Death Comes to the Village Read online

  She took it down to the hallway and found her brother restlessly pacing while he waited for her.

  “Well done, sis! Where on earth did you find it?”

  “In Edward’s closet. Mary was obviously quite distracted before she left us.”

  “Thank you.” He examined the coat. “You don’t think old Edward took it deliberately and has been prancing around in it, playing the dandy?”

  “I doubt it.” Lucy fought a smile. “It is hardly his style.”

  Anthony’s grin faded. “Dammit, Mary sewed the button on in the wrong place and with white thread.” He held it out to Lucy. “Lord! I can’t wear it like that.”

  Lucy inspected the badly managed repair. “No, you cannot. Leave it with me and I’ll make it right.”

  “But I want to wear it now.”

  Lucy raised her eyebrows. “Your best coat? Whatever for? Aren’t you supposed to be meeting with your tutor this morning?”

  Anthony mumbled something and looked away.

  “You are seeing Mr. Galton, aren’t you?”

  “Can’t a fellow have a day off occasionally?” Anthony demanded. “Even our Creator rested on the Sabbath.”

  “It isn’t Sunday, brother mine, and you scarcely work for your daily bread.”

  Color gathered on Anthony’s cheeks. “And you aren’t my mother, so what does it have to do with you?”

  Lucy refused to look away. “I care about your welfare. If Father finds out you are neglecting your studies, you will have to answer to him.”

  “And what will he do? Nothing! All he cares about are his damn horses.”

  “That’s not true.” Lucy went forward and touched Anthony’s arm. “What’s really the matter?”

  He shrugged off her hand. “I’ll be back in time to see Mr. Galton, so you don’t need to go telling tales.”

  “That’s not fair. I have always been your staunchest supporter.”

  “I’m going to get something else to wear.” He turned away and headed up the stairs, leaving Lucy standing at the bottom still clutching his now abandoned coat. For a moment, she considered going after him, but what could she say? If he didn’t wish to confide in her, she could hardly force him to do so.

  With a small sigh, she went to the parlor at the back of the house where the light was brightest in the morning. Her sewing basket sat beside her chair and already contained several of the twins’ shirts, a few socks to darn, and a half-finished knitted silk reticule. Despite her concerns about her brother’s prevarications, she would sew on his button and leave the coat in his room. She selected a skein of brown silk and carefully snipped the white threads off the hastily sewed-on crooked pewter button. Why Anthony needed his best coat on a weekday morning was a mystery she was less close to unraveling. Was he going off to meet someone? And if so, why was it a secret?

  As she sewed, she mentally reviewed the neighborhood and considered if anyone new had engaged Anthony’s interest. She paused, her needle poised above the coat. Was he hanging around with some of the wilder younger sons of the gentry who came to hunt, or was it more to do with a young lady? He had wanted to wear his best coat....

  The thump of boots on the stairs and the crash of the front door slamming heralded Anthony’s tumultuous exit. Lucy finished attaching the button, secured the thread, and cut off the excess. She smoothed the coat over her knees, checking the other buttons were still secure, and straightened out the pocket flaps. There was a bump in one of the pockets and Lucy dipped her hand inside the silk lining. She brought out a small box, which on closer inspection appeared to be made of porcelain, and was painted with an intricate pastoral scene on the hinged lid. She carefully examined the box, but there were no inscriptions on it apart from the usual maker’s marks on the bottom.

  Where had Anthony acquired such a thing? It certainly didn’t belong at the rectory, and to her knowledge, he hadn’t taken up the habit of inhaling snuff. Had he won it at cards, or had someone given it to him as a keepsake?

  Ashamed of her thoughts, Lucy put the box back into the pocket. She wasn’t his mother, and even though she cared for him greatly, she didn’t have the right to pry into his private life. If he told her what was wrong, she would, of course, help him, but his earlier criticism of her becoming her father’s watchdog stung. He was an adult, and she had no right to interfere in his life. She stood up, put the coat over her arm, and decided to return it to his room, intact.

  The sounds of an altercation woke Robert from an uneasy nap. For a moment, he couldn’t recall where he was. With an oath he threw off the blanket someone had carefully covered him with, and strained to turn his head toward his bedroom door, from behind which came the thump of feet and more than one angry voice.

  The door was flung open so hard that it crashed into the wall and made everything in the room shake. Robert had no problem identifying his unexpected visitor. Ben Cobbins was a fearsome sight, the sort of man who enjoyed hurting those who were weaker than him and always had.

  “Where’s my boy?” Cobbins demanded, striding across to tower over Robert.

  Robert stared up at him. “Mr. Cobbins.”

  “I said, where’s my boy? What did you and that interfering bitch from the rectory do to him?”

  Foley rushed to Cobbins’s side. “You just leave the major alone, Ben Cobbins. He’s not well, and he doesn’t need to be disturbed by the likes of you!”

  Robert waved Foley to one side and concentrated his attention on Cobbins. “If you are referring to your son Joseph, he has accepted an offer of employment in my stables and has started work there today. As he went home last night to gather his belongings, and tell his mother where he would be staying, I find it difficult to believe you were unaware of the circumstances of his departure.”

  “You have no right to take my son from me.” Ben was breathing heavily, his face mottled purple, his eyes narrowed like a bull about to charge.

  “I hardly ‘took him,’ Mr. Cobbins. I merely offered him a job, an offer that he accepted. I fail to see why you are so enraged.”

  “His wages should come to me, not his mother.”

  “His wages are his own,” Robert said gently. “If he chooses to share them with his mother, that is his business. Not mine.”

  He was aware that both Bookman and James, the footman, were now coming through the door, and he was conscious of a cowardly sense of relief. Cobbins’s enraged gaze swept the assembled company. His hands clenched into fists.

  “I want to see the little bugger.”

  “He’s working at the moment. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you when he comes home on his day off on Sunday. Perhaps you might meet him at church. I encourage all my employees to attend the morning service.”

  “Not bloody likely.”

  “I don’t understand your anger, Mr. Cobbins. Most fathers would be pleased to see their sons working for a living.”

  “Not for the gentry.”

  “Is that so? But aren’t you in my employ, as well? If that offends you, I’m sure we can stop any wages you receive immediately.”

  Cobbins spat onto the wooden floor. “Damn you, Major Kurland. I do a good job for you. Ask Mr. Scarsdale if I don’t.”

  “I believe your business with me is done, Mr. Cobbins. Will you leave quietly, or do you require assistance?”

  Bookman stepped forward, one of Robert’s dueling pistols cocked and ready to fire.

  Cobbins’s gaze swept over Robert. “It’s lucky you’re already a useless cripple, Major Kurland, or I’d be telling you to watch out that one dark night you don’t slip and get your pretty face beaten in.”

  “Thank you for the warning, Mr. Cobbins. When I’m on my feet again, we’ll have to put your theory to the test, won’t we?”

  Foley stepped in front of Robert. “Go home, Ben, and leave the major in peace.”

  Cobbins threw one last threatening look over his shoulder, and then left, accompanied by Bookman and James.

  Robert stared down at
his useless legs and struggled to contain the wave of frustrated anger that shook through him. The contempt in Ben Cobbins’s face had reminded Robert all too forcefully of his pitiful state. If Cobbins hadn’t been in the mood to capitulate, he could’ve picked Robert up and snapped his neck with the ease of killing a chicken. And Robert wouldn’t have been able to stop him.

  “Are you all right, sir?” Foley asked, bending down to stare into Robert’s face. “You look a bit shaken.”

  “Get me a brandy.”

  For once, Foley didn’t argue, and poured Robert a hefty measure. “Here you are, sir. Well, I never. The gall of that man forcing his way in here as if he owned the place!”

  He took another gulp of brandy, and it coursed down his throat like fire. “I can’t say I’m surprised. He’s always been an unpleasant individual, and losing control of young Joe’s income must have galled him.”

  Foley refilled his glass. “He pushed past me in the hall. I had to chase him up the stairs. Luckily, Bookman saw him, too, and fetched James before any harm was done.”

  “Make sure Sutton knows what happened, and tell him to keep Joe close by.”

  “I’ll go and tell him right now, sir.” Foley hesitated. “Unless you want me to sit with you for a moment?”

  “I’m perfectly fine, Foley.”

  “Thank God for that, Major. I couldn’t have borne it if that ruffian had set back your recovery.”

  “Go and speak to Sutton, and ask Bookman to come and see me after he’s escorted our uninvited guest off my land.”

  Foley disappeared, and Robert let out his breath. Having lived quietly at home for several months, he’d forgotten how the outside world must view his current state. He was now a man who couldn’t mount his own horse or find the strength to hold his sword.

  A weak man.

  The sort of individual his younger self would have pitied and secretly despised. He finished the brandy and glanced around for the decanter, but Foley had placed it on the side table where he couldn’t reach it. He couldn’t afford to get drunk at this time of day anyway. What would his servants think of him, then?

  “I’ve got rid of him, sir.” Bookman came in and closed the door behind him. “He’s an ugly customer, isn’t he? I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t behind the spate of thefts in this house.”

  “Foley told you about that?”

  “He did, Major. I agreed to help him assess the defenses of the house and decide how we are going to stop any more light-fingered ladies or gents from helping themselves to your possessions again.” Bookman held up the brandy decanter, but Robert shook his head. “I told Cobbins that if I saw him anywhere near the house or the stables, I’d shoot him on sight and be damned to the consequences.”

  There was a hard note to Bookman’s voice that Robert couldn’t fail to miss. His valet had been a ruthless soldier, quicker to kill than his superior, and completely cold-blooded about their survival, a quality that had saved Robert’s life on more than one occasion.

  “Thank you.”

  Bookman’s grim expression disappeared. “You don’t need to thank me, sir. You would’ve done the same if our positions were reversed.”

  Robert doubted that. He’d always been a little too lenient for Bookman’s tastes. “I hope Ben Cobbins stays away from Joe.”

  “He’s a coward and a bully, sir. Now he’s been warned off, he’ll keep away, at least for a while.”

  “And his poor wife will have to bear the brunt of his anger. I’d like to terminate his so-called employment with me, but then his family would be thrown out of their cottage.” Robert shook his head. “By the way, someone should go down to the rectory and tell Miss Harrington not to approach the Cobbins family until things settle down. I don’t want her walking into that cottage while Ben is still on the rampage.”

  “Speaking of cottages, Major, Mr. Scarsdale just arrived in the hall. He says you wished to speak to him. Shall I put him off for another day?”

  “No, send him up. I need to see him.” He waited as Bookman picked up the discarded blanket and draped it over his useless legs again. “I’d like you to stay in the room while I conduct the interview.”

  “If that’s what you wish, of course, I will.” He hesitated. “Although I don’t think you’ll have much trouble with Mr. Scarsdale. He ain’t exactly in his prime.”

  He took something out of his coat pocket and laid it on Robert’s lap. “Does that make you feel better, Major?”

  Robert examined the familiar weight of his pistol and curved his fingers around the handle. “Yes, it does.”

  “I’d hide it under your blanket, though, sir. We don’t want Mr. Scarsdale pissing himself in fear now, do we? He looked worried enough as it is.”

  Robert fought a smile as he concealed the pistol under his blanket and waited while Bookman went to retrieve his land agent.

  “Mr. Scarsdale, sir.”

  Bookman bowed and then went to stand against the wall, the picture of an unobtrusive servant. Mr. Scarsdale came around to face Robert and inclined his head an obsequious inch. He wore the clothes of a simple country gentleman, but they were of the finest quality. His gray hair was cut short at the sides and combed forward over his bald patch rather like Napoleon. He carried an indefinable air of his own consequence.

  “Major, it’s good to see you up and about again.”

  “Hardly up.” Robert gestured at his covered legs. “But I’m determined to get back into managing my lands again.”

  An expression of discomfort flitted across Mr. Scarsdale’s austere face. “There’s no need to rush yourself, me lad. I have it all well in hand.”

  “I beg to differ, and I’m hardly a lad anymore.” Robert turned to Bookman. “Will you fetch the accounts books from beside my bed? I spent a very interesting evening reading through them.”

  “You didn’t need to do that, sir.”

  Robert fixed his agent with his most withering stare. “I believe I did, Mr. Scarsdale. There’s no point in prevaricating. Why haven’t you been maintaining my estate properly?”

  “Well, as to that, sir, I’ve—”

  “I’m not a fool, Mr. Scarsdale, and as you pointed out, I’m no longer languishing in bed. There are large sums of money missing from the accounts, money that should have been spent on improving my properties and land. Nothing has been done to maintain the cottages or improve the home farm since I left!”

  “You don’t understand, sir. Everything costs more. It’s the war you see. It’s—”

  Robert held up his hand. “This estate has more than enough money to survive the exigencies of a wartime economy. You, Mr. Scarsdale, have either exercised very poor judgment, or used the money for purposes of your own.” He paused to stare at his now perspiring land agent. “If you cannot account for the missing money before the end of the week, I will expect your resignation.”

  “Are you suggesting I have misled you, Major Kurland?”

  “I’m not suggesting it, I’m damn well saying it to your face! If you don’t want to be hauled before the local magistrate, which happens to be me, and face charges of theft and dishonesty, I suggest you cut your losses and leave forthwith.”

  “But—Major Kurland, you’ve been ill, your mind is obviously confused and under a great deal of stress, you can’t possibly mean I’m dismissed!”

  “Mr. Scarsdale, I am perfectly in my right mind, and I can’t make myself any clearer. Either return the money by the end of the week, or resign your position and leave the area.” He waited for a moment to see if his agent would start arguing again. “If you stay here, I will press charges against you.”

  “But after all I’ve done for you! Keeping the estate running when you were away, never knowing if you would return—”

  “Feathering your own nest.”

  Mr. Scarsdale glared at Robert and pointed his whip at him. “You’ll live to regret this, sir. You’ll never find a man who’ll be as honest as I was when his master was too feeble-witted to
keep an eye on things himself.”

  Bookman took a step forward. “I think it’s time for you to leave, Mr. Scarsdale. I’ll show you out. I’m sure you have a lot of packing to do.”

  “Thank you, Bookman.” Robert nodded a curt dismissal to his land agent, who was visibly trembling with rage. “Good day, Mr. Scarsdale.”

  Mr. Scarsdale glared at him. “I’ll see myself out, sir, and be damned to the lot of you!”

  Bookman held the door open, and Mr. Scarsdale swept out, Bookman in his wake. Robert waited until he returned.

  “He’s gone, sir.”

  “And good riddance.” Robert stared out of the window. “Does everyone around here see me as a permanent invalid?”

  “You have been sick for quite a while now, sir, and folks will always gossip.” Bookman replaced the brandy decanter on the sideboard and picked up Robert’s empty glass.

  “Which explains why Scarsdale didn’t stop stealing from me even after I returned from the continent. The man thinks I am feeble-witted as well as bedridden!” Robert turned quickly enough to see Bookman’s guilty expression. “Dammit, they all do, don’t they?”

  “You were remarkably direct with him, sir. I don’t think he’ll make the mistake of underestimating you again.”

  “He won’t get the opportunity,” Robert snapped. “I doubt I’ll see him returning all the money he’s stolen from me by Friday.” He carefully eased the pressure on his aching left leg. “After dealing so badly with Cobbins, perhaps I felt the need to exercise my rank of ‘power and privilege,’ as Miss Harrington so adroitly put it, on Mr. Scarsdale.”

  “Nothing wrong with that, sir. The man deserved everything he got. Both of them do.”

  “No doubt he’ll be telling everyone in the village that I’ve finally gone insane,” Robert muttered. “Devil take it, sometimes I feel as if I have!”

  Bookman drew the curtains. “I’ll ring for James and we’ll put you back to bed, sir. I think you’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

  Bookman’s refusal to be drawn on the subject of his employer’s sanity didn’t mollify Robert in the slightest. He knew Foley and his valet had worried over him for months. But he was quite sane now. In truth, he didn’t like being forced back into the world, but he had a duty to his tenants and his family to perform his responsibilities. Miss Harrington had reminded him of that. He found himself wanting to smile. If he were very lucky, she’d probably furnish him with the name of a new land agent, as well.