Free The Deathly Portent by Elizabeth Bailey Page B

beneath Mrs. Radlett’s frivolous bonnet,which framed a face liberally decorated with paint and powder that did not quite conceal a collection of betraying wrinkles and a pasty look behind the rouge.
    Miss Beeleigh evidently employed no aids to beauty and wore her years with pride. Or was it defiance? Of the two, Ottilia thought her the more handsome, with eyes fiercely dark and strong features that hinted at foreign ancestry.
    The widow Radlett lost no time in ensuring she had gauged her hostess’s identity with accuracy.
    “Forgive me, Lady Francis, but is not your husband related to the Marquis of Polbrook?”
    The hushed expectancy in the question was not lost on Ottilia, and she met the menace head-on. “Indeed, yes. His brother.”
    A sigh of exquisite satisfaction from the widow caused her friend to cast her a look of vexation, but Ottilia fluttered a hand and sighed on her own account.
    “Pray do not trouble to conceal your knowledge of that terrible business last year. I daresay it is everywhere talked of still.”
    The Radlett woman’s nod was all too eager. “Oh yes, even here.”
    “Evelina!”
    The sharp remonstrance from her companion made the widow snatch a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear, but I only meant …”
    Ottilia smiled with exaggerated friendliness. “Think nothing of it, Mrs. Radlett. It was I who mentioned it, after all. It is so very trying, is it not, to be obliged to keep mum when one is bursting to know? I confess curiosity is my besetting sin.”
    “Well but one could not help thinking of it,” Mrs. Radlett confided, “particularly at present.”
    “You mean because of your blacksmith having been murdered?” said Ottilia, taking the bull by the horns.
    A snort came from Miss Beeleigh as she tugged out a chair with unnecessary vigour. “Village gossip. I’ll not believe it until I hear it from Meldreth himself.”
    She gestured her friend to take the chair, and dragging out a second, threw herself into it, stretching out long legs and crossing them at the ankles.
    “But it was Meldreth who said so,” protested the other as she settled herself into the chair provided for her use, not without a good deal of fidgeting to arrange her petticoats suitably.
    “By report only,” snapped Miss Beeleigh. “None but a nodcock could expect Duggleby to come out alive, especially once you had seen how much debris came down.”
    Mrs. Radlett nodded at Ottilia, setting the ribbons on her bonnet dancing. “A shocking thing, Lady Francis. Why, I should think half the roof had fallen in.”
    Ottilia concealed a burgeoning amusement. “Indeed, yes.”
    “Place is a shambles,” said Miss Beeleigh. “It will have to come down altogether, no doubt of that.”
    “It is certainly severely damaged by the fire,” Ottilia agreed. She put a tentative toe in the water. “I suppose it is not impossible that the roof did not come down by accident.”
    The widow blinked out of eyes a trifle puffy, the skin faintly blue beneath them. “You did not see the storm. It was positively raging, you know.”
    “Still, someone might have helped it along perhaps.”
    Ottilia came under a gimlet beam from Miss Beeleigh’s extraordinary eyes. “You’re saying someone tampered with the roof beforehand?”
    Mrs. Radlett’s eyes grew round, dissipating a little the oddly heavy look about them. “Oh no, surely not. Who could be so wicked?”
    Ottilia smiled. “Well, murderers are not renowned for kindness, you know, Mrs. Radlett.”
    “But it seems so horrid.”
    “Yes,” agreed Ottilia gently. “Particularly for those who are left behind to mourn.”
    The widow’s orbs rimmed liquid at this. “Poor Bertha Duggleby. We went afterwards to see her and the children. I daresay there is nothing to be done, but one had to ask.”
    “Just so,” agreed Ottilia. “Will the poor woman be able to survive, do you suppose?”
    “I believe so, yes, poor thing. And dear Mr. Uddington—our shopkeeper, you must