Murder Most Welcome

by Slade, Nicola

  As for some of Lady Meg’s other precepts, she would make use of them all in good time as need arose.

  ‘Business first, then something to eat,’ she determined and headed down the alley, whisking her mother’s rose-patterned shawl around her shoulders and hastily tucking a matching velvet rose into her bonnet. Her appearance thus altered (just in case), another of Will Glover’s exhortations, she assumed an air of tremulous respectability as she entered the dingy emporium and spun the pawnbroker a tale of a deceased grandmother and an ailing mother fallen on hard times, displaying the spoils of her anxious journey through India to the coast and safe passage to England.

  ‘You wish to sell some jewellery, young lady? Might I see the pieces, miss?’

  The shopkeeper perused the documents of ownership – letters from a fond parent detailing a bequest – and, finding them satisfactory, handed Charlotte the modest sum they agreed. I should hope so too, she thought with quiet satisfaction, those letters are a convincing touch, they took me hours to write on the voyage home and even Pa would have been proud of such workmanship. And I didn’t even steal those brooches and rings. She smiled faintly, remembering the abandoned baggage cart she and her escort had discovered. You couldn’t call it stealing, just picking things up by the roadside.

  Once out of sight of the shop, she removed the shawl and the velvet rose and tucked them into her carpet bag, before making her way, with the firm and measured tread of an unobtrusive, well-born, though grief-stricken young lady, up the steps to the banking house.

  ‘A deposit, madam? It is a little unusual, madam, for an unaccompanied lady. Is not your husband…? Oh my goodness, pray, madam, do not distress yourself. Ah, Mrs Frampton Richmond of Finchbourne? Most certainly, Mrs Richmond, pray take a seat for a moment.’ Mention of Finchbourne and the Richmond name eased the transaction considerably and the tearful mention of her recent widowhood evoked manly sympathy.

  ‘We do not ourselves have the honour of providing banking services for Mrs Richmond and Mr Barnard Richmond, but in the circumstances there can be no difficulty, no difficulty at all.’

  There was indeed no difficulty and Charlotte, glowing with the unaccustomed comfort of security in the bank – enough to live on for a while if the Richmonds turned her away – took herself next door to The Star to order a light meal before tackling the journey to Finchbourne and confronting the next stage in her new existence.

  ‘You went into a public house?’ Agnes had moaned when Charlotte sketched out her day’s activities. ‘And a bank? Oh Charlotte, dear Charlotte, pray do not mention this to Mama, she would be so dismayed.’ She fluttered and twittered for a good ten minutes before plucking up courage to caution her headstrong colonial sister. ‘Perhaps, indeed I am sure, things are different in other parts of the world, but here – oh dear, pray, do not take it amiss, dear Charlotte – here, a young lady may not enter the portals of a place of business without the support of a gentleman of her family. Indeed, even then it would be a most extraordinary proceeding. Pray, pray, do not let Mama – or Lily, especially not Lily – know that you did so.’

  Finchbourne was a world way from the eucalyptus gums and the wattle and the emptiness of her native haunts; a long way, too, she hoped, from the constant removals and the fear – usually a certainty – of discovery and disgrace. As for that moment of temptation on the ship last night, she frowned. Thank God I stopped myself in time. I’m a different person, in a different life, she reminded herself, I must never, ever think of such a thing again, no matter what. Sitting up in the handsome four-poster bed with its figured brocade hangings, she considered her future. Whatever the state of Frampton’s finances there would, she thought, be at least a small, regular income for her, and that would be riches indeed compared to what had gone before.

  Restlessly she plumped up her pillows and considered her situation. I’ve never had a real home, she thought, never had a corner of the world that I could call my own, but this shall be it and I’ll do nothing to jeopardize it. I’m young Mrs Richmond of Finchbourne now, and here I’ll stay.

  Yes, she mused as she lay back in her clean, soft, expensive linen sheets, I’ve come a long, long way. Look at me, Ma, I’m a real lady now!

  Next morning, Charlotte was summoned to Mrs Richmond’s bedchamber by a servant who announced herself as Old Nurse, sole prop and mainstay to the afflicted mistress of the house. This worthy officiously plumped her mistress’s pillows and removed to a small side table a tray containing the remains of a slight, nourishing breakfast of haddock, stewed mutton kidneys, bread and butter with marmalade and what looked like a now empty vat of porridge.

  ‘Being such a poor, sad creature I have to take my breakfast in bed, you see.’ Mrs Richmond Senior touched a dainty napkin to her lips, sighed and smiled her sad, sweet smile, inviting Charlotte’s sympathy. Her lips tightened slightly when Charlotte responded briskly.

  ‘Very sensible, ma’am.’

  ‘My nights, you know, are so long, so disturbed by grief and nightmare, that I am of no use at the breakfast table, such a cripple as I am …’ As Charlotte maintained her polite smile, Mrs Richmond seemed to feel herself to be at a loss, even more so when Charlotte continued in that same pleasantly practical vein.

  ‘How may I be of service to you, ma’am? I’m exceedingly grateful to you for offering me a home and I hope you will make use of me. I’m a good nurse. I was telling Agnes last night that living in such a vast, empty country accustoms one to making do. I’m also an economical housekeeper and quite a good farmer and gardener, though I do concede that I know nothing about English flowers or crops. But I do want to make myself useful to you and I hope you will make use of me.’

  Mrs Richmond blinked.

  ‘I hardly know …’ she groped for words. ‘But my dear child …’ she temporized in order to overcome her surprise. ‘You are dear Frampton’s widow, there is no necessity for you to be of service, none whatsoever. You are my daughter now and must make your life here with us and have a good, long rest. Later perhaps you might busy yourself with some of my many charity works – Agnes can assist you there. You must know that I concern myself passionately with many of the ills of today’s world, the sins, the degradations …’ The dangerously hysterical throbbing note that Charlotte had previously remarked returned to her voice as she spoke, and she pressed her fingers to her temples, but after a pause she continued more calmly. ‘My dear, there can be no question of nursing, or – or farming!’

  Charlotte swallowed the comment that sprang to her lips and Mrs Richmond nodded, apparently approving her reticence.

  ‘For today, dear child, I suggest that Agnes might show you our church, where for generations the Richmonds have lain in all their glory, such a noble, noble race. I have caused a stone tablet in memory of dear Frampton to be placed above the Manor pew. I cannot, myself, see it except through a veil of tears.’ She paused, giving way to a melancholy sob and Charlotte silently passed her a clean handkerchief from the bedside table crowded with medicine bottles and miniatures as well as small marble hands and feet. What in God’s name could they be for? Charlotte wondered.

  ‘Thank you, dear child. As I was saying, I am such a poor wretched creature that I am totally undone whenever I think of my poor boy, but I dare say young people are made of sterner stuff.’

  As Charlotte turned soberly towards the door, Mrs Richmond sniffed and added a parting thrust.

  ‘I must say, dear, that you seem to have recovered remarkably – indeed. astonishingly – well from such a punishing blow. I suppose I must be glad to see you in good spirits though of course, as I say, as a mother I am totally suspended by grief.’

  Her face suddenly impassive, Charlotte looked back at the woman in the bed.

  ‘I cannot tell you, ma’am,’ she said in a level voice. ‘I cannot describe the emotions I experienced when I heard that my husband would not be returning to me.’

  Charlotte closed the door quietly behind her and leaned back against the
solid oak, feeling drained. No, she shuddered, nothing would, nothing could, ever come close to the relief of learning that Frampton Richmond was dead.

  It had been an arranged marriage in every sense of the word, she recalled wryly. She had needed a husband’s protection, Frampton had needed to parade a semblance of marital bliss. As if I cared about his way of life, she thought now, with a tolerance borne of a wide experience far beyond the reach of most grown men, let alone so young a woman. Frampton might have lived his life as he pleased for all I cared, she frowned, as long as he let me alone and maintained a veneer of respectability to pacify the regiment. But he didn’t keep to his side of the bargain….

  Time to pull yourself together, Charlotte, she scolded herself briskly. And now she came to think of it, Mrs Richmond hadn’t felt it necessary to apologize further for Lady Frampton’s gaffe of last night. Perhaps she knew Agnes did it for her or perhaps she simply didn’t care.

  What Charlotte did mind, very much, was her own unguarded moment of anger at the old lady. Righteous indignation – especially so unwarranted – had no place in her role at present, time enough for that once she was established and accepted as young Mrs Richmond, the widow. Yes, she scolded herself, that was a near thing with Mr Knightley, too. She had nearly let slip too much about herself by far. Though perhaps he wouldn’t care, she thought with a smile, recalling the intelligence and good humour that coloured Mr Knightley’s every word. Still, even if it made no difference to him, she could think of others not so far away who would be much less tolerant if they knew all about her. If they knew everything about me, everything about Ma and Will, she reflected, I should be out of this house at once, marched off in disgrace to the nearest magistrate probably.

  Conscious of a sudden chill, Charlotte set these thoughts aside and made her way to the breakfast parlour where the rest of the Richmond family were at the trough, shovelling in eggs and fish, stewed kidneys and bacon at a great rate.

  ‘Charlotte, dearest!’

  That was Agnes, of course, leaping fervently from her chair to embrace the new arrival.

  ‘Sit down here beside me, dear. Hoxton …’ She summoned the butler. ‘Help Mrs Frampton to some kedgeree. Did you sleep well, dear Charlotte? I do hope so. If not I will see about changing your room. Sometimes that room suffers when the wind is in the east—’

  ‘Please, Agnes,’ Charlotte protested with a good-humoured pat on the other woman’s shoulder. ‘I slept soundly all night, pray do not distress yourself. It was such a novelty to sleep in a bed that did not pitch and toss from side to side.’

  ‘Pitch and toss?’

  That was the bovine Barnard, looking puzzled.

  ‘The ship,’ Charlotte explained and he nodded, pleased to be enlightened.

  ‘Never been on a ship, myself,’ he said smugly. ‘The Richmonds have always been land animals, you see. Poor old Frampton was always sick as a dog, he used to say, when he was on a transport ship.’

  Agnes cried out at this reminder of the dear departed and Charlotte had to spend a few minutes assuring her and the crestfallen Barnard that she could indeed bear to hear his name mentioned. All the while she watched them, a glance in the mirror opposite revealing a growing twinkle in her bright, alert, hazel eyes. Land animals, of course! That was just what they were, that was the likeness she had been struggling to make out.

  Barnard was not the only bovine member of the family; they made up a herd, from the plump little dairy cow who was Mrs Richmond to big, beefy Barnard with his great shoulders, heavy haunches and long, weathered face. He and Agnes had inherited their shiny bulls’ eyes from their mother and Agnes, too, was beef to the ankle under her horsehair crinoline, unless Charlotte was much mistaken.

  The late Mr Richmond, née Frampton, had probably been of the same ilk. Like had married like, she mused, observing his mother as she mooed loudly at her grandchildren on topics ranging from her corns to the toughness of the toast she was chewing, while tossing scraps of meat from the vast serving platter before her to the indolent spaniel at her feet. She always relished her food, she had confided to her new granddaughter the previous evening after dinner. Indeed, she and her late husband, an elderly London merchant, had become acquainted over a roast mutton dinner she had served him in the chop house belonging to her aunt. It had been, she said, her healthy appetite as much as her lively cockney spirits that had captivated the old gentleman.

  ‘Good morning, Charlotte. How are you today?’

  That was her other sister-in-law, Lily. Silly little Lily to misquote Lily’s revered papa. Presumably Lily had decided to be gracious to the newcomer; she was certainly baring her gums in what, one must charitably assume, was meant as a friendly gesture. Now Lily was less a cow than a plump, pink pig, from her dainty little trotters to her pert little turned-up snout.

  Charlotte grabbed her napkin to her face to disguise her involuntary chuckle at the trend of her thoughts, pausing only to ponder on her own likeness. And what am I then, she wondered ruefully. A weasel? Or perhaps a snake in the grass?

  ‘Mrs Richmond suggested I should take a walk around the village this morning.’ She turned to Agnes. ‘Would you like to come with me or shall I make my own way?’

  ‘On no account!’

  Agnes was scandalized and said so in several different ways. At last Charlotte could bear no more so she interrupted the usual welter of half sentences and little flutters of anxiety.

  ‘What time would you like me to be ready, Agnes?’

  ‘I hardly know, dear Charlotte. Would eleven o’clock be too early, do you think? I have to speak to Cook, you see, and Mama always likes to give me her commands too.’

  ‘I have some mending to do, so eleven o’clock will suit me excellently,’ Charlotte told her firmly, draining her cup and setting it down firmly on its delicate saucer. ‘Do you usually have family prayers?’

  ‘Oh my goodness, do you think we should, dear?’ Agnes began to flutter again, covered with mortification at this family shortcoming. ‘Forgive me, dear Charlotte, I had forgotten that your stepfather was a clergyman by profession. Naturally you are accustomed to a greater observance of religion. We must seem shockingly lax to you, dear.’

  ‘Of course I don’t think so.’ Charlotte concealed a sigh and set about reassuring her sister-in-law. ‘In fact, I’m only too thankful to find that I shan’t be expected to join in family worship every day. Will, my stepfather, used to say that family prayers flourished in the households of the ungodly and that living a principled life was much more acceptable to God than outward show.’ Lily merely shot her a scornful glance and Barnard appeared frankly puzzled at such a concept, while Lady Frampton was too absorbed in greedily shovelling a spoonful of sugar, sneaked from the bowl, into her mouth, to pay attention to anything else. Charlotte turned resolutely to Agnes. ‘I do look forward to visiting the church with you later on, though, dear Agnes.’

  She rose, pushed her chair firmly away and nodded pleasantly to the rest of the family as she left the room. Apart from their initial greeting, neither Lily nor Barnard had addressed any remark to her, while Lady Frampton had been too busy addressing her breakfast to suffer any interruption. The old woman must have the constitution of an ox – there it was again, that family likeness – to put away such gargantuan amounts of food and yet have survived to at least eighty years of age.

  In spite of her brusque manner, the old lady rather appealed to Charlotte. Touchingly anxious to make amends for her unfortunate comments of yesterday, she had been kindness itself during an evening distinguished by its tedium. When the Knightleys had taken their leave, the old lady had remarked, in an audible aside to Charlotte, that she couldn’t blame them for going so soon; she was longing for her own bed too. Yes, I’ve met your like, Charlotte nodded inwardly, at plenty of places from Sydney to Melbourne, from Adelaide to Freemantle, and many a scrubby little settlement between them.

  And some of those old ladies were by no means fools, she reminded herself; som
e of them saw through Will Glover where other members of the congregation could find no fault in him, bowled over as they were by the liveliness that sat so charmingly with his soulful blue eyes. Better keep an eye on Lady Frampton and beware, too, that shrewd old gaze.

  It was a relief to step briskly out into the soft, spring beauty of an April day in the south of England and to stop for a moment to survey the old Tudor manor house with its grey stone front and crooked, haphazard roof, the Queen Anne wing tacked on at an angle, blending in now after 150 or more years, red brick mellowed now to a pleasing pink.

  ‘I felt so cooped up on board that ship,’ Charlotte confided to Agnes as they set off on the grand circular tour of the small town. ‘I’m used to miles and miles of open country. You can’t imagine how different and vast the sky is in Australia. This seems like a country in miniature.’

  Pausing to admire the ducks on the village pond, Charlotte waved a hand towards the main street. ‘Southampton, yesterday, was so vast I could scarcely take it in, but this is so – so cosy. You must understand, Agnes, that to me a town has nearly always meant a collection of tin shacks, but this is so pretty.’ She gazed round at the picture-book surroundings with satisfaction, noting the brick and flint cottages, and dragged Agnes across the road to stare at the large plate-glass windows in the draper’s shop. ‘Look at that window, and oh! What’s this next door? The chemist’s? I’ve seen those coloured glass jars and bottles in Sydney, but never in a village.’

  Agnes looked delighted at such enthusiasm and patted Charlotte’s hand. ‘A few years ago a speculator settled here and decided to transform the village into a kind of inland spa. The air is so very clear and fresh here, you see, with the pines and heaths, and there are the chalybeate spring waters not far away in Southampton. He thought it a settled prospect; we’re on the junction line here, of course, and not far from Winchester.’ She sighed. ‘He introduced gas lighting too. Finchbourne was to be completely up-to-date and a show place, but unfortunately his bank failed. It was such a pity – several of the local gentry lost a good deal of money in his scheme, and it would have benefited the local people so greatly.’