened fire.

“Do I take it you condone the behaviour of your sons, Staxton?”

Now the farmer’s eyes narrowed. “What if’n I do?”

“Will you tell me why?” asked the vicar unexpectedly.

The fellow’s jaw dropped open. “Why?”

“Yes, why would a sensible man condone such conduct?”

Francis heard the edge to the parson’s voice and realised the man was very angry indeed. He doubted he would remain similarly cool in Kinnerton’s position.

Staxton appeared nonplussed. His jaw worked, and he blinked several times in quick succession. Then he threw up his head and puffed out his chest, the growl pronounced.

“Be you telling me how I’m to raise my own flesh and blood, Reverend?”

“I might well do so,” said Kinnerton, his tone steely, “since that forms part of my ministry. But at this present I am merely asking you a question. Why,” he repeated, “do you condone your sons throwing stones at a defenceless woman?”

The farmer let out a roar, like a cornered animal. His voice rose.

“A witch, bain’t her? Stones be too good for the likes of her. Bain’t enough as her’ve killed Duggleby. Who be next? If you’ve a mite of sense, Reverend, you’ll have nowt to do with her, or you be a-going to end up same as Duggleby.”

“Is that a threat?”

The deadly quiet of the question did nothing to lessen the force of its impact. The entire taproom went still, every eye turning upon Farmer Staxton. Francis felt momentarily in awe of the slight figure standing firm before the onslaught of the farmer’s wrath.

It took several seconds, but the vicar won. Staxton fell back, dropping his gaze.

“Bain’t no threat,” he mumbled. “Didn’t mean nowt by it.”

“Very well,” came the quiet response. “Bring your boys to see me at the church, if you please. At three o’clock.”

Staxton glanced up once and then back down. “Aye, Reverend.”

“Don’t fail.”

The farmer mumbled something that might have been assent. Without another word, the vicar passed him and quietly left the taproom. An idea leapt into Francis’s head. If this Kinnerton could be of use to Tillie, he was a fellow eminently worthy of cultivating.