Death Comes to the Fair

by Catherine Lloyd

  “Good morning, Miss Abigail. May we come in?”

  “Of course, my dear.” She stepped back inside the house, her voice continuing as she walked away. She had very fair hair that was silver at the temples and a serene, unlined face with warm blue eyes. She wore a lace cap and a patterned muslin gown covered with a large apron. In truth, she looked like the wife of a prosperous farmer or a cleric and would not have looked out of place in any church gathering. The cottage and holding had belonged outright to the Turner family for many years, and the sisters had inherited it on their father’s passing.

  “I hear you are to be married, Miss Harrington?”

  “That’s correct.” Lucy followed her into a large warm kitchen, where a black pot hung over the open fire, and the scent of flowers and honey permeated the air.

  Miss Abigail, who was the older of the two Turner sisters who remained in the house, motioned them to sit at the table.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “That would be lovely,” Lucy said firmly even as Betty nudged her in the ribs.

  Miss Abigail put a kettle on the range. “The water just boiled so it won’t take a moment. I’ll just refresh the leaves.” She set out some cups. “So it’s not a love potion you’re after, then, Miss Harrington?”

  Lucy smiled. “No, indeed it is not.”

  “Or something for your maid?”

  Betty started to protest, but Lucy spoke over her. “My maid has no need of your services either.”

  “Then how may I help you?” Miss Abigail brought the tea tray over and sat down in a rocking chair. A large black cat immediately jumped into her lap, making Betty mutter something under her breath and surreptitiously cross herself. Lucy gave her a severe look. The last thing she wanted to do was antagonize the healer and brewer of potions.

  “It is something of a delicate matter,” Lucy began.

  Miss Abigail chuckled. “It usually is if a lady such as yourself ends up in my kitchen.” Her gaze flicked over Betty. “Would you rather your maid waited in the hallway? She can drink her tea out there while we chat.”

  Betty shot to her feet. “I’m more than happy to do that, Miss Harrington.”

  As soon as the tea was brewed, Betty retreated to the hallway, and Miss Abigail firmly closed the door behind her.

  “There, now we can be comfortable.”

  Lucy attempted to make Betty’s excuses. “She is quite young, and—”

  “Wise to be wary in my presence?” Miss Abigail smiled. “She is not the first woman to feel uncomfortable in a healer and potion maker’s kitchen or to later need their help. Now, how may I help you?”

  “I found what I believe is some kind of charm, and I wondered if you could explain the significance of it to me.”

  “Where did you find this ‘charm’?”

  “I cannot really say.”

  “Was it left in your possession?”

  “No, I found it.”

  Miss Abigail frowned. “This is quite irregular. Do you have it with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then place it on the table.”

  Lucy retrieved the knotted handkerchief from her reticule and laid it on the scrubbed pine surface.

  “Untie it for me, please.”

  Lucy obliged and the cotton folds fell away to reveal the black material and hemp cord of the original covering.

  Miss Abigail’s breathing hitched. “Good Lord.” She put on a pair of spectacles before leaning down to examine the contents more closely. “This is certainly not a love potion, or a charm for luck.”

  “I guessed that much from the unpleasant smell, but can you tell me anything more?” Lucy asked. “There is something. . . quite disagreeable about it.”

  Miss Abigail straightened and sat back in her rocking chair stroking the cat as she stared into space. Lucy waited patiently.

  “From what I can tell the pouch contains dried blackberry leaves, bit of birch wood and sage. There might be other herbs in there, but I am reluctant to touch anything.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “I’m not quite sure. As you already know, Miss Harrington, I offer more pleasant potions and charms to bring good luck, and husbands, and babies, and . . .” She indicated the bundle on the table. “This is something far more potent.”

  “In what way?”

  “I would assume it was meant as a warning.”

  “But would the person who received it have to know that it was a warning for the thing to work?”

  “That’s a very good question, Miss Harrington.” Miss Abigail studied her intently. “Do you think the person who got this charm knew what it meant?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Then perhaps it won’t succeed.” She smiled. “There’s no need to take these things too seriously, my dear. The more credulous of the villagers believe ill-wishing a person works, and are happy to pay a farthing for a curse to use against an enemy. Usually, that is the end of the matter.”

  “Usually?” Lucy took a deep breath. “Would your sister, Miss Grace Turner, know more about this charm?”

  “You think Grace made this?” Miss Abigail fixed her gaze on the handkerchief again. “I get no sense of her essence in these items.”

  To Lucy’s relief she sounded more amused than annoyed by the question. “Would it be possible to ask her opinion on this matter as well?”

  “If she were home I would definitely do so, but she is out visiting today. If you could leave the charm with me I could certainly ask her.”

  “I’d be happy to leave it with you—in truth the thing makes me shudder,” Lucy said.

  “Which might make sense if someone you know and care for has been cursed over something as ridiculous as a bunch of vegetables.”

  Lucy went still. “Why do you say that?”

  Miss Abigail shrugged. “Because it is the only thing that has caused bad feeling in the village this month.”

  “But if you and your sister didn’t make this charm, who did?”

  “There are many other practitioners of the fine art of herbal wisdom. Some families pass on their knowledge to their children for generations.”

  Lucy’s shoulders slumped. “So it might be impossible to find out exactly who made this charm and why.”

  “Not impossible. Just difficult.” Miss Abigail paused. “Are you certain that you wish to know the answer to your question, Miss Harrington?”

  “Of course I do. Why would you say that?”

  “Because sometimes what you uncover can simply make things worse.”

  “I don’t know if the person who gave this thing to the man it was found on meant to do him harm, or whether it was just supposed to be a warning of some kind.”

  “It’s impossible to say. When exactly did you find the pouch?”

  “Last Saturday.”

  “Ah, when the moon was on the wane.” Miss Abigail nodded. “Some people believe the combination of a waxing moon and Saturn’s day increases the power of their spells.”

  Despite her efforts Lucy shivered as she rose from her seat. “You have been most helpful, Miss Abigail.” She placed a silver sixpence in the older woman’s hand. “If your sister has any more thoughts on the origin of this charm and its purpose, I would be delighted to hear from her.”

  “I will certainly ask her opinion.”

  “Abigail! Are you in the kitchen?” The back door banged, making Lucy jump. “I found the most wonderful patch of Atropa belladonna root down by the stream—”

  Lucy managed to smile. “Good morning, Miss Grace.”

  “Miss Harrington!” Miss Grace Turner glanced over at her sister, who had remained sitting in her rocking chair. They had the same blue eyes but the younger Miss Turner’s hair was black, and she was taller and thinner than her plump sister. “I didn’t realize we had a visitor.”

  “I had business at the church so I left the gig there,” Lucy explained.

  Grace Turner didn’t reply as she marched up to t
he table and stared down at the contents of the handkerchief. “Good gracious! This looks like a somewhat amateurish attempt to ill-wish someone. Don’t tell me you found it, Miss Harrington?”

  “She did find it, Grace, dear, but she doesn’t believe it was meant for her. She came to discover if we knew anything about it.”

  “Did she?” Grace’s direct gaze swung back toward Lucy, who refused to look away. “I wonder why?”

  Lucy raised her chin. “Because you are both well known as healers and wise women, of course.”

  “Neither of us made it.”

  “So your sister said.” She cleared her throat. “Do you know who might have done so?”

  “It could be anyone in the village.” Grace shrugged. “Where did you find it?”

  Lucy gathered her reticule and smiled. “I’ve already wasted enough of your time this morning. I’m sure Miss Abigail will tell you everything you need to know about the matter. I have to be going now.”

  She moved toward the door to call for Betty.

  “Wait.”

  “What is it, Miss Grace?”

  “What happened to the person who was in possession of this pouch?”

  Lucy raised her eyebrows. “What do you think? If it is as amateurish as you suggest maybe nothing untoward happened at all.”

  “But why bring it to us if you thought it harmless?”

  Lucy opened the door and beckoned Betty to join her. “I didn’t quite say that. Are you ready to leave, Betty?”

  She nodded to the sisters, and headed for the back door. “Thank you for your assistance. You’ve been most helpful.”

  They had only reached the front of the house when Grace Turner came after them, the skirt of her habit caught up in her hand to display long riding boots.

  “Miss Harrington!”

  Lucy turned reluctantly to confront her pursuer. “Yes, Miss Grace?”

  “Does this have something to do with what happened at the village fair?”

  Lucy simply stared at her.

  “Because I heard that the verger won all the prizes, and dropped dead the very same night.”

  “Where did you hear that?” Lucy asked.

  Grace made a wide gesture with her hand. “It’s a small place, Miss Harrington. Gossip flies faster than the mail. Was the ill-wish found on the verger?”

  “I am not at liberty to say, Miss Grace.”

  “I’ll wager it was him.” She sighed. “And now everyone will be gossiping about us again, and assuming we’re up to no good.”

  “What exactly do you mean?”

  “You know how it is, Miss Harrington. My sister and I live alone without the protection of a man, which means we are already too independent for many in our community, and we are wise women.” She hesitated. “If the verger was ill-wished and died suddenly, fingers will be pointed in our direction. Our reputation will again be sullied, and rumors will start.”

  “Not by me, Miss Turner, I assure you.”

  Grace straightened her spine. “I will do my best to find out exactly who created that curse.”

  “That is very kind of you.”

  She laughed. “I’m not really doing it for you, Miss Harrington, but to protect my sister and myself.”

  “If we can find out who would do such a thing surely all of us will sleep a little easier in our beds?” Lucy hesitated, unwilling to reveal too much. “The pouch felt . . . malevolent. That’s why I didn’t want to keep it.”

  “I understand. I felt it, too.” Grace took a deep breath. “Take care, Miss Harrington.”

  “And you, Miss Grace. Keep safe.”

  She turned back toward the road and walked briskly away, aware of Miss Grace watching them until she was swallowed up within the shadows of the trees.

  “You all right, Miss Harrington?”

  “Yes, Betty. I am quite well.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to go back there again. I know those ladies do some good, and help those who need it, but that place gives me a bad feeling in my bones.”

  “It’s a perfectly pleasant house.” Lucy strode forward, her eagerness to get back to the safety of the church slightly at variance with her words. “The Turner sisters were very amiable.”

  “Then what was all that about the verger being ill-wished?”

  They’d reached the church, and Lucy turned to Betty. “Please don’t repeat that to anyone. Miss Turner was merely speculating.”

  Betty’s answering snort radiated disbelief. “That’s not what they are saying in the village, miss. Rumor has it that Mr. Thurrock was cursed.”

  “By whom?”

  “Whom do you think?” Betty rolled her eyes and jerked her head in the direction they had just come from. “She was right about that. Everyone knows if you want a spell laid on anyone you come to the misses Turner.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Betty.” Lucy unlatched the gate and walked toward the horse. “Now, let’s hear nothing more about it.”

  * * *

  “I found a list of last year’s winners at the village fair, Major Kurland.”

  Robert looked up from his perusal of the accounts book to see Dermot Fletcher in front of his desk.

  “Thank you.”

  “Miss Harrington placed them in the records for 1816.”

  “How very efficient of her.” He pointed at the corner of his crowded desk. “You may leave the list here while I finish wrestling with the feed accounts.”

  “Would you like me to do that for you, sir?”

  “That’s most kind of you, Dermot, but I am determined to understand why the feed bills for my horses and cattle are higher than those of my household.”

  His land agent sighed. “It’s because of the grain shortage, sir, and the fact that we lost several acres of hay to the flooding last summer so had to buy more in.”

  Robert removed his spectacles. “I’m not blaming you for anything; I’m just concerned as to how our government expects the average man to feed his family when the price of a loaf of bread is so high. They cannot maintain these rates and should be importing cheaper corn if there isn’t enough being grown. I’m surprised the whole countryside hasn’t risen in revolt.”

  “I think some areas are close to doing so, sir.” Dermot hesitated. “I doubt the government will treat them kindly if they do.”

  “Agreed. The authorities are still terrified we’ll end up like the French. Sometimes I don’t think that would be a bad thing at all.”

  “Really, Sir Robert?”

  “I know.” Robert grimaced. “I hold far too revolutionary ideas to be a baronet, don’t I? The thing is that my mother’s family comes from good working-class stock who made their money the hard way. I have far more sympathy with my workers than I do with my peers.”

  “And you are doing everything a responsible landlord can to improve the lot of his tenants and dependents, sir.” Dermot bowed. “Do you still intend to go out to Kurland St. Anne this morning?”

  Robert squinted at the clock. “Indeed I do. Give me ten minutes to finish here and meet me at the front entrance with the gig.”

  “Yes, Sir Robert.”

  Robert folded a piece of paper and stuck it into the page he was reviewing before he closed the accounts book. He took a moment to glance at the list of winners written in Miss Harrington’s clear handwriting.

  “Good Lord.”

  Last year the verger had won only one prize for his runner beans. The rest of the prizes, probably due to Miss Harrington’s well-meaning meddling, had been shared among a wide selection of the villagers, including his Home Farm and the man he was going to visit in Kurland St. Anne that very day.

  Robert left the list on his desk for further perusal and went to put on his greatcoat and hat. Perhaps his discussions with Jim Mallard would be even more far ranging than his tenant was anticipating.

  Chapter 8

  “Miss Harrington . . . ”

  “Yes, Betty?” Lucy concentrated on keeping the horse on the narrow
lane so that the wheels of the gig stayed in the ruts and didn’t bounce them around like two peas in a pod.

  “I don’t know if it is my place to say such a thing, but seeing as the verger is dead . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “He was arguing with his brother, miss. That last evening.”

  “With Mr. Nathaniel Thurrock?”

  “Yes, miss. Me and Maisey were doing the fires next door, and we overheard them in Mr. Nathaniel’s bedchamber.”

  “What exactly were they arguing about?”

  “Mr. Ezekiel was worried about winning all the prizes, and Mr. Nathaniel was telling him he was a fool. Mr. Ezekiel said that it wouldn’t take much for the people in the village to hate him again.” Betty paused. “I wonder what he meant by that?”

  “I have no idea. What else did they say?”

  “Mr. Ezekiel begged his brother not to reveal any more secrets, or cause any fuss and to wait until he was safely back in Cambridge.”

  “Secrets about what? His prize-winning vegetables?”

  “I dunno, miss, but he sounded most alarmed. Mr. Nathaniel was quite angry with him. He insisted that everyone should know the truth, and that the Thurrock family would be revenged.”

  “On whom?”

  “He didn’t say.” Betty sighed. “I decided that Maisey was enjoying herself far too much, and that I wasn’t showing her the best of examples by eavesdropping. I told her it was time to leave. She sulked the whole way down the stairs, and right through supper.”

  “I doubt their disagreement had anything to do with Mr. Ezekiel Thurrock’s death, do you?” Lucy said cautiously.

  “I suppose not,” Betty agreed. “It’s strange how a man who was usually so quiet that you could forget he was there was at odds with just about everyone before he died.”

  “That is certainly peculiar.” Lucy narrowed her eyes against the sun as a gig approached from the opposite direction. “I wonder who that is?”

  Betty shaded her eyes. “Major Kurland and his land agent, by the looks of it. They’re going quite fast as well.”

  “Well, I hope they’ve seen us, and won’t turn us over into the ditch as they pass.” Lucy reined in and eased the horse toward the right of the narrow lane. “Who is driving?”