by Jane Steen
I closed the gate with a little difficulty and continued along the riverbank, keeping a firm hand on Sandy as a group of ewes ran across our path. Sheep were ridiculous animals to my mind, always frightened but always keen to get in the way. Justin had maintained they were more intelligent than they looked, but then he would.
I noted with a strange mixture of regret and interest that out here my grief had subsided to a dull ache. In these fields, riding out as we’d so often done together, I felt Justin’s absence—but at the same time I felt my wholeness, my existence as a person independent of anyone else.
“Lady Helena!”
I turned Sandy’s head so I could more easily twist round and look behind me. Fortier was riding toward me on a large black animal that was almost certainly part draft horse.
“Thank you for coming to meet me,” he said.
“I’m not entirely sure that was my intention, but let’s take it at face value.”
“That was your groom on the path with Sir Justin’s horse, wasn’t it? He was having a little trouble with him as they neared the spot where Sir Justin went in. The beast started to rear and buck.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me Puck’s behavior confirms your suspicion of foul play,” I said archly. “Whereas it’s far more likely that it’s a matter of a horse needing exercise. Mank’s on his way to gallop Puck for a bit.”
“Leaving you unchaperoned.”
“I’m on my own land, on a well-frequented path,” I pointed out. “Now I suppose you’re going to warn me there might be a murderer on the loose.”
“If you’re determined you know my mind better than I do, I won’t contradict you.” He smiled again, and with a pinprick of annoyance I had to stop myself from smiling back. Good grief, was I going to become one of those flirtatious widows? I pressed my lips together.
“Be that as it may, if you have something to show me, I suggest you get on with it.” I sounded crosser than perhaps was quite polite. “We’ll lose the light, for one thing.”
Fortier nodded. “You’re right. I shouldn’t waste time with small talk. If I’m correct, a good man has been unlawfully killed.” He turned his horse’s head without waiting to see if I was following, leaving me with the conviction I’d been rather rude.
We rode downstream in silence. Fortier opened and closed gates for me, making my passage easy. We passed into the field known as Willow Bottom because of the line of huge, ancient willows that stood like stranded sentinels many feet from the riverbank. The river had once been much broader and shallower, but Justin, like many of the landowners, had had the river channel deepened and narrowed so he had more pasture for his sheep. Now the riverbank was steep, crowned with a thick growth of thorny brambles.
Fortier halted his horse and dismounted, looking up at me.
“Do you mind if we tie up the horses and walk? I want you to view the site up close. There’s not much to see, truth be told, but I have a notion you’ll understand my theory better on the ground.”
I answered him by unhooking my right leg from the pommel, slipping the other foot out of the stirrup and sliding easily off Sandy, who was more a large pony than a horse. It took me a few moments to locate the buttonhole and fix the skirt of my habit for walking while Fortier secured the horses. The huge black horse and Sandy seemed to like each other, touching noses and nickering softly before turning their attention to the lush grass beneath their hooves.
From Whitcombe House’s perch high on the hill, these fields looked small; the countryside appeared neat and contained, a patchwork bordered by hedges and drains. From high on Whitcombe Hill, you almost felt you could touch the distant hills or cross the marsh to the sea in no time. But when out in the fields, especially when on foot, I was always struck by how vast the land looked and how small I felt. The nearest hedge was a tramp of several minutes away. The drains, deep ditches filled with water or choked by bulrushes, made it almost impossible to travel in a straight line. They effectively prevented strangers from walking or riding across the fields at all, as you had to know the crossing points or risk turning in circles until darkness fell. Time was another dimension of this vastness; our land still bore traces of changes wrought over hundreds, even thousands of years by weather and by man.
The path was far more uneven than it looked from the back of a horse. I did not draw back when Fortier offered me his arm. He took me closer to the riverbank, which was rank with late-year growth and liberally sprinkled with sheep droppings in various stages of desiccation. The smells of river water and sheep dung mingled with the earthy odor that arose from the fields as the day drew to a close.
“It has rained hard, of course, since the day Sir Justin died,” he said as he reached the spot he’d been looking for. “The mud was more clearly grooved and torn here that day. But you can still see marks, and look how the brambles are broken and pushed aside.”
“Couldn’t those marks just as easily have been made by a struggling ram? The one they found dead farther down the river?” I leaned forward to look. I felt oddly detached from the thought that this was where Justin had last been alive and, until that one fatal, final moment, safe from harm. Warm in his tweeds, looking forward to returning to Whitcombe to take coffee with me.
“If a ram had pushed through here—and why would it?—tufts of its fleece would have snagged on the thorns,” Fortier pointed out. “I made inquiries about the dead animal. It had no pieces of bramble in its fleece—and you know how those thorns hook into you.”
I did indeed. Brambles were a dreadful nuisance when you wore long skirts.
“And what about Sir Justin’s body? Were there brambles stuck to him?”
“There were.”
“This was noted at the inquest, I suppose?”
“Yes. I pointed out that even if Sir Justin needed to get close to the river for some reason, it was odd that he had chosen a spot thick with brambles and not that gap over there.” He pointed upstream to a place where the bank sloped less steeply, a spot where the ewes could go to drink.
“If he’d seen the ram struggling and rushed to save it . . .” I tailed off, feeling the futility of speculation. I was sure the men at the inquest had engaged in discussions like this at length.
“There was another thing that the rain washed away. Vomit, just around here.” Fortier waved a hand. “Although the young woman, Susan Hatherall, claimed that it was she who had vomited—not all that unsurprising given her condition.”
“Susan? What was she doing there at such an early hour?” I felt a stab of curiosity. Farmer Hatherall’s youngest daughter had been a positive fixture at Hyrst as a child, but I hadn’t seen her for years. “And what do you mean, her condition?”
Fortier took a deep breath. “That’s rather a delicate subject and caused something of a stir at the inquest—but I believe I must tell you since her story is bound up with yours. She appears to be with child. Lucius Hatherall tried to stop her from calling attention to herself, but I suppose it would have been remiss of her not to speak up. I gather she’s unmarried.”
“Oh dear. And Farmer Hatherall a churchwarden too.” I shook my head, trying to absorb this new shock. “The poor man. He must be dying of shame.”
“He certainly had the air of a man traveling through the lowest circles of inferno,” Fortier said. “Come, you must see the willow before it’s pulled out. Would you like to go back for the horses, or shall we walk?”
We decided to walk, and Fortier offered me his arm again. I had to admit to myself that I found his solid muscularity comforting. I missed the sensation of masculine closeness, I realized. Justin and I had not been one of those married couples who avoided proximity to each other after the first few months. I wondered how much more I would miss such closeness as my widowhood lengthened—and what that would mean.
“Most of the jury followed the lead of three or four men,” Fortier explained as we walked. “Your brother, Lord Broadmere, of course, and the mayor. Sharrock and Finch
, who both dislike me.” Doctors Sharrock and Finch were the two other Littleberry physicians, both fixtures since my childhood.
“And what about the Littleberry police?”
Fortier looked sideways at me, his mouth quirked upward at the corners. “All three of them? I had the distinct impression they felt they had enough to do keeping the town clear of vagrants and drunkards and shouting at carters on market days. I did suggest we consult a police detective from one of the larger towns, but naturally my opinion didn’t prevail. The great men decided it was a case of accidental death, and the police were happy to bow to their superior wisdom.”
“That sounds like Littleberry. Although I imagine they listened to Ned—Sir Edward—and to the doctors rather than to my brother. Littleberry’s burghers see the Scott-De Quincys as interfering incomers, you know. We’ve only been at Hyrst for a hundred years or so, and Littleberry’s never been a town to show much respect to the nobility. They wun’t be druv, as the saying goes.”
“Wun’t be—? Oh, they won’t be driven, like the Sussex pig. Yes, I’ve become well acquainted with Littleberry’s tradition of proud and stubborn independence in the year I’ve lived there. My brother-in-law, Quinn Dermody, has much to say on the subject, being one of the proudest and most stubborn of the townspeople.”
We had rounded the bend in the river by now, and I could see the willow. It was a relatively young one compared to the behemoths in the field we’d just left. That is to say, it would have taken only two or three men to encompass its trunk with their arms. Two massive plow horses were grazing close to it. A team of men called back and forth as they tried to work out the best way to fix chains around its lower branches.
“Is Farmer Hatherall not here?” I asked them as we drew closer. One man straightened up from his task and tugged his forelock.
“Church business, m’lady. He said as to try and get the tree out before nightfall. I’m sorry for your loss, m’lady.”
The other men chimed in with their condolences, but I soon released them to continue with their work. The day had been fine, but now the sun was sinking fast.
“So Justin was found here.” I stared bleakly at the yellowed leaves and scum that had accumulated where the great tree’s branches entered the water.
“Yes.”
“Dear God, what a place to die.” I shivered. A faint mist had begun rising from the damp earth, giving the valley bottom a ghostly air. “Monsieur Fortier, what, really, is the point of showing me all of this? To improve the quality of my nightmares?”
Fortier looked down at me, his brow furrowed. “To gain an ally in the cause of the truth,” he said, his voice grave. “I’m deeply sorry if I’m causing you distress. If you feel that, as a woman, you deserve to be sheltered from unpleasantness—”
“I never said that.” I shivered again.
“You’re cold,” said Fortier. “Let me walk you back to your horse. There’s nothing else to see.”
We rounded the river bend to find Mank with all three of the horses. We had walked in silence, but Fortier spoke before we were in earshot of my groom.
“Would you please consider what I’ve said and shown you? I know this is merely a slender thread of a theory, but if there’s the faintest chance I may be right, you need to keep your eyes and ears open.”
“For what?”
“Enemies. Anomalies. Trust your instincts, Lady Helena. I suppose it’s too much to ask of you that you trust me.”
Back at Whitcombe, I soaked in a fragrant bath to rid myself of the smell of horse. Fortier’s words and the impressions the day had wrought on my brain spun around like leaves in a stream, bumping against boulders of doubt and denial. Should I listen to the man? And what good would it do if I did? Wasn’t widowhood bad enough without the obligation of some sort of quest for justice? My husband was dead and buried, and nothing I could do would bring him back.
“Nothing at all,” I murmured, turning the slippery bar of soap around between my hands to work up a lather. I’d received a note from Gerry that she and Ned were dining at Hyrst. She recommended that Blanche and I join them now that Odelia had, as she put it, “disappeared again.” I’d accepted, thinking I’d like to talk to Ned. After all, he’d been at the inquest, and he was far easier to approach than Michael. I could talk things over sensibly with him.
“What did you say, my lady?” Guttridge leaned over me and sniffed delicately at my hair. “We’ll have to wash it—I daresay I can get it dry enough that you won’t catch your death of cold. We can’t have you arriving at Hyrst smelling of smoke and horse. Were you asking me something just now?”
“I was thinking aloud,” I said as Guttridge rapidly unpinned my hair and reached for the jug. “About something Monsieur Fortier said to me. I bumped into him on the river path.”
“Hmph.” Guttridge motioned for me to lean forward and tipped a cascade of warm water over my head. “He’s a troublemaker, that Frenchie. Always contradicting people and drawing attention to himself, from what I hear.”
I kept my eyes tightly closed as Guttridge’s long, strong fingers pushed through my hair. “And who tells you that?”
Guttridge let out her breath in a small puff of derision. “My young man is a mold maker and decorator for Mr. Dermody, so he sees the Frenchie often. Mr. Dermody lets him use a couple of rooms at the pottery for his physicking, seeing they’re related by marriage.”
“So I understand. I didn’t know you had a young man, Guttridge. Are you planning to get married and leave me?”
“Not likely.” The heady scent of roses filled the air as Guttridge shook a few drops of oil from a pale blue bottle and rubbed it into her hands. “I like to have someone to walk out with, my lady. Men are useless creatures for the most part, but they’re good company when you’re in the mood for an outing. Besides, it’s hard to go on jaunts with other couples when you’re on your own. The other girls don’t like it.”
I closed my eyes as Guttridge combed through my hair with her fingers. I found myself trying to encompass the idea of Guttridge on jaunts or thinking of herself as a girl. My lady’s maid was forty if she was a day.
“So you don’t think Monsieur Fortier is trustworthy?”
“He’s a foreigner and a stranger. A good enough physician, by all accounts. They say he’s always agitating about the health of the poor people, and it’s known he’ll take a few eggs or even a bit of pie in lieu of a fee.”
“So he’s a kind man.” That pleased me.
“Depends on where you stand. The other doctors lose their fees when there’s someone prepared to do the work for nothing at all. I don’t see anything kind in depriving a man of his livelihood. I suppose Monsewer Fortier is living on the good graces of his brother-in-law. It’s easy to be generous when somebody else is paying.”
“He might have a private income,” I pointed out. “He appears to be a gentleman.”
“There’s lots of people these days appear to be gentlemen when all they’ve got is money and a bit of education.” Guttridge wrapped a robe around me as I climbed out of the bath and began vigorously rubbing my hair with a towel.
“Aren’t money and education enough?” I asked. “You don’t really need a pedigree going back to the Normans.”
Guttridge sniffed. “New people. They’ll be the ruination of this country.”
I suppressed a grin. “Sir Justin’s baronetcy is only three generations old, you know. They made their money in Indian cotton.” I sighed. “And now the title is extinguished.”
“Three generations are long enough,” Guttridge proclaimed. “And Sir Justin was a real gentleman. That Fortier is always sloping off to France, did you know that? A mistress, I’ll be bound, or some kind of unwholesome dealing. Smuggling or spying for the French.”
“Smuggling is no longer lucrative, and we’re not at war with the French anymore,” I pointed out. “And my ancestors engaged in both smuggling and spying.”
“Ah, but they were Scott-De Quincys,�
�� Guttridge said with an air of finality.
I couldn’t help laughing at that pronouncement, and Guttridge joined in. But I soon sobered. Her words worried me.
“How often does Monsieur Fortier go to France?”
“Four times since he moved to Littleberry, the word is. With no explanation ever given. The Dermodys know what it’s about right enough, but no hint escapes either of them. The servants can’t fathom the mystery. The Frenchie never takes a man with him on his travels.”
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly normal explanation.” But I could hear the uncertainty in my voice.
“People with perfectly normal business talk about their business. If I were you, my lady, I’d be careful not to be seen walking with that Frenchman out in the fields. And without a chaperone neither.”
“Who told—? Oh, Mank, I suppose. Did he tell you it was he who left me alone, and not the other way around?”
“He did, but that’s not the point. A lady in your position must be careful. Scandal attaches to a woman as it doesn’t to a man.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Guttridge, don’t nag. Be a good lady’s maid and get me ready quickly. I’d like to spend an hour with the dowager countess before dinner.”
Rebuked, Guttridge bustled off and left me alone with my thoughts, which were troubled ones. Had I been a fool to even listen to Fortier in the first place?
6
Seeking the truth
“Have you sent for the gardener?”
My mother’s inevitable question only made me hug her tighter tonight. I thought I recognized this form of greeting as a quest for reassurance in a world Mama no longer understood. Even if she never visited her herb garden, the idea of having a garden and needing to talk to the gardener must somehow form a link to the past.
My mother’s troubles had begun with my father’s death six years ago. Like Justin’s, Papa’s demise had been sudden. To be part of an adoring couple for forty-two years and then to find your husband cold and blue in his bed must have been worse than my own experiences. It had been Papa’s passing and its effect on Mama that had begun to pull me out of the dreadful pit of darkness wherein I’d dwelt since Daniel’s death two and a half years before. I had seen the terrible blankness on my mother’s face and had no longer wished to remain curled inward around my own pain.