Death Comes to the Village

by Catherine Lloyd

  Lucy made her way out of Kurland Hall and cut across the lawn in front of Major Kurland’s windows, heading for the shortcut beside the church. She had to admit the major’s plan was straightforward, but provoking a man with the ability to kill so easily struck her as dangerous. Bookman was due back from his mother’s house before dinner, and Major Kurland intended to confront him that very night.

  She almost wished she could be there. But if word got out that she was loitering in an unmarried man’s bedchamber after dark, her reputation would be ruined, and poor Major Kurland might be obliged to offer for her. It was probably better if she stayed at home and waited for Foley to come down in the morning and tell her what had happened. She heaved a sigh. It was, however, frustrating not to be involved. She stepped into the shadow of the church tower and immediately felt chilled. After a quick glance along the path, she squeezed through the narrow gap between the wall and the cornerstone and started toward the welcoming lights of the rectory.

  Fingers closed around her upper arm and yanked her backward, slamming her hard against the stone. Before she could do more than squeak, her mouth was covered with a large hand.

  “I told you to leave the major alone.”

  She stared into Bookman’s cold brown eyes and swallowed hard.

  “What did you find that made you write to him this morning?” His hand tightened on her arm. “Didn’t you know that I read all the major’s correspondence? Especially letters from interfering women. Tell me what you found.”

  He removed his hand from her mouth and wrapped it around her neck. She stared at him, refusing to drop her gaze or give in to the fear. His fingers tightened, and she suddenly couldn’t breathe.

  “Tell me.”

  “That Daisy Weeks had returned,” she choked out.

  “And why did you think he needed to know that?”

  “Because I thought she’d gone to London.”

  He stared at her and then slapped her cheek. “Don’t lie to me.”

  She tasted her own blood where she’d inadvertently bitten her lip. “It’s the truth. I wanted to know if Daisy had seen Mary in London.”

  Would that be enough to keep him from killing her, or ruining Major Kurland’s attempts to extract a confession from him?

  “And had she?”

  Lucy shook her head.

  “I know where she is. Do you want to see?” Bookman smiled and she wanted to vomit. “Come with me.”

  He pulled her along with him, her arm twisted up against her spine, his hand again over her mouth, and headed for the graveyard. When they arrived at the DeVry tomb, he pushed her down onto her knees, and she saw the gleam of a knife. She jerked away from him, but he only pulled at her skirts and cut off a swath of fabric.

  While his attention was momentarily distracted, she tried to crawl away, but he’d planted his boot firmly on the rest of her skirts and she couldn’t move.

  “You did me something of a favor with all your poking around. I didn’t realize the tomb wasn’t secure and thanks to you, I was able to fix that.” He bound her hands together and then gagged her. “Can’t have you screaming, can we? Don’t want anyone to hear.”

  He was smiling as he retrieved a crowbar from the bushes and set to levering open the door of the tomb. “It’s a shame that you didn’t use that intelligence in a different way, Miss Harrington. Like all women, you just had to keep meddling. But no more.”

  The door of the tomb yawned open, and she smelled the sweet awfulness of decay. In the gloom, she could just make out a hint of a pink skirt and pale pearlescent skin. Bookman grabbed her around the waist, and she started to shake her head and kick out but he was far too strong. She screamed behind her gag as he tossed her into the tomb and she scrambled to get up, to turn around to—

  The vault door closed behind her with a grating rumble, and she was left alone in complete darkness. She slammed her bound hands against the door, but it was useless, the stone was immovable. With a sob, she rested her forehead against the unforgiving stone and tried to quiet her frantic breathing. She had to get the gag off, or she would faint.

  Luckily, he’d tied her hands in front of her, so she was able to use them against the material of the gag and force it down inch by painful inch. Her breath exploded outward as her mouth was suddenly freed. She turned around until her back was aligned with the door of the tomb and she faced inward. It was so dark that she could see almost nothing, only the dark shapes of shelves with coffins on them. She reached out until her bound hands brushed cotton and she instantly recoiled.

  Mary was here. Her choices cut short by a man who had refused to allow her to love another. What had driven Bookman to kill his longtime sweetheart? What would it take for him to turn on his longtime employer, as well?

  Lucy settled down to endure. If Major Kurland managed to convince Bookman to confess, perhaps she would be rescued. If Bookman outwitted the major and managed to get away, her chances of being found were almost nonexistent. Coldness seeped through her thin gown and she started to shiver. This might be her final resting place. With all her strength, she closed her eyes and began to pray.

  Robert folded the newspaper and took off his reading spectacles. “Has Foley gone to bed, Bookman?”

  “I believe so, sir. Why, do you want something?”

  “Not particularly. I just haven’t seen him for a while.” The old clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven times and then wheezed to a halt. “I suppose he might have been helping Miss Chingford and my aunt to pack. They are due to leave tomorrow.”

  “Is Mrs. Armitage coming back?” Bookman looked up from tidying Robert’s linen.

  “I believe she is. Her intention is to restore Miss Chingford to her parents, attempt to deflect their concerns about their daughter’s future, and return to spend a few weeks with me.”

  “I’m glad she’s returning, sir. She’s a treasure.”

  “Indeed, she is.” Robert contemplated his folded newspaper. “I wonder what will happen to Miss Chingford now?”

  “No doubt she’ll take up with some new man as soon as she can find one.” Bookman slammed the drawer shut.

  “Is that what happened to you?”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “You seem disenchanted with the fairer sex, Bookman. Did your sweetheart find another man too quickly?”

  Bookman turned slowly around and leaned against the chest of drawers. “What makes you think that?”

  “As I said, you seem bitter.”

  “Women are faithless, lying creatures who rip out a man’s soul and trample it in the dirt while they laugh and move on to another. I thought my girl loved me. I cherished her letters, read them and reread them until they were nigh worn through.”

  “I remember,” Robert said gently.

  “And what did she do when I returned to claim her?” Bookman slapped his hand down on the wooden surface, making the sideboard rock. “She swore she’d written to say all was finished between us. She said I’d changed, I was too hard, and that I frightened her. What she really meant was that she’d taken up with another man.”

  “And what did you do about that?” Robert tensed as his valet sauntered over to the bed.

  “What did I do? What do we do to traitors in the army, Major? We teach them a lesson.”

  “But she was a young girl.”

  Bookman shrugged. “So? Shouldn’t she be held to the same standards of loyalty and decency as the rest of us?”

  “Not if she isn’t a soldier.”

  “She was my woman. She betrayed me. I had a right to demand justice.”

  Robert held his gaze. “And what exactly did that entail?”

  “Why does it matter to you? You’ve killed with the best of them and never asked questions.”

  “In a theater of war, yes, but not here in Kurland St. Mary. I repeat, what did you do?”

  Bookman’s smile was chilling. “I think you know, Major. That bloody Miss Harrington must’ve told you more than I real
ized.”

  A stab of unease caught Robert in the gut. “What’s this got to do with Miss Harrington?”

  “Oh, come on, Major, do you think I was born yesterday? She’s the one who’s been getting you to poke your nose in where it’s not wanted. If it weren’t for her, you wouldn’t be asking all these questions. You’d just let things lie.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  Bookman’s contemptuous gaze swept over him. “Because you’ve become a coward lying here, letting me and Foley take care of you. You’ve shown no interest in anything.”

  “I’m interested now. I certainly cannot allow you to impose military rules on my village. When did you last see Miss Harrington?”

  “What does it matter? She’s not going to come telling tales to you tonight, I can assure you of that.”

  Robert slid one hand beneath the covers. Despite his growing concern for Miss Harrington, he had to carry through with his plan.

  “Where is Mary Smith?”

  “She’s safe enough.” He grabbed hold of the bedpost and looked down at Robert. “Major, it’s me, Bookman, the man who saved your life on more than one occasion. What do you care about one stupid servant girl?”

  “I care that you might have harmed an innocent.”

  “She wasn’t innocent. She was a lying, faithless slut.”

  “Who had the decency to write to you to say she had a change of heart. Who expected you to respect her decision and not destroy her for wanting another man? I cannot condone such behavior, Bookman.”

  Bookman smiled and brought the laudanum bottle out of his pocket. “You disappoint me, Major. Where’s your much-vaunted loyalty to me? Why shouldn’t Mary feel a little of the pain I’ve endured being shot at, bayoneted, and stabbed? She told me she was going to marry another man. Why should I have to come home to nothing?”

  “We’ve all endured such things. It doesn’t give us the right to inflict them on innocent civilians.”

  “Why not? We inflicted them on the damned French! We slaughtered innocents by the hundreds over there, and you damn well know it!” Bookman was sweating, his skin pale, his nightmarish gaze back in the past with the horrors he’d endured. “I fought for the likes of her to live a peaceful life, and she betrayed me.”

  “So you killed her.”

  “Damn right I did, Major. Strangled her with my bare hands.” Bookman stared at him. “And I’d do it again if I had to.”

  Robert studied his longtime friend and valet, and it was like looking at a stranger. He’d seen it before. Some soldiers never came home from the terrors of war; they could never settle down in peace.

  “Bookman, I can’t let you get away with this, but I swear I will stand by you. I’ll note your exemplary war record, your mentions in dispatches, your—”

  “You’ll do no such thing, Major.” Bookman studied the black glass bottle. “You’ll drink this down like a good boy, and you’ll go to sleep and never wake up. No one will be surprised. I’ve told enough stories about how worried I am about your addiction to the stuff.”

  He uncorked the bottle and stared down at it. “I’ll be mortified when I realize how you took advantage of me and swiped the bottle when my back was turned.” He chuckled. “Not mortified enough not to accept the pension your aunt will surely give me, though. Now come on, sir, lie back and let me settle you to sleep. What do you have to live for anyway? You’re unlikely to walk again, you’re scared of your own shadow, and no woman in her right mind would want to marry a bad-tempered cripple like you.”

  He put a hand on Robert’s shoulder and Robert pushed aside the sheet to expose the gun he held in his hand.

  “Step back, Bookman.”

  His valet laughed. “You think you’ve got the nerve to shoot me, sir? How many times have I had to save your neck when you were too scared to pull the trigger?” He held up the bottle. “Now come on, sir, lie back.”

  Chaos erupted as Robert fired and James and Foley ran from the corridor to secure a cursing and bleeding Bookman, his hand clasped to his shoulder.

  “Nicely done, Major,” Foley puffed, as Bookman slid to the floor in a dead faint. “Enough to incapacitate him, but not kill him outright.”

  Robert put his smoking pistol on the nightstand. “That’s the thing Bookman never understood. You can stop a man quite adequately without killing him.”

  His insides were churning at the smells of blood and powder mingled, and he swallowed hard. Violent death wasn’t meant to happen in the quiet of a man’s bedchamber. It defiled him somehow.

  “Tie him up, James, and put him in the storage cellar. Send for Dr. Baker and the village constable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  James hoisted Bookman over his shoulder and took him out, leaving Robert and Foley staring at each other. Foley mopped his brow and picked up the fallen bottle of laudanum.

  “That was a very close thing, sir. A very close thing indeed.”

  Robert slowly exhaled. “Get Joseph Cobbins and go down with him to the rectory as fast as you can. Rouse the Reverend Harrington and tell him if he wants to save his daughter, he needs to open the DeVry tomb immediately.”

  “The tomb, sir? Are you quite sure?”

  “Yes, Foley. I’ve stopped taking laudanum, remember? Go quickly, her life might depend on it.”

  Were there mice in the tomb? Lucy wiggled her frozen toes and contemplated the faint scratching sounds. She didn’t dare contemplate what else the noise could be. It sounded far too like fingernails scraping on the stone, and if it wasn’t her fingernails, whose were they? Her teeth started to chatter and she firmly clenched her jaw. At least her lip had stopped bleeding in the freezing cold.

  No wonder the gentry built icehouses that looked like mausoleums. This tomb would do a fine job of keeping the coldest of desserts frozen. She tried to ease her wrist in the tight binding, but couldn’t slip it free. How long had she been there? It felt like hours, but she had no sense of time at all. She turned her wrist again, glad that she was wearing gloves against the chill.

  For goodness’ sake, she had gloves on. With a squeak of annoyance, she drew her hands up to her mouth and nibbled on the button closure of her glove. If she could loosen that, surely she could get at least one hand free? It seemed to take forever, her chattering teeth slipping and jarring against the unforgiving metal fastening. Eventually she eased it free, and holding her hands between her upright knees, she pulled her fingers free of the tight kid glove and the restraint of the binding around her wrists.

  Now at least she could use her fingers to feel around the edge of the door and see if there were any weaknesses or cracks. She turned and her cramped legs folded under her, bringing her down hard on the floor. She managed to catch herself on her hands and knees and stayed there for a moment to regain her breath. It took her a moment to straighten her back, and reach for a handhold on the shelves that bordered both sides of the crypt. Her fingers brushed frozen flesh and she paused.

  In the darkness, there was no way of guessing exactly what she’d touched, but the fact that the body wasn’t entombed in a coffin, indicated it was a very unusual burial. With great care she traced a freezing cold hand, arm, and shoulder, shuddered as fine hair entangled her fingers like a spider’s web. It was definitely a woman and she was quite dead.

  Lucy said a quiet prayer over the body and then sank back down again. No one was going to come. She was going to die here alone and without the benefit of a proper burial from her loved ones. She felt like crying, but she had a strong suspicion that her tears would freeze on her cheeks like hail in a winter storm. The cold made it hard to think. She wanted to close her eyes, go to sleep, and forget everything. Would anyone even miss her? How foolish of her to worry about going to London next year when she should simply have told her father about the invitation and left him to deal with his cook by himself. How petty her concerns seemed now . . .

  She closed her eyes and rested her head against one of the shelves. Once she’d had
a sleep, she’d think of something to help her escape. She just knew she would.

  The sudden blast of fresh air and the flickering torches made her shield her eyes and cower away. Had Bookman come back to kill her? If he had, she wasn’t sure she had any strength left to stop him.

  “Miss Harrington!”

  She stared bemused up into Foley’s familiar face. He turned and shouted something she couldn’t comprehend. Suddenly, Anthony and Harris were there, lifting her out of the tomb and carrying her back to the rectory. She managed to tug on Anthony’s sleeve.

  “There’s someone else in there. Don’t leave her.”

  “It’s all right. We know. We’ll take care of Mary, don’t you worry. Now come inside and let Anna get you to bed.”

  Chapter 17

  Robert stared impatiently at the clock on the mantelpiece and then back at the door. Where was she? Was it too much to ask for a woman to be punctual?

  Foley knocked and came in, a smile on his face. “Miss Harrington is here, Major. Shall I show her in?”

  “She knows the way, Foley. Go and make yourself useful and fetch some tea.”

  “Yes, Major.” Foley stepped aside to reveal Miss Harrington hovering at the doorway.

  Robert beckoned to her impatiently. “Come in.”

  “There’s no need to bark at me. I’m coming as fast as I can.”

  His gaze fastened on her face. “Good Lord. What did Bookman do to you? Take off your bonnet so I can have a proper look at you.”

  She halted in front of him, her chin raised. “Major, may I remind you that I am neither your chattel nor under your command? I shall remove my bonnet when I choose to.” She continued to glare at him as she untied the ribbons and placed the bonnet on the couch beside her. “There, are you satisfied now?”

  Robert sucked in a breath. “He hurt you. If I’d known that, I’d have shot him right through his black heart.”

  She took the seat opposite him and patted the immaculate braids of her hair coiled like a coronet on top of her head. “You did the right thing, Major. You ensured he will come to trial.” She hesitated. “That must have been difficult for you.”