Sheri Cobb South (9 page)

The stench of smoke, discernible even from Hollingshead Place, grew increasingly stronger until at last he reached the ruined vicarage. Its blackened stone walls seemed to be waiting for him, the gaping windows staring sightlessly like a dead man’s eyes. The roof had burned away, leaving the charred interior open to the sky, but the early morning sun was as yet too low to provide much in the way of illumination. Within the stone walls, great scorched beams sagged at drunken angles, resembling nothing so much as an enormous game of jackstraws. Broken glass and charred debris crunched beneath Pickett’s feet, and although the ruins no longer smoldered, a feeble curl of smoke occasionally rose from the ashes when prodded with the toe of his boot.

Pickett had been confident enough the previous evening, talking to the viscountess, but now, confronted with the magnitude of the destruction, he felt more than a little daunted by the task before him. He had been a Bow Street Runner for less than a twelvemonth, and it had never fallen to him to investigate any case involving fire. How did one gather evidence when all was reduced to ashes? He thought of Mr. Colquhoun and wished he had possessed the foresight to solicit the magistrate’s advice. He still might do so, through the medium of the post. But he could not shake the conviction that any show of ineptitude on his part would result in his being recalled to Bow Street and the odious Foote dispatched to Yorkshire in his place. No, he would solve this crime (if, indeed, crime there were) on his own, or he would perish in the attempt.

With renewed determination, he ducked beneath a fallen beam—and found himself confronting a dark young man clad in rough homespun. For a long moment the two stared at one another in mutual astonishment. Then one of the tortured beams creaked, shattering the silence. Released from his spell, the intruder took to his heels, bounding across the blackened debris littering the floor and through the gaping doorway at the rear of the house.

“You, there! Halt!”

Pickett started at once in pursuit, but halfway across the ruined room, his toe struck something hard, and he fell forward with sufficient force to knock the breath from his body. He scrambled to his feet and covered the remaining distance to the door with as much speed as he could muster, knowing already what he would find. Leaning against the doorframe and gasping for breath, he surveyed his surroundings grimly. No sign of life stirred in the small garden at the rear of the house. The intruder, whoever he was, had no doubt sought refuge in the woods beyond.

Had Pickett been in London, he would not have hesitated to plunge forward in pursuit, for he knew Bow Street and its environs like the back of his hand. However, he could see nothing to be gained by getting himself lost in the woods, so he returned to the ruin to locate the object which had brought about his downfall. He found it after a brief search, a long, heavy object whose black color owed nothing to its recent trial by fire. Indeed, it had been crafted to withstand the flames, for it proved to be an iron poker. Pickett gauged the distance from the fireplace to the poker’s current location in what appeared to be the center of the room and estimated it to be no less than eight, perhaps as much as ten feet.

He dropped the poker and picked his way to the fireplace for a closer look. The damage here was so extensive as to render most of the debris unidentifiable, but for the remains of what must have once been a handsome fowling piece mounted over the mantel. Its wooden stock had completely burned away, leaving only the barrel and firing mechanism. Pickett could not help thinking that, come autumn, the local grouse population would have little to fear from that particular weapon. Still, its existence was interesting in the light of Lady Fieldhurst’s conviction that she had heard a gunshot. And yet, what kind of man—or woman, for that matter—would be so cold-blooded as to shoot a man to death and then coolly mount the murder weapon on the dead man’s wall? No, it would appear that the vicar’s mysterious death must have been no more than a tragic accident, the result of some flammable object exploding after being left too close to the fire.

Still, Pickett could not be entirely satisfied. What sort of explosion would hurl an iron poker ten feet across the room, yet leave the ash can undisturbed upon the hearth? He picked his way across the room to inspect a shard of broken glass from the shattered windowpanes, and squinted when bright sunlight hit him full in the face. The sun was riding higher in the sky now, peering over the window sill. Up the hill at Hollingshead Place, the family would soon be gathering for breakfast, and he would be expected to wait upon the viscountess. Somehow he must communicate to Lady Fieldhurst his need to have the afternoon free, for it was obvious that Mr. Danvers’s eternal slumber must not be allowed to go undisturbed. Pickett only hoped the vicar’s earthly remains would yield more information than his erstwhile residence had done. He tossed the shard of glass back onto the ruined floor, then made his way back up the hill to Hollingshead Place.

The cavernous kitchen was still dark, but a fire had been lit in the great stove for the day’s cooking. Pickett wished he might linger in front of it long enough to ward off the morning chill, but the fire’s very existence made it clear that the household was beginning to stir. He had best waste no time in returning to his own room. To this end, he crossed the kitchen and headed for the staircase at the end of the corridor. He was less than twenty feet from his goal when a door flew open on his left, making him start. There stood the ubiquitous Mrs. Holland with the butler at her elbow, apparently enjoying their morning coffee, judging from the twin curls of steam rising from the cups they held.

“You there!” barked the housekeeper. “What’s-your-name!”

“Pickett, ma’am,” he reminded her. “John Pickett.”

“And what, pray, are you doing skulking about at such an hour?”

“Merely taking my morning constitutional,” said Pickett, improvising rapidly. “In the city, it was always my habit—”

“You are not in the city any longer, John Pickett, so let us hear no more of it. Do you not agree, Mr. Smithers?”

The butler leaned closer, his nose twitching like a rabbit’s. Pickett knew a moment’s panic until he recalled the missing bottles of wine, and realized the man was trying to sniff his breath for any traces of alcohol. Apparently the butler was so intent upon finding evidence of liquor theft that he failed to notice the scent of smoke Pickett knew must cling to his hair and clothes.

“Indeed I do, Mrs. Holland.” Mr. Smithers turned to address Pickett. “If you suffer from an excess of restless energy, young man, then after the family has breakfast you may assist Charles in washing and putting away the china, and Ned in polishing the silver. I am sure we can find more than enough activity to keep you occupied.”

With these words, it seemed, battle was fairly joined. “I shall be happy to do so, Mr. Smithers,” he said stiffly, “provided, of course, that my lady Fieldhurst has no need of me.”

Having delivered as strong a parting shot as his present situation allowed, he turned and made his way up the stairs with as much dignity as he could muster. Alas, the morning quickly progressed from bad to worse. It soon became evident that he had grossly underestimated the time necessary for powdering his hair, and by the time he had completed this unfamiliar and messy exercise, the better part of the room looked as if it were the recipient of a freakish snowfall. Not wishing to be obliged to account to Mrs. Holland for this new infraction, he tidied up the worst of it before going down to breakfast—only to discover that the rest of the staff had already finished eating, and were in the process of clearing away the dishes.

“We missed you at breakfast, John,” observed the housekeeper with a certain malicious satisfaction. “Perhaps by the time you join us for luncheon, you will have learned the importance of promptness.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly, and followed the other footmen to the breakfast room, where the family was shortly to gather for their own morning meal.

* * * *

Lady Fieldhurst entered the breakfast room to find Sir Gerald fortifying himself with eggs, kippers, and steak while Lady Anne picked daintily at toast and marmalade. Susannah’s absence was only to be expected—she would be partaking of breakfast in the schoolroom with her governess—but her brother Philip was there, looking very much the worse for wear with a pale face and bloodshot eyes. Of Emma Hollingshead there was no sign. Lady Fieldhurst murmured polite responses to her host and hostess’s greetings, then crossed the room to the mahogany buffet where Pickett stood wearing his borrowed livery and a singularly wooden expression. It appeared that her own footman, Thomas, had taught him well, for surely no one watching him pour steaming coffee into her delicate Spode cup would have suspected that he was anything but a well-trained servant.

“Eggs, my lady?”

The viscountess searched this simple query for hidden meanings, and found none. “Thank you, John.”

She allowed him to fill her plate with buttered eggs, toast, and marmalade, then joined Sir Gerald and Lady Anne at the table.

“Looks like the sun has finally decided to shine on us,” Sir Gerald observed. “I’ll wager you ladies will be glad enough to get out of the house for a change.”

“Yes, indeed,” agreed Lady Fieldhurst. “As lovely as your house is, I confess I am ready for a change of scenery. I thought I might go to the village today for some shopping.”

“An excellent notion,” applauded Lady Anne. “I regret that I cannot accompany you, as I must call on some of our tenants to see how they are faring after the recent storms. I’ve
no doubt Emma would be pleased to take my place; in my experience, young girls are always eager to shop.”

As
if on cue, the door opened to admit Emma Hollingshead, fetchingly attired in a charming pink muslin gown which quite failed to disguise either her pallid complexion or the dark circles beneath her eyes.

“Ah, there you are, my dear,” said Lady Anne, seemingly oblivious to her daughter’s poor looks. “You would not object to accompanying Lady Fieldhurst on a shopping trip to the village, would you?”

“I should be pleased to do so,” Miss Hollingshead said somewhat mechanically.

As this was not at all what Lady Fieldhurst had in mind, she was relieved to see that her proposed companion had no more liking for the scheme than she did herself. “Pray do not inconvenience yourself on my account, Miss Hollingshead,” she beseeched the younger lady. “As my shopping these days is limited to blacks and grays, I fear you would find little enough pleasure in it.”

“At least let me offer you the use of our carriage,” Lady Anne persisted. “Our coachman, Gunning, will take you anywhere you may wish to go.”

“You are too kind, my lady, but in truth, I would prefer to walk. The exercise will do me good. I shall take John along to carry my parcels.”

The furtive smile she cast in Pickett’s direction held more than a hint of mischief, and he found himself wondering just how many parcels he would be obliged to haul back up the hill.

“While I am out, I should like to stop by the church and see the Norman bell tower,” the viscountess continued. “Mr. Danvers urged me to do so, and now I feel quite ashamed of myself for having put him off. I shall visit it today in honor of his memory.”

“Hmph!” grunted Sir Gerald, “Can’t imagine anyone but Danvers being interested in the thing. Daresay he went on about it for at least a chapter or two in that deuced boring book of his.”

Lady Anne pointedly cleared her throat. “Gerald, my dear—”

“Yes, yes, I know:
‘de mortuis nil nisi bonum,’
and all that. But if a fellow was a bore while he was alive, I don’t see what good it does to pretend he wasn’t, once he’s dead.”

“Perhaps Mr. Meriwether would consent to show you about the churchyard,” suggested Lady Anne. “I could send him a note, if you wish.”

“That will not be at all necessary,” Lady Fieldhurst protested quickly. “I have no idea how long I might remain in the village, and I should hate for Mr. Meriwether to be kept kicking his heels at the church all day awaiting my arrival.”

In truth, her concern was less for the curate’s convenience than for the possibility that Emma Hollingshead might change her mind and decide to accompany her in the hopes of seeing her lover. But Miss Hollingshead’s attention remained fixed upon the chocolate cooling in her cup. Still, Lady Fieldhurst decided to make good her escape before some other companion—Miss Susannah, perhaps, or her governess—was foisted upon her.

“I believe I shall go at once, before the sun grows uncomfortably warm. John,” she added as an aside to Pickett, “allow me a moment to collect my bonnet, then meet me in the foyer.”

* * * *

When the viscountess descended the curving staircase to the foyer some five minutes later, John Pickett, that good and faithful servant, was awaiting her there. She acknowledged him with a nod, and although he selfishly wished for some more intimate communication, he could not but be grateful for her discretion. She paused before a large gilt-framed mirror long enough to tie the black ribbons of her plaited straw bonnet, and then the pair set out on foot, the viscountess leading the way while her
faux
footman followed several paces behind. Any umbrage Pickett might have been inclined to take at the lowliness of his present situation was considerably assuaged by the excellent view it afforded of Lady Fieldhurst’s gently swaying hips. Once out of view of the house, however, she hung back long enough for him to catch up with her, then fell into step beside him.

“At last!” she declared fervently. “I thought breakfast would never end! Did you ever see two such gloomy pusses as Miss Hollingshead and her brother? And their parents’ determination to pretend everything is normal somehow makes it even worse. I vow, staying in that house is enough to give anyone a fit of the dismals!”

“I can understand Miss Hollingshead’s concern for her lover, but what of the boy? Was he fond of Mr. Danvers?”

Lady Fieldhurst recounted their brief exchange at the dinner table. “No, I should say Philip Hollingshead resented him. I believe Philip finds the country tedious, and has been amusing himself in ways his mama would not approve. I received the distinct impression that he has been stealing out of the house to attend cockfights, and that Mr. Danvers had found out, and informed his parents.”