The estate demanded more than Wycliff’s days; his nights also came to be given as sacrifice. The summer shear was a major event, and the farmers and shepherds gathered in the fields of Mireworth beside the river. The men worked together to bring in their flocks to run through the river and, once dry, to be shorn. Working alongside his tenants during the long days gave Wycliff an opportunity to hear their concerns and ideas.
Unfortunately, the evenings ran late, as the men sat around the fire to talk. That turned into a few celebratory drinks, either to toast Wycliff’s marriage or to simply mark the end of a hard day. The first night, after consuming more ale than he could recollect, Wycliff fell asleep where he sat by the fire. The next night, he was determined to make it back to Mireworth. He was too old for sleeping on the hard ground when he had a comfortable mattress and a willing wife awaiting him.
By the time he slid off his mare, it was after midnight and the ground tilted and swayed under his feet in a way that reminded him of the miserable time in a ship during a rough sailing. His stomach rebelled and he clutched his middle waiting for the sensation to subside. Instead of crawling into a warm bed with his delectable wife in it, he stumbled to a pile of hay, collapsed, and awoke at dawn to…Barnes.
The hand stared at him from a spot on his chest that made Wycliff go cross-eyed trying to look at him. The hand had one finger tucked under another in a gesture that mimicked a person with their arms folded in disapproval.
“If you want to be useful, fetch me a clean shirt and a coffee,” Wycliff grumbled as he sat up.
The hand slid to the ground, saluted with his forefinger, and then scurried from the stall.
Wycliff hauled himself to the trough outside the stables and immersed his head. Cold water dribbled down his spine and revived his senses. He scooped up handfuls of icy water and scrubbed his face. Stubble clung to his chin, but he would shave later. A sniff of his armpit confirmed that the horrid smell was indeed coming from him.
The rancid shirt was pulled over his head and tossed to the ground, then he plunged his torso into the water trough. He experimented with calling the hound forth and was delighted when the frigid water warmed around him. He stopped when it became tepid, not wanting to harm the animals who wouldn’t realise the water had changed temperature.
Snippets of conversation from the previous night emerged from the fog in his head. A group of farmers with a few ales in them gossiped more than women. There was one strand that stuck out—all the men mentioned that Seager possessed the magic potion to cure a pretty woman’s ailments. From the accompanying winks and nudges, it was clear what they meant by magic potion, and it wasn’t anything that came in a vial.
Wycliff had agreed to keep an open mind about the drownings of the three women, but it pained him to linger on the death of Lisbeth. He berated himself for not doing more for his friend. There was a comfort in believing an accident had taken her life. That she must have slipped while watching the storms hit the promontory where she made her home. The alternative placed the fault at his door, for not reaching out earlier to ensure she had the help she needed.
But if Hannah’s instincts were right, he did his childhood friend no service by failing to investigate the possibility that another hand might have pushed Lisbeth to her death. It was time for him to have a quiet conversation with Seager and discover how many women of the village he treated for their problems. The apothecary displayed a foul temper. Who knew what he would do if provoked? Had he conceivably struck out at one, two, or all three?
Frank lumbered across the yard carrying a folded shirt in one hand and a tin mug in the other. Barnes trotted ahead.
“Taking a supervisory role, Barnes?” Wycliff asked as he took the mug and shirt from Frank. “I thank you both.” He gulped the hot brew, and then balanced the mug on a post while he donned the clean shirt and buttoned his waistcoat over the top. “Shearing begins today, and we have more sheep to swim to wash the fleece. Feel like riding a ewe through the river, Barnes?” Wycliff finished the strong coffee.
Stitched monster and hand had stayed at the house yesterday to assist Hannah. Today they followed Wycliff out to the field, where years ago a sheep-wash had been constructed along the river that bordered Mireworth. At a narrow point sat a bridge with low arches that allowed the water to flow, but stopped the animals from swimming away. On the flat ground next to the river stood a pen to funnel the creatures into taking a dip. Stone walls ran down into the pen and created a narrow corridor where they drove the sheep.
The shepherds used their dogs and crooks to direct the woolly creatures into the top of the funnel, channelling them into the pen. Wycliff stripped off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves to wade out into the water to help the washers. As the sheep sprang from the pen into the river, they were dipped under the surface and the wool cleaned before they were released to clamber out on the other side into another stone-enclosed yard.
By the time they had dipped the last of the sheep on one side of the river, the first few out the other side were dry and ready to be clipped. One at a time, a worker grabbed a sheep from the pen and herded it to a shearer. The day lengthened as they worked. Everyone had a specific task to perform.
The shearers’ backs were drenched with sweat from the hard labour as they wielded the shears, two lethal-looking blades, with expert precision. A sheep would lie on its back between the man’s feet as he removed the heavy fleece. Then, once righted, it would bounce away as though reliving its youth as a lamb. Shepherds gathered the shorn flock to graze, waiting to be driven back to pasture.
The midsummer shear of the sheep was a gathering of the community, as many hands were needed to tackle the job. Women threw the fleece onto boards for inspection. Any remaining debris or loose locks were snipped off. Children collected the offcuts, which were stuffed into bags to be used in their homes. Next the fleece was rolled and bundled into sacks and loaded on large carts.
For two days Wycliff worked as hard as the men, taking his turn to drag out a sheep for the shearer. He watched the man flip the creature onto its back, then Wycliff decided he had earned a break. His own back protested the time spent hunkered over and he arched his neck to let his joints pop to ease the ache.
He grabbed a water bottle and stood in the shade, conveniently close to where Seager inspected the bags of loose locks.
“What do you do with the fleece clippings, Seager?” Wycliff asked as he gulped water down a parched throat.
“I remove the lanolin from the wool to make hand creams and lotions that are much in demand by the ladies.” The man spoke without looking up as he crammed more snippets of wool into a bag.
“What else do you offer the ladies that they enjoy?” Wycliff pitched his question low so that it would escape the ears of the children running around the pasture. Hannah thought Cramond might be the common link between the three dead women, but Wycliff preferred Seager for that role.
Seager straightened and met Wycliff’s gaze. He narrowed his eyes and seemed to chew each word before speaking. “I am the apothecary. I offer many cures for the ailments of the villagers—man, woman, and child.”
“Let me speak more plainly, since you seem determined to misunderstand. Were you tending to Lisbeth, Amy, and Sarah?” A gentle breeze stirred and Wycliff tugged on the neck band of his shirt to allow his skin to cool.
“I don’t have to tell you who sought my cures.” Seager turned his back and opened the next bag of offcuts.
For a moment, Wycliff wondered if this was how Hannah had felt early in their acquaintance. Seager was deliberately obtuse and Wycliff suppressed a strong urge to seize the man by the collar and shake some civility into him. “You can either talk to me here and now, or I will drag you off to the Repository of Forgotten Things until your tongue loosens.”
“You cannot do that.” Seager turned and his nostrils flared like those of a bull about to charge.
Wycliff took another long drink. “You’re an aftermage. That gives the Ministry of Unnaturals dominion over you. I could find you a nice cell next to the Afflicted incarcerated because they cannot control their urges. They rot on their feet, oozing bodily fluids that heal when they are given their allotted slice of pickled cauliflower. The stench is stomach-churning, but I’m sure as an apothecary you will find it a fascinating chance to study them up close.”
Seager yanked on the bag’s drawstring, pulling it tight before kicking it to one side. “I treated all three women. The only one whose condition might have led to her death was Lisbeth Wolfe. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Wycliff’s hand tightened around the water bottle. He wanted to believe Lisbeth had found a kind of peace on the promontory, not that loneliness and desperation had made her end it all. “So your potions didn’t help her?”
“Lisbeth was much improved. Ask anyone.” Seager spat the words.
“Were you intimate with her?” He had no romantic claim on Lisbeth, but the idea of her rolling around with Seager turned his stomach. As her lifelong friend, he thought she deserved far better.
The other man’s eyes widened. “Of course not! One can offer a woman friendship and advice without bedding her, or is that a revelation to you, my lord?”
Wycliff ground his teeth. While he wrangled his own temper under control, he indulged in imagining how satisfying it would be to smack his fist into Seager’s chin. If for nothing else, he deserved it for his continued rudeness to Hannah. Another part of Wycliff wondered what deep scar Seager covered with his prickly exterior. One porcupine recognised another. Thankfully, Hannah had worked her way through Wycliff’s quills to find the man underneath.
“What of Amy and Sarah? What ailed them?”
Seager fisted his hands and for a moment, Wycliff thought he would be denied the information he sought. “Mrs Rivers sought assistance to conceive. Amy Miller sought relief from constant headaches. Although she refused to hear my advice that the biggest cause was that drunken grandfather of hers.”
“Did you offer them anything else, aside from the relevant potions?” The more they spoke, the more Wycliff sensed the other man was hiding something. He only needed to run it to ground.
“No. As difficult as that is for you to believe, I did not offer to cure them with my magic wand.” He flung his arms up into the air.
Wycliff grunted. The apothecary might have tried and been rebuked. Who knew? Dead women couldn’t recount what had happened in their last moments. “What of the potions? Was there anything in them that might have affected their balance?”
“I am most careful of my ingredients and customers are warned if there are side effects such as dizziness. None of the women took anything that would cause them to lose their footing in the dark. You will have to find another party to blame.” Seager bent to pick up his sacks.
Not wanting to waste any civilities upon the man, Wycliff nodded and stalked away. Movement on the brow of the hill caught his eye and soon a cart appeared, drawn by a solid horse. Hannah held the reins with Mrs Rossett beside her, Mary and Charlotte in the back. Wycliff wiped a handkerchief over his brow and headed in their direction as Hannah pulled the horse to a halt.
“It is a pleasant surprise to see you here.” More than that, he had not seen her face or held her form for two days, and he missed her closeness, her faint lavender fragrance, and the twinkle in her eye when she considered mischief. Most of all, he missed the way she murmured his Christian name when they were alone and he kissed his way up her neck.
“Mrs Rossett has commanded her troops for the last two days. We have worked hard under her direction and, I hope, brought enough to feed everyone,” Hannah said as she clasped his hand.
In the back of the cart were crammed numerous boxes and baskets with cloths tucked into the tops and a delicious aroma wafting from underneath. His stomach growled and reminded him that he hadn’t had breakfast.
Wycliff kept possession of Hannah’s hand and raised it to his lips. “You are a marvel,” he murmured against her skin. He would thank her more fully later.
A becoming flush raced over her cheeks. “Mrs Rossett said the summer shearing was a big gathering of the villagers. I don’t need magic to know that men who are working hard will be hungry.”
Children swarmed the cart like rats on cheese, no doubt drawn by the odours dancing across the meadow. Eager hands unloaded the boxes and baskets and laid them out on a makeshift table.
Wycliff let go of Hannah to summon the workmen. They tugged their caps and thanked Hannah as they dove into the spread of meat pies, savoury pastries, and biscuits the women had made.
Wycliff and Hannah sat on a blanket in the sun, although she put up a parasol to shade her face, and cheerful conversation flowed around them. While he worked hard and barely had time to spend with Hannah during the day, it made the quiet moments in her company all the more valuable. Each day brought a greater sense of satisfaction at what he could achieve. He even proudly displayed a blister on his palm, something that would make the fops in London faint.
After their meal, he took Hannah’s arm while they strolled along the river in the shade of the weeping willows. He wanted privacy to tell her what he had discerned so far. “I spoke to Seager. He was indeed dispensing cures for the three dead women.”
“Oh? I found Lisbeth’s and Sarah’s records among his notebooks, but not one for Amy. Did he say what he treated her for?”
“Apparently Amy suffered headaches. Seager also said that none of the potions he dispensed would cause the women to be dizzy or lose their balance.” The potions might be blameless, but that didn’t absolve the man. Not yet.
“Then if we continue with the hypothesis that their deaths were not accidental, we must consider what else might have bound the women.” She reached up to snag a leaf to spin between her fingers. “Although, from talking to those left behind, the only thing I can find they all shared was loneliness. Lisbeth was isolated by the community, Sarah’s husband is a shepherd and spent long hours away from home, and Amy was somewhat alone in dealing with her grandfather. Having met him, I am not surprised to learn she endured headaches.”
“We may have some fiend with a demented sense of how to cure them, or possibly a spurned lover who tried his luck with all three. But I agree, if we pursue this line of thought we are grasping at what links them and why they were targeted.” While he still struggled to believe the deaths anything other than terrible accidents, he approached it with an open mind for Hannah’s sake.
A whisper from long ago snaked through his mind. Hannah had stirred up the old story of two men who had drowned one summer fifty years ago. He waved a hand across his face to brush aside the tale. How many people had drowned in the village over the last fifty years? Probably fifty, since the ocean claimed roughly one a year. Sometimes a fisherman’s boat was caught out in a storm and overturned, or a child was snared in an undercurrent while swimming alone. Or someone walking the cliffs stumbled and fell.
They had seen too many unnatural murders in London over the preceding months, and were jumping at shadows.
Hannah let out a sigh and turned to face him. She twisted her fingers in the linen of his shirt. “There is another option. I may have to concede that my husband is right, and I am seeing murder where there is none.”
“I have a suspicion that such a concession may be a rare occurrence. I might start a diary when we return to Mireworth, to record such events.” He tried to school his features into a stern expression, but the sparkle in her eyes undid him. So he kissed her instead.