Death Comes to the Village Read online

  “Because one of our maids has disappeared, as well.” She quickly recounted the basic elements of Mary’s disappearance. “I was wondering whether the two girls left together, or whether they were accompanied by at least one man.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Susan O’Brien, who is a parlor maid for the Hathaways, indicated that Mary had taken up with a new friend and neglected her. If Mary was planning to leave the village with Daisy Weeks, her head would’ve been full of those plans, and she would not have had time for her old friend.”

  “I suppose that is possible, although it didn’t look like two girls.”

  “How can you be sure? It was dark and you were quite far away.”

  “The moon was very bright. That’s why I got up in the first place, to close the damned curtains.” He shifted against his pillows. “Why do you think there might have been a man involved?”

  “Because Mary was interested in some man who helped build the new stable block for our house. Anna and I wondered if perhaps she had eloped with him.”

  “And taken Daisy along with her to play propriety? It seems unlikely.”

  Lucy sighed. “I know. I just can’t work it out. If Mary decided to go to London with Daisy, why didn’t she wait until quarter day to receive her wages, and hand in her notice? It makes more sense that she left with a man. Mayhap you only saw him because she was hiding under his cloak.”

  Major Kurland stared out of the window as if he was reconstructing the events in his head. “That might be it.”

  “Then what should we do?”

  “There are several avenues to explore. Firstly, you need to talk to Miss Mildred Potter about exactly whom she saw ‘cavorting’ in the village the other night. Then you need to speak with Joseph. Or if you wish it, bring him here and we can question him together. He might respond better to me.”

  Lucy held up her hand. “Wait. If you are going to start issuing orders, I really need to write them down. Do you have ink and paper here?”

  “In the desk.”

  She went over to the dainty escritoire that stood against the far wall and pulled out the chair. The major was looking more animated than she had ever seen him and, despite his peremptory tone, she was loath to interrupt his flow of enthusiasm. She opened the inkwell and dipped her pen in it.

  “Speak to Miss Mildred. Bring Joseph here to question him about the thefts.” She wrote these down and turned to him, pen poised above the paper. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, check and see if anyone else in the village has lost any property.”

  “Why do I need to do that?”

  “Because we need to ascertain the scope of the problem. Is there a gang stealing from the village, is it a single person such as Joe Cobbins or your maid, or a band of roaming ex-soldiers terrorizing my tenants?”

  “That last one seems rather extreme.”

  “In these troubled times it could be any of those things. Foley was worried enough to mention our lack of security here at the manor to me last night.”

  “What does he expect you to do, take up the drawbridge and pour boiling oil over the walls?”

  A flash of amusement lightened the major’s drawn face. “I believe he’d like to do just that, but if he doesn’t feel safe in a place where he has lived all his life, neither do I.”

  Lucy studied the list. “It might be simpler than you think. Over the last few months, Daisy and Mary could’ve stolen a few trinkets to finance their journey to London. The man you saw might have been hired to drive them to the city and was merely carrying their baggage to his cart.”

  The major just looked at her. “You are a strange combination of the practical and the romantic, Miss Harrington.”

  “I’m just considering all the scenarios, sir.”

  He tapped his finger against his chin. “I’ll speak to Foley about the servants here and whether we’ve suffered any thefts.”

  Lucy wrote everything down and then blew carefully on the ink to speed the drying process. “Do you want to see the list?”

  “Yes, please.” He held out his hand and she walked over to him.

  She waited while he read, his brow furrowed. “That will do for now. Come and see me tomorrow and bring young Cobbins with you.”

  Lucy took back the sheet of paper and fought an inclination to salute. “I will if I have time, Major.” She hoped her discouraging tone indicated that she wasn’t one of his lower-ranked soldiers or his servant to be ordered around.

  “Naturally, Miss Harrington. I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you.”

  She put the note in her basket and made her escape, torn between her delight at seeing her patient so enlivened, and her annoyance with his high-handed manner. While he had nothing to do all day except lie around in bed and issue orders, she had a house to run. Unfortunately, she now had the task of returning home and negotiating with Mrs. Fielding about dinner, a daily task that continued to terrify her.

  In the hallway she met Bookman carrying a pile of laundered nightshirts toward the major’s room.

  “Miss Harrington. How did you find the major today?”

  “He seemed a little brighter.”

  Bookman smiled. “He slept better last night.”

  He was a good-looking man of about thirty with brown hair, hazel eyes, and a pleasant, respectful demeanor. He’d grown up on the Kurland estate, so Lucy knew him almost as well as Major Kurland. He’d gone away to war with the major as his batman and was now employed as his valet. Gossip said that it was Bookman who discovered the unconscious major on the battlefield of Waterloo, dragged him clear of his fallen horse, and saved his life.

  “Did you have the opportunity to ask Dr. Baker about allowing the major to sit up in a chair by his window?”

  “I haven’t seen the good doctor yet today, but I will be sure to mention it to him.” Bookman glanced at the bedroom door. “He needs something to keep his spirits up.”

  It was on the tip of Lucy’s tongue to tell Bookman about her inquiries, but she managed to curb the impulse and nodded instead. If Major Kurland wished to discuss the matter with his valet, it was his business. She lived in fear of becoming known as a terrible spinsterish gossip.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bookman. Let’s hope Dr. Baker agrees with you.”

  Robert glanced up from his newspaper as Bookman came into the room with a pile of folded linen.

  “Are you ready for your luncheon, Major?”

  Robert took off his borrowed spectacles. “I believe I am.”

  “That’s good to hear, sir.” Bookman opened one of the drawers and deftly slid the shirts inside. “It sounds like Miss Harrington cheered you up.”

  “She is very kind to me.”

  “You probably don’t remember much about when you were brought back here. After we discovered the nurse we’d hired to take care of you was guzzling gin, Miss Harrington stepped in and nursed you herself. And very capable she proved to be, too. In fact, you might say that between her, Dr. Baker, me, and Foley, you owe us your life.”

  “I am quite aware of that, Bookman.” How could he explain to his longtime servant and companion that at his most wretched, he’d wanted to die and had bitterly resented their efforts to keep him alive? “Is Dr. Baker coming to see me today?”

  “He’ll be here around six o’clock.”

  He couldn’t repress a shiver. Bookman walked over to the bed and fussed over straightening the covers. “Not to worry, Major. He just wants to see how you do.”

  Robert glared at his valet. “I’m scarcely worried. I’m not that much of a coward.”

  “I know that. I’ve seen you in battle many times, but there’s no denying that doctor does like to maul you around.” Bookman hesitated. “It’s different here, isn’t it? On a battlefield, you accept the horror of death and pain because it’s all around you, and it’s all you know. But in Kurland St. Mary? Pain and suffering seem somehow out of place.”

  “That’s very profound, Bookman.”


  He gave an embarrassed laugh. “Just thinking aloud, sir. Pay no attention to me.”

  He turned toward the door, and Robert watched him carefully. Bookman and he had shared a lifetime of atrocities and probably the same nightmares. It was no wonder his valet found the contrast between tranquil, pastoral England and war-torn Europe as jarring as he did.

  “If you have time to ponder such things you must be very bored indeed. Arranging my nightshirts is hardly a task for a man of your capabilities.”

  “I don’t just do that, Major. I help old Foley manage the staff. He’s getting on a bit, you know, and is quite forgetful.”

  “I appreciate your hard work and your loyalty, but I must ask you to reconsider my offer.”

  “Trying to get rid of me again, sir?” Bookman turned to study Robert. “I thought we’d been through this before. I’m staying right here.”

  “Thank you, Bookman.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.” His valet saluted and opened the door. “I’ll get your rations now.”

  Robert eased back on his pillows and slowly let out his breath. He didn’t deserve such loyalty. Bookman, at least, knew the worst of him, but the gently reared spinster daughter of the rector should have no ability to understand him or the brutal military life he’d led overseas. Robert frowned. She did understand him, and sometimes surprised him with her matter-of-fact common sense. He’d never thanked her for her care when he’d been delirious with fever and begging for someone to put an end to his agony. In some strange way he supposed he now shared a bond with her, too.

  Pushing such unsettling thoughts to the back of his mind, Robert considered the information Miss Harrington had gathered for him in the village. He suspected she was far better at getting people to talk to her than he would ever be—even if the information were disgorged in a particularly fragmented and feminine way. In his role as local magistrate, Robert had the power to affect people’s lives. Such a position also made his tenants and the villagers more afraid of him, and wary of giving offense.

  He would have to rely on Miss Harrington’s haphazard methods of detection and use his more ordered male mind to unravel the tangle of information and make sense of it. The thought of Ben Cobbins being involved in the matter made him uneasy. He didn’t want Miss Harrington to approach such a rogue, especially in his own dwelling. He could only hope she would heed his advice and bring the boy, minus his father, to Kurland Hall on the morrow.

  Bookman reappeared with a tray in his hands, and Robert inhaled the scent of baked ham and onions. For the first time in a long while, he was actually hungry. Bookman placed the tray across his knees and removed the cover with a flourish.

  “While the cook’s back was turned, I poured away the gruel, and got you what the servants were eating. It’s not fancy, but I reckon it will put some flesh on your bones.”

  Robert picked up his knife. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.” Bookman bowed.

  “Can you ask Foley to come and speak to me after I’ve eaten?”

  “Yes, sir.” He paused at the door. “Is there anything I can help you with? As I said, I’ve been trying to take some of the burdens of managing this old place from the old duffer. He’s neither as young nor as observant as he used to be.”

  “Foley does well enough.” Robert looked up. “Do you have a sudden ambition to become my butler?”

  Bookman’s smile flashed out. “Maybe in about twenty years when Foley toddles off to his maker, I’ll take you up on that.”

  “When Foley retires, consider the position yours.” He pulled off a hunk of warm bread and dipped it in his gravy. “But send him up to me anyway.”

  When Foley came in, Robert found himself judging the familiar figure with fresh eyes. He guessed the butler, who had been hired by his mother, must be in his late fifties or early sixties. He was a thin man with wispy gray hair who looked as if he might blow away in a strong breeze. He often complained about the cold draughts that gusted through the old house, comparing it unfavorably with the modern stuccoed box the rector had built beside the church, which Robert privately thought was an eyesore.

  “Thank you for coming to see me so promptly.” Robert waved at the chair beside his bed. “Would you like to sit down?”

  Foley raised his chin. “It wouldn’t be fitting, sir.”

  “It’s just you and me, Foley. No one need know.”

  “I’d prefer to stand.”

  “Have it your way,” Robert said briskly. “I wanted to ask you about your concerns for the safety of this house.”

  “You told me I was overreacting, sir.”

  There was a hint of reproach in the butler’s voice that made Robert want to squirm like a schoolboy. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. I wondered what prompted your fears.”

  “I told you, sir.”

  “About the gangs of soldiers on half-pay? Have you actually seen any evidence of such a gang around here?”

  “Not exactly, sir.”

  “Then what else worries you?”

  Foley looked down at his feet. “It’s hard to say. I just have a sense that something isn’t right. You’ll think me a fanciful old fool who should be pensioned off.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I know Bookman thinks he could do my job, sir, but he doesn’t understand the complexities of it at all.”

  “Foley.” Robert waited until the butler looked up at him. “I have no intention of getting rid of you, or of promoting Bookman in your stead. I value you both too highly. However, if the position is getting too much for you, and you do wish to retire, that is a different matter.”

  “Whatever Bookman says, I don’t wish that, sir. I’m quite capable of running this household.”

  “I’m sure you are.” Robert paused. He hoped his butler and his valet weren’t going to be at permanent odds with each other. “Then maybe you will have the goodness to tell me what worries you, fanciful or not.”

  “Just little things, sir. How to integrate your military staff into the existing household, deal with the estate business that you haven’t been able to—”

  “What problems have you encountered with my staff?”

  Foley shifted his feet. “Nothing much, sir, just that when you were gone, we got into the habit of doing things a certain way, and now with you back, some things have had to change.”

  “Is Bookman the problem?”

  “Oh no, sir! As I said, there’s nothing in particular. It’s just a sense of things having altered.”

  “Perhaps I should go away again and leave you in peace.”

  Foley fixed him with an intimidating stare. “You know that’s not what I meant, sir. You have a perfect right to reside in your ancestral home.”

  A slight suggestion of a headache made Robert lean back against his pillows and momentarily close his eyes.

  “Are you all right, Major? Shall I fetch Bookman?”

  “No, you can ask him to come to me when you leave. What else is concerning you?”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Out with it, man. There is something you’re not divulging to me.”

  Foley blinked. “I was going to tell you about this the other day, sir, but you told me to stop worrying about nothing.”

  Robert held on to his temper and his patience with something of an effort. “What?”

  “Well, I hardly liked to bother you with it now, but we’ve lost a few trinkets here and there from some of the less frequently used rooms on the ground floor.”

  “What kind of trinkets?”

  “Candlesticks, pieces of porcelain, a few books from the library.”

  Robert sat up. “We have a thief in our midst?”

  “We thought it better not to worry you, sir. Petty theft is not unknown in such an environment as this. These old houses have far too many doors and windows to keep an eye on them all. Now that we are aware of the problem, we will apprehend the culprit fairly speedily.”

  “You k
now who it is?”

  “Not exactly, Major, but—”

  “When did this start happening?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. I only became aware of it quite recently when one of the maids noticed footsteps in the dust leading out of one of the closed-up rooms on the west side of the house.”

  “My mother’s old rooms?”

  “Indeed, sir. When I ventured into the rooms in question, I noticed that several small pieces had either been rearranged, or had disappeared.”

  “Then perhaps it is time we cleaned the whole dratted house and made an inventory of every item in each room.”

  “That is exactly what I was going to suggest to you—when you were ready to open up the house again to guests.”

  “I’m still not ready for guests, but do it anyway.”

  “As you wish, sir.” Foley bowed. “I might need to engage some more servants to accomplish such a task.”

  “Then go ahead. We’re financially sound at present.” Foley moved toward the door. “And next time, don’t treat me like an invalid. Tell me what is going on in my own damned house.”

  He bowed again. “Of course. I’ll send Bookman to you.” At the door he turned and looked over his shoulder. “I’m glad that you don’t intend to replace me yet, Major.”

  Robert mock-frowned at him. “If I tried to replace you, my mother would come back and haunt me from beyond the grave. Now, go away, Foley and start mustering the new staff.”

  He sat back against his pillows and glanced over at the windows. It was already dark, and the black shape of the church tower threw an even gloomier shadow across the lawn and the front of his house. His thoughts circled endlessly like crows over a battlefield. What was going on in Kurland St. Mary? Were the thefts connected to the two girls attempting to finance their journey to London, as Miss Harrington suspected, or were there wider, more unscrupulous forces at work? Whatever it was, and despite his current infirmity, Robert was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  He fought against an overpowering wave of fatigue. The thought of death wouldn’t relinquish its hold on him, and for a moment, he allowed himself to consider the fate of the two girls. Was he just so used to the excesses of war that he immediately assumed the worst? Could the connection between the missing females and the petty thefts be a more dangerous one? Perhaps on their flight the girls had inadvertently interrupted a thief.