The Hummingbird Dagger

by Cindy Anstey

  And then Jack barked, with great insistence.

  Beth smiled and they both looked toward the dog. He was chastising them for falling behind.

  * * *

  JAMES HAD AN unexpected desire to be witty, to make Beth laugh and watch her eyes sparkle. He wanted to tell her about his plans for the future of Hardwick. Why did he want to be frivolous in her presence? Romping with Jack in the grass suddenly held great appeal.

  James swallowed and pulled his thoughts back to firmer ground. “I’m learning the rotation method of farming, but there have been new developments in germination…” He focused his mind on the fields and well away from any visions of frolicking.

  * * *

  BETH FELT RATHER windswept when she and James ambled back through the fields and park. The vista from the southernmost tip of the estate had been breathtaking but rather breezy. Still, the view from the cliffs had provided Beth with a better understanding of the locale.

  The manor had been difficult to see over the treetops. They had had to alight and stand in close proximity for a better view through the trees. Beth tried not to be aware of that closeness. However, it had taken some time for the rooftop to be discernable; she was rather distracted.

  James seemed to be having a hard time concentrating as well, and stammered out a suggestion that they return to the manor to keep Caroline company.

  As they entered the stable yard, Beth noticed an open carriage approaching from the drive. Caroline must have seen it as well, for she joined them from the manor.

  In silence the group watched the curricle’s progress. Two figures were visible.

  Caroline squinted. “Who is that?”

  “Walter, of course.”

  “But then, who is with him?”

  “I asked Sam to accompany him,” James explained. “Didn’t want Walter getting into any more hot water.” He looked across to Beth. “At least, not until this fiasco is cleared up.” He looked away quickly when she frowned.

  Caroline shook her head. “I’m not altogether sure that the man accompanying Walter is Sam Biddlesport.” She squinted again, and then straightened. “It is not,” she whispered under her breath as the curricle pulled around the final curve. “It is Mr. Hodges, the shoemaker.”

  Caroline glanced toward Beth. “Mr. Hodges assists the justice on parish matters,” she explained. Her grimace was replaced with an uplifted mouth and a show of teeth, but it was not a smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hodges. How nice to see you,” Caroline said when they came into hailing distance.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Ellerby,” Mr. Hodges said as the horses pulled to a stop and he stepped down to the ground. “I was hoping to speak privately to Lord Ellerby.” Mr. Hodges was a quiet-spoken, somewhat gaunt man.

  “Where is the trunk?” James frowned at Walter.

  “James,” Caroline tried to interrupt politely.

  “You did go to Exeter didn’t you? And why—”

  “James, Mr. Hodges would like to speak to you,” Caroline pressed.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Hodges. If you would await me in the library, I will be but a moment. I am sure Robert will be able to direct you.”

  Mr. Hodges bowed in acquiescence.

  James returned his attention to Walter while Caroline led the old man into the house. Beth clutched Bodicia’s reins, thankful for the excuse to remain.

  “The trunk wasn’t there,” Walter finally answered.

  “What do you mean not there?”

  “Gone, missing, taken. Not there.” Walter paused dramatically. “Apparently our pockmarked friend came looking for it two days ago. He simply claimed it and left. All with barely a word spoken, civil or otherwise. I spent the better part of two hours asking after the man but to no avail.”

  “What does Mr. Hodges want?”

  “How should I know?” Walter huffed. “I dropped Sam off by the north field and picked Mr. Hodges up by the front gate. Said he had to talk to you ‘in the capacity of parish constable.’ Sounds ominous.”

  James pursed his lips and then frowned. He passed his reins to Paul, pivoted, and walked into the manor.

  Walter didn’t seem perturbed. He merely lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug. Beth, on the other hand, felt a sense of disquiet. With the recollection that Mr. Hodges had barely glanced in her direction, she cast aside the rising fear that the man’s visit was related to her situation.

  Still, all was not as it should be.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Warning Signs

  Called to the library half an hour later, Beth found Caroline distraught, James stoic but visibly upset, and Mr. Hodges conspicuously absent.

  “Caroline, are you ill?” Beth rarely saw Caroline lose her composure; it was unsettling. James hovered beside his sister, holding and patting her hand.

  “Oh, Beth, please excuse my display. Mr. Hodges has brought the most horrid news.” Caroline held a tightly clutched handkerchief to her red-rimmed eyes.

  Beth swallowed slowly and pressed her palms into her skirts. “Is there anything I can do to help you?” she asked, standing stiffly, preparing for the worst—though she didn’t know what the worst could be.

  Caroline motioned to the chair beside her. “No, Beth, I am sorry, for this is going to affect you as well.” She waited until Beth was seated before saying any more. “They have identified the body that was pulled from the bay.”

  Puzzled, Beth’s brow folded briefly. Why would Caroline believe that she would be upset? Saddened by any loss of life, yes, but her circle of friends was so small that had Walter and Dr. Brant been in the library with them, it would have been complete. Not quite—because, of course, there was Daisy.

  At that moment, Beth realized just how much Mr. Hodges’ news was going to affect her. She swallowed hard and looked up, not at Caroline but at James. “Daisy?” Though she’d spoken barely above a whisper, he heard and nodded.

  Beth lowered her head to hide her flood of emotion. Visions of Daisy sprang to mind: Daisy sitting on the bed laughing with Beth about the antics of the footmen; Daisy’s face when Cook suggested making jellied eel; and Daisy’s dreamy expression when she spoke of Jeff Tate.

  James touched Beth’s shoulder gently and then quietly slipped from the room, leaving the girls some privacy.

  “Mr. Hodges believes that she slipped going over the Torrin River,” Caroline explained as she passed Beth a handkerchief, using her own to mop up around her eyes. “Daisy was last seen on her way to Risely, anxious to spend some time with Jeff Tate, who is … was her young man. Probably tried to step across the Torrin instead of using the bridge. But it is spring runoff and what with the rain and all … Mr. Hodges supposes that the stream took her down to the basin and then out into the channel. High tide must have brought her back in.”

  “I see,” Beth said, seeing all too well an image of Daisy’s body caught in the ebb and flow of the waves, banging against the cliff. Despite trying to swallow her grief, Beth soaked the handkerchief with tears.

  * * *

  IT WAS UNFAIR that the day of Daisy’s funeral and subsequent burial should burst forth so bright and sunny. Nature felt askew. As they gathered by the lowering coffin, the birds had begun to sing. It felt rude and highly unnecessary.

  Upon returning to the manor, Beth knew she was not yet ready to sequester herself indoors. The walls felt insufferably close; the air was heavy with memories. She told Caroline that she needed to go for a walk.

  “Would you like company?” James offered.

  But as much as Beth found great comfort in his presence, she needed some time alone. “I will not go far,” she promised.

  “You’ll stay in the park and not approach the Torrin?”

  “Yes.” Beth almost smiled at his protective attitude. “I’ll stay far from the river.”

  “James, leave the poor girl alone.” Caroline motioned for Robert to open the door.

  Beth nodded and started down the stairs.

  “Solace is derived from dif
ferent sources, brother dear. And while your concern is admirable, it is also excessive,” Caroline chastised James as the door closed.

  Beth walked through the gardens and along the path to the shore cliffs. As she broke from the shelter of the trees, the wind became bitter and damp, but Beth ignored it, found a resting place, and indulged herself in a flood of tears. Now she sat, emotionally drained. The salt wind played and pulled at the pins in her hair. Her borrowed bonnet hung by its ribbons in her hand. Beth stared at the thick black felt hat and its veil; her hand involuntarily brushed across the front of the unadorned black crepe dress.

  A heavy fog that had been hovering a few miles off the coast crept ever closer. It pushed a steady and strong wind that nibbled at the bright sunshine still clinging to the shore. The wind was clammy, and the mossy stone hard and cold. Its chill permeated through Beth’s many layers of skirts and petticoats, and yet she didn’t move. The inner chill that Beth felt far outweighed the mere coolness of her mortal core. She was heartsick and troubled.

  Deep thought and concentration muffled the sounds around her, even the wind whistling by her ears. It was some time before Beth recognized the sound of someone or something approaching. At once, the skin on the back of her neck began to tingle. The sounds emanated from just beyond the trees, to the right of her makeshift chair.

  “Hello?” she called out.

  There was no answer, but the crackle in the underbrush halted.

  “Hello?” she called out again.

  No reply, only the sounds of the wind.

  Beth rose from the boulder, placing her back to the water. She felt her pulse begin to quicken. “Is anyone there?” She could hear the fear in her voice. She tried to see into the dark shadows of the trees. “Is anyone there?” she asked again.

  “Yes, indeed!” The words came from up the hill.

  Beth turned to watch James approach, leading Tetley and Bodicia down the path. “How did you know I was here?” he asked.

  Beth looked back into the underbrush where she had thought the sounds had originated. Still nothing moved. She must have been mistaken.

  “That is not the question, Lord Ellerby.” She gathered her skirts and met him at the crest of the path. “The question should be: Why are you here?” She placed her arm through his and glanced back into the shrubbery. No waving branches, no snap of twigs. “I hope you are returning to the house,” she said, lengthening her stride, forcing James to keep pace. “For that is where I am bound.”

  Once inside the protected shelter of the trees, the wind was rendered impotent and Beth’s hearing was immediately more acute. There was nothing untoward in the rustling of the leaves and certainly not in the lark’s song. She slowed her pace, and as a consequence, James did as well.

  “Actually, I thought a ride might be a distraction,” he said, swallowing as if he were uncomfortable. “You enjoyed your ride so much the other day … And being a natural on horseback … I thought it might … help,” he said lamely. “But I could be wrong.”

  Beth lifted her mouth in a poor imitation of a smile. “That was very kind of you. A ride might be just what I need. A distraction … giving me the opportunity to think of happier times. Yes, thank you.” She crooned as she took Bodicia’s reins and ran her palm down the horse’s soft cheek. “Shall we go for a ride, my sweet?” Then she noticed that Tetley was saddled and stomping, eager to move, too. “Would you like to join me?” The invitation to James was not really necessary as it was highly unlikely he would let her go off on her own, but it did seem politic.

  James nodded readily. “I thought you might want some company.” He guided the horses to a collection of rocks that Beth used to step up into her saddle and then he slipped his leg over Tetley’s back.

  They rode in silence for some moments, as James guided them farther away from the cliffs. “You will always miss her, but in time the pain will lessen,” he said.

  Beth sighed from the depth of her soul. “My mind is full of ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys.’” She stared at the path ahead. “Life is so fragile. But you are right, each passing day will bring me closer to acceptance and I shall leave behind these shadowed thoughts.” She fashioned her mouth into a smile and watched his frown disappear.

  * * *

  “JEFF TATE KILLED HER!” Mrs. Bartley was not only feeling the loss of her daughter but also the weight of the neighborhood gossip.

  “Please calm yourself, Mrs. Bartley.” Caroline led the widow to the carved rocking chair sitting by the cottage stove. “Daisy wasn’t murdered. It was an accident.” It was Caroline’s third visit in as many days, and the accusation had yet to change. “Here. We’ve brought you a shoulder of pork and some vegetables. Cook also sent along a pot of soup, so you can feed the little ones with hardly a fuss. Now, just sit there for a moment and gather your thoughts while Beth and I lay these out for you.”

  Caroline and Beth worked silently around the neat but small cottage that housed Mrs. Bartley and her three younger children. The woman had two others out working, and despite being without her good man—he having passed four years ago—she was far from a charity case. Caroline would soon have to leave off her visits or run the risk of humiliating Mrs. Bartley with her kindness.

  “Our Daisy was a good girl.” Mrs. Bartley rocked with such force that the chair threatened to tip her out. “If she hadna taken up with that Tate boy, she’d still be here today. He threw her in the channel. I feels it in me bones.”

  Caroline ushered the children out of doors and turned to the distraught woman.

  “Mrs. Bartley,” she said gently. “You’ve lived here long enough to know that rumors can start from nothing.”

  “It were that Tate boy, I tell ya. Never was any good. Always up ta mischief, him and that Derrydale boy.”

  Beth passed Mrs. Bartley a strong cup of tea from the pot perpetually brewing on the back of the stove. The strong blend had a revitalizing effect; she had regained her color and was no longer muttering by the time they left.

  They had only just mounted their horses when Nora, one of Daisy’s younger sisters, approached. “Excuse me, miss.” The sweet-faced girl with a smudge of grime on her chin held in her arms a brown bundle. “This here cloak, it weren’t Daisy’s, miss.” She passed it up to Beth. “They brought it from the manor with the rest of her stuff, but it weren’t hers.” She glanced back toward the cottage door. “Ma woulda given it back to ya, but she’s not thinking clear these days.”

  “There’s soup on the stove and some foodstuff on the table,” Beth said, tucking the cloak into her empty basket.

  The girl nodded and thanked them prettily. She was still standing by the door of the cottage when Beth and Caroline rounded the bend, screening her from view. With the turning of the next bend, the mill would be in sight, along with the river that rushed by its great wheel.

  Deep in thought, having given their horses their head, neither paid attention to the warning signs of trouble. Beth heard but discounted the crashes in the underbrush, the chatter of annoyance from disturbed squirrels, and the protests of encroachment from the jays.

  Then, out from the thicket, two rough men leapt onto the road and lunged for their bridles. The man attacking Bodicia missed and grabbed Beth instead. Nearly torn from the saddle, Beth screamed as the thug clutched and pulled at her skirts. She held on and kicked out. The man ignored his bloodied nose, sneering at her with a toothless maw.

  On the other side of the road, Caroline swung Cotton around, dragging the man that had caught her reins. She urged her horse backward, giving the villain no chance to regain his footing. “Let go!” she screamed at him.

  Bodicia quivered in terror, lurching as Beth held on to the saddle. The toothless man reached forward without freeing her skirts and grabbed again for the bridle. This time, Beth pulled back on both reins, encouraging Bodicia to rear. Beth kept her seat easily, leaning forward. Bodicia’s hooves slashed at the air inches from the villain’s face but the man was not rattled in the
least.

  “Come ’ere, love.” His gravelly voice was eerily calm. He reached up to loosen her grip on the reins, then hesitated. Something, some movement or noise, on the road ahead had caught his attention.

  Beth turned to follow his stare.

  Hatless, a rider raced pell-mell toward them, hooves pounding the dirt. “Unhand those ladies!” Walter shouted. The words echoed across the narrow road and filled the air with his command. Arm raised, Walter brandished his crop.

  Walter flew past Caroline and struck his whip across the head of the monster clutching at Beth’s skirts. “How dare you!” he shouted and struck again.

  The man dropped Bodicia’s bridle and dove for the underbrush in a sprawling escape.

  “If you ever try that again, you’ll get more than a whipping!” Walter screamed after the fleeing figure. Yanking his horse around to help his sister, Walter found Caroline staring into the brush on the other side of the road. It had been a double retreat.

  Quickly pulling together, the three riders formed a defendable group with Beth in the middle. They twisted this way and that, watching, waiting, and listening.

  Nothing seemed out of place. It was almost as if the attack had never happened.

  Walter lowered his crop to his side and finally took a breath. “What was that all about?”

  Caroline shook her head and urged her horse forward. “Let’s put some distance between us and them before we discuss it.” She clicked her tongue and Cotton broke into a gallop. Beth and Walter did the same.

  Around the bend, the miller was repairing his sluice, his wife hanging up laundry as their children chased one another across the field. It was all so normal.

  The Ellerbys raised their hands to reciprocate the miller’s wave, but continued apace until they came to the junction of the London road. There, they slowed the horses but did not stop.