Free The Deathly Portent by Elizabeth Bailey Page A

“It ’ud take a tidy good memory.”
    “True.” The vicar fell back a step. “Staxton, I need your help.”
    “Aye?”
    “Do you know any of the boys who threw stones at Mrs. Dale last night?”
    There was a perceptible pause. Francis saw the man’s eyes flicker. Deciding whether to lie? Then he nodded briefly.
    “Aye.”
    “Will you furnish me with their names, if you please?”
    This time the man’s chin came up, but he did not hesitate. “Bart, Josh, and Abe. T’other two be only followers.”
    Francis watched Kinnerton’s face with intense concentration. Not a muscle shifted, and the blue eyes remained steady on Staxton’s own.
    “I thank you. Where may I find them?”
    “Over to the farm. My boys they be.”
    “I see.”
    For a moment neither spoke, and Francis found he was holding his breath. Then Kinnerton opened fire.
    “Do I take it you condone the behaviour of your sons, Staxton?”
    Now the farmer’s eyes narrowed. “What if’n I do?”
    “Will you tell me why?” asked the vicar unexpectedly.
    The fellow’s jaw dropped open. “Why?”
    “Yes, why would a sensible man condone such conduct?”
    Francis heard the edge to the parson’s voice and realised the man was very angry indeed. He doubted he would remain similarly cool in Kinnerton’s position.
    Staxton appeared nonplussed. His jaw worked, and he blinked several times in quick succession. Then he threw up his head and puffed out his chest, the growl pronounced.
    “Be you telling me how I’m to raise my own flesh and blood, Reverend?”
    “I might well do so,” said Kinnerton, his tone steely, “since that forms part of my ministry. But at this present I am merely asking you a question. Why,” he repeated, “do you condone your sons throwing stones at a defenceless woman?”
    The farmer let out a roar, like a cornered animal. His voice rose.
    “A witch, bain’t her? Stones be too good for the likes of her. Bain’t enough as her’ve killed Duggleby. Who be next? If you’ve a mite of sense, Reverend, you’ll have nowt to do with her, or you be a-going to end up same as Duggleby.”
    “Is that a threat?”
    The deadly quiet of the question did nothing to lessen the force of its impact. The entire taproom went still, every eye turning upon Farmer Staxton. Francis felt momentarily in awe of the slight figure standing firm before the onslaught of the farmer’s wrath.
    It took several seconds, but the vicar won. Staxton fell back, dropping his gaze.
    “Bain’t no threat,” he mumbled. “Didn’t mean nowt by it.”
    “Very well,” came the quiet response. “Bring your boys to see me at the church, if you please. At three o’clock.”
    Staxton glanced up once and then back down. “Aye, Reverend.”
    “Don’t fail.”
    The farmer mumbled something that might have been assent. Without another word, the vicar passed him and quietly left the taproom. An idea leapt into Francis’s head. If this Kinnerton could be of use to Tillie, he was a fellow eminently worthy of cultivating.

Chapter 4

    A less likely friendship Ottilia could scarcely have imagined. The two ladies were so very different in both style and manner, it was hard to fathom what quality each found in the other to admire.
    She was not much surprised, though indeed gratified, to find her casual invitation taken up with more speed than etiquette, and she suspected it was Mrs. Radlett who had instigated the visit. Francis had only just been despatched on his mission when the two ladies arrived in the coffee room.
    Ottilia had noticed the difference upon first meeting, but it was intensified close to. Miss Beeleigh’s rough manner was utterly in contrast to the genteel Mrs. Radlett. Both looked to be on the shady side of five and fifty, although the spinster had a look of rugged strength which was emphasised by the severity of her greying locks pulled sharply back and strictly confined. Wholly in contrast, a quantity of improbable gold curls frizzed out