Death Comes to the Fair

by Catherine Lloyd

  * * *

  Robert slowed as he walked up to the door of the Home Farm, his gaze lifting to compare the drawing he’d seen in Mr. Thurrock’s sketchpad to the reality. On the left of the stone lintel above the door a gargoyle grinned back at him. On the right was another, which was no longer embedded in mortar, and sat slightly askew as if it had been put back in a hurry. How many times had he passed through this entrance and never noticed the pair of stone carvings? One of which might well have been used as a weapon.

  He rapped sharply on the door with his cane.

  “Mr. Pethridge?”

  Behind him, James shifted his stance.

  The door opened to reveal Mrs. Pethridge. Her blue eyes widened as she saw Robert.

  “Good morning, Major Kurland. Did you wish to see my husband? He’s in the kitchen.”

  “I wanted to see you both. James, come with me.” Robert entered without waiting for a further invitation and headed straight for the best parlor.

  “Major Kurland, whatever are you doing?”

  There was a flurry of motion behind him as Mrs. Pethridge ran toward the kitchen calling her husband’s name. Robert scanned the parlor, his attention settling on the wooden chest beside the fire, where a few weeks ago Mrs. Pethridge had placed the tray with his mulled cider.

  As far as he could tell, it was identical to the one found in Ezekiel Thurrock’s place, and the priory tunnels.

  “Major Kurland? Is there something you wanted?”

  He turned to find an unsmiling Mr. Pethridge at the door.

  “Yes. You have cellars here?”

  “Aye, but—”

  Robert came toward him. “I wish to see them right now.”

  “Why on earth?”

  “Please.”

  Mr. Pethridge stepped back, his expression bewildered, but not before Robert saw Mrs. Pethridge turn tail and run back to the kitchen.

  “James, don’t let Mrs. Pethridge leave this house.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Major Kurland, have you gone mad? You cannot march in here and—”

  “Yes I can. I own this farm. Now show me the cellars!”

  Within moments he was following Mr. Pethridge down some steep steps to a familiar arch-shaped door.

  “It’s locked.”

  “Then open it,” Robert commanded.

  “It’s not usually locked,” Mr. Pethridge said, and began sorting through his sets of keys. “I hope I have the right key here.”

  He tried several before finally locating the correct one, which was lucky because Robert’s temper was barely contained and he was just about to rip the keys away and do the job himself. The door opened into a cellar, which looked remarkably like the ones under the ruined priory.

  “Is this the only one?”

  “No, there are a series of rooms that follow off this one in a long row.”

  He led the way through two other cellars, and then tried the door of the next. “This one’s locked as well.”

  Mr. Pethridge didn’t need to be asked to open it this time, but fumbled through his set of keys again.

  “Good Lord. Whatever has been going on in here?”

  Robert pushed past his companion and entered the small room. A candle burned on the table, and a chair beside it had been knocked over. The remains of cut rope and what looked like a blindfold lay on the floor. He limped forward and picked up the scrap of blue fabric, smelled blood, and turned to Mr. Pethridge, who looked dumbfounded.

  “This is from Miss Harrington’s gown,” Robert said quietly. “Now bloody well tell me where she is.”

  * * *

  She smelled . . . pigs.

  Lucy paused, the candle held high in her hand, and contemplated the divided passageway in front of her. She hadn’t come very far and the tunnel had been easy to navigate until this point.

  Pigs or maybe just farmyard manure . . . Could it be that simple? Were all the cellars somehow connected?

  She took the left-hand archway and came up against a door. With great trepidation she opened it and stared out into the familiar farmyard beyond. Picking up her skirts she ran over the clean cobbled surface and made her escape.

  * * *

  “Where’s your son, Mr. Pethridge?” Robert asked.

  After a quick and fruitless search of the cellars, he had returned with Mr. Pethridge to the kitchen, where James was guarding the back door. Mrs. Pethridge sat at the kitchen table, her hands twisted in front of her.

  “Martin? I don’t know, sir.”

  Robert turned his gaze on Mrs. Pethridge. “Do you know where he is, ma’am, or were you able to warn him to stay away?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Miss Harrington was held captive in your cellars. Someone must have put her there,” Robert snapped.

  “On my honor, sir, I had no idea.” Mr. Pethridge stuttered in reply.

  “You might not, but I believe your wife and son were fully aware there was an unwilling guest in their care.” Robert slammed his hand down on the table and Mrs. Pethridge flinched. “If you will not tell me what is going on, I shall simply sit here until someone comes along who will.”

  The back door opened and Martin Pethridge came in whistling. He stopped short when he saw the group gathered around the kitchen table and abruptly attempted to reverse. James blocked his path.

  Robert fixed him with a ferocious glare. “Good morning, Martin. Coming to check on Miss Harrington, are you?”

  Martin’s startled gaze flicked toward his mother. “I dunno what you’re talking about, sir.”

  “I think you do.” Robert turned to Mr. Pethridge. “Is he aware that I am the local magistrate and can bring him up on any charges I deem necessary?”

  Mr. Pethridge swallowed hard. “Martin, please tell Major Kurland the truth.”

  “I didn’t put her there,” Martin mumbled into his boots.

  “Then who did?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. I just found a note saying she was there, and told me mother.”

  “And chose not to inform her family or me that Miss Harrington was alive?” Robert’s voice rose with every word. “Do you dislike living in Kurland St. Mary, Martin? Because I can arrange for you to leave these shores very easily indeed.”

  Normally, he hated using his rank to get what he wanted, but he was desperate, and as far as he was concerned, Martin Pethridge deserved to be hung for his deliberate attempts at obstruction.

  Mr. Pethridge stirred. “Now, wait a minute, Major Kurland, my boy—”

  “If your son is old enough to meddle in other people’s affairs he is old enough to take responsibility for his actions.” Robert looked over at his footman. “James? Will you escort Martin to my carriage?”

  “Leave him be. It was my decision to keep Miss Harrington here, not his.” Mrs. Pethridge stood up. “We weren’t going to hurt her. We were going to release her as soon as we could.”

  “Who’s we, Mrs. Pethridge?”

  “Those of us who have an interest in the Thurrock matter.”

  “The Thurrock matter? Two men are dead, Mrs. Pethridge, and Miss Harrington is missing.” Robert glared at her. “I hardly think that is a trivial thing.”

  “Doris! What are you saying? Did you know about this?” Mr. Pethridge turned to his wife, his face pale.

  “I protect my own, husband. My family and yours.”

  “You’re another Turner sister, aren’t you?” Robert said. “Of course you are.”

  “I’m sorry, Major Kurland, but if you had just gone home and waited, Miss Harrington would’ve been returned to you unharmed.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  She shrugged. “I think my sisters have had ample time to get away from this area by now, don’t you?”

  “You are both supporting the Turners?” Robert looked at Mr. Pethridge. “I know your family have been feuding with the Thurrocks for generations, but you condone this?”

  “No, sir.” Mr. Pethridge looked helplessly at hi
s wife. “I had no idea.”

  “You should be grateful,” Mrs. Pethridge said. “He threatened us, that Mr. Nathaniel. Said he had evidence that both our families were thieves and liars, and that he would be telling everyone in his book.”

  “So you killed him?”

  She smiled. “Of course not, Major. Ask your friend Dr. Fletcher if you don’t believe me. From what I understand, Mr. Nathaniel Thurrock died of heart failure while wandering in the unfamiliar fields in the dark. The poor man.”

  “And what about his brother?”

  “A freak accident during the storm.”

  “Felled by a gargoyle that was originally situated over your front door!”

  “You cannot say that for certain, Major, now, can you?”

  Robert held her calm gaze for a long tense moment. “I do not accept your reasoning, ma’am.”

  “Then prove me wrong, Major Kurland.” She bobbed a curtsy. “Now, if you have nothing more to say, may I suggest you take my advice, and go home to await your betrothed?”

  “Who has apparently escaped your care, and could be anywhere?” Robert inclined his head an icy inch. “If she does not return very shortly, I will tear this place and the Mallards’ house apart looking for her, you have my word on that.”

  He left, taking James with him, a red haze of fury blurring his vision he could do nothing about. He hated war, but at least in a battle he could kill without mercy and not be held accountable at all.

  James shut the carriage door behind him and climbed onto the box, rocking the frame. Robert punched the leather seat.

  “Devil take it!”

  His heart almost stopped as something stirred under the seat and a ragged face appeared and held a finger to its lips.

  “Thank God. You beautiful, clever girl.”

  With a soft sound, he leaned forward, cupped Miss Harrington’s dirty face in his hands, and kissed the living daylights out of her.

  * * *

  Lucy knew she shouldn’t be sitting on Major Kurland’s lap, his arms around her, her cheek pressed to his chest, but she was so exhausted the thought of moving was quite impossible.

  “I’ll take you to Kurland Hall. I believe your father and Betty await you there. Then I’ll get Patrick to have a look at you, and—”

  “Wait.” She placed a finger on his lips. “Where are the Miss Turners?”

  “Gone with the Romany.”

  “Ah. Of course.” She considered that. “Mrs. Mallard’s first husband.”

  “Apparently. Now, as I was saying—”

  “Then we need to go to the rectory.”

  “I’m not sure that is a good idea. Mrs. Fielding has been behaving rather strangely.”

  “I know. She’s the one who lay in wait for me at the house, and brought me to the Pethridges’ cellar.”

  “Mrs. Fielding? Not Martin Pethridge?”

  “No, although I’m fairly certain it was he who met Mrs. Fielding and took me down to the cellar. The thing is, I’m still not sure why Mrs. Fielding kidnapped me, which is why I need to speak to her.”

  He frowned. “You need to recuperate. Let me—”

  “Major Kurland, please.” She cupped the rigid line of his jaw. “I will speak to her—she won’t be expecting to see me, after all. You can conceal yourself somewhere, and I’ll try to make her confess.”

  “To what? Isn’t it obvious that the Turner sisters are responsible for this?”

  “No. There’s more to it than that. I’m certain of it.” She paused. “Will you at least let me try? The element of surprise might loosen her tongue.”

  He sighed. “I’d much rather deal with her myself, but your plan does have merit. You must promise me to be careful.”

  She looked into his eyes. “I will.”

  “Sir Robert?”

  He leaned down, his intention to kiss her was quite obvious. The shout from the box made them both jump. Major Kurland stuck his head out of the window.

  “What is it, James?”

  “Lone rider approaching. Appears to be female, trying to attract our attention.”

  “Stop the carriage.”

  He stepped out and Lucy immediately peered out of the window herself. James ran forward to catch the horse’s bridle, and lifted the rider to the ground.

  Lucy stiffened as the female grabbed hold of Major Kurland’s waistcoat and swayed quite alarmingly.

  “Major Kurland, this is all wrong! You have to listen to me!”

  It was only when he turned toward the carriage with the woman that Lucy realized he held Grace Turner in his arms.

  Chapter 21

  Lucy beckoned Major Kurland forward and whispered in his ear. After reviving Miss Grace they’d spent a considerable amount of time listening to her pouring out her story. If she was telling the truth—and Lucy believed she was—Mrs. Fielding was in for rather a shock.

  “Wait at the door until I send Maisey to fetch Mrs. Fielding, and then come in and conceal yourself behind the cloaks.”

  “Yes, Miss Harrington.”

  She went onward into the kitchen. Maisey shrieked and leapt to her feet clutching her chest.

  “Miss Harrington! Wherever have you been? The whole village has been out looking for you!”

  “Good morning, Maisey.” Lucy rested a hand on the table. She was terribly tired, but determined to see the thing through. “Is Mrs. Fielding here? I need to speak to her.”

  “She’s upstairs in her room taking a nap. I’ll fetch her for you.”

  Even as Maisey slammed out of the kitchen and thumped up the stairs, Lucy heard the soft click of the back door being opened and closed and hoped Major Kurland was now in position. She hadn’t quite decided what she was going to say to the cook, preferring to see her reaction first.

  “Think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Mrs. Fielding came quietly into the kitchen. She wasn’t wearing her apron or cap and looked much younger without them. “Could’ve saved yourself all that rushing about, and just stayed put until one of us came to release you.”

  “Patience has never been one of my virtues.”

  Mrs. Fielding sniffed. “We’ve all had to deal with your sharp tongue, so I won’t disagree with that. Does Major Kurland not realize he will be saddled with an old harridan?”

  “Major Kurland will be too busy bringing murderers to justice to worry about me.”

  “What murderers? All I’ve done is prevent you bringing the law down on two defenseless women.” She shrugged. “I’ll even plead guilty to obstructing the course of justice if I end up in court. But I won’t, because Major Kurland has no evidence to convict the Turners of anything, let alone me.”

  “You might be surprised.” Lucy managed a small deliberately triumphant smile. “Shall we sit down? We have much to discuss.”

  Mrs. Fielding’s face darkened, but she pulled out a chair as Lucy took the seat opposite.

  “Perhaps it is time for us to have an honest conversation, Mrs. Fielding. You lured Mr. Ezekiel Thurrock into the church, and killed him.”

  “You are mistaken.” The cook looked amused. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you hate the Thurrock family, and they were back in the village raking up the past.”

  “I’ve lived in the rectory and known poor old Ezekiel for many years. Why would I suddenly decide to kill him now? Your suspicions are far-fetched, Miss Harrington, and no one will believe you.”

  “It wasn’t her fault!”

  There was a flurry of movement behind Lucy, and she turned sharply to see Maisey twisting her hands in her apron at the open door.

  “I told you to stay upstairs,” Mrs. Fielding snapped.

  “I have to tell her what I did, Auntie. I can’t stand it anymore!”

  “Auntie?” Lucy looked from Maisey to the cook, who was staring angrily at the girl.

  “You don’t have to tell her anything. Be quiet!”

  “But it was my fault!”

  “What was your fault?” Lucy sp
oke over the cook.

  “Mr. Thurrock.” A tear slipped down Maisey’s cheek. “I gave the note to Mr. Ezekiel.”

  “The note telling him to go to the church?”

  “Yes, it was on the kitchen table, and I picked it up and gave it to him, and then the next thing I heard he was dead!” She swallowed hard. “So it was my fault that Mr. Ezekiel was in the church, not my aunt’s.”

  “You didn’t write the note, did you?” Lucy asked.

  “No, of course not.”

  “And you weren’t planning on meeting him in the church.”

  “I didn’t read the note, miss. It was only later that I wondered what I’d done.”

  Mrs. Fielding sat back and crossed her arms. “Mayhap it’s young Maisey the major should be dragging in for questioning, not me.”

  Lucy concentrated on the young girl. “Who told you to deliver the note?”

  “No one. It was just sitting on the table addressed to Mr. Thurrock.” She wiped her eyes on her apron. “I was trying to be helpful.”

  “What about the gargoyle you placed in Mr. Nathaniel’s room? Did Mrs. Fielding ask you to do that?”

  “Yes, Miss Harrington. She said he’d be wanting to sketch it for his book.”

  Lucy ignored the smug smile on Mrs. Fielding’s face.

  “Maisey, is Mrs. Fielding related to your mother’s or your father’s side of the family?”

  “My mother’s.”

  “She’s a Turner?” Lucy turned to look at the cook, noticing the similarities: blue eyes, black hair, and tall stature. “Of course—‘Mrs.’ is a courtesy title for a cook or a housekeeper. How could I have been so stupid?”

  “Are we done now then? Maisey, go back upstairs and this time stay there.” Mrs. Fielding half rose as Maisey left with a last anguished look over her shoulder. “Maisey delivered a note she found on the table to Mr. Thurrock, who went to the church, and was unfortunately hit by a falling lump of stone. His brother suffered heart failure. There is nothing more to say.”

  “Miss Grace Turner wouldn’t agree with you.”

  “She’s long gone, and how would you know her thoughts? She’s my sister.”

  “Because she cannot condone what you and Abigail have done, and has confessed everything.”