This time, the door was locked behind her.
Chapter 20
“I insist on speaking to Sir Robert right now!”
Robert looked up from his perusal of the newspaper, as the clamor of voices grew closer. The door to the breakfast room burst open to reveal the rector in a towering rage followed at a discreet distance by Foley, who spread his hands wide in apology.
“I’m sorry, Major, but—”
“You, sir!” the rector interrupted Foley. “Where is my daughter?”
Robert blinked at his irate guest. “I beg your pardon?”
“My daughter! Lucy Harrington!” The rector’s gaze scanned the room as if he expected to discover his errant child hiding behind the curtains. “She is missing!”
“Missing?” Robert cast aside his newspaper and rose to his feet. “What the devil?”
“You were seen with her last night—again.”
“By whom?”
“That is irrelevant! What have you done with her?”
Robert met the rector’s furious blue gaze. “I escorted her back to your door and watched until she entered the house. That is the truth, sir, I give you my word.” He raised his voice. “Foley? Check with Mrs. Bloomfield that Miss Harrington did not come back here last night seeking a bed.”
“Yes, sir.”
He came around his desk and led the rector to a seat by the fire. “Calm yourself, sir. We will find her.”
The rector shrugged off Robert’s hand. “If we do not, it will be your fault. Your conduct has been deplorable!”
“Trust me, Mr. Harrington. If anything has happened to her I will hold myself entirely to blame.”
Foley knocked on the door and came in with a tray of brandy. “I’ve spoken to Mrs. Bloomfield, and she hasn’t seen Miss Harrington. She sent a message down to the stables to ascertain if they have seen her there.”
“Thank you, Foley. Will you send for Joseph Cobbins and bring him here when he arrives?”
“Yes, Sir Robert.”
Robert poured a large brandy for the rector and had one himself. “When did you discover Miss Harrington was missing?”
“I stayed in Kurland St. Anne last night at the home of a friend, and returned this morning to find my house in disarray. Betty had gone to awaken Lucy and found her bed empty.”
Robert frowned. “She hadn’t slept in it at all?”
“No.”
“Did she change her clothes?”
“What an odd question. Why should that be a concern of yours?”
“Because of the circumstances leading up to her disappearance.” Robert settled in the seat opposite his distraught guest. “You might not believe any of this, but Miss Harrington and I were trapped beneath the priory in the old tunnels.”
By the time he had finished his tale, Foley was back with Joseph. Leaving the rector with wide eyes and a very skeptical expression, Robert went to the door.
“Joseph, I need you to do something for me. Go to the Turner cottage and ask Miss Abigail and Miss Grace if I might visit them this morning. Impress upon them that it is a matter of urgency and that I insist they cooperate with me.”
“All right, sir.”
“And take one of the bigger grooms with you, and leave him there to guard the Turner place.”
“What will they say about that, sir?”
“Tell them that it is for their own protection.”
Joseph put on his cap and hared off.
The rector looked up. “You think the Turner sisters might have my daughter?”
“I’m not sure, but they might be able to tell us where to look for her.” Robert frowned. “Let’s hope my message puts the fear of God into them and they are willing to help.”
“We should go there right now.” The rector stood up. “Why wait?”
Robert hesitated. “I’d like to speak to the occupants of the rectory first, if I may.”
“Why? I have already questioned them extensively.”
“Did you speak to Maisey Mallard?”
“The kitchen maid?” The rector frowned. “I don’t believe I did.”
Robert grabbed his cane. “Then let’s do that first, and then we can be on our way to the Turners’.”
He needed to ask Mr. Pethridge how his gig had ended up at the Home Farm, but that minor matter would have to wait until he had ascertained exactly where his betrothed was. Cold fear gripped his heart as he considered what had happened on her return to the rectory that night. Someone must have been waiting for her—but who? He wanted to flail himself alive for not insisting on walking her right up the stairs to her bedchamber’s very door.
“Are you coming, Sir Robert?”
“Yes, indeed.” He followed Mr. Harrington out into the hall and to the front door, where the rector’s carriage awaited him. “Foley, if Joseph comes back before I return, send him down to the rectory.”
“Yes, sir.” Foley cleared his throat. “I do hope you find Miss Harrington safe and well, sir.”
“Not half as much as I do,” Robert murmured as he levered himself up into the carriage and let the coachman shut the door.
* * *
Robert paced the hearth in the rectory parlor until Maisey was ushered in, her expression wary, her hands knotted together in front of her apron.
“You wanted to speak to me, sir?”
“The Turners are your mother’s sisters, correct? And your mother is married to Jim Mallard.”
“That’s right. There were six girls and no boys, but as Mr. Turner owned the land outright he was able to leave the house to his daughters.”
“When did the Turners buy the land?”
Maisey blinked at him. “I have no idea, sir. Is it important? I thought you wanted to ask me about Miss Harrington.”
“I do. Did you see her last night at all?”
“She told me she might have to go out, and not to wait up for her, or disturb the rector again.”
“Did you see her come back in?”
“No, I waited up for a while in case the rector returned, but he sent a note to say he was staying in Kurland St. Anne. Mrs. Fielding told me and Betty to get to bed because we had an early start seeing as we were starting to prepare dishes for the Thurrock funeral.”
“What time did you go to bed?”
“Kitchen clock chimed once when I was climbing the stairs.”
“Leaving Mrs. Fielding alone in the kitchen.”
“Yes, she said she had some dough to set proving—although I didn’t see it today.”
“Is she here?”
“Want me to go and look in the kitchen for you?” Maisey asked.
“I’ll come with you,” Robert said grimly. He knew the cook didn’t like Miss Harrington, but if she’d witnessed anything happening to her employer’s daughter, surely she would have mentioned it?
Mrs. Fielding was standing at the range stirring something in a pot. She turned to stare as Robert came into her kitchen.
“Good morning, Major Kurland.”
“I hear you were the last person awake at the rectory last night.”
Mrs. Fielding’s gaze slid to Maisey, who went red. “Who told you that? I only stayed up a few more minutes before going upstairs myself. The rector was out of the house, and as far as I knew everyone else was asleep in their beds.”
She faced him squarely. She was a tall woman with blue eyes that reminded him of someone else he’d seen recently. The challenge in her voice and slightly mocking words made him angry.
“Maisey didn’t tell you that Miss Harrington was out as well?”
The glance thrown Maisey’s way was sharp. “You knew Miss Harrington wasn’t in her room, and you didn’t tell me? Maisey Mallard! What on earth were you thinking!”
“I—” Maisey gulped in some air. “I tried to—”
“Get out of my sight, you stupid girl!” Maisey turned and ran, banging the kitchen door behind her. Robert heard her boots thumping up the stairs.
“I can
’t believe Miss Harrington decided to go out by herself. After everything her father said to her.” Mrs. Fielding shook her head and tutted. “No wonder she hasn’t returned. She’s probably afraid of what the rector will do to her.”
Robert stared at her. “She did return home. Someone took her. Are you quite certain you didn’t hear sounds of a struggle?”
“My room is in the attic. I heard nothing.” She paused. “And we don’t know if she came back, do we? Her bed wasn’t slept in, and she hadn’t changed her clothes.”
Robert didn’t bother to correct her. There was a knock on the back door and Joseph came in.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but Mr. Foley told me to come down here straightaway.”
Robert walked him back toward the exit, where the boots and outerwear were kept. His shoulder brushed against a muddied cloak, sending it tumbling to the floor. With some difficulty he bent to pick it up and then stared hard at it. Whatever Mrs. Fielding thought, Miss Harrington had definitely returned home. He was holding her cloak. For a second he wanted to bury his face in its woolen depths and simply breathe her in.
“Are the Turners willing to cooperate with me?”
“They’ve gone, sir.”
“What do you mean?” His fingers clenched hard in the fabric.
“The house is empty. One of the neighbors says he saw them leaving before dawn in one of the Romany caravans.”
* * *
“Mr. Driskin.”
Robert got out of the rector’s carriage and limped down to the two remaining Romany caravans. Horatio Driskin sat smoking his clay pipe holding his sleeping grandson in his arms. Everyone else seemed to have disappeared.
“Morning, Major Kurland.”
“I understand one of your families has moved on and taken the Turner sisters with them.”
Horatio shrugged. “So I hear. They probably needed the money.”
“You don’t think they did it willingly?”
“As in helping two women avoid dealing with you, and the law of the land? I suspect they would have some sympathy with that, but there’s also a family connection.”
“With whom?”
“Mrs. Mallard was a Turner. Her first husband was a Romany man. The family who gave them a ride out of Kurland St. Anne are third cousins of her deceased husband, or summat like that.”
Robert slapped his riding crop against his thigh. “Devil take it!”
“I hear you have bigger problems to worry about than the Turners, sir.”
“Indeed.” Robert held his gaze. “Do you know where Miss Harrington might be?”
“I wish I did. I’m very fond of the lass. If I hear even a whisper I’ll tell you, I promise you that.”
“Thank you.” Robert nodded and turned back to the carriage, where the rector was waiting for him. “I’m going to the Turners’ house, and then I’ll probably go home.”
“Be careful, sir,” Horatio called out to him. “Danger’s afoot.”
* * *
They reached the Turners’, and Robert ordered his stable hand to break through the back door. It was obvious that the sisters had left in a hurry. Cupboards were open, drawers were pulled out, and unwashed dishes sat in the sink. Robert took his time walking through the house. It wasn’t an old building so he doubted there were any secret passages down into the priory cellars, but he ordered his men to check all the floors and concealed spaces anyway.
In the front parlor he paused to examine a wooden chest that was identical in size to the one Miss Harrington had found the previous night in the tunnels. She’d said that Ezekiel Thurrock had one in his house as well.
The rector came in behind him and paused to look down at the chest.
“By Jove, that’s quite an old piece. Probably pre-Reformation.”
“This?” Robert asked.
“Yes. Surprised the Turners have something like that in their house seeing as they never bothered to come to church unless they had to.”
“What would it have been used for back in the old days?”
The rector shrugged. “Scrolls, precious manuscripts—even church plate. It probably had a lock on it once.” He frowned. “I’m sure I’ve seen a similar one somewhere.”
“At Ezekiel Thurrock’s house perhaps?”
“Possibly.” The rector moved farther into the room assessing the collection of pictures and clutter. “This house and land have belonged to the Turners since the sixteen hundreds.”
“I didn’t know that. You don’t happen to know how they came to acquire the land, do you?”
“From my recent conversations with Mr. Nathaniel Thurrock, I believe they came into some money in the sixteen forties.”
“About the same time the Thurrocks bought their land?”
“I believe so.”
“Where were all these people getting the money to buy land during a civil war?” Robert wondered. “Did Mr. Thurrock mention that?”
“I asked him the same question. He was remarkably coy about his own family, but insisted the Turners had obtained their money through deceit—a matter he was going to write a book about if he hadn’t so inconveniently died.”
“Major Kurland?”
Robert turned from his stunned contemplation of the rector to see his coachman standing by the back door.
“Yes?”
“We’ve found nothing, sir.”
“Thank you.” Robert took a deep, steadying breath. “Mr. Harrington? I think this is a lost cause. Let’s go back to Kurland Hall, and send out some proper search parties.”
After organizing his staff and volunteers from the village, Robert returned to his study and sat down heavily beside the fire.
“Damnation!”
His fingers curled into fists. He yearned to hunt the Turners down and bring them back to face justice, but the return of Miss Harrington was far more important than his thirst for vengeance. If the Turners were allowed to escape he had to believe his betrothed would eventually be released. Once she was safe he would find a way to discover where the Turners had fled. They would not escape him for long.
What if the Turners had left Miss Harrington somewhere in the priory cellars again? What if her indomitable spirit failed her, and she gave up trying to escape? He shoved a shaking hand through his already disordered hair, and tried not to think about her being alone, and scared, and . . .
He picked up Nathaniel’s sketchbook and looked through the pictures again, mentally cataloguing more places for the searchers to look. The Mallards’ place, for one. Young Maisey’s parents might be willing to hold Miss Harrington if it meant the Turner sisters escaped justice. Not that he had any evidence to convict anyone at this moment.
He closed his eyes against a headache and tried to relax. Images played through his head. Turners and Mallards, and sisters . . . White sheets flapping in the breeze, carved wooden chests, hot spiced cider on a bitterly cold day . . .
He sat up and flipped through the pages of the album again until his finger settled on the image he wanted. Setting the book to one side, he rose to his feet, called for James to accompany him, and set off.
* * *
At least this time they hadn’t left her unconscious or completely in darkness. Mrs. Fielding had even untied her hands and no one had searched her. She still had Major Kurland’s pocketknife, which meant she had cut through the rest of her restraints, leaving her to roam the stone cellar at will. The only thing preventing her escape was the heavy oak door, which Mrs. Fielding had locked behind her when she’d left.
This part of the old priory was in far better condition than the rest of it. She concluded that it was still in use, and speculated whether she was under the Turners’ newer house, or the much older Mallard residence. She had plenty of time to think, and still had not reached a conclusion as to why Mrs. Fielding was involved.
The woman hated her, but she was leaving the rectory to marry Major Kurland, so why bother to attempt to kill her? It made no sense. Major Kurland would be
frantic by now—looking for her, trying to persuade the Turner sisters to reveal her whereabouts. Did they know what had happened? Had Mrs. Fielding been acting on their orders—willing to add her spite against Lucy to another’s cause?
What did they know? Lucy attempted to marshal her thoughts in a way Major Kurland would approve of. Mrs. Fielding had been absent from the rectory the night Nathaniel died, and Lucy didn’t recall her being present the evening Ezekiel had gone to his death at the church.
The chest in the priory cellar was identical to the one she’d noticed in Ezekiel Thurrock’s house. Had the Thurrock brothers found the treasure recently and decided they had to get the land back from the Kurland estate so they could claim it for themselves? Was that why Nathaniel had suddenly decided to visit his brother after all these years? But Major Kurland was fairly insistent that there was nothing in the priory to find.
Nothing was making sense. Lucy wandered around the cellar checking the shelves and barrels of beer to see if there were any other exits. Eventually, in the far corner, behind some shelving, she found a blocked-up doorway. Bags of grain were stacked in the opening, but beyond it she could sense open space.
There were candles to light her way. Was she brave enough to venture into the darkness again, and maybe end up trapped beneath the ground? She glanced uncertainly back at the locked door. If she stayed where she was, she might be used against Major Kurland and her family.
She had no choice. She had to try. After taking the candle and a spare one from the shelf, she unstacked the bags of grain. They were dense and heavy. All she wanted was to use one as a pillow and sleep. She kept on, easing her way through the gap she created, then restacked the bags behind her. Eventually, she reached through the opening, took her candle and replaced the last sack of grain creating a wall that would hopefully confound her captors for at least a while.
Lifting the candle she studied the passage in front of her. The way looked clear so she started off, her heart thumping so loudly she was surprised she couldn’t hear its echo in the stones. She paused for a second, picked up something that glinted from the floor, and scratched an X on the stone lintel of the arch she’d just come through. If the way did become blocked, she would simply retrace her steps and await her fate in the cellar.
Death Comes to the Fair Page 24