Sheri Cobb South (12 page)

“Excellent work, my lady! I thank you.”

Lady Fieldhurst could not have said why this simple tribute should feel so very gratifying, but such was undoubtedly the case. “For what, pray, am I being thanked? For obtaining the information, or holding the curate at bay?”

“Both—and for acting on your suspicions, for they were quite right. Mr. Danvers did not burn to death. In fact, if I were to hazard a guess, I should say he died from a blow to the head.”

“A blow to the head?” echoed her ladyship incredulously. “But what of the gunshot I heard?”

Pickett frowned thoughtfully. “That’s what puzzles me. I suppose a ball to the head at close range could crush the skull in such a way, and yet the location of the injury seems wrong. If Mr. Danvers were seated, perhaps, or his assailant were much taller than he—tell me, my lady, do you plan to attend the burial service tomorrow?”

“I? Why, no! Even if I had been well acquainted with Mr. Danvers, it would hardly be appropriate for a woman to be present on such an occasion.”

Pickett, who had more than once witnessed members of the gentler sex tearing out one another’s hair in an effort to procure the best vantage point from which to view a public hanging, did not attempt to persuade her. “Very well, then, you had best send me as your emissary.”

“I was not aware that I needed an emissary.”

“Of course you do,” he insisted, warming to this idea. “Someone must be present tomorrow to pay last respects to the vicar on your behalf—uphold the honor of the Fieldhursts, and all that. Barring any male relations—”

“Come now, this is doing it much too brown!” she chided, her suspicions by this time fully roused. “You, of all people, know enough about the Fieldhursts to have no illusions as to their honor. You want to attend the funeral for your own purposes, whatever they are.”

His smile grew sheepish. “Very well, I admit it.”

“What do you expect to find?”

“I don’t know—quite possibly nothing. But I would like to see all the suspects—or as many of them as possible—gathered in one place. I’m limited by not being able to question them directly—”

“For which you have me to thank,” acknowledged her ladyship ruefully.

“—So I have to draw what conclusions I can from each person’s public behavior. It seems to me that a murderer attending his victim’s funeral is likely to be very much aware that he is giving a public performance. He may unintentionally give something away.”

“Say no more!” beseeched the viscountess, throwing up her hands. “By all means, attend the funeral as my emissary. With any luck, the murderer will be overcome with remorse and confess on the spot, and you may leave my employ before I become quite accustomed to being ordered about by my servants!”

Chapter 6

In Which John Pickett Glimpses the Future

“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection ...”

As the minister’s voice rose and fell on the morning breeze, Pickett glanced around at the assembled mourners. Chief among them was Mr. Meriwether, most conspicuous for the fact that he was not conducting the service. That honor, according to Lady Fieldhurst’s gleanings in the village, had fallen to the rector of a neighboring parish. And so, with no official duties to perform, the curate now stood at the head of the casket wearing a black armband and a look of tightly controlled anguish. Pickett could not help wondering whether the young man’s misery was due to grief at the loss of his mentor, or despair at having committed the sin of murder, only to find himself no closer to the incumbency—or to the daughter of the house—than he was before.

On the other side of the coffin, Sir Gerald Hollingshead stood with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels as if impatient to have the unpleasant business behind him. The somber black of his mourning attire made an odd contrast with Sir Gerald’s ruddy complexion. Indeed, it seemed almost a pity that ladies were excluded from the burial service; the dignified Lady Anne would have done justice to the solemnity of the occasion far better than her husband the sportsman.

Young Philip Hollingshead stood next to his father, wearing the sullen expression unique to adolescent males. Pickett noted the lad’s bloodshot eyes, and suspected they were the result not of remorse, but of over imbibing. Youthful indiscretion, he wondered, or an attempt to drown a guilty conscience? It occurred to Pickett that Emma Hollingshead’s various swains were not the only ones with motive for murder. Surely a disgruntled youth might fancy himself well rid of the parson who threatened to put an end to his pleasures. Granted, it was not a strong motive, but Pickett had known men who were killed for less cause, by assailants of even more tender years than Master Philip. He pushed aside the possibility as an unlikely one but not before making a mental note to see what he could discover about the bottles missing from Sir Gerald’s stores.

Most of the other mourners were strangers to Pickett, men of the village whom he had never seen at Hollingshead Place. Upon closer inspection, however, he was able to identify a few of them based on Lady Fieldhurst’s descriptions. The rather foppish young man glowering at the curate could only be Mr. Kendall, his would-be rival for Miss Hollingshead’s affections. Based on this assumption, the older man beside him (more conservatively dressed, yet possessing the same Roman nose and strong chin) must be his father, Lord Kendall, Justice of the Peace. The swarthy gentleman standing to the curate’s left was most likely Mr. Carrington, about whose life so little was known.

Some slight movement out of the corner of his eye caught Pickett’s attention, and he looked around. There, pressed against the weathered stone wall of the church and almost blending into its shadow, was the same gypsy lad he had surprised in the ruins of the vicarage. Across the width of the churchyard, the dark brown gazes of the two young men locked, one suspicious, the other defiant. Pickett had no doubt the gypsy recognized him in spite of his powdered hair and servant’s livery. He gauged the distance between them, calculating whether or not he could cover it with anything approaching discretion. He was about to make his move when the rector began to pray, and Pickett was obliged to make a show of bowing his head.

When he looked up again, the young man was gone.

* * * *

Lady Fieldhurst stood at the window of her bedchamber, from which vantage point she could just make out the little group of mourners assembled in the churchyard. It was foolish, she knew, to think that she might see anything of interest from this distance, yet that fact had not prevented her from making repeated treks to the window and back ever since the funeral party had first set out from Hollingshead Place. At last, annoyed with both herself and her fruitless occupation, she abandoned the bedchamber and made her way downstairs to the drawing room, a rather cheerless salon whose principal charm lay in the fact that its windows faced west, offering no view of the churchyard. Two members of the household were here before her. Miss Susannah Hollingshead pounded out a mournful piece on the pianoforte, while her governess sat in the corner perusing a thick sheaf of papers through red-rimmed eyes. Miss Grantham looked up as Lady Fieldhurst entered the room and greeted the viscountess with a slightly watery smile.

“Mr. Danvers’s history, I presume?” asked Lady Fieldhurst, indicating the stack of papers in the governess’s lap.

Miss Grantham gave a mournful sniff. “Poor Mr. Danvers’s prose is somewhat ponderous, I fear, but under such tragic circumstances, it seems the least I can do.”

“By no means the least, Miss Grantham,” the viscountess said warmly. “I can think of no greater tribute you might offer him.”

And no greater sacrifice, she added mentally, if the vicar’s writing was even half as pedantic as his conversation.

“It is very kind of you to say so, my lady. I confess, it would give me great satisfaction to think of Mr. Danvers’s life’s work being published posthumously. I feel it behooves me to prepare the manuscript for publication, should his heirs choose to pursue such a course.” She gave a sigh. “I fear it is all they may expect to inherit from him, as everything else was destroyed in the fire.”

“Who is his heir, pray?” asked the viscountess.

Miss Grantham shook her head. “Some niece or nephew, I daresay, or perhaps a distant cousin. Mr. Danvers never married, so there is no direct descendant.”

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Lady Anne, clad in a sober but obviously expensive morning gown of plum-colored silk. “My dear Lady Fieldhurst, I wonder if I might beg a word with you? It concerns your footman.”

Miss Grantham, correctly interpreting this question as a dismissal of herself and her charge, arranged her papers into a neat stack and rose to her feet. Miss Susannah banged out one last dolorous chord, then followed her preceptress from the room with uncharacteristic docility.

Lady Fieldhurst, in the meantime, watched their exit with growing apprehension. Had Mr. Pickett said or done something to betray himself? Worse, had Lady Anne observed their arm-in-arm jaunt to the village and drawn her own conclusions?

“Yes?” the viscountess prompted, as the door closed behind the governess and her pupil. “What did you wish to say?”

“As you know, my daughter Emma will be presented at Court next spring and will have her Season in London.”

“I’m sure she will be a great success,” said Lady Fieldhurst, not quite certain what this had to do with John Pickett.

“Thank you. Her father and I have high hopes for her. But as you know, it is crucial to present the right image. Besides her wardrobe to refurbish, there is the matter of opening up the town house and hiring more fashionable servants than can be found in the country. As your mourning obliges you to live very quietly at present, I wonder if you would object to my speaking to your John about coming to us?”

Revelation dawned, but it brought no relief. In fact, the prospect of Mr. Pickett remaining in Yorkshire at the beck and call of the Hollingshead ladies, pursuing his investigations alone while she herself returned to London, was in its own way quite as disturbing as discovering that he had been exposed as an imposter.

Seeing that her hostess awaited an answer, Lady Fieldhurst swallowed hard and found her tongue with some difficulty. “Am—Am I to understand, Lady Anne, that you wish to
hire
John?”

“Only if you have no objections, my dear. As you know, it can add a great deal to a lady’s consequence to have a tall and handsome young footman accompanying her carriage.”

“I don’t find him overly handsome,” muttered Lady Fieldhurst pettishly.

“His nose has obviously been broken at some point, but although that must have been a most unpleasant experience for the poor fellow, I cannot see that it affects his desirability as a footman,” continued Lady Anne, undaunted. “In fact, it often happens that such flaws add to the appeal of a masculine countenance.”

As the viscountess could find nothing to say to refute this observation, Lady Anne took her silence as permission granted.

“Very well, then, if you have no objection, I shall speak to him at the earliest opportunity. Thank you, my dear. I assure you, your generosity will not be soon forgotten.”

If Lady Fieldhurst was impatient for Pickett’s return before, she was now frantic. He should at least be warned of Lady Anne’s intentions before that redoubtable lady accosted him, so that he might be better prepared to gratefully but firmly turn down her generous offer.

The only trouble was that Lady Fieldhurst was not at all certain that he would turn it down. In fact, he might welcome the opportunity to stay in Yorkshire for as long as he liked, insinuating himself into the servants’ confidence as a member of the household, and learning all the family’s secrets. She might return to London at her leisure and need have no further contact with him at all. Well! If that was his notion of gratitude, when he would not have even known about the case at all had she not sent for him, then Lady Anne might have him with her blessing!

It was in this volatile frame of mind that Lady Fieldhurst entered the dining room, where most of the mourners had convened for a sober meal. Pickett stood behind the viscountess’s chair, and the Hollingsheads’ own footmen were stationed at intervals around the table. The accoutrements were perhaps more suited to dinner than to the noon meal, but the visiting rector must needs be fed before setting out for his own parish, and Sir Gerald, within whose gift the living lay, was the logical person to extend this hospitality. Glancing around the table at the solemn group, the viscountess noted that the party was very nearly the same as the one assembled for dinner on that fateful night. Besides the cleric, the only addition was the doctor—the same man who, in his official capacity of coroner, had erroneously identified the cause of death. On the debit side, the schoolroom party was absent, as were Lady Kendall and Miss Hollingshead.

“I must commend you for your words of comfort, Mr. Greenfield,” the curate addressed the visiting cleric. Lady Fieldhurst could not but admire the young man’s poise, for only a slight stiffening of his spine betrayed how much effort it cost him to remain gracious in the face of such a snub.

“Yes, yes, a good end to a bad business,” blustered Sir Gerald.

“Thank you, Sir Gerald, Mr. Meriwether,” replied the rector. “It is always difficult to know what to say in the face of such a tragedy. I trust that all who knew him must find comfort in the knowledge that Mr. Danvers has gone on to a better place.”

“Then it is no wonder Mr. Meriwether found his words so encouraging,” put in Robert Kendall, casting a sly glance in the curate’s direction, “for he hopes to follow his mentor’s example and go on to a better place himself. Though not the same one, it goes without saying.”

Philip Hollingshead uttered a short bark of laughter which he turned, not very convincingly, into a cough.