Demons of Fenley Marsh

by Bancroft, Blair

  I ran into the hall, threw open the front door before Charles could do it for me. A quick look was enough. “Get Mr. Lunsford,” I told the footman. “We’re about to have visitors. I’m going to an upper window for a better look.” With that, I ran up the stairs as fast as my skirts would allow and straight to a window overlooking the front of the house.

  The view from the third floor would no doubt be more striking, but with Lincolnshire as flat as the proverbial pancake, it was easy enough to see the long zig-zag line of torches moving slowly toward us along the narrow embankments between the fields . Nearly every man in the village, I guessed. And perhaps a few of the women as well.

  Had Mr. Pilkington been so incensed that he had rallied every parishioner to his cause?

  I could hear a flurry of sound in the house now, so secure in the knowledge that Jason was aware of the invasion, I climbed to my room, roused Chas, and took him to the nursery, where I cautioned Nurse Robbins to keep both boys close. Fortunately, with windows facing the marsh, the boys could not see what was happening out front. As I left the nursery to go back downstairs, I nearly ran into Amos and one of the new guards, both on their way to watch the boys. After a heartfelt thank-you, I continued on my way, pausing only long enough to look out a third-story window to what had become a truly menacing sight. Dear God, it was indeed closer to one hundred torch-bearers in the park than the ten or fifteen the last time this happened. I could not make out any faces, but I was quite sure the tall gangly form leading the parade toward the front door was Mr. Pilkington. And the dark shadow in skirts was likely Clover Rooke.

  I found Jason in the hall, giving orders to the servants. Two of his newly hired guards were present as well. I heard the words “bucket brigade” addressed to Stebbins and blanched. Though I found the figures with their torches menacing, the thought that they might actually fire the house had never occurred to me. Naivety, thy name is Miranda.

  “Jason Lunsford, come out!” No mistaking the voice of Francis Pilkington, raised in a rolling thunder that proclaimed his desire to mimic the ancient prophets.

  “No!” I cried.

  Jason looked at me, his crinkling cheeks betraying some amusement as he dismissed my inadvertent protest. Our eyes met for a long moment before he turned toward the door. He ran his fingers through his hair, squared his shoulders, and nodded to Charles, who looked as pale as the wax candles in the chandeliers. My feet came close to charging forward of their own accord, for I longed to stand with Jason, the two of us facing the mob together. But it was not my place. I had no rights here. And besides, Jason would have picked me up, carted me into the house, and told Charles to bolt the door behind him. And that would never do. Nonetheless, I stepped forward, centuries of Chastains standing with me urging me to take charge. “Open the door, Charles. We will stay inside, but we must show our support.”

  The footman glanced at Stebbins, who nodded, and Charles threw open the front door to reveal Jason confronting a formidable array of shadows bathed in the flickering glow of torchlight. Unable to take my eyes from his lone figure, I felt, rather than saw, Stebbins and the staff move forward to stand just behind me.

  “Keep back,” I hissed when the guards would have shouldered their way to my side. “Let’s keep the guns out of sight for now.”

  And who gave you the right to give orders?

  Ignoring my inner voice, I assumed the role of lady of the manor, not giving a fig where Cressida and Hesper were or what they doing. Cowering in their rooms, morelike.

  “Step forward, Demon,” the curate bellowed, “and confess your sins.”

  “Bring out the Demon Child!” shouted a voice in the crowd, followed by a roar of approval, punctuated by a high-pitched wail from Clover. Did she actually believe any of her accusations, I wondered, or was she simply enjoying all the attention she was getting?

  “And the whore of Babylon!” another voice cried.

  The crowd echoed the demand, their raucous voices climbing into the night as the torches flickered and swayed, giving the illusion of a night in Hell.

  “Perhaps we should shut the door,” Stebbins ventured, though he did not budge from his staunch position just behind my right shoulder.

  “No.” Though I was well aware an uncompromising stance was not sensible. “Mr. Dunn, Mr. Rowley,” I said to the guards, “if the crowd becomes dangerous, no matter what your orders, you must rescue Mr. Lunsford first. When he is inside, and only then, will we bar the door. Are we agreed?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they chorused. “Major’s too hard-headed for his own good,” Rowley added.

  Jason’s voice soared over our whispers. “You’ll deal with me, and only me,” he continued in the strong, authoritative voice he’d undoubtedly used when guiding his troops into battle. “Your curate has run mad. There are no demons here—man, woman, or child.”

  “What killed them animals?” someone shouted.

  “And made my calves stillborn. Two of ’em!” another voice cried.

  “And fired our fields?” A female voice rose above the menacing growl of the crowd.

  “What about old Mudge? We all heard the banshee wail.”

  Patiently, Jason waited for quiet before continuing, “There is someone making mischief, a very human someone who for some reason wants to cause trouble.” More grumbles, several torches were jabbed high in the air. “The someone who tried to kill my nephew three times, or”—he paused to sweep an angry glare from one side of the crowd to the other—“or he has whipped you all into such a frenzy that one of you has turned mad enough to kill.”

  Shocked silence. Not a few heads turned questioning looks toward Mr. Francis Pilkington.

  Jason took advantage of the silence to add, “I have hired a Bow Street Runner. I expect—”

  “A woman died!” Clover Rooke shrieked. “The rag and bone man died. Cursed they was. Killed by the Demon of Fenley Marsh.”

  I started forward. If no one else would close that hysterical female’s mouth—

  Stebbins held me fast. “No, ma’am. He’d never forgive me if anything happened to you.”

  Jason tried again. “I promise you we’ll find the true culprit and put an end to this nonsense.”

  “It is you,” Pilkington cried. “Only you. You have brought evil among us, Lunsford. Death and Destruction. Our crops will wither, our animals cease to bear. Leave us. Foul fiend, go back where you came from.”

  I did not hear Jason’s calm and reasonable reply as an odd thought struck me. For the first time I questioned the curate’s motives. He was beginning to sound as if he were quoting a script instead of scripture. “Stebbins,” I said, “Is there any connection between Mr. Pilkington and the Tamadges?”

  “Oh yes, ma’am. The late Mr. Talmadge’s mother was a Pilkington, which makes the curate a second cousin of Mr. Miles Talmadge, I believe.”

  Eureka!

  Movement from the crowd brought my attention back to the scene in front of me. Mr. Pilkington was moving forward, flanked by the burly form of the local smithy and one of the more outspoken farmers. A ragged flurry of shouts rang out, torches waved.

  “Ma’am?” one of the guards asked.

  Swallowing an instant surge of fear, I took a closer look. Ah! Mr. Pilkington was in danger of outstripping his followers. Out of a gathering of perhaps a hundred, not more than fifteen had followed him as he led his vanguard toward Jason.

  “Now!” I told the guards and stepped aside to let them through the door. Shotguns at the ready, they moved to Jason’s side.

  “Look around, Pilkington,” Jason called. “Your line is thin. And you’re flanked by more guns to left and right.” Although I could see nothing beyond the torchlit edges of the crowd, I did not think Jason was bluffing. Nor did anyone else, it seemed. Nearly all were stepping back, torches lowering into less menacing positions. “Go home, Pilkington. Ask God to forgive your sins. Ask Him to make you a more charitable man. One who knows that a scarred face does not make a man a dem
on.”

  Absolute silence, and then the crowd in back began to melt away, a long line of torches beginning to mark the narrow path back to the village. Pilkington and his closest cohorts, however, held their ground, a scant twenty feet from Jason’s position on the front steps.

  “They may be weak,” the curate declared, “but I am not. I shall prevail. You will burn in Hell, Lunsford, and I will be the man who puts you there.” His ardent followers expressed their agreement. I had to admit a grudging admiration for their continuing support of the curate in the face of armed men. I was learning that fanaticism could do strange things to people’s minds.

  “You’re mad, Pilkington,” Jason said softly, almost gently, as if he’d finally realized there was nothing he could say or do to change the curate’s mind. “Go home, and prepare yourself to eat humble pie when we discover the true evil behind all this.”

  The smithy tugged on Pilkington’s arm, and just as I thought the incident over, the curate rallied, shouting, “Demon! Whoremonger! Murderer!”

  The guards shifted their shotguns from upright to pointing directly at him.

  The smithy wrapped an arm around the curate’s waist, scooping his feet off the ground. “Don’t know who’s right and who’s wrong, Lunsford,” the big man said, “but any fool can see it’s time to go.” Still bodily hauling Francis Pilkington, the smithy turned and walked away, the remainder of the curate’s supporters trudging in his wake. I stood beside Jason and watched until the last torch disappeared behind the trees.

  “Jason,” I said softly, “Mr. Pilkington may not be as mad as he seems. Or else he is a fragile soul who has allowed himself to be manipulated into seeing demons behind every hedgerow.”

  “Hmm . . . what?” Jason muttered, his mind clearly elsewhere.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said a trifle more urgently. “I have learned something tonight, something significant.”

  He studied me for a moment, his dark eyes gradually turning away from his inner thoughts to focus on what I was saying. “Go to the bookroom. I will meet you there when I have dealt with all this.” He nodded toward the wide-eyed cluster of staff in the hall and the four men carrying shotguns, still keeping an eagle eye on the now-deserted park.

  After murmuring my agreement, I made my way through the staff, encountering a variety of looks as I passed. Surprise, admiration, even indignation. The last, I supposed, because some thought Jason had dishonored the family by allowing me to act as lady the manor. And perhaps I had. Or was it possible there were some among the staff who had been swayed by Mr. Pilkington’s ravings? Surely not.

  As I waited, I examined my speculations. It seemed unlikely Alyssa Talmadge would be pursuing Jason with such intensity if her family preferred to take their vengeance by maligning him and then arranging for him to be accused of the murder of his nephew. Arranging for him to be hanged. And yet, what else fit the facts? Mr. Pilkington was related to the Talmadges. How easy to ask for the curate’s help, or possibly to twist an already fanciful mind into religious fanaticism.

  But that was totally contrary to what Alyssa wanted. Or seemed to want. Was she merely the dazzling temptress who allowed the Talmadges easy access to Lunsford Hall?

  Or did the left hand not know what the right hand was doing?

  Dear God, the whole thing was insane!

  Take Chas and run!

  No! I am needed here.

  And then there was Thomas Guthrie. Friend or foe? Investigator or assassin? And if assassin, who hired him?

  I was lost in thought when Jason finally strode in, his frown easily trumping mine. As he sank into the chair behind his desk, he huffed a breath and shook his head. “Tell me you have good news, Miranda. I need it.”

  We were still there an hour later, the door firmly closed. Undoubtedly, my reputation was sunk for all time.

  Another blow for poor Papa.

  Not surprisingly, I cared no more than I had when I ran away with Avery long years ago. This was where I belonged, this where I would stay.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  We were hovering over the schoolroom globe the next morning when a somewhat breathless Charles burst into the room, bringing to a sudden halt my attempt to explain why the native tribes in the Americas are called Indians when India is on an entirely different continent. “Ma’am . . . Miz Tyrell . . . you’re wanted in the bookroom. Right this minute, ma’am.”

  Dear Lord, what now? I couldn’t very well ask in front of the boys. I set them to estimating how many miles lay between the Americas and India and, more than a little worried, followed Charles downstairs. Jason would never interrupt lessons for anything short of a catastrophic event.

  Thomas Guthrie was with Jason, standing at a window, hands behind his back, looking grave. He bowed as I came in, murmuring a greeting. Jason, rising as I entered, swept his hand toward my customary chair. “Sit down, Mrs. Tyrell. As you may have surmised, the news is not good.”

  Only the fact that I knew the boys to be safe and sound upstairs kept my heartrate from soaring even higher.

  “Sit down, Guthrie,” Jason barked as resumed his own seat. “I don’t care to have you towering over me.”

  Inwardly, I groaned. The situation must be dire indeed to have Jason snapping over nothing. He heaved a sigh, his whole demeanor proclaiming that he wished himself anywhere but here. Perhaps even back on the Peninsula.

  “Mr. Guthrie has just come from the village to tell me that Pilkington’s body has been found on the church steps. Spreadeagled like Christ on the cross.”

  “With claw marks across his face and body,” the Bow Street Runner added.

  Spreadeagled. Claw marks. I tried to assimilate this ghastly news and found my mind spinning into chaos. I fought an absurd urge to believe I had not heard correctly. Amazing how slippery the mind can be when we don’t want to face reality.

  “Needless to say . . .” Jason shrugged, eyeing me with sympathy even though he was clearly the person most threatened by this latest disaster.

  “Not surprisingly, emotions are running high,” Mr. Guthrie said. “I need to get back and do what I can to calm things down. I have just been advising Lunsford to keep everyone in the house for now. Hopefully the inquest will resolve the unrest. With Lunsford’s valet, butler, and other staff members to testify that he was home all night, all should be well.”

  “It’s still murder,” Jason growled. “And of a clergyman at that.”

  “Be grateful for a verdict of murder by person or person unknown,” Guthrie countered. “Solving the crime can come after we’ve saved your neck.”

  My imagination soared. If I had thrown propriety to the winds, followed our mutual inclination to its natural conclusion, I might have spent the night in Jason’s arms and been able to testify on his behalf . . .

  Idiot! Such testimony from the governess/mistress/whore could only seal Jason’s fate. He’d be hanged within the month.

  I was beginning to think I might be as wanton as the villagers assumed.

  And without any of the benefits.

  I kept my head down, my lips clamped over my tongue. Desperation, however, finally won out, making me bold. As the men wound up their conversation and Thomas Guthrie was on the verge of leaving, I burst out, “Mr. Guthrie, was it my father who hired you to find me? I believe, under the circumstances, you need to reveal your secret.”

  His shrewd gray eyes inspected me with care. “And what would that information have to do with the problems at Lunsford Hall, Mrs. Tyrell?”

  “Because, in spite of what Mr. Lunsford has said about the clergy, I believe my father might be able to help.” If he were so inclined. I had not spoken to him since the night he forbade me to marry Avery.

  Mr. Guthrie continued to examine me as if attempting to penetrate all the way to my soul. Finally, he nodded. “I was hired by a gentleman who asked for anonymity. He told me his daughter and grandson had disappeared from their home in Kent and he needed to know what had happened to them.
I had no reason to doubt his word as the card he gave me indicated he was the Right Reverend Matthew Chastain, Bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, Coventry Cathedral, Warwickshire.”

  I stared. I wrote to Papa when Chas was born but never had a reply. And yet it seemed he had kept track of us all these years.

  I heard Jason draw in a sharp breath. Keeping my eyes on Thomas Guthrie, I fought back tears. “Thank you,” I said. “My father and I have many issues between us, but if he was looking for me, I have hope he may be willing to intercede on Jason’s behalf. He is a man of some power, well-known in the clerical community.”

  “Which may, just possibly, excuse me from breaking a cardinal rule of my employment,” Guthrie responded, the trace of a wry grimace momentarily rippling across his usually stoic face.

  “Ten lashes at the cart’s tail,” Jason murmured, and somehow we all managed a smile. “So what now?” he asked.

  “I will write to father and ask him to intercede with the local bishop,” I said. “Since Papa is spoken of as a possible candidate for Archbishop some day, I think he will have some sway.”

  Guthrie turned to Jason. “I will push for an inquest as soon as possible, so you can refute the charge of murder before this escalates any further.”

  “Without doubt my guilt is being bandied about on every tongue,” Jason grumbled.

  “Which is scarcely the same as a formal charge.”

  “Go,” Jason said, waving his hand. “Do what you can. Send me a message if things seem to be getting out of hand. I still have friends in the military.”

  Oh dear God! I had a sudden vision of troops shooting their way through the village. I would write to Papa the moment I was back in my room.

  The door shut behind Guthrie, and Jason and I were left staring at each other. “Are you still certain you do not wish to leave?” he asked.

  I made a face and admitted, “I fear I have already so far overstepped my authority that I have become one with this house. It’s going to take more than murder and a mob to send me running.”