Murder Most Welcome

by Slade, Nicola

  ‘No!’ She shook her head and scuttled back to bed, thoroughly chilled. Mrs Richmond was quite right: all these fancies and questions must cease. Henceforward Charlotte must play the part she had striven for, a genteel young widow of modest but comfortable means, living quietly in the country with her late husband’s family, busying herself about the house and garden, the village and the estate. There must be no more conjecture. If Frampton was indeed murdered, she must accept his death as a blessing and provide no further motive for anyone to do away with her. If she threw herself into good works and behaved with seemly dignity perhaps there would be no more little accidents or….

  At this point Charlotte gave up. If I lie here in bed, she scolded herself, I shall imagine all kinds of nonsense; it’s too early to dress and go downstairs, so I’ll read instead. If I’m reading I shan’t be able to think. She flung her shawl over her shoulders, picked up The Heir of Redclyffe, pulled a comfortable chair up to the window and buried herself in romance and drama, arming herself with a handkerchief as she bore in mind Agnes’s recommendation that the book was ‘dreadfully sad’.

  All through breakfast that morning, Charlotte kept to her resolve and entered eagerly into the plans for a late July wedding, assuring Agnes that she need wear neither black for the ceremony, nor the white figured muslin proposed by Lily as ‘sweet and suitable’.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Charlotte said robustly. ‘The amber silk you wore for the Bazaar became you admirably. I think you should wear something in a similar shade. I know your mama wishes the wedding to be a very quiet one but that does not preclude something delectable to wear, or a new bonnet for the rest of us!’

  ‘Oh, Char,’ gushed Agnes, leaping up to embrace the younger girl and to drip tears of joy onto her neck. ‘Oh, how generous you are, to put aside your own terrible grief for my sake. You must have the prettiest bonnet of all! That dark emerald becomes you so well and surely amber would suit you also.’

  ‘I can see that we shall all have to mount an expedition to Winchester, tomorrow, perhaps, so that we can go shopping.’ Mrs Richmond expertly manoeuvred her chair through the wide door of the dining-room and took her place at the head of the table, a genial smile adorning her face. ‘Good morning, Lily, Agnes. Charlotte, you look pale, my dear. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am, I had an excellent night’s sleep,’ lied Charlotte, directing a curious look at her mother-in-law. Was it fancy or was there a sceptical look on Mrs Richmond’s face as she surveyed the shadows under Charlotte’s eyes?

  ‘I am glad to hear it.’ Mrs Richmond turned her attention to Lily, who was wiping bacon grease from her lips and eyeing the potted hare and collared tongue with a lustful stare. ‘You must come on our shopping trip too, my dear. The future heir of Finchbourne must not be disgraced by his mother’s apparel.’ She turned her basilisk gaze on to Lily’s bright violet sarsenet dress with its crimson fringes and knots of pink ribbon and sighed. ‘When I said you might wear half-mourning, Lily dear, I had something a little less … vulgar, in mind.’

  Ignoring her daughter-in-law’s gobbling rage, the lady of the manor turned back to Charlotte.

  ‘I am glad to observe, Charlotte, that you have resolved to put away those foolish fancies of yours, asking silly questions and the like, and concentrate on more important matters. Perhaps you would like to take over the sewing circle? The members, all very worthy women, have asked if I would allow them to meet here now that the lady whose house they formerly used has retired from public life.’

  ‘She began taking off all her clothes,’ contributed Lily, eyes bright with malicious amusement. ‘I was in the apothecary’s myself one day when she walked in, with her skirts and petticoats heaven knows where and her bodice awry. Her husband has had to put her in the charge of a nurse, with bars on the windows, and the sewing circle has been meeting at different houses ever since. They have been hoping to find a more suitable permanent location for several months.’

  Lily’s intervention and Mrs Richmond’s subsequent scathing response allowed Charlotte to bite off the retort that sprang to her lips and to compose herself. Her avowed intention, of putting aside all her suspicions, vanished and she finished her breakfast in silence, lost in thought.

  As soon as she decently could she excused herself from the rest of the family and slipped upstairs. Outside Mrs Richmond’s room she spotted the little maid hurrying to escape from Old Nurse’s strictures.

  ‘Here!’ Charlotte beckoned. ‘In here a moment, if you please, Betty.’ She cast a wary glance around to make sure they were unobserved and pulled the girl into Henry Heavitree’s chamber. The invalid lay against his banked pillows, snoring fit to raise the dead.

  ‘I just wanted to ask you, Betty,’ Charlotte began. ‘Last night when Mrs Richmond proposed toasting Miss Agnes, did you procure the champagne from the cellar?’

  ‘Oh yes, Miss Char,’ came the answer. ‘Mrs Frampton, I should say.’

  ‘And did you pour it out? I noticed that the wine was already in the goblets when Miss Agnes and I entered the room. Did Mr Barnard pour it out?’

  ‘Oh no, miss -ma’am. Missus poured it herself while I was fetching Mr and Mrs Barnard and then you and Miss Agnes, m-ma’am. Missus let me have a sip too, but I didn’t like it, Miss Char. Them bubbles got up me nose.’

  Charlotte released the girl and stood irresolute until she was roused by a gobble from Uncle Henry.

  ‘Were you listening?’ she asked him, once she had made sure he was not asking for anything. Guttural noises and a cascade of spittle appeared to indicate an affirmative and Charlotte stared at the man in the bed. ‘But she couldn’t have set that trap on the stairs, she can’t walk …’

  Henry began to utter then the gobbling was abruptly halted. Charlotte’s narrowed hazel eyes met his bloodshot and bulging brown ones and she gasped as a thought, almost too bizarre to be articulated, entered her head. ‘She can’t walk, can she, Uncle Henry?’ she asked in a whisper.

  CHAPTER 11

  Charlotte’s household duties kept her occupied for the rest of the morning and she had little opportunity for reflection but after luncheon – the collared tongue making a reappearance followed by another cornflour shape, Cook having enjoyed the reception of her previous effort – she could no longer hold back the dark and alarming thoughts that crowded in on her.

  A longing to share her anxieties, to be less terrifyingly alone, made her think of the Knightleys. For a moment she yearned to cast herself into the comfort of Kit Knightley’s strong arms and sob out her fears so that he could make her all safe again. This longing was so strong that she shuddered as she cast it aside. That would never do, she whispered; perhaps I may lay my burden on his broad shoulders but not my head on his broad chest. The smile she attempted at this fancy petered out into a mere twist of the lips but the idea persisted. Mrs Knightley, Elaine, is the person to tell, she determined. Perhaps she could suggest some course of action if, indeed, there could be any other course than that decreed by Mrs Richmond – to forget all about it and make a new start.

  With Charlotte to think was, after due consideration, to act so she purloined Prince Albert as camouflage, jammed a straw hat on her head and set off for Knightley Hall. That gracious early Stuart house, all mellow red brick and stone mullions, lay in the direction of the heath so she and the elderly spaniel enjoyed an invigorating tramp en route. Skirting the copse known as Cuckoo Bushes, Charlotte entered the drive and, after pausing to set her hat straight and brush the dust off her skirts, she tamed her brisk marching pace to a decorous and ladylike stroll, which was most acceptable to the old dog who waddled beside her.

  ‘Mrs Knightley is unwell, madam,’ the butler told her with sincere regret, his formal tones softening at her evident distress. ‘Pray come in, Mrs Richmond, and rest for a while; I will bring some refreshment.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Kit Knightley strode into the hall from a door at the rear. ‘Good God, Charlotte! How do you do? My dear girl, co
me in, come in. What? Prince Albert? Nonsense, of course he must come too. We’ll sit out in the sun on the terrace, then His Royal Highness need not feel embarrassed.’

  With a nod to the butler, Kit ushered Charlotte and the dog out to the raised stone terrace beyond the drawing-room, where several easy chairs were placed to catch the sun.

  ‘Here you are, Char, take this chair and make yourself comfortable.’ He looked up. ‘Ah, here is some tea, and something to occupy our royal guest.’ He handed the spaniel a bone and himself set down a bowl of water while the tea things were placed in front of Charlotte together with some slices of cake and a plate of biscuits.

  ‘I’m afraid Elaine really is not well enough to see you today,’ he told her. ‘It was not a diplomatic fiction for the general public. As you know, Elaine gave instructions that you should be admitted even when that edict was in place. Today, however …’ He sighed and took a cup of tea from her with a nod of thanks. ‘She really is not well. Dr Perry says it is a symptom of her condition and that – that we must begin to expect more and more episodes such as this.’

  As she murmured her regrets and sent loving messages to Elaine, Charlotte was uncomfortably aware of Kit’s keen eyes scanning her face. Her looking glass that morning had shown her all too plainly the heavy eyes and the frown lines marking her brow, and at the news of Mrs Knightley’s indisposition, Charlotte’s shoulders slumped in disappointment, in spite of her genuine concern.

  ‘What is it, Char?’ he asked gently. ‘Don’t fob me off. I can see that you are unhappy. I believe you had come to unburden yourself to Elaine. Won’t you let me help?’

  She started to shake her head then halted and threw up her hands in that affecting gesture of hers.

  ‘I think I must,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I had made up my mind, as you say, to confide in Mrs Knightley and to ask her advice. I don’t think I can go away, back to Finchbourne, without obtaining help from somebody. If you’re sure you will not think it too great an imposition?’

  A half-smothered exclamation broke from him.

  ‘For God’s sake …’ he began, then reined in his emotion as he sat back and saw the pinched anxiety on her face. ‘Charlotte,’ he continued in a milder voice, ‘believe me, it is no imposition. I would do a great deal to help you. Now tell me what is troubling you.’

  So she told him.

  He listened in astounded silence as she outlined the circumstances of Frampton Richmond’s death and the tell-tale threads of silk, rose and black, though she thought it prudent not to mention the precious stones and the 700 guineas now tucked away in her own valise, in Will Glover’s secret compartment, or the mysterious ruby which lay in a tiny linen bag on a string round her neck.

  As he cleared his throat preparatory to speaking, she hushed him with a gesture and went on to tell him of the opportunities afforded to so many people, of entering Frampton’s room and putting an end to his life.

  Ignoring the expression of disbelief on his pleasant face, Charlotte related her own experience late at night on the staircase at Finchbourne and ended her narrative with a description of her night’s phantasms and her apprehension that she might have been drugged.

  Kit Knightley sat in stunned silence when she finished her story. Charlotte knew that in any other woman he might have suspected hysteria, or at the least, a decidedly overactive imagination. But she also knew, for he had laughingly told Barnard so, in her hearing, that Charlotte Richmond was the most level-headed, practical young woman he had ever met. He could plainly see that she was in deadly earnest. After a moment’s further consideration he asked: ‘Whom do you suspect?’

  ‘No-one … Everyone … I don’t know …’

  That night Charlotte sat up in her bed and recalled her cry of exasperation at Kit Knightley’s perfectly reasonable question.

  ‘I keep discovering new titbits of information,’ she had said. ‘That make no sense and take me no closer to an answer. Lady Walbury may have been in Frampton’s room but was she in the house the night I fell? The same applies to Colonel Fitzgibbon, but did he drug my wine or did I merely suffer a nightmare as the result of indigestion? Did Barnard kill his brother then tuck my shawl into a corner so that I could trip on it, or did I drop it myself without noticing? Mrs Richmond does not like me, nor does she wish to have any further discussion of Frampton’s death. Is that the behaviour of a criminal or a perfectly normal reaction in a woman who has lost her son? Why should an Indian gentleman haunt the village?’

  Charlotte had finished her tea and shook her head at Kit’s suggestion that she stay the night, ostensibly as companion to Elaine.

  ‘And tomorrow night?’ she asked him, rising to her feet. ‘And the next night, all the nights? And even if I had incontrovertible proof that someone, anyone, had murdered Frampton and tried to injure me, what then? I am so grateful, you cannot even begin to imagine, just how grateful I am to them all. They’ve taken me to their hearts and given me the home I always craved. Am I to turn traitor? No, I must do as Mrs Richmond says. It is good advice; I must put nonsensical fancies out of my head and get on with my life and the rest will go away. At least I can throw myself into the arrangements for Agnes’s wedding and after that everything should have settled down.’

  In spite of Kit’s demurs and, shaking her head with a smile at his offer of the carriage to take her home, Charlotte had walked briskly across the dusty heath road and set about doing what she had said she would. For the rest of the day, both before and after dinner, she sat down with Agnes and wrote out extensive lists, with some words of wisdom thrown in from Lady Frampton, a few plaintive suggestions from Mrs Richmond and some downright obstructive ideas from Lily who, it appeared, had moved seamlessly from the pale and wan stage of her condition to something even more trying.

  Charlotte’s brave words had rung hollow to herself, even though she had meant every one of them, so she thought it prudent to make certain arrangements along the lines often employed by her resourceful stepfather. ‘God helps those who help themselves’, was one of Will Glover’s favourite maxims and he had certainly lived up to its sentiment, she grimaced, but it was remarkable how very much more secure she felt now, sitting up in bed with her mother’s shawl flung around her shoulders, with a stout oak chair wedged under the door handle and a row of pottery pieces guarding the window sill. I must remember to slip out of bed very early, she reminded herself, and put everything in its right place or there will be an outcry when the chambermaid tries to come in.

  Nothing untoward disturbed her rest and in the morning Charlotte began to feel slightly ashamed of her fears and to wish that perhaps she had not unburdened herself to her neighbour. She went down to breakfast firm in her resolution to begin her life anew as a dutiful daughter-in-law, a helpful sister-in-law, a companionable granddaughter-in-law and, she fully intended, chief organizer of the approaching wedding.

  Breakfast, in contrast to her mood of determination, was depressing.

  ‘Er – what is this?’ Charlotte looked askance at the pile of pale grains in the massive silver serving dish.

  Agnes peeked over her shoulder. ‘Oh dear, Cook must have gone to a prayer meeting at chapel last night. That’s boiled hominy, Charlotte – maize, you know. It always makes an appearance when Cook has been swayed by the preacher.’ She lifted some of the lids on the silver serving dishes. ‘Oh yes, indeed, dear me, I feared as much. She’s sent us up some ox eyes too.’

  ‘What? Surely not?’ Charlotte gulped. ‘My dear Agnes, I pride myself on having a cast-iron digestion. After all, I’ve lived in places where they eat crocodile! But ox eyes?’

  Barnard intervened with a laugh.

  ‘Stop teasing her, Agnes,’ he boomed, showing his own plate to Charlotte. ‘These are ox eyes, Char – just eggs baked on rounds of bread, with some milk and a watercress trimming. They are rather well named, though, aren’t they?’

  ‘Ughh.’ Charlotte declined the delicacy and contented herself with hot buttered toast in
stead. ‘Well, Agnes, have you come to a decision about your wedding dress yet? I don’t believe you can better the amber silk suggestion, it suits you so well.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ Agnes blushed purple and would obviously have preened herself had not Lily’s scornful eyes been resting upon her. ‘Percy told me – he said, at the bazaar, that my dress was very becoming. Perhaps I should just wear that one and not go to the expense of buying another?’

  Even Lily cried out at this self-sacrifice, although her protest was revealed to contain a modicum of self-interest.

  ‘Nonsense, Agnes,’ she pronounced with a sniff. ‘Of course you must have a new dress. If you do not, how can the rest of us justify the expenditure? Naturally you must have a proper wedding dress, and I shall need something new in any case.’ She cast a coy glance at her waistline, causing Barnard to shy like a startled horse and Agnes to gasp and blush an even less attractive hue.

  ‘Well spoken, Lily,’ chimed in Lady Frampton. ‘You get the best you can, young Agnes, and I’ll give it to you as a present. What? My only granddaughter to get ’itched in an old gown, the very h’idea! And you too, Charlotte, and Lily, of course, you can put up the cost of your finery to me. Private ceremony or not, our h’Agnes must be married in prime style, none of this ’ole and corner nonsense, hey?’

  In the midst of the clamour of thanks, Hoxton had to cough twice, each time more loudly than before.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Agnes,’ he intoned sepulchrally. ‘Mrs Richmond begs me to tell you that she has important correspondence this morning and that the visit to Winchester will have to wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh.’ Agnes came down to earth then brightened as Charlotte rallied her.

  ‘Never mind, Agnes,’ she consoled. ‘We could go over to the vicarage and start packing away Uncle Henry’s belongings. I suppose he will stay here permanently now. I know Dr Perry says he is improving and I really believe he is – he almost managed to say my name last night – but he surely cannot live alone or perform any clerical duties. You can make a list of everything that you want to keep.’