that she would reward him for this indulgence presently.
Mrs. Pakefield immediately began to look flustered again. “Oh dear, you’ve heard, then? I wouldn’t have spoke of it, sir, only—I mean, my lord—”
“Pray don’t stand upon ceremony,” Ottilia interjected. “So tedious to be forever having to remember such things, do you not find?”
The landlady looked relieved. “Thank you, ma’am. Though I ought to be able to remember, for there’s Lady Ferrensby as is the great lady hereabouts, and Lord Henbury as is justice of the peace, but he’s rickety these days and don’t come into the village that frequent.” Her shoulders jerked suddenly. “Though like as not he’ll be sent for if so be it’s true as Duggleby were killed unlawful-like.”
Mrs. Pakefield then gasped, snatching a hand to her mouth as if she sought to thrust the words back in. Before Ottilia could seize on this cue, the door opened to admit a tall and rather skinny individual with a long face which struck Ottilia as appropriately lugubrious.
The landlady turned with obvious relief. “Pakefield, here’s visitors as has had their coach broke. This here’s my husband, my lady.”
In the act of approaching, the landlord halted, his jaw dropping. “My lady?”
“It’s Lord Francis Fanshawe and his good lady, Pakefield.”
The man’s eyes went from one to the other, but his jaw remained slack. Ottilia cast a look at her husband, and he at once rose to the occasion.
“Ah, Pakefield, in good time. I will be obliged if you can furnish my wife with a glass of lemonade and a tankard of your finest ale for myself.”
The landlord looked once more at the visitors and then stared blankly at his wife. Ottilia saw the woman dig an elbow roughly into the fellow’s ribs, and he winced.
“Get you gone, Pakefield,” she prompted in an audible undertone. “Ale for the gentleman and lemonade for the lady. Be quick now.”
His wife’s urging seemed to affect the landlord, for he nodded several times, still apparently bemused, and then turned for the door. Mrs. Pakefield’s manner became apologetic.
“He’s that put about, ma’am, what with all the excitement. I hope you’ll forgive it.”
Ottilia leapt on the refreshed opportunity. “By all means. You are speaking of your blacksmith, I daresay. I gather there are suspicions that the poor fellow was murdered?”
The word acted powerfully upon the landlady. Her face went white, and she swayed alarmingly. Ottilia rose, but Francis was before her, seizing a chair and thrusting it behind the woman in time for her to sit down plump upon its caned seat.
“I am so very sorry,” said Ottilia, leaning over the woman and taking up one of her slack hands. “I shocked you, Mrs. Pakefield.”
The landlady shook her head numbly. “I never thought of it ’til you said it. To think of such a happening in our village. Murder!”
“It is a horrid word,” Ottilia agreed gently, chafing the woman’s hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted Francis slipping quietly out of the room into the hall and interpreted his departure as tacit permission for her to pursue herinvestigations. Or else he placed little trust in the reliability of the landlord to fulfil his needs without prompting, which seemed only too likely.
She released Mrs. Pakefield’s hand and drew her chair closer, with the intention of creating an atmosphere of intimacy.
“Come, Mrs. Pakefield, I wish you will unburden yourself. You may speak freely to me, I promise you.”
The tone had its effect. A little colour returned to the woman’s cheeks, and she sat up straighter in the chair.
“It’s a dreadful business, my lady, what with Duggleby buried in the wreckage and all the men digging to fetch him out.”
“It seems there is a neighbourly spirit in your village, Mrs. Pakefield.”
The landlady seemed dubious. “What else could anyone do? Not but what half of them hadn’t had their differences with Duggleby.
Mrs. Pakefield immediately began to look flustered again. “Oh dear, you’ve heard, then? I wouldn’t have spoke of it, sir, only—I mean, my lord—”
“Pray don’t stand upon ceremony,” Ottilia interjected. “So tedious to be forever having to remember such things, do you not find?”
The landlady looked relieved. “Thank you, ma’am. Though I ought to be able to remember, for there’s Lady Ferrensby as is the great lady hereabouts, and Lord Henbury as is justice of the peace, but he’s rickety these days and don’t come into the village that frequent.” Her shoulders jerked suddenly. “Though like as not he’ll be sent for if so be it’s true as Duggleby were killed unlawful-like.”
Mrs. Pakefield then gasped, snatching a hand to her mouth as if she sought to thrust the words back in. Before Ottilia could seize on this cue, the door opened to admit a tall and rather skinny individual with a long face which struck Ottilia as appropriately lugubrious.
The landlady turned with obvious relief. “Pakefield, here’s visitors as has had their coach broke. This here’s my husband, my lady.”
In the act of approaching, the landlord halted, his jaw dropping. “My lady?”
“It’s Lord Francis Fanshawe and his good lady, Pakefield.”
The man’s eyes went from one to the other, but his jaw remained slack. Ottilia cast a look at her husband, and he at once rose to the occasion.
“Ah, Pakefield, in good time. I will be obliged if you can furnish my wife with a glass of lemonade and a tankard of your finest ale for myself.”
The landlord looked once more at the visitors and then stared blankly at his wife. Ottilia saw the woman dig an elbow roughly into the fellow’s ribs, and he winced.
“Get you gone, Pakefield,” she prompted in an audible undertone. “Ale for the gentleman and lemonade for the lady. Be quick now.”
His wife’s urging seemed to affect the landlord, for he nodded several times, still apparently bemused, and then turned for the door. Mrs. Pakefield’s manner became apologetic.
“He’s that put about, ma’am, what with all the excitement. I hope you’ll forgive it.”
Ottilia leapt on the refreshed opportunity. “By all means. You are speaking of your blacksmith, I daresay. I gather there are suspicions that the poor fellow was murdered?”
The word acted powerfully upon the landlady. Her face went white, and she swayed alarmingly. Ottilia rose, but Francis was before her, seizing a chair and thrusting it behind the woman in time for her to sit down plump upon its caned seat.
“I am so very sorry,” said Ottilia, leaning over the woman and taking up one of her slack hands. “I shocked you, Mrs. Pakefield.”
The landlady shook her head numbly. “I never thought of it ’til you said it. To think of such a happening in our village. Murder!”
“It is a horrid word,” Ottilia agreed gently, chafing the woman’s hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted Francis slipping quietly out of the room into the hall and interpreted his departure as tacit permission for her to pursue herinvestigations. Or else he placed little trust in the reliability of the landlord to fulfil his needs without prompting, which seemed only too likely.
She released Mrs. Pakefield’s hand and drew her chair closer, with the intention of creating an atmosphere of intimacy.
“Come, Mrs. Pakefield, I wish you will unburden yourself. You may speak freely to me, I promise you.”
The tone had its effect. A little colour returned to the woman’s cheeks, and she sat up straighter in the chair.
“It’s a dreadful business, my lady, what with Duggleby buried in the wreckage and all the men digging to fetch him out.”
“It seems there is a neighbourly spirit in your village, Mrs. Pakefield.”
The landlady seemed dubious. “What else could anyone do? Not but what half of them hadn’t had their differences with Duggleby.
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