The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  A shocked silence greeted this reminder, and Mrs. Radlett shuddered, whipping out a pocket-handkerchief and applying it to her eyes.

  “For shame, Francis,” said Ottilia reproachfully. “Poor Mrs. Radlett will be imagining that the creatures were burned alive, but it is not so. They were in general hung or strangled before the faggots were set on fire.”

  “As if that made it better,” exploded the Reverend Kinnerton. “I tell you, ma’am, I have seen true natives living in conditions of near savagery, but not one of them was ever guilty of the petty cruelties I have here witnessed. They were simple people, and their punishments were harsh. But they did not indulge in a warfare of fear and persecution.”

  He stopped, drawing in his fangs with an effort, Ottilia thought. Then he set down his half-empty tankard and gave a formal little bow.

  “You will excuse me, I beg. I have duties in the parish.” In a moment, he was gone from the coffee room, leaving behind him an atmosphere of embarrassed silence. It was broken by the widow Radlett.

  “Well! Anyone would suppose it was our fault the villagers have taken against Cassie Dale.”

  Her affronted tone very nearly overset Ottilia, who had been silently applauding the vicar’s vehement championship. But her amusement was short-lived.

  Entering almost immediately upon Mr. Kinnerton’s departure came Horace Netherburn, looking perturbed.

  “What in the world shall we do about Hannah?” he uttered without preamble, addressing himself as of instinct to Miss Beeleigh as unacknowledged leader of his little set.

  She frowned. “What’s to do, Horace?”

  He waved an agitated hand. “I tried to make her see reason, but I could make no headway.”

  “What has she done, Mr. Netherburn?” asked Ottilia.

  “Nothing. At least not yet. But she swears this is the last straw and she will be revenged on Molly Tisbury.”

  Chapter 9

  Francis watched the landlord Tisbury pacing back and forth in his own cellar, whither he’d been run to earth. The afternoon was far advanced, for the aftermath of the fight had delayed the serving of a repast, and the trio of gentry had proved not to recognise when their presence might be dispensed with. But Tillie had been adamant that the interviews with the Tisbury couple must not be delayed.

  Overbearing all opposition from the tapster Will, Francis had accordingly insisted on speaking with the landlord and suborned the maid Bessy into leading him to the wine cellar below the main rooms of the Cock and Bottle.

  “I’m minded to slay that witch with my own bare hands,” raged Tisbury, hitting his fist against one of the huge barrels resting on its shelf.

  “For pity’s sake, man,” uttered Francis, exasperated. “Set your mind to the matter at hand. We know Mrs. Dale is not responsible for Duggleby’s death. Therefore it is nonsensical to set any store by these ravings of danger.”

  Tisbury turned, fixing Francis with a choleric eye from within his veined countenance, richly dark in the dim lantern light that did little to render the cavernous cellar anything other than eerily shadowed.

  “Danger? Nowt to speak on if it be only that. But it be death for my Molly, for Will heard it with his own ears.”

  A chill went through Francis as he mentally reviewed the persons present in the coffee room of the Blue Pig when Cassie Dale had spoken of her vision. He had been absent himself, but Ottilia would remember precisely. But the tapster had been nowhere near the place. Had he not followed his master across the green? Curbing his tongue on the itch to refute Tisbury, he eyed the man narrowly.

  “What precisely did Will hear?”

  Tisbury spat on the floor. “Enough to say as the witch seen her dead, as like nor Duggleby as makes no matter. ”

  “Eavesdropping was he?”

  The landlord glared. “Will’s my eyes and ears if’n I’m otherwhere.”

  “Your spy, you mean.”

  “If’n it be needed, aye.”

  Francis let it go. There was little to be gained by antagonising the man. Remembering his wife’s methods, he tried what a soft approach might achieve.

  “I sympathise with your wrath, my dear fellow. You have had much to vex you.”

  “Aye.” But the glare turned suspicious. “Not as I be guessing who telled you.”

  Francis did not enlighten him, preserving an enigmatic silence.

  The fellow was frowning. “What be said then? Nowt to please me, I’ll be bound.”

  Francis struck. “Will you tell me what was the cause of your quarrel with Duggleby?”

  Tisbury’s head came up, and his eyes went from side to side. “Bain’t true as I quarrelled with the man.”

  “Come, Tisbury, don’t be shy. Your father-in-law provoked some sort of altercation, did he not? A month since, I believe.”

  A snorting laugh was surprised out of the man. “That? That were nowt. Aye, we come to blows, but bain’t no bad blood betwixt him and me. Boys together we be, me and Duggleby.”

  “Yet even the best of friends may turn to hatred, if there is reason enough,” Francis returned, offering up one of Tillie’s dictums.

  “Aye, but there were nowt betwixt us two,” insisted the landlord, his features darkening again. “Nor there don’t need to be, for no one bain’t done for Duggleby ’cepting the witch.”

  “Then how do you account for the hammer blow to his head? And what of the crossbeam which had been hacked in two to ensure the roof must fall? There is no magic in these facts, Tisbury. This is the work of mortal man.”

  It was plain from the shock in the landlord’s eyes that the crossbeam came as news to him. He began to bluster. “Bain’t me as done it. Nor I wouldn’t go for to smash his head from behind. A fair fight or nowt.”

  Francis was inclined to believe him, but he refrained from saying so. Better the fellow did not think himself safe from suspicion.

  “I fear you must expect to be questioned, as will be every man in the village who had any sort of disagreement with Duggleby. You would do better to produce evidence that proves you could not have done it.”

  Fright showed in the sag of the fellow’s shoulders and a hopeless look in his eye. “Nowt I can show.”

  “Then who else disliked the man enough to kill him?”

  Tisbury shrugged. “None as I can think on.” His eye brightened suddenly. “That there Mrs. Dale could’ve made all look like another done it for to put Pilton off the scent.”

  Francis gave an inward groan. They were back to that, were they?

  “How pray?”

  But Tisbury had an answer to that.

  “Witchcraft. A witch, bain’t her?”

  Ottilia, interviewing the wife in the woman’s own parlour, fared little better. Molly Tisbury was still in a fury, and it took all of Ottilia’s ingenuity to persuade her to talk of anything but the iniquities of Hannah Pakefield.

  “Bad as the witch her be,” Molly raged, one hand touching gingerly at the swelling about her nose.

  She had cleaned off the blood and changed her clothes, but it appeared the age-old remedy of putting a key down Molly’s back had failed and Tisbury had been obliged to call in Doctor Meldreth to stop the bleeding. Her voice was nasal, owing to the linen plugs stuffed into her nostrils, though they did nothing to lessen the virulence of her speech.

  “What did Hannah say to you to make you so angry?” asked Ottilia, feeling she would get nowhere until the woman had vented her spleen.

  “Bain’t what her said to me, but what her said to you, ‘Lady Fan’,” Molly threw at her, laying violent emphasis on the nickname.

  “But Hannah said very little to me about you, Molly,” Ottilia told her calmly, choosing to use the promising weapon of intimacy.

  “Oh? Oh? And bain’t her said as she’d telled you agin me so’s you be thinking I be a bad ’un?”

  “Nothing of the sort.”

  “You be knowing from Pilton as I banged Duggleby and Tisbury both that night as they took and fought lik
e boys,” pursued Molly unheeding. “And bain’t you going for to think as I banged Duggleby with that there hammer?”

  “Nothing Hannah said to me could make me think that,” said Ottilia evasively.

  The woman’s piggy little eyes sharpened. “But her said summat agin me, nor you wouldn’t take and fright me with Pilton. Her’ve got you in her’s house. What’s to stop her telling all and more?”

  Ottilia’s senses went on full alert. “All what, Molly?”

  The woman’s countenance, already deeply coloured from her injury, reddened still more. Her eyes shifted away, and her shoulders twitched.

  “Nowt.”

  “Oh, come now, Molly,” Ottilia said gently. “What was it? Were you a target of Duggleby’s roving eye perhaps? Was your husband jealous?”

  Molly snarled. “Nowt to speak on. If’n Duggleby set to flirting now and now, what of it? Tisbury knowed it were nowt.”

  “Did he indeed?”

  “Aye, he did,” snapped the woman crossly. “Nor you don’t need to look at me like as if’n I lied.”

  Ottilia smiled. “It is a little difficult, Molly. I know about your kitchen maid, you see.”

  Shock leapt into the creature’s eyes. “That fussock? Her’ve gone and good riddance.”

  “I gather she ran off during the night. Duggleby was responsible for her condition.” Deliberately, Ottilia made it a statement rather than a question.

  For a moment the Tisbury woman held her spleen, but the venom would not be contained. “Couldn’t keep his hands off, Duggleby couldn’t. Nor he wouldn’t even when Tisbury telled him. Bain’t first one of my girls he ruined, neither. Took and done it with my housemaid afore Bessy, and her’ve gone and all. I telled him I wouldn’t stand for it, not again. But he bain’t one to care weren’t Duggleby.”

  “What did you do?” Almost hushed, Ottilia hoped the woman’s concentration was too much on her own wrongs to remember she was being questioned.

  “Telled Bertha.”

  “Why did you not do so upon the first occasion?”

  “For as her be my friend.”

  This matter-of-fact-pronouncement served to raise Molly’s stock in Ottilia’s eyes, but she pursued her nevertheless. “But this time you did so. How did Bertha take it?”

  Molly looked merely sulky now. “Laughed in my face her did. Don’t mean nowt to Bertha seemingly. Said as if’n her cared nowt for Mrs. Uddington, her’ve nowt to think on for a kitchen maid. Nor I don’t blame her.”

  Molly fell silent, and Ottilia contemplated her next move. If she was not mistaken, the creature was softened up. Might it be politic to throw in a different topic?

  “Tell me about the watered wine, Molly. Was not your husband accused by Mrs. Radlett?”

  The woman’s head shot up, and the familiar gleam of fury was in her eyes.

  “Not her. Her never said it. Nor her couldn’t tell, neither. It were t’other one as come over highty-tighty. Rung a peal over Tisbury as the whole village bain’t heard nor Domesday. Nor it weren’t watered, not one bit. A fair man be Tisbury, and her’ve no call to say different. Likely as that Mrs. Radlett done it herself, for to hide as her’ve drunk it.”

  Shock ripped through Ottilia, and she spoke without thinking. “You mean she drinks in secret?”

  Molly shrugged. “Bain’t as I’d know. Though wouldn’t be first time as her’ve been walking round the village looking hangdog, like as if’n her’d drunk too much the night afore.”

  “Looking hangdog how?”

  “Grey-faced like, and heavy at the eyes.”

  Which could be drink. But the widow Radlett showed no sign of the hardened drinker’s red-veined nose and cheeks. Could there be another, even more harmful, addiction? But it seemed Molly had not completed her disclosures.

  “Bain’t saying as she’ve got no reason. Any’d take to drink if’n they’d to put up with her.”

  “Miss Beeleigh?”

  “Aye. T’other one’s well under her’s thumb. Nor it won’t be the way of Uddington when his wife up and left him, if’n Mrs. Radlett be set on leaving that Beeleigh for to wed Mr. Netherburn.”

  “In what way?” asked Ottilia, almost holding her breath.

  “Miss Beeleigh don’t forget and forgive.”

  “Whereas you think Mr. Uddington did?”

  Molly snuffed a snorting breath through her mouth. “He’ve done nowt yet.”

  Had he not? But Ottilia did not put the question. She had no intention of revealing Uddington to be at the top of her list of suspects.

  Her initial animosity towards Molly Tisbury had dissipated. She was conscious of a sliver of pity for the creature, locked as she was in a cocoon of bitterness. What was more, Ottilia entertained a lively suspicion concerning Cassie Dale’s unfortunate prediction. On impulse, she leaned forward.

  “I wish you will take care, Molly. Not that I suppose there is anything in Mrs. Dale’s visions, but —”

  She got no further. Molly Tisbury leapt from her chair, eyes blazing.

  “You and all, Lady Fan? Bain’t enough as the witch have put her curse on me!”

  “That is not what I —”

  “Her’ve marked me for the devil, bain’t her? Her’ve said as how I’ve nowt to hope for more in this life. What’ll I do? What’ll I do? Hide in the cellar all day and night?”

  Ottilia wished fervently that she had held her tongue, but there was nothing to be gained by that. Rising from her chair, she tried to stem the flow.

  “Calm yourself, Molly. I meant nothing of the kind.”

  “You be on her’s side! I said it afore. You be on her’s side, Lady Fan.”

  “And I told you I am on no side but that of truth. Molly —”

  “Go! You bain’t welcome here. Her’ve got you, just like Hannah Pakefield. You be one with the devil, too, bain’t you, Lady Fan?”

  She was shrieking now, and Ottilia despaired of getting through to her. Turning, she headed for the door and paused there, looking back.

  Molly was breathing fast, one hand at her thin bosom, her eyes as wild with fear as were those of Cassie Dale with passion. In some ways, Ottilia thought ruefully, they were two of a kind.

  Ottilia lifted a hand in farewell. “Be careful, Molly. Don’t go out alone.”

  Feeling defeated, she quietly left the parlour.

  In the full flood of oratory, the parson was impressive. The whole village appeared to have crowded into the church to attend Duggleby’s funeral, women as well as children, despite the prevailing custom of confining mourners to the male sex. Finding that Lady Ferrensby had the intention of going, according to the widow Radlett and her friend, who were both also in attendance, Ottilia felt justified in presenting an appearance herself.

  She had wanted to be there, primarily for the purpose of taking stock of how certain individuals conducted themselves. The aged and highly decorated dark wooden pews reserved for the gentry at the front were conveniently placed, being set sideways to the nave, whereas the rest of the congregation faced the altar. Dressed in the most sober gown she had with her, of dull bronze silk, unadorned beyond a frill or two and made high to the throat, Ottilia was able to observe without fear of drawing attention.

  Within minutes of the start of the service, she felt doubly relieved when she noticed that Cassie Dale had crept into the tiny minstrel’s gallery at the back. She was aware that Mr. Kinnerton had advised Cassie to stay away, since the story of yesterday’s vision had swarmed across the village like a malignant hive of bees. Ottilia had her own suspicion of where to lay the blame for this, having done a mental review of the persons present in the coffee room yesterday when Cassie revealed the horrid picture. The notion Francis had put forward of Will the tapster eavesdropping from outside she dismissed. He had no need to do so, if Will himself had an informant who had been present in person.

  Thank heavens none of the villagers were likely to catch sight of Cassie peeping from behind the wooden bars below the rail up there!
She dreaded to think of the consequences should the girl be spotted. Ottilia strongly suspected Mrs. Dale had disregarded the vicar’s advice rather for his sake than Duggleby’s. In Cassie’s place, she would have been as much tempted to witness Mr. Kinnerton in action.

  Nor could Cassie be disappointed. So far from the quiet gentleman one had come to know in day-to-day contact, the vicar proved, in his official capacity, to have a magnetic presence, both vocally and otherwise. He had developed a trick of looking round the congregation in silence before a pertinent clause, and then delivering the words in ringing accents of emphasis that echoed around the vaulted ceiling.

  “Jesus said, Thou shalt do no murder.”

  Judging from the expressions on the faces of the villagers, which ranged from stunned to terrified, his oratory was supremely effective. Then softly, he continued: “And Jesus said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.” The shuffling of many feet followed this, as well as sliding glances from one to another as if to register which neighbour might be next in line for a swift exit to heaven. There was more in the same vein, but Ottilia’s attention wandered as the vicar took time to elaborate on these quotations from the Bible in his sermon.

  Her eyes travelled first to Uddington, whom she had found to be preparing for the funeral when she had visited his premises yesterday. The merchant was not in the front when she and Francis entered to the tinkling of the shop bell, and the sound of hammering greeted them as the tinkles died away.

  “Uddington?” Francis called. “Shop, ho!”

  Abruptly the noise stopped. There was a soft clunk, and then footsteps in the back. A door in the panelling opened, and the snowy head of the shopkeeper appeared, dipping so he could look over his half spectacles to discover the identity of his visitors.

  “Good day, Mr. Uddington,” said Ottilia pleasantly.

  The merchant pokered up at once, hesitating in the doorway. “To what am I indebted for the honour, my lady?”