Death Comes to the Village (8 page)

“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 know 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.

Somewhere in the house a door slammed. Like the battle-scarred veteran he was, Robert reached for his nonexistent sword. For the first time in his life, he felt more vulnerable in his own home than he had on any battlefield. Maybe he would order Bookman to bring his pistols up to his room after all.

T
he next morning, Lucy approached the ramshackle cottage Joseph Cobbins called home with some trepidation. She’d had to hide in the copse at the end of the lane until she’d seen Ben Cobbins stride past, a poacher’s bag on his back and a thick cudgel clasped in his meaty hand. Picking up her presence, his dogs fawned and jumped around him, barking and snapping at each other until he cuffed the nearest on the head and quieted them down. All she could hope was that he wouldn’t decide to return home too quickly. His dogs were a nuisance in the village and their owner was even worse.

A thin wisp of smoke emerged from the lopsided chimney, encouraging Lucy to believe that someone was at home. The Cobbins house was on the end of a row of four stone and brick-built cottages and was in terrible repair. The thatch was sliding off the roof, and the front door was without a latch or a lick of paint on its scarred surface. Unlike most of its neighbors, the long front garden bore no evidence of neat rows of tilled earth or fruit trees awaiting the promise of spring. The grass was knee-high, and several objects Lucy failed to identify had been left to rust or mold in situ.

One couldn’t entirely blame the Cobbins family for the state of the property. The cottage was owned by the Kurland estate and did not reflect well on Major Kurland’s land agent’s management at all. She’d heard complaints that the elderly agent, Mr. Scarsdale, was a penny-pinching Scot and couldn’t help but agree. He seemed more inclined to spend his days in his own well-maintained cottage and his nights in the arms of the Widow Gavin at the Whistling Pig.

With that thought hastening her up the path, Lucy knocked on the thick oak door. There was no answer, but she could hear the wail of a baby and the roar of an enraged toddler. With a sigh, she took herself around the back of the house, picking her way through the debris and glad of her strong boots. The back door sagged ajar, and the top hinge appeared to be in the process of falling off.

She knocked again and then felt a tugging on her skirt. Looking down, she saw a young child, his face smeared with porridge, grinning up at her.

She smiled back. “Hello, is your brother Joseph at home?”

“Timmy! Come back ’ere, before I wallop you proper!”

Joe erupted from the house, making the disheveled child hide his face in Lucy’s skirts and start to bawl. She carefully disengaged Timmy’s sticky fingers from her dress and picked him up.

“It is all right, dear. Please don’t cry. Good morning, Joseph, how are you?”

Joe’s expression darkened. “What do you want?”

“That’s hardly a civil way to greet someone. Is your mother at home?”

He shoved the door shut behind him. “She’s sick.”

“Well, it is good of you to take care of your siblings in this manner for her.”

“Got no choice. Pa said I had to make myself useful, seeing as I had no job anymore.”

His cheek was discolored and bore the marks of a fist. Lucy tightened her hold on the squirming toddler and angled him more firmly on her hip. “I was sorry to hear about that, Joe.”

“I didn’t steal nothing.” He met her gaze. “I liked working there with the old ladies. They didn’t thump me.”

“Would you like another job, then?”

He looked away, his lip stuck out rather pugnaciously. “Who would have me now? Everyone thinks I’m a thief like me dad.”

“If you would care to present yourself at Kurland Manor this afternoon at three, Major Kurland wishes to ask you some questions.”

“About what?”

She smiled encouragingly at him. “Maybe your future employment?” She hated to use subterfuge, but if her suspicions were correct, and Joe was innocent, she intended to ask Major Kurland to offer the lad a job on the estate that would keep him away from his father for good.

“I’ll see.”

“I hope your mother can spare you.”

He shrugged. “She won’t care either way as long as I’m not under her feet.” He held out his arms. “Hand Timmy over. I have to get him dressed.”

A warm feeling spread down Lucy’s thigh, and she held Timmy at arm’s length. A dark stain now ran down the length of her walking dress. Timmy grinned at her and so did Joe.

“Sorry, miss. He ran off before I put his breeches on.”

“So I see.”

Lucy relinquished her damp burden and patted the little boy on his no-doubt lice-ridden head. “I’ll be at the manor later, too, Joe. I look forward to seeing you.”

“All right then, miss.” Joe nodded, grabbing his small brother by the collar as he made another run for it. “Come ’ere, you.”

There was nothing left for Lucy to do but pick up her wet skirts and retrace her steps through the garden. Despite her plans, she had no choice but to head home and change into something a little less malodorous.

 

“But what if I don’t want to sit at the window and admire the view?” Robert demanded.

Foley and Bookman, for once united, exchanged a glance and then looked back at Robert.

“Doctor’s orders, sir,” Bookman said cheerfully. “If he wants you sitting up, that’s what we need to do. We’ll put a bell beside you so that if you need anything, you can ring it, and someone will come.”

“How long do I have to sit in this damned chair?”

“Dr. Baker said to take it easy. An hour or so the first day, and then we’re to see how it goes.”

Robert eyed the new footman lurking behind Bookman, who was pretending not to listen to the conversation. Did he sound as petulant and invalidish as he feared?

“All right, then. I’ll try it.”

“That’s the way, sir,” Foley cried. “We’ll have you up in a flash.”

Bookman was consulting with the footman, and they both advanced on Robert.

“If you would let me assist you, sit up and swing your legs over the side of the bed. We’ll make sure your feet are firmly on the floor.”

Robert didn’t tell Bookman that he’d already mastered this part, and meekly let his valet help him. He set his teeth as his bare feet touched the wooden floor and a jagged pain lanced up his left leg. Foley rushed to kneel in front of him.

“The major’s slippers, Bookman!” Foley slid Robert’s feet into his slippers and then gestured to the footman. “Fetch the major’s banyan.”

“His what, Mr. Foley?”

“His dressing gown. It’s on the bed.”

It took a few moments for Bookman to help Robert into his loose-fitting robe, fasten the silk frogs, and settle it around his body. For a moment Robert considered how it might feel to be forced into one of the tight-fitting coats he had favored as a younger man. He doubted he could stand the effort required now.

“Would you like a sleeping cap, sir?” Foley asked.

“I thought the object of this exercise was to wake me up, not send me to sleep.”

Foley’s face fell and Robert regretted his acerbic comments. “If I feel cold, I’ll make sure to ring the bell and summon help.”

“Right then, sir.” Bookman stood on his left. “Would you prefer us to carry you over to the chair, or shall we bring the chair to you?”

“Does it matter?”

“We’ll carry you then, sir.” He nodded at the footman. “All right, James. Let’s lift the major on the count of three.”

Robert fought an absurd desire to close his eyes as he was lifted carefully off the side of the bed and carried twenty or so feet to a chair facing the window. Foley hurried to place a footstool beneath his legs and Bookman rearranged the cushions.

“How’s that, sir?”

Tentatively, Robert allowed himself to settle against the back of the substantial wing chair. He swallowed convulsively as black spots danced in front of his eyes and a wave of nausea coiled in his stomach. He inhaled through his nose, willing the sensations to pass, aware that his servants were all watching him.

“Perhaps a blanket to go over your legs, Major,” Foley suggested and bustled off to procure one.

“Major?” Bookman asked quietly. “Would you like some brandy?”

Robert managed to nod, and a moment later, a glass was put in his hand. He held on to it with all his strength, noticing the way the crystal caught the sunlight and the amber jewel tones of the brandy sloshed around inside the glass. He concentrated on stopping his hand from shaking. As if at a distance, he heard Foley telling the footman he might leave and the sound of the door closing. He took another, deeper breath and the world settled back into place.

A tentative sip of brandy helped even more, so he took another.

“That’s the way of it, sir,” Bookman said, as Foley continued to fuss around, placing a bell at Robert’s elbow, the latest London newspaper from the rectory, and his unread correspondence.

“Do you have the major’s reading glasses, Bookman?”

“I do.” Bookman handed them to Robert with a flourish. “Now, shall we leave him in peace for a while to enjoy the view?”

Before Robert could thank them, they both retreated, leaving him alone in his chair. He took a longer swig of brandy and contemplated the sight of his blanket-covered legs. The left one was already aching, but there was nothing new in that. It never stopped. Sometimes he wondered if it ever would. He was so used to the pain that it had become part of him, a new facet of his personality that turned him into a snarling, unreasonable monster.

A beam of weak sunlight fell on the woven pattern of his blanket and traveled upward toward Robert’s lap. He placed his hand into the brightness and was shocked to see how thin and pale his fingers looked. He clenched his hand into a fist, marveling at his own weakness. Lying in bed for months was not conducive to a man’s overall health in many ways.

He raised his gaze from the contemplation of his fist and studied the view outside. He’d lived at Kurland Hall all his life and inhabited this particular set of rooms since the death of his father, but how often had he really looked at his home? It had been so familiar, he’d hardly bothered. After months of illness he was able to view the gardens with a fresh eye and appreciate them so much more.

To the right was the boundary hedge, beyond which was the bulk of Kurland Church with its Norman tower and nave. The church had been endowed by the Kurland family and was filled with the names of Robert’s dead ancestors since the Crusades. At one point he and his brother, Matthew, had begged for permission to dig up the grave of Sir Roger De Kurland in the firm belief that the lost treasure of the Knights Templar was buried with him.

In front of him was a gentle grass slope that ran down toward what had originally been a moat and the fishponds for the medieval kitchens. The moat no longer surrounded the house, redeveloped by a later Kurland into a series of connected ornamental ponds that meandered through the formal gardens into a small lake with an island. The water wasn’t particularly deep. Robert and the local children had spent many happy hours there learning to swim or handle a small rowing boat. To the left, a set of stone steps led down to a rose garden his mother had planted and a rather scrubby maze.

Robert narrowed his eyes and stared at the dark green ranks of hedges. He’d have to speak to the head gardener about either replanting the maze or taking it out. Damnation, he couldn’t remember the name of the man. Foley would know. His hand hovered over the bell, and then he paused. Did he really want Foley coming back to see him so soon? In truth, he was enjoying the sensation of being alone and free of the smothering confines of his bed linen.

A male peacock strutted out from the maze and headed toward the slope of the lawn, his tail dragging behind him. Was it his mother who had introduced the dratted birds or his grandmother? Between his long absences fighting abroad and his recent illness, he’d lost touch with his heritage and his staff. Did he want to reach out and reclaim it, or was the effort required too great?

He gave in and rang the bell. The speed with which Foley reappeared made Robert think he’d been lingering outside the door the whole time.

“Yes, sir? Is your leg paining you, do you need your medicine, or should I send someone for Dr. Baker?”

Robert waited until Foley ran out of breath. “I’m fine, Foley. What I
would
like is my spyglass. Bookman will know where that is.”

 

When Lucy entered Major Kurland’s bedchamber, her gaze was drawn to the unoccupied bed and her hand went to her mouth.

Foley cleared his throat behind her, making her jump.

“As I was attempting to tell you before you decided to forge on ahead, Miss Harrington, Major Kurland is
sitting up
by the window.” He mitigated the reproof of his words with a beaming smile and a wink.

“That’s excellent news.” Lucy walked over to the bay window, her basket on her arm. “Good afternoon, Major.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Harrington.”

She inspected him carefully, but although he looked pale, he seemed to be bearing up rather well. In place of his usual nightshirt, he was arrayed in a glorious green silk banyan with wide embroidered sleeves. He had his spectacles in his hand and a long metal tube in the other. For some reason he looked far more formidable sitting up.

“Oh, is that your spyglass? May I see?”

He handed it over without hesitation. “You need to close one eye to use it properly.”

“I know that, Tom had one.” Lucy brought the spyglass to her eye and rotated it around to the window. The maze swung suddenly into view and she gasped. “Oh my word, this is remarkable! Everything looks so close.”

“I admit to having amused myself spying on the moles and the peacocks for the last half hour. It made the time pass rather quickly.” He took the spyglass back. “Did you bring Joseph Cobbins with you?”

Lucy glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I asked him to come here at three, which is in less than a quarter of an hour. I told him you wanted to question him. I also intimated you might have a job for him on the estate. I hope you don’t mind, but it was the only way I could think of to ensure he turned up.”