by Blythe Baker
“Why is it best to avoid Mr. Matcham?” I whispered. The man had obviously offended everyone by bragging of his wealth in the sitting room, but it seemed as though there had been a negative opinion of him from the moment of his arrival, and I wanted to understand why.
Lady Ashton looked around sharply to be sure we weren’t being overheard. “His fortune was made through gambling and speculation. He speaks of his business prowess, but the man runs with an unsavory crowd and does little to hide it.”
“Why was he invited here this weekend?” I asked.
Lady Ashton sighed. “As much as we may have wanted to lose his invitation in the post, it felt wrong to invite our other neighbors without extending the courtesy to Mr. Matcham, as well. He is often out of town on business or unable to attend, but his schedule was open this weekend.”
“The things one does in the name of etiquette,” I said.
Lady Ashton laughed quietly. “Yes, indeed.”
As soon as dessert was finished, the gentlemen move to the drawing room under the pretense of an after-dinner smoke. However, when the ladies joined them several minutes later, a game of cards seemed to have been the true purpose. Mr. Matcham, Charles Barry, Edward, and Lord Ashton were all gathered around a small table in the corner, hunched over as if they could block their activity from the eyes of the encroaching ladies.
“You are not turning our respectable home into a place of gambling and debauchery, are you, my dear?” Lady Ashton asked her husband. Her words were playful, but her eyes focused pointedly on Mr. Matcham.
“Never, darling,” Lord Ashton responded, eliciting a chuckle from the men.
Mr. Worthing had apparently decided to skip the game of cards and he spoke up to quell Lady Ashton’s worries. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the gentlemen for you. I won’t let things get out of hand.”
Lady Ashton gave him a genuine smile in return.
“You are all of fine breeding,” Mr. Matcham said loudly, holding his hand of cards against his chest. “I suspect your tolerance for debauchery is much lower than mine.”
“Are you not of fine breeding, as well?” Lady Ashton asked, head quirked to the side.
“Not as fine as some,” Mr. Matcham responded, his mouth pulled up in a satisfied smirk.
It was difficult to read the tension between my aunt and her guest, but it was clear each knew of the other’s dislike for them, which led me to wonder whether someone in my own family couldn’t be the murderer. I tried to imagine Lady Ashton killing Mr. Matcham over his poor reputation or the subtle disrespect he’d shown her, but the image wouldn’t come. She was a gentle woman and could not be capable of something so heinous.
Lady Ashton laughed and took a seat on the sofa, patting the cushion next to her for me to claim. “I suppose we all could say the same, Mr. Matcham.”
“Quite true,” Charles said, smiling broadly at Catherine as she entered. “Social class hardly matters when you consider we are all beneath someone else.”
I didn’t know Charles and Vivian well enough to have any idea of their fortune or standing in society, but I could hazard a guess and assumed they were not as well off as the Beckinghams. This discrepancy in their social standing was most likely the inspiration behind Charles’s statement. Anyone with eyes could see he found it difficult to tear his away from Catherine. Unfortunately for Charles, anyone with eyes could also see Catherine did not have any for him.
“That idea only works when you are in good company, brother,” Vivian said, moving along the outer edge of the room until she came to stand behind Edward’s chair. She placed her hands lightly on the wood back of it, her fingers hovering over his shoulders. “In many areas of London, social class matters a great deal. We are all lower than someone, but some are lower than everyone.”
Edward hunched forward over the card table, and Vivian frowned and folded her hands behind her back. I glanced at the Worthings to see whether all the talk of social class was making them uncomfortable, but they were both busy examining a painted porcelain dish at the center of a low table nearby and weren’t paying any mind to the conversation at all.
“You’ve put in too much money, Matcham,” Edward said.
“Have I?” he asked. “I didn’t realize we’d set a limit.”
“There is always a limit in friendly games.” Edward’s dark eyes were narrowed, his hair curling down onto his forehead and casting a long shadow down his cheeks.
“If you are not comfortable with the amount then I can take it back,” Mr. Matcham said, hand hovering over the center of the table. Then, his voice lowered. “I wouldn’t want to make anyone financially uneasy.”
Edward sat up straight and shook his head. “No, I’m fine. I just didn’t want you to risk more than you could handle.”
The game continued, the gentlemen becoming considerably more tense with each passing hand. Charles’ pale face turned a nasty shade of red and Lord Ashton seemed to be in a war between his good judgment and supporting his only son—I suspected he would have bowed out of the game much sooner had Edward not been playing.
Lady Ashton did her best to steer the party’s attention to talk of more cheerful things.
“Haven’t you found this summer to be one of the loveliest in recent memory, Lady Harwood?”
The old woman was sitting near the unlit fireplace, a blanket wrapped around her legs. She shook her head before Lady Ashton had even finished her sentence. “The heat gives me splitting headaches and my joints ache.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Lady Ashton said, recovering quickly. “I thought it was the cold that usually disrupted joints.”
“Both heat and cold can cause aches when you are as old as I am,” she said sourly. “Dr. Shaw, I think I’d like to go to my room now.”
The doctor had just sat down after adjusting her blanket, so it wouldn’t cover her feet and “stifle” her, but he dutifully stood back up and rolled her out of the room and down the hallway. Lady Harwood had been given a room on the ground floor because of her wheelchair, and she had requested that Dr. Shaw take the room just next door in case she should need him in the night.
“Thank you for a pleasant evening,” Dr. Shaw said.
“Goodnight,” Lady Ashton called. “Breakfast will be at seven, and we all take it together in the dining room.”
No sooner had the old woman and her doctor disappeared around the corner, than the card table erupted in shouts.
“You cheated!”
“I’ve won!”
“Liar!”
All the men at the table, save for Mr. Matcham, had risen to their feet. They were breathing heavily and staring down at the man with narrowed eyes and closed fists. If I was Mr. Matcham, I would have been quite uncomfortable, but he looked perfectly at ease.
“Good game, fellows,” he said, sweeping the money in the center of the table towards himself.
“This isn’t…right,” Charles stuttered.
Edward’s upper lip was pulled back in a snarl. “You’re a cheat. A no-good cheat.”
“A no-good cheat?” Mr. Matcham repeated, a hint of pleasure in his tone. “I’d always considered myself a very good cheat.”
“Matcham,” Lord Ashton warned, placing his hand on his son’s chest to keep him from lunging across the table at the man.
“I’m only joking, Ashton. You saw the game. I didn’t cheat,” Mr. Matcham said as he gathered his winnings and stood up. I’d almost forgotten how tall Mr. Matcham was, but now that the men at the table looked to be preparing for a fight, I couldn’t help but notice how he towered over the others.
“Of course he didn’t cheat.” Catherine had grabbed a book from the shelf and taken a seat in the corner of the room as soon as she entered. I’d suspected the entire evening that she wasn’t reading so much as she was giving off the appearance of reading to avoid a conversation with Charles Barry. Now, she closed the book and left it on the chair where she’d been sitting as she crossed the room to stand behind
Mr. Matcham, facing off against her own father and brother. “We are all friends here. Why would he cheat?”
“Catherine, stay out of this,” Edward snapped.
“Mr. Matcham is our friend, brother, and has been for many years. You owe him an apology.”
Edward looked prepared to break the table over his knee and hit Mr. Matcham on the head with the pieces.
“I don’t wish to offend you, dear Catherine, but you did not have a good vantage point from that chair in the corner,” Charles Barry said, surprising everyone, Catherine included.
“If my winning has upset you all, then I will gladly return your money,” Mr. Matcham said as he tucked his winnings even more snuggly inside the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “I was under the belief that everyone was betting only what they could afford to lose. If that isn’t the case, I’d hate to be the reason anyone faced financial discomfort.”
Mr. Matcham was a clever man. If anyone accepted their money back now, they would have to admit to being in dire financial straits, and that was something no one, especially in present company, would want to admit to.
“I think Mr. Worthing and I will head upstairs now,” Mrs. Worthing said uncomfortably, hauling Mr. Worthing out of his chair by his elbow.
“Perhaps we should all retire,” Lady Ashton said, shooting a sharp look at her husband. “It has been a long day.”
The men at the table continued to stare at one another, and it was clear the situation would either dissolve or come to blows. Everyone in the room waited on baited breath to see which one it would be. Finally, Lord Ashton sighed and stepped away from the table. “Yes, it is getting late. It would be best for us all to get some sleep after our day of travel.”
Edward snapped his head towards his father, a look of betrayal in his eyes. Just as quickly as it appeared, he wiped it away, returning his face to one of cool indifference. “Goodnight, everyone. Sorry if I played any part in ruining your evening.”
Mrs. Worthing laughed and took several more stumbling steps towards the door. “Nonsense. No one’s evening was ruined.”
“Of course, not,” Lady Ashton said.
Charles took a long look at Catherine and deflated when she stood resolutely behind Mr. Matcham’s chair, avoiding his gaze. “Shall we turn in, as well, Vivian?”
Charles stepped out from behind the card table and linked arms with his sister.
Lord Ashton, satisfied the situation was under control, offered Lady Ashton a hand to escort her upstairs for the evening. Everyone else followed suit, heading for the wide doorway that opened into the entrance hall.
Just as my feet touched the bottom of the staircase, I heard a chuckle from the room behind me. I turned to see Mr. Matcham leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. When he saw he had my attention, he winked. “Don’t worry, Miss Beckingham. Tempers will have cooled by morning. Everything will be better tomorrow.”
Not sure what to say, I gave the man a smile and followed my family up to the next floor. Once inside my room, I locked the door behind me. I could only hope everyone else in the house had the good sense to do the same.
8
Lady Ashton had announced the night before when breakfast would start, but her guests apparently took no notice. Myself and the immediate Beckingham family were all sitting at the table, surrounded by platters of food brought out by a pair of male servants, but the seats reserved for each of the guests sat empty.
I wondered whether everyone had slept as restlessly as I had. I’d tossed and turned all night, imagining I heard footsteps in the hallway, my doorknob turning slowly. I saw looming figures in every shadow in my room and had to throw the curtains wide to illuminate the room with moonlight. When I wasn’t concerned for my own safety, I had my ear pressed to the door, trying to decide which, if any, of the guests at Ridgewick Hall could be the murderer’s victim.
Seeing the Ashton family assembled at the table was a welcome sight. It meant they had all survived the night.
“Did I miss anything last night?” Alice asked grumpily. Her mother had sent her to bed after dinner, which with the chaos that erupted, had proven to be a good decision.
“Not a thing,” Edward said coolly.
It appeared Mr. Matcham was wrong about tempers cooling overnight. Edward looked just as angry as he had when he’d gone to bed.
“Just boring adult conversation,” Lord Ashton said.
Alice mumbled under her breath about being nearly an adult, but no one heard her as the Worthings came downstairs and entered the dining room. Mr. Worthing was remarking on the fine craftsmanship of the banisters and Mrs. Worthing was asking whether her dress had zipped up all the way in the back.
Lady Ashton hid an amused smile. Just as I had aboard the RMS Star of India, I knew Lady Ashton was finding herself smitten with the older couple. Despite their faults and clumsy social graces, they were undeniably charming.
“How did you both sleep?” Lord Ashton asked as the couple came into the dining room.
“Quite well. My bed was remarkably comfortable,” Mrs. Worthing said. “Like sleeping on a cloud.”
No sooner had the Worthings taken their seats than Lady Harwood and Dr. Shaw appeared from the side hallway. Lord Ashton asked Lady Harwood the same question but received a much different response.
“Not well,” she said, shaking her head, her cold eyes looking towards the ceiling. “Not well at all. I spent most of the night in a fever of some kind. Dr. Shaw had to apply cool rags to my forehead.”
Now that Lady Harwood mentioned it, Dr. Shaw looked haggard. Dark circles pooled under his eyes and his cheeks hung from his bones like wet sheets over a line.
As Lady Ashton attended to Lady Harwood, letting the old woman complain about her aches and pains, giving Dr. Shaw a much-needed break, the Barry siblings strolled through the door, arm in arm as always.
“Good morning, everyone,” Charles greeted us cheerily, seeming to have shrugged off the botched card game of the night before in a way Edward had not. “Sorry we are late. Did everyone sleep well?”
There was a mumbled response.
“And you, Catherine?” he asked, claiming the seat next to my cousin. “Did you sleep well?”
Catherine quickly filled her mouth with a forkful of fresh fruit and then smiled at him, nodding her head.
I couldn’t understand Catherine’s complete dismissal of Charles Barry. He was a cheerful man, certainly, and Catherine had always been more on the cynical side, but he came from a good family and seemed to be affable, at the very least. And I knew many women, myself included, who would find him quite handsome.
Lord Ashton clapped his hands, quieting the conversations at the table. “Well, we are still short one guest, but I’m sure Mr. Matcham wouldn’t mind if we began without him.”
Breakfast was a full English. Two eggs with round yellow yolks in the center, two links of sausage, crispy toast with generous dollops of butter, baked beans, and seasoned slices of tomato that Lady Ashton announced were taken from the estate’s own garden. Very little conversation happened over breakfast. Everyone was much too busy eating and refilling their plates. I’d had a nervous stomach all morning, but even I couldn’t resist the salty, savory scent of the food before me.
It wasn’t until breakfast was winding down that anyone made mention of Mr. Matcham again.
“Should someone go and knock on his door?” Mrs. Worthing asked, already nudging her husband to volunteer.
“I’m sure he’ll come down when he is ready,” Charles said.
“He’s probably counting his money,” Edward mumbled just loud enough for myself and Lady Ashton to hear him. She gave her son a stern look and then smiled at her husband.
“Perhaps we ought to send a servant to make sure he is awake,” she suggested. “I’d hate for his breakfast to get cold.”
Before Lord Ashton could respond, Lady Harwood coughed violently and then shook her head. “Perhaps Mr. Matcham came down with the same ill
ness that plagued me last night. If that is the case, Dr. Shaw ought to go up and check on him.”
“I’d be happy to look in on him,” Catherine said quickly.
Lord Ashton shook his head at his daughter, even as Lady Harwood froze her with one withering glare.
Dr. Shaw knew his employer had won the argument and dutifully stood and marched out of the room.
“I hope Mr. Matcham isn’t ill,” Lady Ashton said after several long seconds of silence.
“I hope it isn’t contagious,” Edward mumbled.
I hoped Edward wouldn’t be in a dark mood all weekend because of the card game. Why would he choose to gamble if he didn’t want to lose any money?
When Dr. Shaw’s absence stretched unexpectedly long, Lady Ashton made some joke about Mr. Matcham being a heavy sleeper.
A few more minutes passed and then echoing sounds reached the dining room, the drumming of heavy, pounding footsteps moving down the staircase at a startling speed, as if the doctor were running.
Everyone at the table exchanged glances at the sound of the frantic approach, as if we all sensed something was wrong. My aunt was the first one to stand up and make her way into the entrance hall.
By the time I stood from my seat and hurried out of the dining room after her, Dr. Shaw was already reaching the foot of the stairs. His face had turned a sickly shade of yellow except for rosy splotches across his cheeks from his sprint down the stairs. He came to a sliding stop on the tile floor of the entrance hall, his chest heaving with exertion, and shouted.
“HE’S DEAD!”
I hadn’t even contemplated the idea that Mr. Matcham could be the murder victim the Chess Master had warned me about. He was a large man, both tall and wide, and he looked like someone who had been in his fair share of fights. If I were a murderer, he would have been my absolute last choice of victim. So, when Mr. Matcham failed to show up for breakfast, I had simply thought he’d chosen to sleep in. Or, rather, to avoid the men he had cheated out of money the evening before. Murder had been the last thought in my mind.