Patterson arrived, having heard he was indisposed. Geoffrey dismissed him and sent him to remove the hideous object from the front door forthwith and get rid of it. Geoffrey pressed his temples. The blood had brought back images of the war, and the memories had somehow entwined themselves with the night’s events. He had killed a woman and felt the life ebb out of her. Killing men in war was quite a different thing. Women were defenceless, untrained, unready for conflict or acts of heroism. Especially old women. He thought of his mother, remembered how her body lay limply in his arms, heard the hoofbeats of Wheeler’s men galloping away.
Geoffrey continued to wash his hands and meticulously soaped and rubbed his clothes and boots until all evidence of the night’s proceedings was gone. Thankfully, the woman’s thick cloak had absorbed the stains and protected his clothing. Geoffrey could not help but wonder who she was, whose mother, and who might be waiting at home for someone who would never return. The knife had slid into her belly, so softly, with barely a sound, like gutting a fish–easy, slippery, over in a moment with the minimum of fuss. That moment would never leave him, she said. He felt cursed. He sensed the noose already tightening around his neck.
He paced the room, tugging distractedly at the hem of his clean shirt, his fingers unable to be still. His life seemed to be falling into pieces around him. He was unwell. True, his skin had improved, but now some other dreadful malady assailed him. The world would suddenly slip out of focus, he would see things that weren’t there. He could be losing his wits. He seemed to think a woman was dead, and somehow he had done it. It could not be true. He remembered scrubbing the sled and groaned. His stomach gave a great lurch.
As if he had not trouble enough already. He had lost control of his finances, his estate was full of dissenters and his wife was cuckolding him behind his back. And now there was this.
With a start he recalled the memory of Emilia dancing. He had been gulled by his wife. What was more, he was a laughing stock, and people must know–be sniggering behind his back. Bile rose in his throat. He would make her pay. Emilia would not get away with this, the two-faced trollop. He put his head in his hands. The thought incensed him. Who was the man? He racked his brains. The whore. It could have been any of them.
‘Hetherington,’ he said aloud. The bastard. To think he had let it happen behind his back without so much as an inkling of suspicion. He must be losing his powers of discernment–he had always thought he had the measure of Emilia, that he understood her stupid petty needs. As far as he could see, her only desire was for frills and fineries. And he had supplied her, like the dutiful husband he was, with all she requested; he had been a good provider.
But even this he knew was a lie. She had brought her money and bought him–bought him in return for a title and a ticket to the higher strata of society. He had been bought, and now he had been duped. He shirked from looking deep in himself, for he knew they had never felt any real connection, that he had somehow missed the way of making a meaningful relationship with her, but it still came to him as a shock that she would dare to do this to him. She had betrayed him, opened her legs for that scoundrel Hetherington before coming home to eat dinner and hide her lust behind that limp and simpering façade.
The blazing lights of his room dazzled him, made his eyes water. He blew each taper out with a controlled and deliberate breath and lay down on his bed in the hot clammy darkness behind his locked door. When the knocking came he ignored it and rolled over, clutching the crumpled feather pillow to his face, feeling the room lurch and keel as if he was still aboard his schooner. When he retched again, he thought he was leaning over the rails with the black ocean below, but the vomit splashed with a clap over the wooden floorboards and seeped sour and yellow into the edge of the turkey rug.
Tomorrow, by God, he would deal with Emilia.
Chapter 18
In the village, word was soon out that old Widow Poulter had disappeared. The landlord of the Anchor was irate because she had left without paying him, and his son was still suffering with a rash of boils she had promised to poultice that morning. The general opinion was that she had sneaked off in the night, probably back to Preston, and folk thought no more about it, other than to think the worse of her, as people are wont to do.
It was one of the milk lads who found the body. When he was out on his round, he’d stopped the dray to have a smoke. When he went to relieve himself in a hedge he’d seen her lying there. He’d thought her drunk, until he tumbled her over and saw the deep red wounds gaping through her bodice, her white-filmed eyes rolled back in her head. He’d run back to the dray, all of a bother, pipe still smouldering in his lips, and set off to fetch his brother. Between them they manhandled her onto the back of the cart and took her to the constable’s.
The milk lad lost no time in announcing it to all and sundry in the village, and so the speculation began. Some said Margaret was a great healer, almost a saint, and others that she was an evil charlatan involved in certain skulduggery, who deserved everything that had happened to her. Nonetheless, everyone was concerned that there might be a cutthroat in their midst, and it soon became the favourite occupation of the day to guess the identity of the perpetrator of the crime. At Ella and Sadie Appleby’s house, the news was delivered by the neighbour, who’d heard it from the milking lad at Trout Farm. Ella had answered the door reluctantly, in her shift, for she had been late abed after a night of carousing in the alehouse after the great success of the cuckolding. But Ella was soon excited by the scandal of Margaret’s passing and interrogated the neighbour for juicy parts of the story she could savour and pass on as the centre of attention. She hurried to dress and get to the Ibbetsons’ with her tale before anyone else got there first.
She dressed provocatively, for now it was a habit; her low-cut blouse would attract Thomas’s attention, like a pig to swill. And he was on the verge of buying her a new gown, she knew it. Just a little more persuasion and he would be in the draper’s, ordering her something fancy. She took a peek at the shoes under her mattress. She did this every day, partly to reassure herself they were still there and had not been stolen by her sister or her father, and partly because they embodied for her all her ideas about gentility and beauty. To walk on the muddy ground in such peach-soft, smooth, light slippers, with their delicate sprigs of floral embroidery, must surely mean you had arrived–you were a lady of refinement. Shoes spoke a lot about folk, she thought. You could tell what sort of a person you were dealing with straight away by what was on their feet. Thomas’s fine brown calf-leather boots were a mile away from her father’s down-at-heel clog-boots with his grimy toes pushing through cracks in the leather.
The shoes held a fascination she could not have explained. Partly it was just the texture, the almost sexual smoothness of the satin, its coolness, the slight sheen of the surface. Partly it was the colour, a rich butter colour that spoke of the fat of the land, that conjured the foods she would never eat at home and had to connive and wheedle to get whilst at work. She stared again at the dark stain disfiguring one of the cream stitched roses, rubbing her finger over it before pushing the shoes back into their hiding place.
She smoothed down her apron, twirled her brown hair into a semblance of a ringlet at the front and straightened her cap.
When she got to the Ibbetsons’ she was aggrieved to find that the news had already reached the kitchen–Cook’s husband had been to the farm and heard it direct from the farm boys. Petulantly at first, but then with growing enthusiasm, she joined the gossip about who could have been responsible.
‘Slit right across the belly, she was. Must have been a carving knife or a hunting knife.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Ella. ‘She had a right temper on her. I saw her last week, right here on our front path, shouting at the mistress.’
Cook put down her mixing bowl, and the young scullery maid, April, put down the laundry that was steeping in the stone sink and set her posher to one side, and they gathered around, w
iping their hands down their sides.
‘Really?’ April said.
‘You’re right,’ Cook said. ‘I saw them too, from the upstairs window.’ She indicated the floor above with her eyes. ‘I’d gone up to collect the tea tray from Master’s room and I saw them there–Mistress Alice and that old woman–the one that’s been killed–they were shouting and carrying on.’
‘You don’t say.’ The scullery maid’s eyes widened.
‘Yes,’ Cook said. ‘She had a hold of Mistress Alice by the arm and was cursing and swearing. I’ve never seen Mistress look so angry.’
‘She was screaming like a she-cat, and spitting,’ Ella said, ‘and I heard Mistress say, “Get out and never come back, you old witch!”’
Cook looked doubtful. ‘I didn’t hear her say that.’
‘Well, you’re getting on a bit. I heard her clear as anything. Mistress was red in the gills and yelling like you’ve never heard. I tell you, if looks could kill…’
‘You don’t think, I mean, surely you don’t think…’ April said.
‘No, don’t be a lummock,’ Cook said, glaring at her.
Ella turned away from the conversation. Her hands absentmindedly picked up the scrubbing board and she started to rub away at one of the master’s shirts. A seed had been planted in her mind and was slowly germinating. She scrubbed gently at first, with a slight smile on her face. Her hands worked mechanically, lathering the soap back and forth on the white cotton fabric. Her eyes stared unseeing out of the steamy window. Then the scrubbing became faster and more fevered and the water splashed and frothed around her elbows until Cook said, ‘Leave off that collar now, Ella, you’ll wear it out.’
Ella came to, as if with a jolt. She dropped the shirt back in the sink. Cook and the scullery maid were staring at her as if she had lost her senses.
‘I’m taking the morning off.’ Ella unfastened her apron and threw it over the back of a chair.
‘But you only just got here—’ April began to speak at the same time as Cook.
‘But what about Mistress Alice? What am I to tell her?’
‘Tell her what you like.’ Ella paused by the door. A shadow flitted across her face as if something else had just occurred to her.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said. ‘I won’t be coming back at all.’
‘Not in time to help with the dinner either?’
‘No, not at all. I’m not coming back here, not to this house, not whilst she’s in it. It’s evil, and I will be well out of it.’ With that, she turned on her heel and swept out of the room, leaving Cook and the scullery maid staring at her retreating back in astonishment.
‘What did she mean?’ asked April, timidly.
‘I’ve no idea,’ snapped Cook. ‘Something she’s cooked up in her head, I shouldn’t wonder. She always was a bit fanciful.’
‘What did she mean, that the house is evil?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is, there will be one less hand today and there’s all this to do.’ Cook held out her arms in a gesture of frustration towards the heap of sodden clothes in the sink before pushing her hair back under her cap and saying, ‘Shape up now, girl. You get on with that lot, whilst I run over to Jennings’s–I’ll see if their Lottie’s free to give us a hand.’
April looked despondently at the clammy pile of dripping cloth and the washboard. She knew it would be harder without Ella to help wring the sheets and hang them out. Ella was strong, whereas April was always considered a weakling–like a weeping willow, she seemed to buckle if she was asked to carry too much weight. And Ella had told April stories whilst they worked. Cook said they were tall tales and that Ella was a tittle-tattle and it was all scum and lies, but April always enjoyed hearing them all the same. Seeing her still standing gazing at the sink, Cook flashed her a warning look and April scurried over to it, rolling her damp sleeves further up her skinny arms.
Ten minutes later Cook was back, with young Lottie Jennings in tow.
‘There’s trouble brewing,’ she said. ‘Lottie’s pa saw Ella outside the constable’s. He reckoned she must have done something real bad.’
‘Do you think Mistress has found out about her pinching stuff?’ April looked back over her shoulder.
Cook’s chin retreated back into her neck and she looked blankly at April for a moment before her chin jutted forwards again and she said, ‘What’s this?’ She approached April with her eyes narrowed.
Realizing from Cook’s reaction that it had been a mistake to open her mouth and hastily retracting, April quivered. ‘If she pinched stuff, I mean to say, she wouldn’t, but if she did…’ She tailed off lamely, red in the face.
‘Do you think I don’t know what goes on in my own kitchen?’ Cook shouted. ‘Lottie, stop gawping and help April with the wringing.’
Out of the corners of their eyes, over the twisting of the sheets above the sink, Lottie and April watched Cook go straight to the pantry. Moments later they witnessed her bring out several half-full jars of jam and line them up silently on the table. Neither of them spoke. They dared not. Cook’s face was clabbered, as though she had just swallowed a ball of camphor.
Chapter 19
Stephen Fisk set off early to the Quakers for the morning meeting. To his father’s annoyance, the committee had agreed Stephen should be the one to find out what was afoot at Lingfell Hall. His father’s instructions from the night before were etched into his mind: that he must trust no one, keep his ears and eyes open, and try to win Wheeler’s confidence. He must speak as little as possible lest he give himself away.
In preparation he had managed to speak incognito with the town clerk, claiming to have been convinced at one of Fox’s so-called ‘threshing meetings’. The thrill of being in disguise was even greater when no suspicions had been aroused and Isaac had agreed to introduce him at the meeting. Stephen had said that his name was Sam Fielding. It had amused him to keep the same initials for his alias, as if it gave him more veracity. He had let it be known he was a mercer from Burton-in-Lonsdale, and indeed he had spent several days reading all he could about the mercer’s trade. With his father’s collusion he had taken one of his worst nags, a plain bay with a white blaze, the most unremarkable beast, as his mount. It was slow-going on such a horse, but it gave him time on the way to the meeting to go over his imaginary life story in his head.
He was in truth not just a little nervous, but terrified. He wished he had never volunteered. His father had warned him that the meetings were a cover for the king’s enemies to plan their treasonous activities, and Stephen knew if he were identified as Sir Geoffrey’s son he might not leave Lingfell Hall alive. He remembered someone jesting with him in Oxford that the Quakers themselves were an unruly bunch of madmen who refused to submit to common law. They did not seem quite so amusing now. His hands were sweating slightly, rubbing the saddle soap from the reins until his palms were stained brown.
His horse picked its way along the stony lane, seemingly in no hurry to reach its destination, which was exactly how Stephen himself felt about the task ahead. Dressed in dun-coloured tweed breeches and a matching plain wool topcoat, he felt like a gamekeeper, and for this reason he had sneaked out before breaking his fast lest he should meet his mother–she would certainly have something to say about his odd attire.
He ran over his tale in his head, but did not have long to practise it before it was required. Hoofbeats behind him made him turn in his saddle, and a lone rider on a big Cleveland bay horse cantered up alongside.
‘Going to the Hall?’
‘Aye.’
‘For the morning meeting?’
‘Aye.’
The man swivelled in his saddle to get a better look at Stephen.
‘Then we can ride together. Thy face is unfamiliar, wilt thou introduce thyself?’
‘Sam Fielding. From Burton-in-Lonsdale. I’ve not been to the Hall before.’
‘Well, there’s always a fine welcome–especially to young faces. Hast thou rid
den from Burton this morning?’
‘Aye.’ It sounded an odd word to Stephen, but the other man seemed to notice nothing amiss.
‘That’s a fair old ride. We’ll make sure thy horse is well watered when we get there.’
Stephen just nodded. He knew engaging in small talk would be difficult. He could not get used to the old-fashioned speech, and he feared his schooling might give him away. So he rode on. The other man also rode quietly, as if it was expected, pausing only now and then to point to the vivid yellow linden leaves on a solitary tree, and to a red fox as it ran along a furrow in the field alongside. Stephen let the other man go ahead, watching his horse’s rump sway from side to side. He pondered over last night’s dinner and wished he had not had so much wine. His father had upset his mother again by drinking too much, retiring early and leaving her to deal with all the servants and the guests. Patterson had been required to sort him out as usual. Stephen sighed and gathered up his reins in his damp palms. Why couldn’t his parents be civil to one another?
So consumed was he by these thoughts that he was taken by surprise when they drew up and he saw the gables of the house and the cobbled yard with several horses tied there. A fresh bout of nerves made his stomach flutter. He dismounted and followed the other man’s lead, tying his horse alongside his.
‘Come along then, Sam,’ the man said. ‘We’ll go and make thee known to Dorothy.’
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