Authors: A Dead Bore
Alone in the room, Pickett removed the floral offering from the casket and laid it on the floor beside Lady Fieldhurst’s parcels, then set to work with the crowbar. Every nail seemed to scream like a soul in torment. Five years earlier, when he’d spent his days hauling coal for his supper, the task would have seemed as nothing, but since joining the Bow Street force, he had become accustomed to using his brains more than his back. By the time he had removed the nails from one length of the coffin, he was breathing heavily, and his shirt clung damply to his skin in spite of the coolness of the room. He paused for a moment to catch his breath before going to work on the other side, when in the silence he heard the groan of the door hinges, followed by Lady’s Fieldhurst’s cry of determined gaiety, “Why, Mr. Meriwether! Just the person I most wished to see!”
The curate said something—Pickett could not distinguish the words—and Lady Fieldhurst replied, “I should love for you to show me about the churchyard, if you can spare the time. I daresay the Hollingshead vault is well worth a look—”
Her voice faded as the heavy door closed. Her ladyship had surpassed herself at her appointed task, but Pickett had no idea how long she might be able to hold the curate at bay. He returned to his task with renewed urgency, thankful for the thick stone walls that must surely block the sound of the nails’ resistance.
At last the final nail surrendered, and Pickett pushed the heavy lid aside. His nostrils were immediately assailed by the stench of smoke, mingled with another, more organic odor whose source he preferred not to dwell upon. It would have been better perhaps had he chosen to forego breakfast that morning, for he feared he might surrender it at any moment. Choking down a paroxysm of dry retches, he staggered to the open door and took great gulps of fresh air from the nave. Above the altar, the carved angels stared serenely down at him as if to remind him that the vicar had no further need of the foul thing in the wooden box, for he now resided in a better place. Steadied somewhat, Pickett turned back to the vestry, pausing only long enough to retrieve a handkerchief from his coat pocket and tie it over his nose and mouth before returning to the open casket.
He could not recall having heard Mr. Danvers described as a bald man, but any hair the vicar had possessed had burned away in the fire, revealing an oddly misshapen head. Pickett forced himself to investigate further, and what he found left no room for doubt.
“I have to hand it to you, my lady,” he said, addressing the viscountess as if she were still in the room. “I’ve never yet known a house fire to bash a man’s head in.”
* * * *
Outside in the churchyard, Lady Fieldhurst encouraged Mr. Meriwether to point out the gravesite selected for the vicar’s interment, inquiring about every tombstone along the way. It would help, she reflected, if she had some idea of how long she must keep the curate occupied for her
faux
footman to complete his grisly task. The Hollingshead vault should provide fodder enough for several minutes of conversation, and with this end in view, she allowed him to lead her toward the carved stone structure. Before they reached it, however, her attention was caught by a tiny headstone all but hidden beneath mounds of purple and yellow blossoms. The stone itself was not new—the date carved on its face indicated it had been placed there twenty-two years previously—but the painstaking care and the abundance of flowers suggested that someone still mourned the infant buried here two decades earlier.
“How lovely, and how sad,” said Lady Fieldhurst, bending down to read the inscription. “Whose is it?”
But even as she asked the question, she saw the answer: Edward, infant son of Sir Gerald and Lady Anne Hollingshead, 9 September 1786.
“Their first child,” explained Mr. Meriwether. “He was stillborn only a few months after their marriage.”
Lady Fieldhurst thought of her own childlessness and the sense of loss she had felt every month when her courses had come. “Sad,” she said again. “How thankful they must be to have three healthy children to compensate for their loss. But tell me, why is this child not buried in the family vault?”
Mr. Meriwether appeared much struck by this simple query. “Now that you mention it, I have never heard an explanation. I believe there are those who do not believe an infant is truly human until he quickens in the womb. Sir Gerald and Lady Anne married in July of that same year, so she could hardly—that is to say, her condition would not have progressed—”
“Yes, of course,” the viscountess said quickly, sparing the young man’s blushes. She suppressed a smile at the thought of what Lady Anne might say, had she known she was being discussed in such a manner.
“Be that as it may,” the curate continued, “perhaps the family considered burial in the churchyard, but not the vault, a suitable compromise.”
Lady Fieldhurst did not dispute this suggestion but privately felt that whoever had decorated the grave so carefully had no doubts they were honoring the memory of a human being. They had by this time reached the vault, and the curate took her arm as they descended the shallow, moss-covered stairs.
“Watch your step,” he cautioned. “They may yet be slippery from the rain.”
Once inside, she found herself surrounded by large, shadowy shapes indistinguishable in the semidarkness.
“The one on the immediate right is the present baronet’s aunt, Henrietta Hollingshead,” said Mr. Meriwether, his voice echoing eerily off the walls. “There is a portrait of her in the hall. She was a celebrated beauty in her day, said to rival the Gunning sisters.”
“Yes, I remember seeing the portrait,” replied the viscountess, casting a sidelong glance in his direction. “I thought she had a look of Miss Hollingshead about her.”
“I believe the resemblance is said to be most marked,” conceded the curate. “No doubt that is why Lady Anne looks for Miss Hollingshead to imitate her great-aunt’s success next spring when she is presented at Court.”
“Indeed? I had received the distinct impression that Miss Hollingshead’s ambitions lay in quite another direction.”
The curate flushed scarlet and muttered something unintelligible. Lady Fieldhurst, seeing that the young man could not be rushed into confidences, hastened to change the subject.
“But why does Henrietta lie here and not with her husband?”
“Her marriage, though brilliant by worldly standards, was not a happy one. Her high-born husband was given to periodic drunken rages, and when she sought comfort in the arms of another, he killed her lover and would no doubt have done the same to her, had she not contrived to escape. She died of consumption several years later, and on her deathbed extracted a promise from her father to bury her in the family vault rather than return her body to her husband.”
“A tragic story,” murmured Lady Fieldhurst. “We must hope the present Miss Hollingshead meets a happier fate.”
“Indeed.”
“But am I correct in thinking that you are related to the Hollingsheads as well, Mr. Meriwether?”
“I am, but I fear the connection does my branch of the family no credit,” confessed the curate, taking her ladyship’s arm to assist her in stepping over a fallen tombstone. “Early in the last century, a village girl caught the eye of the second baronet’s son and heir. When she resisted his efforts at seduction, he offered her marriage. She was of simple yeoman stock, and naïve enough to suppose him to be in earnest.”
“And was he not?”
“Indeed not! The Hollingshead baronetcy was only in its second generation; to make such a
mésalliance
at this juncture would damage the family’s social position, perhaps irredeemably. But she, in her ignorance, accepted his proposal. He arranged for a fraudulent ceremony to take place in this very church.”
“I think I can guess the rest,” Lady Fieldhurst said slowly. “By the time she discovered that she had been deceived, the poor girl was with child.”
“Precisely. When the scandal broke, the old baronet was furious. The young man was packed off to the Continent, but there was no such escape for Miss Meriwether—for that was her name. You will have guessed by now that she was my great-grandmother.”
Lady Fieldhurst, who had not guessed any such thing, strove to conceal her surprise; fortunately, the curate was by this time so engrossed in his tale that he did not notice.
“Having nowhere else to go, she was obliged to endure her shame before the entire village. She eventually gave birth to a son, whom she named William. To give credit where it is due, the old baronet was good to the boy in his way. He provided for the child’s education, and would have placed him with a suitable family, had the boy’s mother not insisted on keeping him.”
“And what of the child’s father?” asked the viscountess, enthralled. “Did she never see him again?”
“No, for he was stabbed in a tavern brawl in Venice not long after the boy was born. She, however, lived to a ripe old age, and never left the village. It is said that she grew quite eccentric in her later years, calling her son Sir William and insisting that the townspeople address her as Lady Hollingshead. She is buried there, beneath the elm tree,” he added, pointing toward the corner of the churchyard opposite the Hollingshead vault.
Lady Fieldhurst turned to look in the direction he indicated, and spied a gravestone adorned with a statue of an angel cradling a lamb in her arms, “It is a lovely memorial.”
“It was placed there by the Hollingshead family,” the curate said. “It cannot have been pleasant for them—these old families frequently have a great deal of pride—but they have always been careful to show the Meriwether branch every kindness.”
Lady Fieldhurst, who was well acquainted with the pride of an ancient lineage in the form of her deceased husband and his family, suspected that the Hollingsheads’ generosity in this case was motivated less by compassion than by relief to be rid at last of an age-old embarrassment. She thought it politic, however, not to voice this suspicion to the curate.
“I can readily believe it,” she said instead. “I seem to recall Miss Hollingshead saying that her father had promised you the living here.”
Too late, she recalled that, while Emma Hollingshead had indeed suggested such, the viscountess had not been that young lady’s intended audience. It was perhaps fortunate, therefore, that Mr. Meriwether was too caught up in his own embarrassment to have a thought for her ladyship’s
faux pas.
“I should not wish to presume—” stammered the curate, flushing a dull red. “—That is, I fear Miss Hollingshead may have refined too much upon—Sir Gerald made no promises, however much he may have implied—”
Lady Fieldhurst interpreted this disjointed speech to mean that, whatever Sir Gerald may have indicated while Mr. Danvers lived, he was prepared to renege on his word now that both his gift and his daughter were seemingly within Mr. Meriwether’s reach. She recalled the conversation at breakfast that morning and did not feel optimistic for the young man’s chances. It appeared that for the second time within a century, the generosity of the Hollingshead family toward its bastard branch stopped short of marriage.
“Oh, and whose is that vault in the corner?” asked the viscountess, partly to spare the young man’s blushes, and partly to give herself time to digest this new information. “The carving casts the poor baronet’s humble memorial quite into the shade!”
Mr. Meriwether chuckled. “I am sure some long-deceased Kendall would be pleased to hear you say so. It is newer by several decades than its neighbor and thus obliged to compensate for its inferior status with superior size and more elaborate ornamentation.”
“Kendall?” echoed Lady Fieldhurst. “The same Kendall whom I met at the Hollingsheads’ dinner?”
“The very same. It is a friendly rivalry, but a rivalry nonetheless.”
“But Lord Kendall not only outranks Sir Gerald, but he holds the position of Justice of the Peace as well. Surely the Kendalls have nothing to prove!”
“One would certainly think not, but so it is with these old County families.”
They had by this time completed the circuit of the churchyard and were now heading back toward the church. The viscountess, uncertain as to whether Pickett would have had time to complete his task, cast about in her mind for some excuse for delay.
“And what of the other gentleman at dinner, Mr. Carrington?” she asked. “Has he no ancestor buried here?”
“I fear I know very little about Mr. Carrington,” the curate replied. “He settled in the area two years ago, having spent his career abroad—with the East India Company, I believe.”
“Has he no wife? No child?”
Mr. Meriwether shook his head. “No, nor ever has had, for anything I have ever heard to the contrary.”
This attempt at procrastination proving fruitless, Lady Fieldhurst had no alternative but to follow the curate back to the church. As they rounded the corner, she saw Pickett, looking a bit green about the gills, awaiting her at the door.
“My poor John, I daresay you must have quite given me up. The fault must be Mr. Meriwether’s, for he has been showing me about the churchyard and telling me the most fascinating tales about its inhabitants!”
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” said the curate, taking this accusation at face value. “I supposed you to be unaccompanied.”
“Not at all! I have been to the village, and John was charged with carrying my parcels. I fear my purchases must have been too much for him, for he became quite overcome with the heat, and so has been resting within the church. It is so very pleasant and cool inside, as you no doubt are aware.”
Mr. Meriwether made suitable inquiries into Pickett’s health (to which he made reassuring, if not very convincing, replies) and bade the viscountess good day. Lady Fieldhurst, setting off up the hill with Pickett at her heels, waited until the curve of the road hid the church from view, then fell into step beside him and slipped her gloved hand through the curve of his arm.
“Are you all right?” she asked, regarding him searchingly. “You look perfectly dreadful!”
“If you think I look bad, you should have seen Mr. Danvers.”
“I am very glad I did not!” said the viscountess with feeling. “But I hope you found what you were looking for, for Mr. Meriwether confirmed that the vicar is to be buried tomorrow.”