Page 31 of The Magpie Lord
“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’tdo that. Donot.”
“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,Idon’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.”
