Murder Most Welcome

by Slade, Nicola

  ‘Yes, indeed. He was most civil, I must say. He bowed very low and asked, in excellent English, if he had the honour of speaking to ladies of the family of Major Richmond, late of India.’

  What could he possibly want? wondered Charlotte as she recalled the attitude of the soldier in Winchester Cathedral. Could there be a connection? She shuddered. Surely there could be no threat to her from beyond the grave? Why was there still so much interest in Frampton? Surely we should have heard something by now, if there were anything to know? Besides, she reflected, if it turned out he was murdered, I’d willingly shake his killer’s hand.

  In the days that had followed the ambush in which so many, besides Frampton, had died, nobody had actually spoken directly to Charlotte about her husband’s supposed misdemeanours but there had been rumours and counter-rumours as well as the hastily broken-off whispers when she entered a room. In those chaotic days she had dealt almost entirely with the military and it was then that an unguarded comment, hastily denied, had informed her of the rumour concerning the missing regimental funds.

  But was that, she wondered now, what had made her husband so unpopular – understandably so – or was there something else involved? Something worse? As she had told Mr Knightley on that first evening at Finchbourne, an officer had said, in her hearing, that murder had been done. But what had he meant? He had denied saying any such thing when she had taxed him, but the fact remained that Charlotte had heard him with her own ears. Had he meant that Frampton had been murdered? And if so, how had he known? Could it be, she bit her lip, that Frampton had been killed by one of his own men?

  ‘Did he say what he wanted?’ Barnard echoed her own question.

  ‘Just what we enquired.’ Mrs Richmond applied her ever-present handkerchief to her eyes. ‘He replied, most politely, that he was in pursuit of information about the circumstances of my dear boy’s death and wondered if we had any more news. And most extraordinary of all, he wished to know whether my poor, dear boy’s effects had been sent home to us.’

  ‘What the devil for?’ Barnard’s question was natural but blunt and he looked hangdog at his mother’s pained sigh.

  ‘I thanked him for his interest,’ she replied with martyred dignity. ‘And informed him that as a mere female – and one suffering the agonies of bereavement, at that – I was unable to discuss such painful matters but that he was at liberty to call upon you, Barnard dear, if he wished to pursue the question.’

  ‘Did he … did he say whether he had been acquainted with Frampton?’ asked Charlotte diffidently.

  ‘We asked him that,’ Lily burst in, unable to restrain herself any more. ‘And only fancy! He gave the most ferocious frown and said that his only regret was that he had been spared that pleasure as it would have given him great joy to horsewhip Frampton!’

  After spending a day vowing one minute to seek out the mysterious Indian gentleman and tackle him about Frampton, and the next to avoid him at all costs lest he know some of her own closely guarded secrets, Charlotte threw herself gratefully into helping Agnes with preparations for the forthcoming bazaar. Her attempts to be of assistance to the members of her new family had met with astonishment.

  ‘Oh no, Miss Char, Mrs Frampton, I should say,’ the cook had protested – through Agnes the nickname had soon become common property amongst the household. ‘I couldn’t dream of you making pastry, or baking a pie. The mistress would be most upset.’

  ‘Farming?’ Barnard had haw-hawed at the suggestion, rubbing his chin as he stared down at her in perplexity when she cornered him in the stable yard one morning. ‘What would a pretty little thing like you know about farming, Char?’ Fortunately his gaze was diverted elsewhere and he was spared the distress of seeing the frustrated scowl that disfigured the pretty little thing’s mobile features. When he turned back to her he kindly patted her hand. ‘Suppose I look out a nice quiet hack, so you and Lily can enjoy some pleasant saunters?’

  ‘What about your mama’s charity work?’ Charlotte had caught Agnes one weary, wet day. ‘She said I might be able to help you, that you would tell me all about it?’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Agnes was eager to offer Charlotte assistance. ‘Here we are, these are the pamphlets that Mama has sent from London. How like you, dear Char, to concern yourself with the unfortunates.’

  ‘May I?’ Charlotte took a handful of tracts and scanned one or two briefly. ‘Mmm, good gracious, I think I begin to see the drift of her interest. Fallen women? Children of shame? And what’s this? “A dissertation upon unspeakable practices among depraved young men?” ‘A momentary gleam lit her face as she wondered if Frampton had been aware of his mother’s crusading interests. Who knows, she shrugged, I dare say he would not have cared in any event.

  ‘What exactly does your mama do for these people?’ she enquired with interest. ‘I suppose I could help her distribute leaflets, collect monies raised. Indeed, I could actually help her to raise money for them, that would be diverting as well as useful.’

  She broke off in the face of Agnes’s bemused expression. ‘Well? What is it, Agnes? Have I said something peculiar?’

  ‘Oh, Char.’ Agnes smiled kindly and patted her hand. (Why will they keep doing that, Charlotte growled inwardly, as though I were a kitten to be placated?) ‘Mama doesn’t do anything about these people, she merely has the tracts sent down to her from London. You could not suppose that she would take more than an, um, intellectual interest in them. She is far too delicate and sensitive for anything such as you suggest.’

  Charlotte stared at her sister-in-law. ‘What? Mrs Richmond just looks at the leaflets and then what? Doesn’t she do anything practical for them, these fallen women and men with their unspeakable practices?’

  Agnes seemed shocked at Charlotte’s astonished scorn. ‘Well, of course, Mama does pray for them.’

  Swallowing the sarcastic rejoinder that sprang to her lips, Charlotte resolved to tackle Mrs Richmond on the subject, only to meet with the same explanation.

  ‘Do something, my dear? Good heavens.’ Mrs Richmond held up her hands in scandalized horror. ‘What could I do? Raise money for such people? How can you say such a thing, Charlotte? I would not for the world promote such degraded, dissipated individuals.’ She shuddered and the dramatic, throbbing note crept into her voice as she spoke confidentially. ‘My dear, as a married woman I can speak to you on such subjects as I cannot to Agnes. The women who lead astray innocent young men of good family are dreadful enough, and how thankful I am that neither of my own dear boys has ever given me a moment’s concern; but you might not be aware that there are other, more heinous crimes – unspeakable practices – between men.’

  Plainly mistaking Charlotte’s recoil at the older woman’s dramatic gloating Mrs Richmond nodded. ‘Yes, I thought you would be surprised,’ she said, becoming the third person that day to pat Charlotte’s unwilling hand. ‘I have only recently become aware myself of this, through these pamphlets that my brother’s friend sends me, and the thought fills me with such revulsion that sometimes I cannot speak.’

  Charlotte finally encountered the mysterious Indian one morning as she came out of the draper’s shop where she had been buying a new thimble. He came up behind her, unnoticed.

  ‘I think, madam, that you are that man’s widow?’

  ‘What?’ She jumped and turned sharply to face him. ‘I am Mrs Frampton Richmond,’ she admitted, with a wary note in her voice.

  He was tall, turbaned, with fierce moustaches. He loomed over her, cutting out the light and Charlotte edged away from him, her skirt in her hand, prepared to run if necessary.

  ‘Where is it?’ he demanded in a rapid undertone. ‘You must let me have it. It was not his to keep. Had he not died I should have killed him, to atone the disgrace he brought—’

  ‘Here? What’s this?’ Dr Perry, Mrs Richmond’s physician, intervened brusquely. Charlotte swung gladly on her heel to greet him and saw that he was staring past her, brow furrowed at the Indian gent
leman now disappearing with rapid strides towards the station.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Richmond?’

  Dr Perry took her arm and led her to a seat by the village pump. ‘What did that blackguard want with you?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’ She shook her head, dazed. ‘He wants something, and wants it urgently, but what it is I have no idea.’

  That afternoon Charlotte and Agnes worked at making up a heap of small flannel garments ready for the coming bazaar. When she had sewn up the sleeves on yet another little dress, Agnes almost snapped. ‘For pity’s sake, Char,’ she said, pursing her lips ‘Go into the village or for a walk on the hills, or something. You’ll ruin six months’ work in an afternoon if you’re not careful. What can be wrong with you?’ Almost immediately, she was moistly contrite. ‘Oh, dearest Char, do forgive me, I can’t think what came over me.’

  ‘You’re quite right to scold,’ Charlotte apologized, thrusting her needle and thread into the sewing basket. ‘I’m all a-fidget and some fresh air would do me a power of good.’

  It was the work of a moment to run upstairs, find her boots and bonnet and cloak and set off joyously towards the Tudor staircase. A happy thought struck her and she manoeuvred the two half-flights and ran along the landing.

  ‘Lady Frampton? May I take your dog for a walk?’

  ‘Prince Albert? Why, my dear, I suppose you might.’ The old lady heaved her vast bulk around in her chair and stared at Charlotte’s bright face. ‘The boot-boy takes him for a walk every morning, but I’m sure he would enjoy another, wouldn’t you, Prince Albert, dear?’

  Charlotte giggled at the lèse majesté. ‘Won’t you come too, ma’am?’ she coaxed as she lingered at the doorway. ‘The air is so clear and warm, I’m persuaded it would do you good.’

  ‘Get away with you, me girl.’ The old lady was clearly highly diverted by the irreverence. ‘I’d be out of breath before we reached ’alfway down the front stairs! Off you go and give Prince Albert a good, long run.’

  Charlotte sped lightly down the drive towards the village but hesitated at the gate. A little down the road she could clearly see the snowy turban of the strange Indian. What could it be that he was seeking? she wondered. He had called at the Manor, to be received by a puzzled Barnard, who informed his equally bemused family that the Indian had insisted on inspecting Frampton’s effects. Barnard had obliged but the Indian had left muttering what had sounded like sinister threats. As Charlotte wavered now, he evidently spotted her and hastened towards the gates.

  No, she thought. I have nothing to tell him, nothing to give him – and he makes me unaccountably afraid. He raised his hand to her. A gesture of greeting, or a threat? Casting dignity to the winds, she turned and ran, for once in agreement with her sister-in-law, Lily, in wishing for a longer carriage drive.

  ‘Such a pity, dear Mrs Richmond,’ Lily had insinuated in her most sweetly pitying tone the day before, ‘that Finchbourne Manor is so closely adjacent to the main road and the village. At Martindale, of course, our drive is over a mile long, such a boon in keeping out undesirable persons. But of course, Finchbourne cannot be compared to Martindale …’

  Charlotte grinned as she recalled her mother-in-law’s expression of disgust. It was hard not to feel sympathy when Lily came out with one of her poisonous little digs.

  ‘Indeed there can be no comparison,’ Mrs Richmond had replied in freezing accents. ‘Martindale, after all, was built a mere fifty years ago, whereas this house was built in 1520 and before that the noble Richmond family held these lands for generations right back to the days of the Saxons. An old and noble family, dear Lily, as you, alas, would not understand, has its obligations to its tenantry and relishes their proximity.’

  Magnificent! Charlotte applauded her now, feeling safer as she put more distance between her and the intruder, and headed across the garden and into the park. Lily had been temporarily routed. Agnes had confided that the mention of her family’s recent acquisition of wealth was always a sore subject to Lily. Even more painful, according to Agnes, was the thought of her stepmother’s fortune which depended unequivocally upon trade, the new chatelaine being the daughter of a Birmingham manufacturer, whose factory produced brass tubes. The worst affront of all, it appeared – and here Agnes had cast a fearful glance over her shoulder – was the existence of the lusty boy whose birth had removed all hope of Lily becoming the chatelaine, in her own right, of her beloved Martindale.

  Enough of family squabbles. Here before her were the downs. She emerged from the small ring of woodland, with its hazy drift of early bluebells, at the base of the hill, and whistled to the black and white spaniel to follow her up the chalky path. The dog capered about the green banks, now running up to her with an amiable, lop-sided grin, uttering short, happy yelps. As Prince Albert rubbed his head against her, Charlotte patted him fondly, eventually giving complete satisfaction by throwing a stick for him.

  An hour’s exercise calmed Charlotte’s restlessness and she headed for home, rounding the hill behind Finchbourne, stooping now and then to add another blossom to her nosegay of spring flowers. ‘Oof!’ She grunted with satisfaction as she spread her serviceable brown cloak on the ground and sank down, hugging her arms about her knees as she gazed out over the little place – almost a town – and the manor house nestling snugly at its edge, under the hill. ‘Look, Prince Albert! There’s home down there. Let’s have five more minutes. Aren’t you glad to be up here where a person can breathe?’

  ‘I most certainly am,’ chimed in a man’s voice in amusement. ‘But are you not being more than a little familiar in addressing His Royal Highness thus? What would our gracious queen say about that, do you suppose, Mrs Richmond?’

  She started but on turning round was pleased to recognize Mr Knightley approaching over the brow of the hill, two black retrievers at his heels, rushing to greet Prince Albert with foolish, smiling faces, tongues lolling and plumed tails wagging. She laughed as he bowed politely to the panting spaniel and she waved her hand towards her spread cloak.

  ‘Won’t you sit down, Mr Knightley?’ she offered. ‘His Royal Highness and I are far too out of breath to rise to greet you with proper ceremony, but we can offer you a comfortable seat, and there’s an unparalleled view to be had.’

  ‘It is a marvellous view, isn’t it?’ he said eagerly, sitting down. ‘You can almost see my house from here, across the heath by Cuckoo Bushes copse. I’ve loved coming up here ever since I was a small child. It was always my refuge in times of trouble.’

  ‘Oh?’ Her hazel eyes were warm with sympathy. ‘Is it a time of trouble now? Are you seeking refuge? I do hope Mrs Knightley is not feeling unwell?’

  He shrugged and shook his head.

  ‘No, I can’t say she is unwell. Unfortunately I cannot say she is well, either. Perhaps the best I can offer is that she is no more unwell than usual.’ He heaved a sigh and gazed unseeing at the view he had confessed to loving so dearly. Charlotte touched his arm with mute sympathy then, when he turned his head to look down at her hand, she withdrew it with calm composure. He continued to stare at her hands, now folded together quietly in her lap until, with a sigh, he looked away and spoke again.’She has been so brave, you know. I understand she told you a little of our trouble when you met in the church not long ago. I was surprised for she does not speak of it to anyone but myself; you must have an exceptional gift for drawing out confidences from others.’

  She demurred with a tiny shake of her head, but did not speak and he continued after a few moments of companionable silence.

  ‘She was always delicate as a girl – our families were well acquainted and I knew her as an infant – but she knew how much I desired a child and my father yearned for an heir, but not – never – at the cost of her health. If we had known …’

  He shook his head in painful exasperation. ‘Hindsight is never a profitable exercise, so what is the use. Suffice it to say that the birth of the child so damaged her that the doctor
s forbade any further attempt on pain of her death and it left her as you see her now, condemned to lie forever on a sofa except for the brief, exhausting times when she insists that she can and will walk.’

  After a moment of silent sympathy, Charlotte’s concern about Frampton’s death weighed on her, overcoming her natural reticence, and she made up her mind to speak.

  ‘Might I ask your advice?’ she said abruptly. As he gave an immediate assent she knitted her brows again then plunged into a confidence. ‘It will sound ridiculous,’ she said ruefully, ‘but I cannot shake off the feeling that there was some scandalous mystery connected with Frampton’s death.’ She explained about the mysterious Indian and related the unsettling tale of the encounter in the cathedral.

  ‘Somehow I wasn’t shocked at what that major said,’ she told Kit. ‘It seemed to tie in with the rumours that were rife in India when I left and there was that one, hastily suppressed, suggestion of murder. And do you know what is the most terrible thing about it?’ Her sense of unease deepened. ‘Since I came here to live with Frampton’s family I believe that the only person in the world who truly mourns him is his mother. The rest of the family, though they would be shocked to hear it, are all not exactly glad but certainly rather relieved that he’s dead. So, if he was murdered by his own men, perhaps the military were also relieved.’

  ‘I think you should not let the rumours distress you.’ Kit Knightley spoke definitely. ‘If there were anything of that sort you would surely have heard by now.’ He paused and seemed to choose his words with care. ‘I will agree that Frampton was not … had not the knack of attracting friendship or respect, but … it seems a damning indictment of a man.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Charlotte turned to him eagerly. ‘And yet it’s true that his family are better off without him. Barnard is now the heir and will be an excellent squire and Lily will eventually change the Richmond mausoleum into a home. And Agnes? Who knows, without Frampton to back her up, perhaps Mrs Richmond might eventually relent and allow poor Agnes to marry the curate.’ She shrugged with a slightly rueful grin as she said this. ‘I must admit, though, that I need to work on that particular problem. I’ve no real hope of Mrs Richmond’s being reasonable unless I can somehow persuade her that I’m even more indispensable than Agnes.’