Death Comes to the Village

by Catherine Lloyd

  Anna lowered the letter. “Who is he, Lucy?”

  “Do you remember me telling you that Mary had an admirer who had worked on our new stable block last summer?”

  “Yes. Is this him?” Anna folded up the paper into neat squares.

  “I believe so.”

  “I wonder if Mary is with him?” Anna’s smile grew hopeful. “Maybe they have got married and she is expecting his child.”

  For some reason, Lucy found it difficult to smile back. “I hope you are right. I really do.”

  Anna peered into Lucy’s face. “You don’t look well. Why don’t you go upstairs and have a rest? I’ll make sure Mrs. Fielding gets the dinner on the table on time and that the twins eat their food rather than throwing it around the room like that despicable little marmoset monkey Nicholas’s grandmother owns. I’ll wake you up well before Mr. Bowden arrives, I promise.”

  “Are you sure, Anna?” For once, she was too overset to argue. It was an unusual sensation. She’d never felt quite so fatigued in her life. Between the horrors of the graveyard, and Major Kurland’s unexpected dismissal of her concerns, she was ready to hide under the covers for a month. “I do have a terrible headache.”

  Anna produced a bottle and a spoon and proceeded to dose Lucy with willow bark tea while ignoring her sister’s shudders at the bitterness of the taste.

  “Now go to bed. I’ll manage.”

  Lucy tucked the letter into her pocket, made her way back into the house, and wearily climbed the stairs. Her bed had never looked quite so welcoming. With a groan, she stretched out on the sheets and inhaled the scent of lavender and line-dried linen. The usual sounds of the busy household enfolded her. She slept until Anna shook her awake into the darkness of the evening with the reminder that William Bowden would be arriving within the hour.

  Despite Mrs. Fielding’s obvious disapproval, she ate her dinner in the kitchen, and then helped Betty clear everything away for the night. Her headache had worsened. She was more determined than ever to ignore everyone’s advice and find out exactly what was going on in Kurland Village. Major Kurland might have decided they were both inventing things, but she was made of sterner stuff. The ferocity of her headache only reminded her that not everything had been in her imagination.

  Betty answered a knock on the back door, and brought William Bowden through to Lucy in the small parlor. She’d decided not to bother her father with news of the young man’s presence. It would only irritate him. He was safely ensconced in his study with the latest newspaper from London and a bottle of brandy.

  “Miss Harrington.” William Bowden took off his hat and bowed. He was a very tall man of about Lucy’s age with fair hair and a kind, pleasant face.

  “Mr. Bowden. It is good of you to come and see me.” She recognized him from his work on the stables during the summer months. “I’m hoping you can assist me with a rather trying matter.”

  “Mr. Bridges said you was wanting to ask about my Mary.”

  “That’s right.” Lucy put a hand to her throat. “She is with you, then? Oh, thank God.”

  William shifted his feet. “No, miss, she ain’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were sweethearts. She said she wanted to come away and live on the farm as my wife, but she seemed to find it hard to settle.”

  “Do you mean she broke her promises to you?”

  “She broke her promises to everyone, miss.”

  He looked so miserable, Lucy’s heart went out to him. “When was she supposed to come to you?”

  “A week or so ago, miss. She swore she’d keep her word, but she never turned up. Left me standing there like a fool. I heard later she’d changed her mind and gone to London.”

  “To London?”

  “Aye, with that Daisy Weeks she was always giggling with.”

  “You’re certain that’s what she did?”

  “What else could she have done? She’s not here, is she?”

  “That’s true.” Lucy bit her lip. “I hesitate to cause you pain, but do you think she might have gone off with anyone else?”

  “She did mention another man to me, but she swore it was all in the past. From what I understood, when she met me, she’d broken things off with him, but he hadn’t taken it well.”

  “Was he a local man?”

  “I suppose he must’ve been, seeing as how else would he have known Mary? She never went farther afield than Saffron Walden. I can’t say I ever met the man. She was right scared of him, though.” He scratched his nose. “I suspect we would’ve come to blows if we had met.”

  “So you think Mary went to London with Daisy.”

  “Aye, I do, and good riddance to the pair of them. If a lass doesn’t want a man, she should just tell him to his face rather than muck him around.”

  “I agree, Mr. Bowden, and I appreciate your help.” Lucy rubbed her aching forehead. “I wish Mary had made a better decision and was safe with you.”

  “Despite everything, I wouldn’t wish any harm on the lass, either.”

  “You are a good man, Mr. Bowden.”

  “Thank you, miss.” He put his hat back on. “If you find out anything more, I’d be grateful if you’d let me know.”

  “I will, Mr. Bowden, and thank you again.”

  Betty saw him out, and Lucy remained sitting in her chair as the candle burned down to a stub. Mary had promised William she would leave with him, and then reneged on that promise and left for London with Daisy. Apparently, Mary had also been afraid of a previous lover.

  Betty came back in the parlor with a bucket of coal. “Oh, are you still here, miss? Miss Anna was looking for you. Shouldn’t you be off to bed?”

  “Betty, is Jane still awake?”

  “I should imagine so. I heard her shouting at those boys not five minutes ago. I’ll go and find her for you, miss.”

  Lucy waited in the flickering shadows until Jane appeared, her color high and her apron damp from helping the twins to wash.

  “Did you want me, Miss Harrington?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Jane, but I remember you mentioning Mary had an old sweetheart?”

  “She did, miss. She was worried because she wanted to break things off with him, and he wasn’t the sort of man to cross.”

  “She was afraid of him?”

  “I’d say so, miss.”

  “Did she ever mention his name?”

  Jane pleated her damp apron and frowned. “I don’t think so.”

  “And you never met him.”

  “No, he used to write to her, and then Mary met that young carpenter and fell in love with him and—”

  “You think Mary loved William Bowden?”

  “I do, miss.” Jane met her gaze unflinchingly. “I was right surprised when Betty just told me Mary hadn’t gone with him after all.”

  “It’s a real puzzle, isn’t it?” Lucy studied the red embers in the fire. “Perhaps Mary decided that neither of the men could compete with the allure of London.”

  “I suppose that’s possible, miss. She was the sort of girl who let herself be talked into things, and Daisy Weeks is a bit of a bossy so-and-so.”

  Lucy lifted her head. “Thank you, Jane. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Good night then, miss.” She rolled up her sleeves. “I’ve got to go and make sure those young rascals are still in bed and haven’t escaped again. I’m thinking of asking the rector if we can have bars put on the windows.”

  Lucy fought a smile and waited until Jane stomped off up the stairs. It was quiet now, the scent of roast lamb and blackberry crumble from dinner still noticeable in the swirling currents of draughty air. Outside, an owl hooted and was answered by another. She should go to bed. Her head was pounding, but she had a terrible sense of waiting, as if Mary would walk through the door and everything would be the same again.

  Why couldn’t she let the matter rest? By all accounts, Mary had turned her back on Kurland St. Mary and left for London. Why coul
dn’t she just accept it? It wasn’t just because she didn’t want Major Kurland to be right. She could even accept that the girls’ disappearance might not be connected to the thefts, but something was wrong....

  She lit a candle from the embers of the fire and opened her sewing basket. If she was destined to sit up and ponder puzzles, she might as well make herself useful and cut up some squares from the ragbag for a patchwork quilt she was making with Anna. The dull thump of her headache served as a constant reminder that things weren’t normal, and that she had been attacked in the graveyard. Was it time to consider other possibilities?

  Had she stumbled across a cache of stolen goods Ben Cobbins had left in the graveyard? She’d heard him arguing with someone there on the previous day. Perhaps the blood had come from another kind of disagreement between thieves. Maybe, finding her meddling, Ben had decided to teach her a lesson. She shivered and narrowly avoided poking herself in the thumb with her needle. If it had been Ben, she was lucky he hadn’t carried out his threat to ruin her completely.

  But what of the porcelain box? She hadn’t told Major Kurland, but she was almost certain that the piece she’d found in the graveyard was part of the box she’d first discovered in Anthony’s coat pocket. If the box was from Kurland Hall, how had it gotten into his possession and ended up broken in the ground? Was it possible that Anthony was stealing to finance his gambling? Even worse, was he in cahoots with Ben Cobbins? Had it been Anthony she’d heard arguing with Ben in the graveyard?

  Dread flooded her senses, leaving her shaking and cold. She couldn’t believe it of her brother. But did she have the courage to confront him and share her suspicions? If he denied everything and went to their father in a rage, she suspected he’d call Dr. Baker to attend to her again. She had no wish to be sent away to recover from her nerves.

  Robert opened his eyes and stared out into the darkness. Foley and Bookman had gone to bed and he was finally alone. He still couldn’t sleep. Even though he’d claimed not to be interested, his mind was busy sifting through everything Miss Harrington had told him. She wasn’t the sort of woman to fall over her own feet. If she said she’d been hit on the head, he’d wager she was telling the truth. So why had he refused to believe her?

  He sat up and pushed back the sheets. Because if he did believe her, he had to accept that something was wrong in Kurland St. Mary. And he couldn’t do that when he was powerless to do anything about it, and afraid he was fantasizing about seeing dead bodies being carted around at night. No wonder she’d looked at him with such disgust and confusion.

  She probably thought him a coward.

  With great deliberation, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and slowly stood up. Since falling and being unable to get back to bed, he’d been secretly practicing standing and regaining his strength. He was certain Dr. Baker wouldn’t approve, but he had a terrible sense that time was running out, and that if he didn’t take control of his destiny, he’d end up bedridden and bitter for the rest of his days.

  Using the furniture, he made his way toward the bow windows without incident and paused to draw the curtain to one side and stare out at the church. The moon wasn’t as bright as it was last time he’d stood there, but his eyes gradually became accustomed to the gloom. He was helped by the sudden gleam of a lantern bobbing along from the direction of the church toward the stile that separated Kurland Hall from the wall of the graveyard.

  The light briefly illuminated the anxious face of the curate. What was his name? Edward Calthrope, that was it. He paused at the stile and turned in a circle as if waiting for someone. A dog barked, followed by several others, and Robert strained to see where the noise was coming from. Ben Cobbins appeared, surrounded by his dogs, and stopped to talk to the curate. At one point he raised his hand and jabbed his finger in the other man’s face. Robert wished he could hear what they were saying. What on earth did the curate and the thief have to say to each other?

  Robert’s left knee gave way, and he clutched at the chair. This time he had enough strength to straighten up and make his way back to bed. He doubted he’d be able to sleep and thought longingly of the brandy decanter Foley had ceremoniously locked up after dinner. His servants seemed determined to stop him from finding his rest. But perhaps that was for the best. He climbed back into bed, stared out into the darkness, and allowed his mind to wander through the conflicting evidence Miss Harrington had provided him with once again.

  When the floorboards creaked and a new shadow slid under the door as if someone paused outside, Lucy looked up from her work.

  “Who’s there?”

  She rose to her feet and flung the door open to discover Edward poised for flight, his expression startled.

  “Miss Harrington! I didn’t expect you to be up so late. I thought someone had left a candle burning. I was considering coming in to make sure it was safely put out.”

  “Why are you still up, Edward?”

  He looked down at his patched shoes. Lucy noticed he had trodden mud into the hallway she’d cleaned just that morning. “I was writing to my mother and didn’t notice the time.”

  She considered asking him why he’d been outside writing in the dark, but didn’t want to encourage him to linger. She did, however, have to be civil.

  “How is she?”

  “Not very well at all.” He sighed. “She suffers from a variety of complaints that keep her tied to her bed almost constantly.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure your letters are a comfort to her.”

  His smile was strained. “One would hope so. I suspect, however, that the pitiful amount of money I manage to send her every month is even more welcome. Her pension is very small, and she has my two sisters and younger brother to provide for.”

  There was a bitter note to Edward’s words that made Lucy feel guilty. “I didn’t know that you were supporting your family. Have you spoken to my father about increasing your stipend?”

  “The rector considers I am adequately paid.”

  “Does your mother not have any other means of support? Other relatives, perhaps?”

  “Unfortunately not. My father was cast out of his family for marrying a woman of lower class. We have always had to make do as best we can.”

  “If I can help by sending extra clothing or food, please let me know.” Lucy shut the lid of her sewing box, blew out the candle, and walked back toward Edward.

  “You think my family should accept charity?”

  She paused to look up into his face and was shocked by the anger there. “I wouldn’t consider it charity. I would be helping another member of the church community.”

  “It’s still alms for the poor, though, isn’t it?” His face twisted. “You consider yourself so far above my touch, but my father was as well-born as yours.”

  “As you rarely mention your family, I have never thought much about the matter, Edward,” Lucy said carefully. “I can assure you that I never meant to make you feel inferior.”

  “Major Kurland’s father married a woman from the industrial classes, and he is still received everywhere because he married into money, whereas my mother . . .”

  Lucy touched his arm. “Surely we are all the same in God’s eyes.”

  “Of course you would say that, wouldn’t you? Always so good and well-behaved and respectable.”

  “Are you sure that you are feeling well, Edward? You sound quite unlike yourself.”

  She was beginning to feel a little uneasy, as if she was trapped in a room with a stranger. He took a step away from her and bowed.

  “Don’t worry about me, Miss Harrington, I’ll survive.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I admit to feeling a little overwrought. I apologize if I said anything to offend you. I am worried about my mother.”

  “You didn’t offend me, sir, but I am concerned about you. If the stress about your mother’s financial security is oversetting you, please speak to my father. He knows his duty to the church and to his fellow man. I’m ce
rtain he wouldn’t want you or your family to be in such a precarious position.”

  “It’s too late for that, Miss Harrington.” His smile was ghastly. “I am committed to solving this problem for myself. Thank you for your concern. You are a remarkable woman.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to speak to my father for you?”

  He’d started to walk away but stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. “No, I thank you.” The back door closed softly behind them, and Edward cocked his head at the sound. “Perhaps you might worry less about me, and more about what your brother is getting up to at Red Lion. Good night, Miss Harrington.”

  Chapter 13

  “Major, let me just wrap this scarf around your neck to protect you from the wind.”

  As his butler bore down upon him with a purposeful expression, Robert snatched the scarf out of his hands.

  “Thank you, I’ll do it myself. I’m not a goose being trussed up for roasting.”

  “As you wish, sir.” Foley relinquished the thick wool scarf and stepped back. “I believe I see Miss Harrington and her sister on the driveway. Shall I ask her to call back later?”

  “Ask them if they’d like to accompany us on our outing. I’m sure Miss Harrington will be delighted to see me outside.”

  “Yes, sir.” Foley bowed and walked off at a decorous pace down toward the visitors who were approaching the front of the house on the driveway. Robert glanced at Bookman, who was deep in conversation with the estate carpenter who had fashioned the wheeled chair out of a variety of objects from his workshop. The wheels were quite large and probably from a carriage, and the chair was a padded one he remembered from his father’s study.

  “Mr. Walker?”

  “Yes, Major?”

  The carpenter came toward him, his interested gaze moving between Robert and the chair.

  “Why did you choose such large wheels? The ones in the illustration were much smaller.”

  “I tried out several sizes, sir, and I found that the larger the wheel, the more comfortable the ride.” He wiped his hands on his apron. “Once you’ve tried the contraption out, we can tinker with it until we get it right.”