Death Comes to the Village Page 18

  “But you should go now!”

  “Please don’t distress yourself.” He looked up. “Ah, here is Anna to take care of you. I’ll go and ascertain whether the good doctor has arrived.”

  “Papa . . .” Lucy watched her father hurry away and turned to Anna. “Why won’t he listen to me?”

  “Possibly because you are behaving quite oddly. I could hear you screeching at him from the hall. Whatever is the matter?”

  She struggled to breathe. “I think someone has been murdered! Doesn’t anyone care?”

  “Of course, we care.” Anna motioned at Betty to come forward and help her. “Let’s get you out of your bonnet and coat, and make you ready to receive the doctor.” She inspected Lucy’s dirty hands. “What happened to your gloves?”

  “I took them off in the graveyard to try to . . .” She winced as Anna untied her bonnet ribbons and eased it off her head. “I have a terrible headache.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Anna wet a cloth in the basin of warm water Betty held and carefully washed Lucy’s hands and then her face. “I think you are going to have a black eye, as well.”

  “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  “Dr. Baker. It is so good of you to come so quickly. I think my sister hit her head in the graveyard.”

  Anna rose and went to exchange pleasantries with Dr. Baker, who stood with her father by the door. When they all lowered their voices, Lucy knew they were whispering about her. Eventually Dr. Baker came over, sat beside her, and possessed himself of her hand and wrist. He was a slight man in his fifties with the wiry build of a terrier and a similarly tenacious temperament.

  “My dear, Miss Harrington, how are you feeling? Your pulse is quite tumultuous.” He squeezed her fingers. “You should be more careful. The graveyard is a most uneven place to take a walk. I’m not surprised you fell.”

  He gently examined her cheek, his fingers cool on her heated flesh. “I’ll clean this wound, but I suspect you will have some nasty bruising. Did you hurt yourself anywhere else? Your ankle, your shoulder?”

  “My head.”

  “Yes, as I said, I’ll take care of that for you.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry. I doubt it will mar your beauty for more than a few days.”

  “That’s not what I meant. It’s the back of my head that really hurts.”

  The doctor beckoned to Anna. “Could you assist me in helping Miss Harrington sit up, Miss Anna?”

  “Certainly.”

  She was eased upright and Dr. Baker began to touch her scalp. “Tell me if anything hurts.” When his fingers grazed just above the nape of her neck she choked back a cry and he went still. “Ah, there is a definite swelling here, about the size of a hen’s egg. You probably hit your head a second time after you collapsed.”

  “No, I didn’t. Someone hit me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I didn’t fall and hurt myself. I was already kneeling down. Someone came up behind me and hit me. I must have banged my face when I fell forward, not the other way round.”

  She was laid back against her pillows and Anna was instructed to continue cleaning her face and to give her willow bark tea for the pain. Dr. Baker withdrew to the other side of the room and spoke to her father, his expression concerned. The odd phrase floated back to her, “Hysterical . . . overactive imagination . . . damage to the already frail female brain . . . not like her at all.”

  “Why won’t they listen to me?” Lucy whispered as Anna came to kneel beside her.

  “They think you just fell and hit your head.” Anna pressed a cold cloth against Lucy’s cheek and another at the nape of her neck. “And that you’re imagining things.”

  “I am not!”

  “I’m not sure how you are going to convince them of that. And why would anyone want to hit you, Lucy? I hate to say it, but it does sound a little far-fetched.”

  Lucy glared at her sister. “There are reasons I cannot share with you at present that make it highly likely that someone might want to harm me. Can you send a message to Major Kurland and tell him what happened?”

  “To Major Kurland? What on earth does this have to do with him? You can hardly accuse him of wanting to knock you unconscious.”

  “Just do what I ask!” She tried to sit up, and the room swung around most unpleasantly. “Please, Anna, just—”

  A small figure appeared in the doorway and stood, mouth agape, surveying the scene. “Cor, look at all that blood, Miss Harrington! What have you been up to?”

  Betty approached Joseph Cobbins and flapped her apron at him. “What are you doing here? Get out, you varmint.”

  Joe held his ground and ducked around Betty to approach Lucy. “Major Kurland wanted to know where you were. Are you all right, miss?”

  “I’ll be fine.” Lucy glanced around at her companions. If she tried to give Joe a message about what she’d found in the graveyard, she’d probably be dosed with laudanum and put straight to bed. “If you could wait a moment, I’ll write a note for you to take to the major.”

  “No, you will not.” Anna stood over her, her usually pleasant expression absent, her arms folded over her chest. “You will go to bed. If you are well enough in the morning, you may write as many notes as you please.” She turned to Joe. “Tell Major Kurland that my sister is unable to see him today. She will call on him when she has the time.”

  “All right then, miss. I’ll tell him.” Joe cast a last commiserating look at Lucy and left before she could utter another word.

  Anna glared after him. “How rude of Major Kurland! Just because you didn’t visit him for one day, he has to inquire as to where you are! You have spoiled him, Lucy.”

  “That’s not the way it is, he—”

  “He is far too used to getting his own way. You were quite right about him all along. Perhaps now he’ll have the decency to reflect on his conduct and consider treating you with more respect!”

  She didn’t have the energy to argue with her sister, and obediently drank the bitter willow bark tea Betty offered her.

  Dr. Baker and her father came back into the parlor and stared down at her. Lucy attempted to muster a smile.

  “Thank you for your help, Doctor. I’m sure I’ll feel much better after a good sleep.”

  “I’m sure you will, Miss Harrington. I suspect the blow to your head has dissipated your normal good sense.” He shared a glance with her father and lowered his voice, turning slightly away. “Let us hope she feels more like herself in the morning. If she persists in believing such delusions, please do not hesitate to send for me again.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Baker.” Her father shook the doctor’s hand, and Betty escorted him out of the parlor.

  “Now, Lucy, I’ll get Harris to carry you upstairs to your bed, and there you will stay until tomorrow morning.”

  “Papa, I know you think I am imagining things, but can you at least check the graveyard? I lost my gloves by the DeVry tomb.”

  He bent and kissed her forehead. “Don’t worry, I’ll buy you another pair.”

  “But—”

  “Lucy, my love, go to bed and stop worrying. You’re giving me a headache to rival your own.” He gave her his perfunctory rector’s smile and she knew he was anxious to get away. She had a strong suspicion that if she kept on insisting things were not as he thought, she’d be the one being sent away for a nice long rest in a madhouse.

  “Yes, Papa.”

  She allowed herself to be picked up and taken upstairs to bed. Anna turned down the covers and Betty put a hot brick at the bottom to warm the sheets. They fussed around her until she was in her nightgown and her hair unpinned, which helped relieve some of the ache in her skull. Her head hurt so badly now that she could barely see. She even took the laudanum the doctor prescribed and tried to find a comfortable place to rest on her pillow. Within moments, she was asleep and free to worry only in her dreams.

  “I saw her, sir.”

  “Where?” Robert sat forward, his hands clenched on the
arms of the chair.

  “In the rectory.”

  “So she was just too busy to come up to the manor.” Robert couldn’t decide if the feeling that swept over him was relief or annoyance.

  “She wasn’t busy, she was all bloody, sir. It was quite a sight.”

  Robert’s attention snapped back to the boy in front of him. “What?”

  “Miss Harrington, sir. When I got there, the front door was open, so I went right in. She was lying on the couch in the parlor, and the doctor was there, and her sister, and the rector, and that mean Betty from the kitchen. It was like a death scene from a traveling play, but it wasn’t pig’s blood in the bowl, I’m thinking.”

  “Miss Harrington was bleeding?”

  “Yes, sir, didn’t I just say so?”

  “What happened?” Robert raised his voice and Joe winced.

  “I’m not quite sure because no one was wanting to tell me nothing, but I think Miss Harrington fell down and hit her head in the graveyard, which was why her cheek was bleeding and they was all fussing around her like a bunch of ninnies.”

  “Did you manage to speak to her?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. She wanted to write you a note, but her pretty sister, Miss Anna, said no, and to tell you that Miss Harrington would come and see you when she was ready.” Joe scratched his nose. “She didn’t sound real friendly-like, if you know what I mean.”

  “Did you discover why Miss Harrington was in the graveyard?”

  “She didn’t say, but she did say that she hadn’t fallen down. She kept insisting she’d been hit on the head, but the rector and the doctor kept telling her she was being silly.” Joe shuffled his feet. “Women are silly sometimes, aren’t they? All emotional and crying like a baby.”

  “Miss Harrington was crying?”

  “No, but she did look bleeding awful. All pale and muddy apart from that big bloodied bruise on her cheek. She’s going to have a right shiner.”

  “Good God,” Robert muttered. “Whatever have I done?”

  Chapter 12

  “Come along, my dear. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  Lucy took her father’s proffered arm and followed him into the graveyard. She still had a terrible headache but found herself unable to stay in bed a moment longer. Her request to revisit the graveyard had been granted somewhat unwillingly, and only after she’d confessed that it might be the only way to set her mind at rest. As she’d hoped, her father had interpreted that to mean she would stop worrying him over nothing if he gave in and agreed to accompany her.

  Harris brought up the rear, a stout cudgel in his hand, his gaze scanning the trees for any hidden dangers. For once, Lucy was quite glad to have him with them. She guided her father down to the corner of the graveyard, where the DeVry tomb stood, its pale white walls benign in the early morning sun.

  “It was here, Papa. I took off my gloves because I thought there was something stuck in the door of the crypt.”

  Her father paused in front of the tomb. “I don’t see anything now. Do you?”

  “No. It all looks remarkably undisturbed.” Lucy looked around. Whatever she’d thought she’d seen trapped in the door of the vault had gone, and there were no footprints in the dirt beside the structure except the new imprint of her father’s boots.

  “Can we open up the tomb and take a look anyway?”

  “Lucy, for goodness’ sake.” Her father frowned. “You cannot go around opening up sacred burial plots on a whim.”

  “Somebody opened it.”

  He walked over to her and lowered his voice. “Sometimes, my dear, the poor of the parish feel unable to spare the money to have a deceased relative decently laid to rest. They prefer to use their coin to drink themselves into a stupor toasting the dead. Sometimes their solution to the dilemma of wanting the body in sanctified ground, without paying for the privilege, leads to them opening up existing graves and adding a cadaver.”

  Lucy put a hand to her mouth.

  Her father patted her shoulder. “It is possible that someone chose to do that in this case. The DeVry tomb is no longer in use, so there is no one to be offended.”

  “So no one will mind if we open it up a crack to take a look, either, will they?”

  Her father surveyed the tomb. “It looks perfectly fine to me and quite undisturbed. I doubt anyone has opened it in a long while, and I don’t intend to be the one to do so. To be perfectly honest, my dear, what probably happened was that you disturbed a local man up to no good, or a band of grave robbers after a corpse.”

  Lucy shivered and her father put his arm around her. “Don’t worry, my love, I doubt they’ll be back for a while. You probably scared them more than they scared you.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll ask the church warden and Edward to keep an eye on the graveyard over the next few days. If they see anything suspicious, I’m sure they’ll let me know.” He offered Lucy his arm. “Are you coming? There’s nothing more to worry about here.”

  “Thank you for reassuring me. You go ahead, Papa. I’ll be along in a moment. I just want to make sure I can’t find those gloves.”

  “You were always the most thrifty of my children.” He chuckled as he headed back toward the gates. “I’ll leave Harris here with you. Don’t be long.”

  Lucy’s smile faded as she heard the gate shut behind her father. She turned back toward the DeVry tomb. It was truly as if she had imagined the whole thing.... There was no blood on the tomb, the scrap of cloth had disappeared, as had her gloves. That was two pairs she needed to replace now.

  It was almost too perfect.

  She turned and walked a wider circle around the vault, her gaze flicking everywhere. The sun broke through the clouds and threaded its way through the branches of the ancient oak trees that stood guard over the graves. In the scrubby nettles and blackberry bushes that grew around the base of the trees, it touched upon a hint of white.

  Trying to avoid both the thorns and the sting of the nettles, she used her booted foot to push aside as much of the foliage as she could and bent down, suddenly all too aware of her vulnerability, the curve of her exposed neck, her lack of vision....

  A piece of broken pottery flashed white against the mud, and she carefully picked it up and held it in her open palm. The remnant was porcelain, and fine enough to see her fingers through. From the look of the piece, someone had ground it into the earth beneath his or her boot. Why on earth would anyone do that? Had the object been broken? But why would such a dainty piece be in the middle of a graveyard? She squinted at the piece more carefully. The pastoral pattern seemed somewhat familiar. . . .

  A wave of nausea made it almost impossible for her to breathe, and she closed her fingers around the fragment.

  “Are you all right, miss?” Harris called.

  “I’m fine.” Lucy rose to her feet, ignoring the swirl of unsteadiness as she straightened. “Let’s go home.”

  “I think that is a very clever idea, Robert. A movable chair with wheels.” Aunt Rose smiled as she passed him a cup of tea. “Don’t you, Miss Chingford?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t my idea.” Robert accepted the cup and balanced it on his thigh. “Miss Harrington read something in Ackermann’s and brought it to my attention.”

  “Miss Harrington is a remarkably competent young woman.”

  “Which is just as well, because she scarcely has the looks to become a diamond of the first water.” Miss Chingford put her cup down. “She strikes me as the meddling sort.”

  Robert’s smile held an edge. “She does like to manage us lesser mortals, but I owe her a great deal and will not have her spoken of in less than courteous terms.”

  Miss Chingford hunched her shoulder at him. For the first time, it occurred to him to wonder how it might feel to face her every morning over the breakfast table. Was she just young as his aunt suggested, or was she simply a spoiled beauty who was too used to getting her own way to accept the slightest hint of censure or disapproval?


  “By the way, have you heard any more from the rectory about what happened to Miss Harrington?” Aunt Rose poured herself some more tea and took up her embroidery.

  “No, I haven’t. I thought it best to wait until Miss Harrington wished to communicate with me, rather than bother her if she is indisposed. Blows on the head can be quite unpleasant.”

  Miss Chingford made a huffing sound and Robert switched his attention back to her. “Is there something wrong?”

  She stood and walked over to Robert. Her blond hair was dressed in a cascade of ringlets that framed her classically beautiful face, and she wore a blue dress that exposed rather a lot of her small bosom. Robert wasn’t surprised she complained his house was cold if she insisted on dressing in such skimpy garments.

  “Why does everyone talk about Miss Harrington all the time? I realize that this place has no social life to speak of, but there must be something more interesting than her.”

  Aunt Rose opened her mouth, but Robert quelled her with a look. “Miss Harrington is much respected for her charitable work in the village. I don’t understand why you seem so determined to dislike her.”

  “I don’t dislike her. She is too far beneath me for that. She is the one who forced herself upon my notice as if she is the arbiter of taste and social niceties in this godforsaken place.”

  “She is considered one of the first ladies of the village.”

  “But she is so provincial. What this place needs is a woman with taste and sophistication to make it more fashionable.”

  “You don’t like my home?”

  She flushed. “It will look much better once I take it in hand, I can promise you that.”

  “And what if I like it just the way it is?”

  “Why would you? The house is old and falling down around your ears.”

  “But it is my home.”

  “And it is inconvenient and beneath your status.”

  He shrugged. “I’m a country gentleman. It suits me rather well.”

  “But you have the money to make it so much more.” For the first time since he’d seen her again, his betrothed looked animated. “And once you have improved the property, I’m sure the crown would be more than willing to grant you a title to go with it. You could probably even afford to buy yourself one if you wished.”