Sheri Cobb South (17 page)

He met her outraged look with one of limpid innocence. “To Little Neddleby, ma’am.”

“Little Neddleby?” Mrs. Holland’s formidable bosom swelled with outrage, at considerable risk to her starched black bodice. “And what would her ladyship say to that, I wonder?”

Pickett regarded her with mild surprise. “I doubt her ladyship would find much in Little Neddleby to interest her.”

The housekeeper’s beady eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Tell me, does her ladyship know about this little sojourn of yours?”

“Oh, yes!” Pickett assured her. “I told her ladyship I needed the day off, and she said I might have it.”

“
You told her
—?”
Words failing her, Mrs. Holland sputtered for a moment before continuing, “You’ve a sight too much cheek for your own good, you have! At the rate you’re going, you won’t be long in her ladyship’s service, you mark my words!”

“You’re probably right,” said Pickett.

The unexpectedly wistful note in his voice startled her into silence.

Pickett had just taken his seat at the breakfast table when Molly sidled up to him and sat down much too close. “I hear you’re going to Little Neddleby,” she breathed into his ear. “Care for some company?”

In fact, there was nothing Pickett would like less. “Thank you, but I shouldn’t like to take you away from your duties here.”

“No fear of that, for ‘tis my half-day.” Beneath the table, her foot curled around his ankle. “Just say the word, and I can be ready in a trice.”

“I’m afraid you would be bored,” Pickett said resolutely. “It won’t be a pleasure jaunt.”

“I don’t know about that,” purred Molly. “You might be surprised.” Her fingers closed around his knee and began to work their way upward.

Pickett leaped up from the table so quickly that his chair tumbled over behind him. “I shouldn’t want to be late,” he said, and made his escape.

Molly gave a little huff.
“Some
people wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if one bit ‘em on the arse,” she muttered, and turned her attention to the more receptive second footman.

After his abortive breakfast, Pickett set out for the village, from which point he hoped to board a stage for Little Neddleby. His determination to focus his attention on the case at hand suffered a setback as he approached the river, for it was here where the damp ground sloped down to the water that Lady Fieldhurst had slipped and had clung to his arm for support. And here, as they had crossed the bridge, she had tucked her hand through the crook of his elbow.

And here, he reminded himself sternly, Mr. Danvers lay in a fresh grave while his killer walked free. With renewed determination, he thrust the viscountess resolutely to the back of his mind and climbed the sloping path leading into the village.

Pickett, born and bred in one of the largest cities in the world, was no great lover of the country. Indeed, there were occasions, such as the one which presented itself on that particular morning, when he heartily despised it. For upon reaching the Pig and Whistle and inquiring of the proprietor as to the next stage for Little Neddleby, he was met with an indulgent laugh and a wholly unacceptable answer.

“Lord love you, lad, there’s no stage what stops at Little Neddleby,” said this worthy. “You’ll have to walk. It’s naught but nine miles—five, as the crow flies.”

“No stage at all?” pressed Pickett, hoping to be contradicted. “It needn’t be the Royal Mail.”

“None at all,” his informer confirmed. “Oh, you could ride straight through and get off at Otley, but you’d have to walk back almost half as far again,”

By this time Pickett’s plight had attracted the attention of the three other occupants of the tap room, all country folk who felt it incumbent upon them to offer him the benefit of their advice.

“This is Tuesday, ain’t it?” asked one. “Old Mrs. Fleer always brings her butter and eggs to the village of a Tuesday. You could always ride back to Little Neddleby with her, provided you’ve no objection to riding in a farm wagon.”

Having no such scruples, Pickett would have leaped at this offer, but before he could inquire further as to Mrs. Fleer’s current whereabouts, the tapster vetoed this promising suggestion.

“Not today she ain’t, for ‘tain’t a market day. Mrs. Fleer only comes to the village on market day.”

This observation led, in the time-honored tradition of country people, to a lengthy and spirited discussion of the habits of Mrs. Fleer, her husband, and various other persons in whom Pickett had not the slightest interest. By the time his advisers had agreed that he was unlikely to find anyone headed for Little Neddleby until later in the week, they were surprised (and somewhat offended) to discover that they had lost their audience; Pickett had long since set out for Little Neddleby on foot.

He reached his destination some three hours later, having been obliged, owing to unfamiliarity with the area, to keep to the main road. Upon entering the village, he stopped in the local public house for both information and liquid refreshment. As the publican set before him a tankard of foaming ale, Pickett made a few trite observations about the weather, to which the man behind the bar responded in expansive fashion. Having soon exhausted this topic—and, more to the point, established good relations with his host—Pickett broached the subject which was the object of his visit.

“You must do a lively business on a day as warm as this,” he observed with perhaps more optimism than accuracy.

“Aye, that I do,” the barkeep boasted. “I’ll wager there’s not a man in the village who don’t wet his whistle at the Cock and Bull at least two or three times in a se’ennight.”

“Is that so?” asked Pickett admiringly. “You must know everyone in the village, then.”

“Aye, and their wives and children, too,” agreed mine host, holding no truck with false modesty.

“Know of anyone by the name of Huggins?”

“Huggins,” echoed the publican, frowning in concentration.

“Man and wife,” Pickett prompted. “I believe they had a boy by the name of Will.”

“Ah, Huggins!” exclaimed the publican as light dawned. “They died, both of ‘em, oh, two years ago.”

Pickett nodded. “That’s the pair.”

“Sad business, that. The boy took off right after they was buried and hasn’t been seen nor heard from since.” He shook his head. “And after they’d loved him and raised him like he was their own.”

“The boy was a foster child, then?”

“Oh, aye.” The publican leaned across the bar and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “By-blow of a churchman, or so they say.”

“No!” Pickett breathed, leaning closer.

“As I live and breathe,” declared his host. “Rector of the next parish but one. Rode up one day with the babe and left him with the Hugginses. Mrs. Huggins was that happy to have the lad, too, she having just lost a babe of her own.”

“Who was the woman? The child’s mother?”

“Now, that’s just what I don’t know, nor does anyone else that I ever heard. She might have been a foreigner, or else a gypsy, for the lad’s as black as a burned stump.”

Having recently seen Will Huggins in close proximity to a burned stump (or a reasonable facsimile thereof), Pickett knew this for an exaggeration. Still, the coincidence of Will’s having joined the gypsies after the death of his foster parents was too striking to ignore. Further questioning yielded the information that no strangers (barring Pickett himself, of course) had been to Little Neddleby making inquiries about the Hugginses or their adoptive son. So helpful, in fact, was the publican that when Pickett expressed interest in seeing the Huggins cottage for himself, that worthy felt duty bound to advise him against what was bound to be a wasted effort. But Pickett was insistent nevertheless, and so in the end the barkeep was obliged to furnish his guest with directions.

“But there’s nothing there no more, not with the folks dead and the boy gone,” he added by way of a parting shot.

Pickett understood this caveat to be figurative, that the publican had meant that he would find nothing of value in the vacant cottage, nothing that might assist him in his quest. When he reached the place the publican had described, however, he discovered the man’s words to be quite literal: there was nothing there, unless one cared to count a lone chimney rising from the ground like an obelisk. At its base, long grasses had forced their way through tumbled stones and now waved in the light breeze. With a sinking heart, Pickett stepped over the stones into what had once been a home, and kicked at the ground with the toe of his boot. Beneath the grass was a layer of white ash and blackened splinters of wood that disintegrated underfoot.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...

Within the next year or two, the vicarage at Hollingshead would no doubt look equally abandoned, having recently met with a similar fate. For at some point in the not too distant past, the Huggins cottage had burned to the ground.

Chapter 10

Which Finds Lady Fieldhurst at Mother Shipton’s Cave

While Pickett trudged up the road toward Little Neddleby, Lady Fieldhurst partook of an early breakfast with the Hollingshead family. It was not a particularly pleasant meal; Lady Anne and her daughter had apparently quarreled again—presumably over that young lady’s attachment to Mr. Meriwether, conspicuous of late by his very absence. At present, Lady Anne’s cool courtesy and her daughter’s red-rimmed eyes made Lady Fieldhurst think longingly of the days of unrelieved boredom so confidently predicted weeks earlier by her friend Emily. Only Sir Gerald, fortifying himself for a day’s fishing, appeared unmoved by the strained atmosphere prevailing at the breakfast table.

A welcome interruption occurred in the arrival of Miss Susannah, accompanied by her governess. Unlike her elder sister, that damsel was in fine fettle, as she was not only being spared the thin porridge which comprised the usual schoolroom fare, but also being granted the unparalleled privilege of joining the expedition to Mother Shipton’s Cave. The one obstacle to her happiness was the presence of Miss Grantham, who seemed determined to destroy her pleasure in the outing by turning it into an educational experience.

“Be sure to bring your sketchbook and pencils,” the governess reminded her pupil. “Besides the cave itself, we must take particular note of the Petrifying Well nearby.”

“Is it true,” demanded Miss Susannah, slathering marmalade over her toast, “that objects placed within the Petrifying Well soon turn to stone?”

“No, it is most certainly not true,” replied Miss Grantham sternly. “They do not ‘turn to stone’ at all. They become encased in limestone.”

Miss Susannah continued undaunted, “May I bring something to place there? I have a handkerchief.” She produced a square of inexpertly embroidered linen from her pocket. “May I leave it there and see if it will turn to stone?”

“May I leave it there and see if it will
become encased in limestone.
”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Grantham.” Surveying her handiwork with a critical eye, Susannah picked at a loose thread. “May I, please?”

Miss Grantham regarded the uneven stitches with a pained expression. “Yes, you may. Unfortunately, your needlework appears to be suited for very little else.”

Having achieved this ambition, Miss Susannah turned her attention to the viscountess. “Where is John this morning, Lady Fieldhurst?” she inquired with transparent eagerness. “Does he mean to accompany us?”

Seeing Lady Anne frowning over the rim of her coffee cup, Lady Fieldhurst felt her face grow warm. “I’m afraid not. John has the day off.”

Although her obligation to her hostess demanded that she not encourage the girl in an inappropriate attachment, Lady Fieldhurst could not suppress a sympathetic smile at Miss Susannah’s crestfallen expression. Indeed, she was conscious of a similar depression of her own spirits when she thought of Pickett’s protracted absence.

“I am sure it will be his loss,” Lady Fieldhurst said dismissively, then turned to her hostess. “But where is Philip? Is he not to join us?”

“My son is indisposed this morning, and sends his regrets.”

In fact, Philip Hollingshead’s “regrets” consisted of hurling a pillow at the servant sent to awaken him, then clutching his aching head and demanding to be left alone. Lady Fieldhurst had no way of knowing this, but in view of John Pickett’s revelations concerning that young man, she quite correctly ascribed his indisposition to the aftereffects of drinking too much alcohol.

“And what of you, Sir Gerald?” she asked her host. “I should have thought an outdoorsman such as yourself would not want to miss such an expedition. Surely the local trout population will keep for another day.”

“Oh, I’ve seen Mother Shipton’s Cave a thousand times,” declared Sir Gerald around a mouthful of buttered eggs. “Got lost in it once when I was a boy. You’d best have a care, Sukey, and make sure you don’t go that same road,” he cautioned his youngest child.

“I am sure Miss Grantham will take excellent care of her,” put in Lady Anne.

“Indeed, Miss Susannah will be in no danger, for we shall sit on the grass and sketch,” Miss Grantham said primly. “I cannot think it proper for a young girl to go gadding about inside a cave.”

Seeing Miss Susannah open her mouth to protest this injustice, Lady Fieldhurst quickly came to her defense before that damsel could disgrace herself. “Oh, pray let her explore the cave! Indeed, you should do so as well. I am sure you must be sorely in need of diversion, so occupied as you have been recently with Mr. Danvers’s book.”

“Eh? What’s this?” inquired Sir Gerald jovially. “Are we never to hear the end of that blasted book?”

“Poor Mr. Danvers asked me to read his manuscript for errors,” Miss Grantham explained. She dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her serviette. “Those were among the last words he ever spoke to me.”

Emma Hollingshead, seated beside the governess, patted her hand consolingly, but Lady Anne ignored this display of sensibility on the part of her employee. “I would accompany you myself,” she said, “were I not obliged to pay calls of charity on the parish poor. Not, I fear, a pleasant task, but such an important one, especially now that we are without a vicar. I should have thought the curate would perform this particular duty, but it appears he is more interested in larking about in pursuit of pleasure.”