Chapter Ten

N ethercote barely earned the name of hamlet. There was a stagnant willow-hung pond around which stood a tiny, ancient, grey stone church, lit by the afternoon sun, and five cottages, two badly tumbledown.

Merrick tied the reins of the dogcart as Stephen and Crane looked around.

"Is this it?" Crane asked.

"This is Nethercote, yes, my lord."

"God almighty. I want to go home."

"You give the word, I'll book the boat," said Merrick. "We could be drinking Shaoxing wine in, what, two months if you stopped mucking round here. What do we do now, sir?"

"Don't ask me," Crane said.

"I wasn't," said Merrick, with ineffable scorn.

Stephen was still surveying the area. A dusty, patchwork-clothed boy of about seven was staring at them from behind a heap of stones. Stephen beckoned him over, and he came reluctantly, pausing about twelve feet away.

"Hey," Stephen said, holding out a tuppenny bit. "Can you tell me where Mrs. Parrott lives?"

The boy stared, wide eyes fixed on the coin. He reached out a tentative hand, changed his mind and darted away .

"He's probably never seen anyone who wasn't his first cousin," Crane said.

Stephen shrugged and strolled over to a rickety house front with a few bits of broken woodwork in front of it. There was a faint, tuneless whistling from inside, the kind hissed through a gap in the teeth, and a brief outbreak of hammering.

"Hello?" he called. "Anyone in? Good afternoon," he added, as a skinny man in fustian emerged, scowling. "Sorry to trouble you. Can you tell me where I can find Mrs. Parrott?"

The man snorted. "Try the church?" he said. "Reckon you find her there." He looked as though he was about to continue, but stopped, mouth slightly open, eyes fixed on Crane. He blinked a couple of times and darted back into his dark workshop without a goodbye.

"Charming," Crane muttered.

"Well, if you must wear a suit costing more than this entire village, you can expect to be stared at," Stephen said.

"Nobody could level that accusation at you." Crane headed to the churchyard wall. The tiny building looked deserted, the roof as though it wasn't far from collapse. The iron-grey aged oak door was firmly closed.

"Could she be inside?" Stephen asked dubiously. He walked up to the ivy-grown lychgate and cocked his head sideways, examining it.

Crane went through the lychgate without waiting, brushing past Stephen, who didn't react, and strolled through the daisies and buttercups that grew in profusion over the lichened tombstones around the church. "I doubt it," he called over his shoulder. "My experience of the rural sense of humour—yes, here we are."

Stephen and Merrick joined him. The neat new gravestone had some withered daffodils left by it, and the inscription was clear.

"Edna Parrott, dearly departed," Stephen read. "Two months ago. Good God, Mrs. Parrott dead, I thought she'd live forever. Well, that's a nuisance. I'll need her replacement. I wonder if we can find someone to ask about that. "

"Reckon so," said Merrick, in a tone that made the other two look round.

Heading across the dusty road towards them, with a determined air, was a band of people. The carpenter was marching next to a big, burly man dressed like a farm labourer and a thinner, worried man. Two women, one sharp-faced and heavily pregnant and one tall, older, in a dark-brown stuff gown, accompanied them. The boy lurked alongside.

"A deputation," Stephen said.

"A mob, I expect." Crane led the way out of the churchyard. The little gang headed his way, faces hard with anger. Crane raised his hands in a pacifying gesture and walked forward to meet them. Merrick hurried at his long-legged master's heels.

There was a susurrus of anger as Crane came up to the villagers.

"Good afternoon. I'm Crane."

"We know who you are," said the pregnant woman shrilly. "What are you doing here?"

"My lord," mumbled the thin man with an apologetic dip of the head.

"No lord of ours." The pregnant woman spoke to a murmur of approval. "And no Vaudrey got any right to set foot in this place any more. We don't want you here."

"We won't be here long," said Crane. "We came in search of Mrs. Edna Parrott."

The pregnant woman gaped for a second, then screeched, "Pig! Filthy pig!" and rushed at Crane, hands outstretched like claws, nails out for his eyes. Crane sidestepped; Merrick caught her round the hips and spun her away. The big labourer gave a roar of rage and pulled back a ham-like hand, ready to land a sledgehammer punch. Crane skipped back a few steps, hands spread wide and conciliating, saying loudly, " Don't do that. Do not ."

"I'll knock your damned head off for you," growled the big man, lumbering forward. Crane sidestepped again .

"Please don't. I never learned to fight like a gentleman. It would be ugly. And this lady is endangering herself."

The pregnant woman was thrashing and screaming curses, but couldn't break Merrick's grip. Crane glanced at the other woman, who had her arms folded. "Madam, could you persuade this lady not to overexert herself?"

"If she wants to scratch your eyes out before Henry packs you on your way, I don't care."

The labourer moved towards Crane again, threatening, and Stephen flung a gloveless hand up so that it smacked against the man's meaty fist and said, "Stop."

There was a second's silence as the big man froze in place. Stephen's arm was stretched high to reach the other's hand, and he was dwarfed by the labourer's bulk, but there was no question at all who dominated the scene.

"Listen to me. Stop." Stephen moved his hand down and took the big man's arm with it in an unnervingly fluent way. "You don't want to hit Lord Crane. You don't want to be involved. You want to take your wife home. No fighting. Go home."

"Liza." The big man turned obediently away. "Come on, now. Let's us go."

The pregnant woman gaped at him and appealed to the woman in brown. "Marjorie!"

"Go home, madam," Stephen repeated. "Henry, listen to me, take your wife home now."

"Marjorie—" The pregnant woman fell silent as the big man put a heavy arm on her shoulders. Merrick let her go, exchanging a quick glance with Crane.

The woman in brown was thin-lipped, glaring between Stephen and Crane. "Go on, Liza. Think of the baby. I'll deal with this."

"And the rest of the spectators," Stephen said. "You, you and you. Off you all go. Now, please. "

"You don't give the orders here," said the woman called Marjorie.

Stephen flicked a glance at her. "Yes, I do."

Merrick and Crane watched in silence as the small, bewildered group trailed away. The woman in brown stood alone, staring resentfully at Stephen.

"Right," she said. "You're here for Edna Parrott, are you? Well, she's dead. So if he 's here to finish the job his brother started—"

"What's your grievance against Lord Crane?"

"He's a damned Vaudrey!"

" Lucien Vaudrey," Crane put in. "Not Hector, not Quentin. Lucien. The one who's been five thousand miles away for twenty years. I have no idea what my father or brother did to you, or to this place. Perhaps you could tell me."

"I don't have to tell you anything." The woman's arms were tightly folded. "Just get out and take your dogs with you. You've no right to be here."

"Wrong," said Stephen. "I am a justiciar, and I am here on a matter of dark practice and murder. I am requesting you to speak to me now."

"And what if I don't?" said the woman through stiff lips.

"Then it will stop being a request."

The woman's face was set like stone. She stared at Stephen, eyes dark, and Crane suddenly realised her pupils were dilating.

"Don't be silly," Stephen said, with a touch of impatience.

"This is my place," she said, low and angry. "I have rights."

"And you have duties," said Stephen. "What's your name?"

"Bell. Marjorie Bell. I'm Gammer's granddaughter."

"I'm Justiciar Stephen Day. This is Lord Crane, that's Mr. Merrick. Now—"

" Stephen Day? "

There was just a hint of a pause before Stephen nodded.

"Nan Talbot's nephew Stephen? "

"Yes."

Her mouth dropped open, a picture of incredulous contempt. "Allan Day's son? Helping the Vaudreys? Your father must be turning in his grave."

"My father knew his duty," said Stephen stonily. "He did his job, and I am doing mine. Starting now, Miss Bell."

"Does Nan Talbot know you're working for that ?" She jerked her head at Crane.

" Now ."

Miss Bell went a deeper red. She spun and led the way with angry nervous steps to one of the cottages. The boy ran up to her as she walked; she said something quietly to him and he hurried away.

The cottage looked neglected, the plants outside withered and dead, and the door stood open.

They filed inside, Merrick leaning against the door to discourage eavesdropping. It was dark and dusty with an accretion of spider webs in the corners, smelling of dead fires and some acrid scent Crane couldn't place. The air felt withered and old and greasy. Crane, who was starting to recognise some things, darted a look at Stephen and saw him rubbing his fingertips together like a pastry cook at work.

Miss Bell said, "This was Gammer's cottage. What do you want here?"

Stephen ignored her. He was walking around, touching walls, running his hands over furniture, testing the air. He stopped for several minutes in the tiny kitchen, hands planted on the table, quivering slightly, returned to an old oak dresser, pulled out just one drawer, which seemed to be full of bits of fur and leather, and rummaged through it.

It took about ten minutes, and in that time nobody spoke. Miss Bell adopted a neutral expression and seated herself, on an uncomfortable straight-backed chair instead of the rocking chair that stood in the corner. She sat, looking into nothing, as though she would be happy to stay there all day. Crane leaned his shoulders against the slightly damp plaster of a wall and watched Stephen's intent face and searching, restless hands.

Finally Stephen looked round.

"It was her. Gammer Parrott. The Judas jack was made in the kitchen. The ivy wood came from the lychgate. It killed two men, nearly killed a third. Tell me, when did she turn warlock?"

"She did not turn," said Miss Bell fiercely.

"I took that jack apart. It wasn't a novice effort. She'd done it before."

"She never did! She didn't turn!"

Stephen looked at her assessingly. "Why did she do it?"

Her lips were pressed together tightly. "What's the good in me talking to you?"

"Miss Bell, if I'd already made my mind up, you would already know about it. And Lord Crane spent two months under a vicious jack. He's got a right to know why."

"He's got no rights. None."

Stephen's voice was measured, implacable. "You will answer me."

She gave him a long, considering look. There was another lengthy silence. Finally she sniffed and began, speaking to Stephen only, without a glance at Crane.

"Gammer Parrott had two daughters, my ma and my Auntie Effie. And Effie had two daughters too. Liza Trent, you saw her outside, and Ruthie, Ruth Baker. Ruthie was the child of Effie's age, she was forty-six, and Baker long dead. Too old for childbearing. She died in her labour. She never named the father, but we all saw Ruthie's looks.

"She was a pretty girl, but she didn't have enough brain to know which way the sun rises. And when she was fifteen, Hector Vaudrey got her with child." She looked at Crane for the first time. "Maybe he didn't know she was his daughter, maybe he didn't care if she was. Maybe it was what he wanted from her. "

Crane shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the plaster wall.

"Was it by force?" Stephen asked.

"No need," said Miss Bell shortly. "He told Ruthie he'd marry her. She wasn't a clever girl."

"Clearly," Crane said. "Let me guess the next part. She finds out she's expecting, goes to Hector demanding the promised marriage, he laughs in her face, she goes to my father for justice and he sends her to the Magdalen. Yes?"

Miss Bell shook her head. "She didn't go to the Earl. What would be the point? Nobody went to him for justice against Hector Vaudrey, because nobody got it. No. Ruthie told Gammer about the baby. Gammer was angry. She'd have come round, she loved Ruthie, but things were said. And then...Ruthie learned who her father was."

"How?" asked Stephen and Crane simultaneously.

Miss Bell's jaw jutted. "I could never find that out."

"And what did Ruthie do when she knew?"

"She hanged herself. She was six months gone."

Stephen nodded slowly. "When?"

"Candlemas two years since."

Crane rubbed his fingers over the bridge of his nose. Miss Bell was watching him.

"Gammer went to the Earl," she said. "Told him what Hector Vaudrey had done. He ordered her to be whipped for slander."

Crane winced. Stephen nodded again. "And Mrs. Parrott made the jack after that. Alone?"

"I'd have helped her," said Miss Bell defiantly. "I would. But she didn't ask for my help."

Stephen looked round. "Lord Crane, any comment?"

"What on earth is there to say?" Crane massaged the bridge of his nose, as though that would help. "His daughter ."

"Mrs. Parrott killed him for it."

"Good," said Crane, with force .

"And your father for abetting him. Slowly and painfully. Does that bother you?"

"No."

"Right," Stephen said. "Moving on—"

"Moving on?" said Miss Bell incredulously.

"Moving on," Stephen repeated. "Lucien Vaudrey returns from twenty years on the other side of the world and promptly finds himself enslaved to a Judas jack, left there long after the guilty men were rotting in the ground. Tell me about that, Miss Bell. Tell me why you and Mrs. Parrott decided to kill an innocent man."

"I'll tell you why," said Miss Bell loudly. "Because we didn't want another Vaudrey just like the last two. It's easy enough to come down from London with your justice, but we had Hector Vaudrey's ways for thirty years, and we've all heard about him ." She gestured at Crane with her chin. "Do you blame us?"

"Yes," said Stephen. "I do. Lucien Vaudrey was not responsible for his father's and brother's acts. You know that."

"Hector Vaudrey raped—"

"I know what Hector Vaudrey did. He'd been doing it for years. If you and Gammer Parrott had done something about it before, Ruthie would be alive now."

Crane sucked in a breath. Miss Bell gasped. "How dare you!"

"Other families suffered at Hector Vaudrey's hands. You did nothing until he hurt your family, and then tried to kill a man who had nothing to do with your wrongs. I don't call that justice."

Miss Bell's mouth worked. "And this is justice?" she managed. "Come in here when they're dead and tell us what we did wrong? What did you do about Hector Vaudrey?"

"Nothing," Stephen said coldly. "Lychdale is sufficiently stocked with lawyers, practitioners, guns, sharp-edged farming implements, poisons and kindling to get rid of a hundred Hectors. The only possible conclusion is that you all liked having him around. "

Crane put a hand over his face at that; Merrick gave a little whistle. Miss Bell was scarlet, with spots of white on her cheeks and the sides of her nose.

"Now," Stephen went on. "Can you explain why leaving the jack for Lucien Vaudrey was other than murder? Can you justify killing a man you'd never even seen for the acts of his brother?"

"I can," said Crane, over Miss Bell's speechlessness.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, I can give you a reason. My father could tolerate Hector but he couldn't countenance me. Everyone expects me to be at least as bad as my brother. You did yourself."

"I didn't try to kill you."

"You've a heart of gold," Crane said sardonically. "In Mrs. Parrott or Miss Bell's shoes, I would have done precisely the same thing: kill them all and let God sort them out." Miss Bell made a slight gasp of protest; Crane went on. "Hector and my father brought their ends on themselves. And I am happy to regard the attempt on my life as an understandable precaution, as long as I know it will not be repeated." He looked over Stephen's head at Miss Bell. "I am not like my brother, madam. If you will accept that, this can end now."

"I'm the justiciar here," said Stephen with unusual belligerence. " I will tell you when this ends."

Crane felt a flare of anger. He didn't want to be an earl and never had; but having been given that power, he was damned if anyone was taking it from him. His chin went up. "And I'm the lord here, and you're on my land."

"Your land, and your laws, is it?"

"I choose whether to prosecute a crime against myself," said Crane. "You've heard my wishes, Mr. Day. If this lady will drop the matter, so will I, and so will you. Madam?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, and glanced over at Stephen, whose face was stony .

"You're saying you're not like Hector Vaudrey," she said slowly. "But you're asking me to take a Vaudrey's word for it."

"Not really. And I suspect you know that. Talk to Mrs. Mitching up at Piper. Talk to Graham, if you like. Thank you, Merrick," he added, at the snort from the door. "I am far from spotless, but even Graham won't be able to tell you that I behave like my brother."

She walked over to Crane and looked up at him. "Give me your hand."

Crane extended it, gazing at her levelly. She looked down at it, then took it, turning it over and back. He had almost expected a prickle of sensation, as with Stephen, but her fingers felt entirely normal.

"I'll accept what you say," she said at last. "For now. But you needn't expect any mercy if it turns out I shouldn't."

"No," said Stephen. "You will not act on this man in any way, under any circumstances, ever."

" Mr. Day— "

"No," said Stephen again, this time to Crane, with startling force. "I'll respect your wishes, but there is a caveat and it is this: You have lost the benefit of the doubt, Miss Bell. If you believe action is needed against Lord Crane, you may call on me, but you will not take it yourself or cause it to be taken by others. If you move against this man by any means, direct or indirect, practice or material, you will be judged, and not kindly. Understood?"

She gave a stiff, resentful nod.

"I am going to draw a line under this business, at Lord Crane's request. But you are charged to spread the word that my attention is on the matter. If anyone harms Lord Crane, I will be back, and I will be unhappy, and I will spread that unhappiness far and wide and deep before I've done. Make that known round Lychdale. Are we clear, Miss Bell?"

Miss Bell's face was tight and mask-like. "Yes," she rapped.

"Good. Lord Crane, is there anything else? "

"Does Ruthie have a gravestone?" asked Crane.

The words fell into blank silence.

"Why?" asked Stephen cautiously.

"Suicide."

"No," said Miss Bell. "She don't. An unmarked grave outside the church wall is what Vicar gave her."

"Which church, the one here?"

"Saint Sulpice, in Fulford. He wouldn't let her lie here."

"Which vicar?"

"Mr. Haining."

"Does it matter to Mrs. Trent?"

"Yes," said Miss Bell. "It does."

Crane nodded. "I'll speak to him."

She snorted. "We spoke to him. New churchwarden tried and tried. Went and begged Vicar, for Gammer's sake. Back and forth, he went. Vicar wouldn't hear it. Self-murdered is outside the Church, he said, and that's all there is."

"Well, we shall see," Crane said. "Thank you. Good day, madam. Let's go."