Demons of Fenley Marsh

by Bancroft, Blair

  Life. That’s what mattered. I rose and backed away, allowing the boys—who were regarding me with equally stunned faces—to take my place on the floor by the kittens.

  “Congratulations,” Lunsford murmured, almost in my ear. Having forgotten he was there, I gasped and stumbled back. And once again found myself in his arms. I froze, my gaze riveted on the straw-strewn wooden boards beneath my feet. “Come,” he said, drawing me toward the far end of the stables, his hand gripping my arm. “I have something to show you.”

  With a grand wave of his hand, rather like a magician at a country fair, he gestured toward an odd-looking, dust-covered vehicle that clearly had not been used in years. “It belonged to the Talmadges, the Hall’s former owners, something designed for taking their children on jaunts. Not much trouble to make it serviceable again. Do you drive, Mrs. Tyrell? If not, I’ll be happy to teach you.”

  He said not a word about my braving Bess’s stall, but the knowledge was there. He was daring me to drive. And clearly he had planned this ploy even before I had ventured in to look at the kittens. I had simply made it easier for him to present his challenge.

  “How kind of you,” I returned coolly. “I will consider it.”

  He eyed me askance then spoke as heartily as if I had I had offered enthusiastic consent to his plan. “Then I’ll order the repairs,” he declared before turning toward Bess’s stall and calling, “Come along, Gentlemen. I am sure Mrs. Tyrell has more educational pursuits planned for your afternoon.” He strode out without so much as a backward glance. Did he even realize the enormity of the challenge he had thrown out?

  Indeed he did. I could tell by the jauntiness of his walk, the tilt of his head. He had offered a dare, and I had not refused. Was I beginning to heal? And if so, then perhaps I should turn the tables and see what I could do for him.

  It was full moon that night, a great streak of light reflecting on the sweeping high tide that had completely swallowed the marsh. Nothing but water as far as the eye could see. Chas was asleep, and I stood at the window in my room, my thoughts chasing each other—now frantic, now fearful, now pausing to savor the more precious among them. Why, of all places in the kingdom, had we come to Lunsford Hall? An accidental twist of Fate? Mockery conjured by ancient gods? Or perhaps a glimmer of something more benign?

  A great wail pierced the balmy night air, a howl of anguish, desperation. Despair. I had heard tales of the cry of a banshee, but banshees were part of the folklore of Scotland and Ireland. They had no place in tranquil, stoic England.

  The ululation faded away. I remained rooted to the floor, the seabreeze blowing through the open window licking at my hair. Was that salt I smelled or brimstone?

  The sound came again, rising to an even higher pitch. Warning of destruction, death. Evil. My spine tingled, goosebumps rose on my arms. Suddenly, a shadow strode onto the lawn below my window. A man, standing defiant, gazing right, left, then out toward the moon-kissed marsh. Lunsford. Jason. Even as a shadowman, I recognized him.

  There was, of course, nothing to be seen. Whatever demon or ghost chose to haunt Lunsford Hall, however corporeal it might be, was well hidden. The voice, dancing on the night breeze, might have come from anywhere.

  The dark silhouette below me turned and looked up at my window, the moonlight catching but being kind to his face. Once again, I caught a glimpse of the gallant young man he must have been. He lifted a hand in greeting then turned abruptly and stalked back into the house.

  All night noises had ceased, I noted, as if the howl of the banshee had frightened every nocturnal creature into silence. What was it the ancient tales said? The wail of a banshee was a precursor to death. Another shiver climbed my spine.

  No! I would not be caught up in superstitious twaddle. I had two boys to educate, an employer whose life I was determined to meddle in. That was quite enough for me to tackle. I could not become involved in the mysterious doings in the southern Lincolnshire fens. Yet . . . blood will out, they say. And the blood of a long line of powerful ancestors ran in my veins. Commanding, headstrong, arrogant. Leaders all. And I the sprig off the aristocratic vine who had eloped at eighteen to a happily-ever-after of my own choosing. An idyll that should have lasted far longer. Would have . . .

  Again, no! I had been trapped in a miasma of grief so long I had almost failed Chas when he needed me most. That would not happen again. Nor, if I could help it, would I allow anyone else to live in misery. So . . .

  Whatever was happening in the vicinity of Fenley Marsh was not supernatural, no matter how many people were lured to think so. But there was no doubt something lurked out there, and I could not help but wonder why. Why target the inhabitants of Lunsford Hall, for surely that was the gist of it? Nicholas, Lunsford . . . why?

  No! I was going to go to bed, sleep away my questions, my unquenchable curiosity. My life must be confined to the schoolroom, to sedate walks and lectures on the region’s flora and fauna. (My knowledge, I freely admit, was thanks to the Hall’s well-stocked library, for during my years in the schoolroom the subject of Nature had not been high on my list of interests). I really, truly could not play governess to the entire household. And not even imagining myself mistress of the house would give me the right to meddle in what were surely men’s affairs.

  Well, we’ll just have to see about that!

  Be still!

  Foolish girl. You’ll worry this bone ’til it explodes in your face.

  So be it.

  The night remained quiet. Finally, I slept.

  On Sunday, I found the curate’s sermon strangely disturbing, an apocalyptic rant at odds with the current practices of the Church of England. (I might not be an expert on wildlife in Lincolnshire, but I was all too cognizant of the niceties of Sunday sermons.) When Mr. Pilkington pinned his overly bright gray eyes on the Lunsford pew, most particularly on Nicholas, I felt a frisson of fear as he thundered a passage from Isaiah 66: For behold, the Lord will come with fire and with His chariots like the whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with flames of fire. For by fire and by his sword will the Lord plead with all flesh: and the slain of the Lord shall be many.

  The curate topped this passage from the Old Testament by quoting, with chilling intensity, from Peter 5: Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour

  How dare he imply . . .?

  Did Mr. Pilkington fancy himself the leader of a modern-day crusade, whipping his followers into a frenzy reminiscent of sixteenth-century witch-hunts? Or was he merely misguided, trying too hard in his effort to demonstrate he was worthy of ecclesiastical advancement?

  I knew enough about church hierarchy to be certain the curate’s rants were no way to impress his bishop. Then again, there was such a fanatical gleam in his eyes—was it possible he was one of those weak souls whose excess of religious fervor had tilted him toward madness?

  Absurd. Someone was out to cause trouble in the village of Fenley-on-the-Marsh, but there was no way I could envision the rail-thin, narrow-faced curate setting fires or wailing to the full moon. He might be able to thunder in a small church, but in the vastness of Fenley Marsh . . .? No, he was not our demon, but I was beginning to think he was a believer, that he might actually think he had been chosen to lead his flock out of darkness into light.

  By violence? I prayed it was not so.

  On Monday morning at breakfast, I requested a few moments of Mr. Lunsford’s time.

  “What is it this time?” he said as he sank into the chair behind his desk and regarded me with a soberness that indicated he expected to hear another tale of Nicholas’s transgressions.

  “No problems,” I returned hastily. “At least nothing new. But I was wondering . . .” I paused, inwardly groaning. How I had thought I dared broach this subject . . . “I think you need to attend church,” I blurted out. And plunged into what I had experienced during my two Sundays at church. “They need to see you,” I to
ld him. “They need to see you are human, neither monster nor demon. And the congregation needs to see Nicholas has the protection of man, a strong man and military hero.”

  “I am not—”

  “Yes, you are!” I glared at him. He glared right back. “You need to see and hear what is happening. Believe me, it isn’t pretty, and it is not going to go away by itself. Whether you like it or not, you must act, at least let people think you care!”

  Slowly he shook his head as he gazed at me from under lowered lids. “Mrs. Tyrell, I cannot think how we have managed without you.”

  I felt my cheeks flushing a bright crimson. Damnation!

  “I will make a bargain with you,” he said at last, his dark eyes hard. “I will attend church if you will drive the cart.” There wasn’t an ounce of sympathy in him. For me or for himself. If he had to suffer, so must I.

  I sat tall, staring into his ravaged face without blinking. “Very well.”

  He offered his hand, and across the width of the desk I shook it. His touch lingered. Propelled by a flash of internal fire that was almost painful, I slid out of my chair and fled the room.

  Chapter Eleven

  I half expected to be summoned to the stables for a driving lesson the very next afternoon—and truthfully my nerves were jangling with something more overwhelming than fear—but no message came. I had to assume the cart was still undergoing refurbishment. Since it was one of those perfect summer days—the seabreeze ameliorating the warmth of the sun and just a few fluffy white clouds sailing through an intense blue sky—I told Amos we would not need his services and set off with the boys for a field of maize I had passed on my way to the village. This was a crop I knew Chas had never seen, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it would be new to Nicholas as well. From what I’d been told, his education beyond history, maths, and globes had been sketchy.

  The day was so glorious it felt almost as if we were floating along the embankments as we made our way to the cornfield in a series of right angles, following the geometrically straight lines of the drainage ditches. Magnificent! Though I had to admit the boys set a pace that had me feeling the strain by the time we reached the expanse of half-grown green stalks beyond the ditch on our left.

  “That’s maize?” Nicholas scoffed. “It is very odd-looking.”

  “It doesn’t look at all like wheat or barley,” Chas added. “The stalks are so fat.”

  “It will grow much taller, I told them,” sounding wise although my information had come from a book. “And ears of maize this long”—I demonstrated with my hands—“will grow along the stalks. That is why they have to be thick.”

  “It is still very odd-looking,” Nicholas declared. “Is it true maize was first grown by the Red Indians in the Colonies? That’s what Uncle told me.”

  “Yes, indeed. And potatoes, I understand, came to us from the Indians in South America, but you should not use the word Colonies, Nicholas. The Americans have had their own country for some forty years.”

  “They never would have got away if it weren’t for Old Boney,” he muttered. And I almost laughed out loud. For once, Nicholas’s truculence was directed toward something besides me. That a nine-year-old boy had an opinion about American independence was amusing in itself, until I recalled his uncle’s military background and realized whose words he was likely parroting.

  “Mrs. Tyrell.” Nicholas’s tone changed so abruptly I was instantly on alert. “There,” he said, nodding toward the ditch between us and the field of corn. “In the water,” he added, his voice now little above a whisper.

  I looked— Oh, dear God, Let it be a scarecrow! I blinked, stepped closer to the edge of the ditch and peered at the man-sized object drifting in the sluggish current. Rough, cast-off clothing such as a scarecrow might wear . . . The pant legs drooped out of sight beneath the water, but at the end of a shirt sleeve . . . I gulped then turned on both boys, shoving them toward the center of the embankment. “Stay there!” I ordered before returning to confirm what I had seen. Two hands and the back of a gray-haired head.

  The banshee wail. Harbinger of death.

  “It’s real, isn’t it?” Nicholas asked. “He’s dead.” I sensed in him an excitement I could not like. Even Chas did not appear as shaken as I felt he should be. Boys tended to see the world through a vision all their own, but this . . .

  “Listen carefully,” I snapped. “Run as fast as you can to Mr. Lunsford and tell him what we’ve found. I must stay with the body as it may drift, and we do not want to lose it. Now, go. Quickly!” They pelted off down the path, and as they dashed across a bridge at breakneck speed, I realized I should have cautioned them to be careful. Too late. I could only pray the agility of youth would see them through.

  It was a lonely vigil, exaggerated in my mind to far longer than the actual number of minutes. The body drifted slowly on what must have been the outer edges of an ebb tide, moving only twenty feet or so before I saw four men walking at a brisk pace in my direction. As they drew nearer, I recognized them as Mr. Lunsford, Amos, and two of the stableboys, carrying a litter.

  The ground swayed beneath my feet, the sky turned black.

  No! I must—I would—put Avery’s death behind me. I must be strong. For Chas, for Nicholas. For whatever was happening here on Fenley Marsh. And I had to be strong for myself, because I was alive, not dead and buried in the churchyard with Avery.

  The men had arrived. I looked up and caught Mr. Lunsford’s concerned regard just before he said, “You may go, Mrs. Tyrell. This is not a sight you will wish to see.”

  He was right, of course. I had no desire to see the poor dead man any more closely than I already had. Nor was it the time to ask any of the myriad questions that had chased through my mind in the last twenty minutes. I turned my back on the recovery effort and headed home. Though I admit to sneaking a peek as I crossed the bridge, finding all four men fully engaged in hauling the water-soaked body up the steep bank. I winced and continued on the path toward Lunsford Hall, my feet weighted with dread. I had seen no wounds, no blood, but somehow I could not assume this death natural. It seemed yet another piece of the horrifying puzzle plaguing the neighborhood.

  The banshee wailed and a man died.

  Who, or what, was next?

  In truth, what came next astounded me. I walked back into the house and found no sign of the boys, who I fully expected to be hovering in the hall, bursting with questions. “The young gentlemen have gone up to the nursery, Mrs. Tyrell,” Stebbins informed me, with no sign he was aware this afternoon was different from any other. “The ladies are in the drawing room.”

  Of course Lunsford had ordered the boys to the nursery—how could I have expected anything else? I murmured my thanks to Stebbins and headed for the stairs, intent on speaking with the boys as soon as possible. Both had lost their fathers not so long ago, and surely further reflection on the dead body was bound to bring back painful memories.

  I was only on the third step, however, when the sound of raised voices made me pause. Ears on the prick, I listened quite shamelessly but could not make out the words. What about the discovery of a drowned man could possibly instigate a quarrel between Lady Kempton and her mother? Well aware I was breaking a cardinal rule of the good manners, I descended the stairs and moved quietly along the central corridor to the drawing room.

  “I will go to the Talmadge’s musicale, Mama! If you will not accompany me, I shall ask Basil to take me.” Cressida, Lady Kempton, resplendent in a silk gown that would have been admired in any drawing room in Mayfair, stood hands fisted and openly defiant, glaring at her mother.

  “But, my dear, you are well aware of the old quarrel between the families. Indeed, I cannot understand how we received an invitation. Surely it must be a mistake.”

  “No mistake,” Cressida crowed. “Basil believes the Talmadges have hit on a new way to get back Lunsford Hall.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “They have sent an invitation to Jason a
s well.” Cressida, looking immensely smug, gazed expectantly at her mother, while I stood just inside the doorway, totally puzzled by the conversation. Fortunately, both ladies were too occupied to notice my arrival. And clearly no one had told them about the body in the drainage ditch.

  “You can’t mean . . .?” Lady Hadley’s words trailed into shocked silence.

  “Indeed I do.” Cressida offered a nasty smile that made me want to shake her, even though I had not yet pinned down the gist of the conversation. “What is sharing a bed with the stuff of nightmares compared to bringing this house back to the Talmadges?”

  “Do not be absurd, Cressida. You know Jason will never marry.”

  Jason. Marry? The shock of the thought astounded me. I must have made some sound because Lady Hadley looked in my direction. “Ah, Mrs. Tyrell, do come in. You may add your good sense to mine and convince my daughter that any scheme to marry Jason to Alyssa Talmadge, or anyone else for that matter, is bound to fail.”

  Oddly numb, I sank into the chair she indicated. “I fear I can be of no help, my lady. I have no idea who Miss Talmadge is.”

  “You have seen her in church, Mrs. Tyrell,” Lady Kempton asserted. “Up front in the second pew, as befits one of the oldest families in the area. Quite a handsome creature if one cares for towering females with Gypsy looks who stride about as if they own the world.”

  Ah yes, I recognized the description. Miss Alyssa Talmadge was a striking young woman, beside whom I would pale to insignificance. Drat!

  “She always attends with her mother and brother. The elder Mr. Talmadge,” she continued baldly, “shot himself after losing this house to Jason’s great-uncle.”