Murder Most Welcome

by Slade, Nicola

  ‘Take what in?’ Charlotte demanded. ‘What is it? What has happened? Is someone ill?’

  ‘Far from it.’ Mrs Richmond’s voice was actually unsteady though not from tears. ‘Far from it,’ she repeated in a ringing tone. ‘We have glorious news, dear Charlotte. News of the utmost importance to me and to yourself, even more than to the rest of the family. We have received a letter to tell us that dear Frampton, my dearest son and your husband, dear Charlotte, that dear Frampton is alive after all and is returning home shortly!’

  CHAPTER 4

  Charlotte lay rigidly awake in her bed that night. If I refuse to think about it, she told herself fiercely, it will go away, it won’t have happened.

  Oh God! It was no use. She sat up and draped a shawl round her slim shoulders in a vain attempt to drive away the bitter chill that enveloped her and which had assailed her from the moment when Mrs Richmond trumpeted her appalling, catastrophic news.

  He cannot be alive, it cannot be true. She repeated the words over and over, as a charm against evil, as a prayer, as a railing against the mockery of fate.

  She had known she was being a fool. For the first time in my life, she agonized, for the very first time, I am comfortable, I am respectable and I am settled. I’m even in a fair way to finding affection – from Agnes and Lady Frampton and after a fashion from Barnard. Even Lily – oh God, poor Lily – even she had begun to be less implacably opposed to Charlotte once she was officially installed as the bearer of the heir to the sacred name of Richmond. Charlotte’s mind shuddered away from a thought too terrible to contemplate and she continued to enumerate her friends at Finchbourne in an attempt to stave off nightmares. Mrs Richmond, she gabbled furiously, even Mrs Richmond seemed to have accepted her as an inoffensive member of the family. Once or twice she had even managed to win approval.

  The village, too, and the surrounding gentry. I like them so much but I’m a fool, she thought bitterly, brushing the scalding tears from her eyes. Fool to be lulled into such a false contentment. She had no right to such a place in society. Born and bred a pariah, she should never have believed she could usurp the privileges of these people, of this lovely, ancient house and this increasingly beloved little town that felt so insidiously like home.

  The evening had become a nightmare.

  ‘Captured by the mutineers …’

  ‘Wounded near to death …’

  ‘Lost his memory, poor old Framp …’

  ‘Wandering hither and yon not knowing who or what he was …’

  The babble of voices each clamouring for her attention, to be the first to explain what had occurred, made her head throb with such pain that she could hardly take in what they said.

  With a touch of that sympathy she had glimpsed once or twice, Barnard silenced the rest of them by the simple method of shouting them down.

  ‘For pity’s sake,’ he thundered. ‘The poor girl cannot make head or tail of all your babbling. Here, Charlotte, come and sit down beside Grandmama, that’s right. Agnes? A glass of brandy, that’s a good girl, and better make it a large one.’

  Charlotte let herself be put in a chair beside Lady Frampton, who reached out and took the suddenly chilled, slim brown hand in her own sausage fingers.

  ‘That’s better,’ approved Barnard and he sat down on a chair at Charlotte’s other side. ‘Now, let me tell her. As we understand the matter, Charlotte, Frampton was not killed in that ambush, he was abducted by some of the damned mutineers. Either that or, having been left for dead, he was carried off to one of their villages. The letter is not clear on the subject but no doubt we shall find out soon enough.

  ‘At any rate, Frampton seems to have sustained some injury to his head and he lost his memory. It appears he managed to escape his captors in some manner and wandered off, luckily in the direction of the coast. In some fashion he seems to have boarded a ship headed for home and is even now on his way. The letter was forwarded from Marseilles.’

  He patted her hand kindly as Charlotte sat pale and horrified, unable to move.

  ‘Is he – is he completely recovered?’

  When at last she could bring herself to speak, her voice was harsh and strained.

  ‘Not entirely.’ Mrs Richmond could bear no longer not to be centre stage. ‘There is some lingering loss of memory, apparently, also some recurrent fever, and my poor, dear boy requires the services of the male companion whom he most fortuitously met on board the ship, and who will be accompanying him home to Finchbourne.’

  ‘A – a male companion?’

  Involuntarily Charlotte glanced at Barnard Richmond, who caught her eye for a moment then looked uncomfortably down at his boots. So his brother did know about Frampton after all.

  ‘It seems that this young man, Mr Lancelot Dawkins, was briefly employed in the Indian Civil Service.’ Mrs Richmond continued her explanation. ‘His health had suffered greatly in the unforgiving climate and he was most reluctantly returning home when he encountered dear Frampton on the ship and was able to be of service to him.’

  Stunned though she was by the news of Frampton’s escape, Charlotte could not help wondering how Mrs Richmond, with her fanatical hatred of “the abominations and perversions of degraded persons”, would react to this male companion of Frampton’s. Surely even his mother must come to recognize that there might be something other than mere manly fellowship between them? Especially, she reflected, if young Mr Dawkins resembled, in any fashion, the young man who had been Frampton’s favourite in Meerut. Yes, she thought, even Mrs Richmond would have found something unusual in that creature’s behaviour – a perfect candidate for her crusading zeal. Especially, she bit her lip, if he drenched himself in floral scent and painted his face as that other young man had done.

  She came to herself to see Mrs Richmond apply the ever-present wisp of lace and lawn to her brimming eyes, and then continue with a happy smile.

  ‘Ah me! You must all forgive the foolish tears of a mother who has been granted the dearest wish of her poor old heart! As I was saying, Mr Lancelot Dawkins and my dearest boy struck up a friendship and Mr Dawkins, being so conveniently placed, is to accompany my boy home to Finchbourne and to act as his companion, his secretary, and in some sense, his nurse.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’ The words were out of Charlotte’s mouth before she could stop them.

  ‘Charlotte?’

  ‘Thank God, I mean.’ She struggled to cover her indiscretion. ‘I mean, dear Mrs Richmond, that we must thank God for this deliverance.’

  Mrs Richmond accepted the explanation with a nod of satisfaction, no doubt reflecting that, at last, dear Charlotte appeared to be feeling just as she ought.

  ‘Just fancy, dear Charlotte, you may even yet become the mother of the heir to Finchbourne!’

  Her gloating was interrupted firstly by a swiftly muffled outcry from Lily and secondly by Charlotte herself as she rose abruptly from her chair and stumbled towards the door.

  ‘Why? What is it, dear child?’

  ‘I’m going to be sick.’ The words broke abruptly from Charlotte as she ran from the room, scarcely pausing to ward off an advance from Agnes. ‘No! Leave me alone, Agnes, please, I want to be on my own.’

  In the safety of her own room, Charlotte’s nausea gradually subsided. No use being sick, she told herself, that won’t make it any better. Oh God, please don’t let him want anything of me when he returns. Let him stay an invalid, let him set up home with Mr Lancelot Dawkins, anything. But don’t let him anywhere near me. Let me continue to have this room, at least, as sanctuary, though all else is changed.

  You’ve certainly got your just deserts, haven’t you, Charlotte? an inner voice mocked. You married him for his name and his money and to get out of India.

  What else was I to do, she retorted in angry response to that prick of conscience. A young unmarried woman in the middle of a war? And Frampton had only married her because his colonel offered him a stark choice: leave the army of your own free will, s
tay and be cashiered in disgrace, or marry to protect your own name and that of the regiment. It was a marriage of convenience for both of them.

  It wasn’t so convenient, though, was it, the voice mocked, not once the ring was on your finger and the major’s crowns on his shoulder.

  Charlotte shuddered at the recollection of that last night, before the regiment was ordered to march.

  He had lounged into her room late at night, without knocking, as she brushed her hair before the looking glass.

  ‘What’s this, Mrs Richmond? No doting smile for your gallant husband off to the war?’

  She had forced herself to respond with a wary smile. The brandy fumes had preceded him into the room; he was very drunk. He ranged about the room picking up a trinket here, a book there; only when he kicked off his boots and began to unbuckle his belt did she dare to make a protest.

  ‘But … you said you wouldn’t … that there was no question …’

  ‘I know what I said,’ he threw at her as he swayed before her, clad only in his shirt and drawers.

  ‘But – but I didn’t think you … I thought you didn’t like—’

  ‘I know what I like,’ he mocked her, and she noticed with abhorrence the sudden brightening of his eyes as he appraised her angular figure. ‘But you, my dear new wife, you are more like a boy than a woman. Not a spare ounce of fat on you.’

  Now, months later, Charlotte lay back against the lace-trimmed linen pillows, staring round her dainty blue bedroom, sanctuary in the rambling old house in England, and realized that her whole body was tense and rigid as the memories assailed her.

  ‘I’ll kill him,’ she vowed through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll kill him if he touches me again.’

  After the excitement of the previous night, the household awoke to a sense of anticlimax.

  ‘You are looking very pale, dear Charlotte.’ Agnes was noisily solicitous as she hovered around the newly unmade widow. ‘You should have stayed in bed. Why don’t you return to your room now, dearest. It will be no trouble to bring you some breakfast.’

  ‘No, please …’

  ‘Stop fussing, Agnes.’ The welcome interruption came abruptly from Lady Frampton who was herself looking pale and anxious today. ‘Charlotte knows she can stay in bed if she likes. Just let the girl be – she has troubles enough to bear and worse to come.’

  Charlotte raised her ravaged face to look in surprise at the old woman. Lady Frampton waddled over to her and patted her hand with clumsy kindness, wearing the ferocious expression which, as Charlotte had come to recognize, was a fruitless attempt to conceal a warm heart.

  ‘There, there, my dear,’ was all the old lady said at first, then, when Charlotte, unexpectedly comforted, was struggling to swallow a cup of tea, Lady Frampton added a whispered aside.

  ‘If it comes to it, my girl, I’ll stand by you, never fear.’

  For Charlotte the next few days were an echo of that one, long hours of sleepless anxiety at night followed by having to suffer the incessant gloating of Mrs Richmond as she read and reread the fateful letter, exclaiming again and again at the intervention of providence and complaining yet more frequently about the negligence offered to her by Colonel Fitzgibbon in making no attempt to comfort her, either in her recent sorrow or now, in her triumphant joy.

  As if in mockery the weather was now glorious and Charlotte spent as much time as possible out of doors, striding across the downs oblivious of the beauties of the countryside, or galloping across those same hills on the grey mare Barnard had offered her for her own use when he saw what an accomplished horsewoman she was. To Agnes’s loudly proclaimed distress, Charlotte grew thinner, almost daily, and the mischief and healthy glow that was her chief attraction disappeared, to be replaced by a gaunt apprehension that brought a ferocious scowl to Kit Knightley’s usually pleasant face when he glimpsed her briefly in the village.

  I’m not the only one who is afraid, Charlotte told herself as she knelt in anguished prayer, while Henry Heavitree thundered and ranted in the pulpit above. Barnard is riding about the estate with the face of a dying man, who knows that paradise will not be his after all. Lily is in a state of simmering rage and refuses to speak to me and Agnes is running off at intervals to sob about the curate. Even the Reverend Henry is apprehensive about Frampton’s impending arrival. Indeed, the sermon ringing around the hallowed walls contained darkling references to the despoilers and barbarians who would soon be amongst the congregation, casting aside the cherished high church tradition of Finchbourne only to replace it with pusillanimous nonconformism.

  That was a jibe at Frampton, a warning shot even before his arrival, that Henry would brook no interference from his nephew, whose low church opinions were anathema to the old monster. A reluctant chuckle almost escaped Charlotte, in spite of her despair. It would be a battle worth witnessing, she thought, and surely one that Henry would win hands down, so why did he wear such a look of apprehension these days?

  That Lady Frampton was afraid of her grandson’s homecoming was evident but it was some days before Charlotte discovered the reason.

  ‘His Royal Highness is losing weight,’ Charlotte announced when she returned the amiable spaniel to his mistress’s room one afternoon. ‘He and I have taken such long walks these last few days that we are both becoming shadows of our former selves.’

  Instead of the laughing reply she had come to expect of the old lady, there was a flat silence and, glancing up from the floor where she was sitting to rub down the dog, she saw difficult tears trickling down the wrinkled cheeks.

  ‘Oh, Grandmama, dearest Gran, what is it?’ The endearment was involuntary and the old woman summoned up a smile of gratification even in the midst of her distress as she reached out a hand to the girl.

  ‘He don’t like Prince Albert, dearie,’ came the broken whisper. ‘I don’t know what he’ll do …’

  ‘Oh no!’ The cry rang out sharp and shrill as Charlotte flung her arms round the stout old shoulders. ‘He wouldn’t …’ She scanned the other woman’s face and gasped in disbelief. ‘You really are afraid that Frampton might … But Mrs Richmond would not allow it, surely?’

  ‘Fanny?’ It was the ghost of a smile. ‘Fanny will allow ’er returning ’ero anything he desires, me dear, and to be frank, I think she would leap at the chance of putting me out to grass. Besides, she don’t really like dogs or indeed any h’animal apart from ’orses. She only tolerates Prince Albert as long as I keep ’im out of ’er way, but if Frampton says the word, she’ll ’ave poor Albert shot!’

  ‘We shall have to stand together,’ determined Charlotte, oddly heartened by the necessity of appearing strong in someone else’s eyes. ‘There must be some way to outwit him. Perhaps we might run away to the colonies?’

  ‘Per’aps pigs might fly, girl!’ The old woman wiped her eyes as she snorted in amused disgust, but her colour was improved and her eyes brightened. ‘There now, if you ’aven’t made me feel better. And you’re right, if worst comes to worst, I’ve plenty of money, we can run away to h’Australia and set up ’ouse, you, me and Prince Albert; then the neighbours will talk and the scandal would just about kill Fanny, serve ’er right.’

  At noon the next day Lady Frampton cleared her throat in a portentous manner and addressed her daughter-in-law.

  ‘I shall be going to Winchester today, Fanny,’ she announced. ‘So I shall need the carriage after luncheon. I ’ave some calls to make and I daresay Charlotte would like to accompany me, what do you say, my girl? That’s right. Now, don’t you commence to worry, Fanny, we’ll be out for our dinner.’

  Charlotte recognized that a challenge had been laid down. Lady Frampton’s complexion, always high, now resembled a marbled slab of well-hung beef, while Mrs Richmond flushed first with annoyance, then leaned back with a hand to her head and a sigh of resignation.

  ‘Certainly, ma’am.’ Her plaintive, die-away voice was almost inaudible. ‘I must suppose that poor Charlotte – a young woman who has gone
so suddenly from deepest mourning to such transports of emotion as to render even the strongest character incapable of exertion – may find it in her heart to feel sufficiently charitable to humour the frivolous whims of an elderly and increasingly erratic relative. For myself, I plan to spend the early part of the afternoon in the church, thanking God for my deliverance from grief, and the latter hours laid upon my couch. Well for you, ma’am, and Charlotte too, that you have so much blunter sensibilities than I.’

  Within a surprisingly short time Charlotte and Lady Frampton were seated companionably in the carriage and bowling down the Manor drive.

  ‘Phew!’ Lady Frampton sighed gustily. ‘For a moment I thought I hadn’t brought it off. Fanny can be very tricky you know, my dear. You were lucky she didn’t decide you h’ought to be on your knees in the church beside her, and dancing h’attendance beside ’er couch. Even when she’s off ’er ’ead with joy, she don’t approve of anyone else ’aving any fun!’

  In spite of the agonized worrying which had given her yet another sleepless night, manifest in her heavy, shadowed eyes, Charlotte managed an expectant grin at the old lady.

  ‘Fun? Are we going to have fun?’

  ‘Indeed we are.’ Lady Frampton nodded, while rummaging in her capacious black velvet reticule. ‘I can only support life with Fanny if I gets to h’escape regular and if that young devil’s coming home … Well, never mind. Where did I put those teeth of mine? They’re in here somewhere.’

  ‘Teeth, ma’am?’ Anxiety fled for a moment as Charlotte stared with frank curiosity. As far as she could see Lady Frampton was in possession of a full complement of monumental teeth, firmly in her mouth, and certainly not in her handbag.

  ‘What? What’s that you say? Oh, not these, girl. These teeth are my everyday ones, good enough for the slops Fanny serves us during the day, though I usually changes them of an evening.’ She withdrew her hand from the bag with a crow of triumph. ‘See these ’ere? These are what I need for serious eating.’