Death Comes to the Fair

by Catherine Lloyd

  “That would be most appreciated, Betty.” Miss Harrington untied her bonnet ribbons. “Is Mr. Thurrock in the parlor?”

  “I believe he is, miss. Do you want me to go and check?”

  “No, I’ll find him.” Miss Harrington smiled at Betty. “Just bring the tea through when it is ready.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Robert followed Miss Harrington out of the kitchen and along to the small, sunny parlor at the back of the house that the family used every day. To his relief, there was no sign of Miss Penelope Chingford or her sister. He kept meaning to tactfully inquire as to when they would be leaving, but the right moment had not yet arisen. The burgeoning friendship between his betrothed and his ex-betrothed was equally puzzling.

  Mr. Thurrock was sitting at the desk writing, his back to the door, his pen scratching over the paper.

  Miss Harrington gently cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, Mr. Thurrock. I’ve brought Major Kurland to speak to you, sir.”

  “Sir Robert!”

  The verger’s brother hastily blotted his page, and attempted to turn in his seat, a task made nigh impossible because of his bulk and the constrictions of his corset.

  Robert bowed. “Mr. Thurrock. I come to offer my condolences on your loss, and to give you whatever assistance I can in arranging what needs to be done.”

  “That is most gracious of you, sir, most kind indeed.” Mr. Thurrock sighed and inclined his head. “My poor, dear brother. What a terrible loss both to our family and to the Kurland St. Mary community.”

  Robert took a seat. “He certainly will be missed.”

  Miss Harrington came forward and placed the box containing Ezekiel’s possessions on the corner of the desk. “We just collected these from Dr. Fletcher.” She glanced meaningfully at Robert. “I’ll go and see whether Betty has made the tea, Major. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He watched her go and then turned his attention to Mr. Thurrock, who was taking out each item and sighing over it. There wasn’t much. An old watch, a much-used prayer book, and a battered pocketknife similar to the one Robert had carried with him since he was a boy.

  “What’s this bundle of sticks?” Mr. Thurrock raised his head and shared a puzzled frown with Robert. “It looks like something you would pick up at a fair from a Romany.”

  Robert shrugged. Maybe the verger had acquired at the local fair. He hadn’t considered that. “A lucky charm, mayhap? Something your brother might have carried with him for years?”

  “I doubt it. My brother had no truck with heresy or witchcraft, Sir Robert. He was a true believer.”

  “Then perhaps he found it somewhere, picked it up, put it in his pocket, and forgot about it?”

  “Far more likely.” Mr. Thurrock pocketed the watch, knife, and prayer book and left the charm in the bottom of the box. “Thank you for returning these items to me, Sir Robert. I will cherish them.”

  Robert sat back in his chair. “You are most welcome. Do you intend to take your brother’s body back to Cambridge with you for burial? If so, I can help you with the arrangements.”

  “I think he’d prefer to be buried here, where he spent the majority of his life.”

  Robert nodded. “I’m certain the rector will be agreeable to this.”

  “In truth, our ancestral roots are in Kurland St. Mary. We have a family plot in the churchyard of Kurland St. Anne.”

  “I did not realize that.”

  Mr. Thurrock smiled. “That is one of the reasons why my brother and I enjoyed our time spent here together. Our family moved to Cambridge several years ago, and ended up staying there. After deciding his future lay with the church, Ezekiel was delighted to obtain a post in this particular parish.”

  “I believe my father had a hand in his selection for the position.”

  “That’s right. An excellent and worthy gentleman.”

  Yet again, Robert chided himself on his lack of local knowledge. He’d been so keen to enter the military and get away from his obligations that he’d neglected to learn much about the families who lived and died on his own land. It was something he was beginning to rectify, but it was still frustrating. He couldn’t get into the habit of relying on Miss Harrington to correct his mistakes.

  A movement at the door had him standing up and making space for Miss Harrington to bring in the tea tray. She poured for them all and made polite conversation, which both gentlemen responded to. He had no doubt that if he did go into politics and become a so-called success she would make the perfect political hostess.

  “Is your father at home, Miss Harrington?” Robert inquired.

  “Betty said he is out with Miss Chingford and her sister in Kurland St. Anne visiting a sick parishioner, but I expect them back fairly shortly. Do you wish to speak to him?”

  Robert rose to his feet. “Nothing that can’t wait. My apologies, Mr. Thurrock, I have to get back to Kurland Hall to meet with my land agent.”

  “No apologies necessary, Sir Robert. For a man as busy as yourself to condescend to spend time with my lowly self is beyond amiable.” Mr. Thurrock beamed at Miss Harrington. “One can easily see how the major beguiled you into marrying him, ma’am.”

  To her credit, Miss Harrington responded with a gracious smile and a quick curtsy. “He is indeed all goodness, Mr. Thurrock.”

  Robert followed her out into the deserted front hall and reclaimed his hat and gloves.

  “I just thought of something while you were speaking to Mr. Thurrock,” said Miss Harrington. “Where exactly was the charm on Ezekiel’s body?”

  “Dr. Fletcher didn’t say, but I can ask him. Why does it matter?”

  “Because he might have found it somewhere, and slipped it into his pocket to dispose of later.”

  “Which would mean it had nothing to do with him.”

  “Exactly.” Miss Harrington nodded.

  “But if it was concealed on his person . . .”

  “It is more likely that he owned it.” She finished his sentence for him. “I suppose it could also be connected to the general grievance against him since the harvest fair.”

  “In what way?”

  “Maybe somebody ill-wished him and placed the charm where he could find it?”

  Robert put on his gloves. “That is quite possible.”

  “Then did the charm succeed?”

  “By causing a gargoyle to fall on his head during a storm? Good Lord, Miss Harrington, your imagination has no boundaries.”

  “It is something of a coincidence, though, isn’t it? That he wins all the prizes, someone lays a curse on him, and he dies.” She raised her eyebrows. “And don’t say I’m being fanciful. Someone in the village might be feeling very pleased with themselves right now if they think their charm worked.”

  She shivered and he patted her shoulder.

  “I doubt anyone would rejoice in his death over such a trivial matter, would you?”

  “Agreed. Perhaps I am being fanciful after all.” She stepped back and opened the door. “Good afternoon, Major Kurland.”

  He bowed. “Miss Harrington.”

  * * *

  Major Kurland turned out of the rectory drive, and headed slowly up the lane toward Kurland Hall. Lucy noted with some satisfaction that he was hardly limping at all. She rubbed her hands up and down her upper arms trying to drive some warmth into them. Despite her reassurances to the major the sense that someone in the village might have deliberately cursed the deceased verger didn’t sit well with her. Unlike his rather obsequious brother he’d been a good and pious man, devoted to the church and her father’s interests.

  Had he discovered the charm and been distracted when he visited the church during the storm? Why hadn’t he taken more care in the old tower? Her gaze shifted unwillingly to the church across the road from the rectory and the dark shadow of the squat bell tower. It hadn’t always housed several bells. That had been a more recent innovation during the previous rector’s incumbency. According to Nathaniel Thurrock, the
tower had once been fortified and had been the last line of defense for the villagers.

  Lucy frowned and headed back into the parlor, where Mr. Thurrock had finished his tea and returned to his endless letter writing.

  “Mr. Thurrock . . .”

  “Yes, my dear Miss Harrington?”

  “I remember you saying that you had some drawings of our church, and the modifications that had been made to it over several hundred years.”

  “Indeed I do.” He returned his pen to the inkwell. “Would you like me to fetch my sketchbook?”

  “When you have finished your other tasks, sir. I do not wish to disturb you.”

  He rose to his feet. “I am more than willing to cease writing the same sad note to my friends and family. It becomes quite tedious after a while. I would be delighted to assist you.”

  “Thank you.” Lucy smiled at him. She had no idea what she would say if he asked her why she was suddenly interested in a church she’d worshipped in all her life. It was highly likely he wouldn’t inquire, being far more interested in himself than in the actions of others.

  He returned with his heavy sketchbook and started flipping through the pages. Lucy noticed several drawings of gravestones and buildings, and one that she guessed was the side view of the Mallard farmhouse in Kurland St. Anne.

  “Ah, here we are, Miss Harrington. I attempted to portray the various stages of building over the past nine hundred years. I gained much of my information from the parish records held here by your father, and from a simple examination of the various methods of construction used within the church walls.”

  Lucy studied the external and internal views of the tower, which, as she had suspected, was the oldest part of the building. Mr. Thurrock was still talking.

  “Of course, the tower walls are incredibly thick and the round window at the bottom was put in much later. I believe, and your father concurs, that up until that point there were only arrow slits and the exterior door to bring light into the interior.”

  “Was the platform the bell ringers use always there?” Lucy inquired.

  “Well, the stairs must have gone somewhere, but the original upper timber floor was replaced with a sturdier structure when the first bell was hung to call the villagers to prayer.”

  “When the tower became part of the church.”

  “Indeed.”

  Lucy sat back. “Thank you so much for showing me your drawings, Mr. Thurrock.”

  “You are most welcome, Miss Harrington.” He heaved a sigh. “And now I must return to my sad task of conveying the news of my brother’s untimely death to our friends and family. He will be much missed.”

  “I know. He was a very kind man.” Lucy stood up and gathered the tea things back onto the tray. She also retrieved the box with the remains of the charm in it. “I will leave you in peace, sir.”

  She took the tray back into the kitchen, her thoughts tumbling over each other as she attempted to picture the interior of the church.

  “I’ll deal with that, Miss Harrington.” Betty removed the tray from her unresisting hands. “Cook will be back to make dinner shortly and you know she likes a clean kitchen.”

  “Thank you, Betty.” Lucy scooped up the major’s handkerchief and put it in her pocket. “If my father asks for me, tell him I will be at the church for a while preparing for the harvest festival celebration.”

  “I’ll do that, miss.”

  Lucy put on her stoutest boots, and borrowed a good lantern from Harris in the stables before hurrying across the road to the church. At this time of year the days were short, and she reckoned she barely had an hour or two of daylight left. She entered the church and stood quietly, letting the familiar scent of beeswax, damp wood, and old stone settle around her. There were a few box pews at the front, including the Kurland family pew with its elaborately carved K on the side. At the back of the church was the ancient stone baptismal font and beyond that the door into the tower and belfry.

  She made her way down the central aisle, pausing occasionally to look up at the curved lines of the ceiling and the old warped oak beams that stretched across the white plasterwork. She counted the stone statues that guarded the join between the walls and the roof and found them all present and correct.

  The door into the tower was closed, and she paused to light her lantern before stepping over the dipped stone threshold into the dark stillness of the space beyond. The thickness of the walls meant it was far colder than the rest of the church. She set the lantern on the floor, and tried to remember exactly where Ezekiel Thurrock had fallen. It wasn’t a very large space. Sinking to her knees by the door lintel, she gazed up at the underside of the wooden platform that the bell ringers used every Sunday and holy day.

  A spiral staircase clung to the side of the wall, disappearing up into the darkness beyond the upper level. What had brought the verger to this space on the day of his death? Had he come to check if the bells were secure as the storm raged? It would’ve been just like him. Or had he simply been passing through into the church?

  Lucy squinted up at the wall. There wasn’t a huge gap between the end of the platform and the circumference of the tower. If a gargoyle had fallen from the wall, it would almost certainly have fallen onto the platform.

  “Did it roll off the edge?” Lucy asked the darkness. “Or was it lucky enough to fall straight out of the wall and down here?”

  The more she thought about it, the more incredible it seemed. She rose to her feet and gathered up her skirts. There was no help for it. She would have to climb up there and see for herself....

  Chapter 5

  “As I was saying earlier, Dermot, the scheme to dig deeper drainage channels—”

  “Major Kurland!”

  Robert broke off from his discussion with his land agent as Miss Harrington came through the door of his study. Her face was flushed, her bonnet was askew, and she had one hand plastered to her bosom as if she had run all the way from the rectory.

  He rose instinctively to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

  Behind her Foley appeared, his expression apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir. She ran right past me, and with the state of my legs I could not keep up with her.”

  “That’s quite all right, Foley. She is my betrothed and is more than welcome here at any time. Bring us something reviving to drink.” Robert turned to Mr. Fletcher, who was also standing and staring in a bemused fashion at the panting Miss Harrington. “I do apologize, Dermot. Perhaps we can continue this meeting later?”

  “Of course, Sir Robert.” Mr. Fletcher bowed to them both, and removed himself swiftly and efficiently from the study. He was nothing if not discreet.

  After the door closed behind his land agent, Robert walked around his desk to take Miss Harrington’s hand.

  “My dear girl, calm yourself. Whatever is the matter?”

  “The gargoyle.”

  “What about it?”

  “The one that supposedly hit Mr. Thurrock on the head!” He led her toward a chair by the fire, but she refused to sit down. “There aren’t any up there.”

  Robert frowned. “I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me.”

  She took a deep, steadying breath; fixed him with her best stare; and spoke slowly as if to a three-year-old child. “I went up the stairs in the tower to the platform to see if I could find where the gargoyle had fallen from.”

  He frowned. “Those stairs are hardly safe.”

  “I know, and I’m not particularly fond of heights either.” She shivered. “But I had to make sure.”

  “Why?” This time she did sit down and he took the seat opposite her, retaining his grip on her hand. “What made you decide to investigate?”

  “It was something Mr. Nathaniel Thurrock told me about the construction of the church. He said that the round tower had probably been used for defensive purposes before being incorporated into the church.”

  “And?”

  “Which means it doesn’t have any particula
rly religious stone ornamentation in it.”

  “None at all?”

  “None that I could see. And even if it did, anything that was dislodged during the storm would have been far more likely to fall onto the platform rather than plummet to the floor below.”

  Robert pictured the tower. “I see what you mean.” He considered his next words very carefully. “Are you suggesting that someone dropped the gargoyle on Ezekiel’s head deliberately?”

  “I do believe I am.”

  Robert groaned and shoved a hand through his short hair. “Why do you have to be so inquisitive, Miss Harrington? And why do you constantly embroil me in your flights of fancy?”

  She raised her chin at a challenging angle he had come to know rather well. “I am not embroiling you in anything. I just thought that as the local magistrate you should know what I have discovered.”

  “Or think that you have discovered.” He glanced out of the diamond-paned window at the gathering clouds. “It is too late for me to accompany you back to the church. We wouldn’t see a thing in the gloom.”

  She sat forward, her hands clasped together. “But you will come tomorrow and examine the evidence for yourself?”

  Foley knocked on the door and tottered in with a large silver tray. “Refreshments, Sir Robert.”

  “Thank you, now go away, and make sure you close the door behind you.”

  Foley gave a martyred sigh. “I am quite beyond listening at keyholes, sir. If I bend down that low I can no longer straighten up.”

  “Good.” Robert steered his oldest retainer back through the door. “I will ring the bell if I need anything else.”

  He poured Miss Harrington a glass of ratafia, a brandy for himself, and returned to his seat by the fire.

  “Thank you.” She accepted the glass and took a tiny sip. “What are we going to do if my suspicions are correct?”

  “At this moment, I cannot say. I’d prefer to see the evidence with my own eyes.” He shook his head. “Even if you are right, I still can’t believe anyone would want to kill Ezekiel Thurrock.” He glanced up to see his betrothed staring pensively into the fire. “Can you?”