by Blythe Baker
There was a collective gasp from the other guests who had clustered behind me and then the room froze, everyone waiting for someone else to make the first move.
“Get your medical bag,” Lady Harwood shouted, pointing at Dr. Shaw.
The man seemed to remember all at once that he was a doctor, and he disappeared down the long hallway only to return with a large black bag beating against his calf. He didn’t stop in the entrance hall but ran straight up the stairs and pounded back down the hallway. This time, I followed him.
Lord and Lady Ashton were just behind me. Lord Ashton said something about the ladies not seeing the body, but I didn’t listen. I had to see Mr. Matcham. If he was the victim the Chess Master had referred to, I had to solve the case. I had to discover who the murderer was. If I couldn’t stop the murder from happening, at least I could gain the promised reward.
Dr. Shaw disappeared inside Mr. Matcham’s open door as I reached the top of the stairs. I moved down the hallway slowly, both wanting and not wanting to make it to Mr. Matcham’s door. I’d seen enough dead bodies in the preceding months to last me a lifetime. Several lifetimes, in fact. But still, I would have to see one more.
The curtains were drawn tightly and Mr. Matcham looked as if he could have been sleeping, as I pushed the door open and stepped into the room. Except, Mr. Matcham would not be rousing from this slumber. As I got closer, his lips were circled in a shade of icy blue that matched his hands, which were folded on top of the blankets. He looked perfectly arranged. No apparent signs of a fight or a struggle.
Dr. Shaw placed a stethoscope to Mr. Matcham’s chest in the name of being thorough and shook his head when he heard nothing.
“How long has he been dead?” Lady Ashton asked from near the door. I hadn’t heard her or Lord Ashton walk in behind me.
Dr. Shaw touched the back of his hand to Mr. Matcham’s cheek. “A few hours, maybe longer. He’s completely cold.”
I noticed Lady Ashton didn’t ask how Mr. Matcham died, so I did.
“It’s hard to say,” Dr. Shaw said, the nerves I saw in the entrance hall fading into routine. He had seen considerably more dead bodies than I had, I’d wager. Mr. Matcham had turned from a fallen guest to a patient. “No wounds, his eyes are not bloodshot, and nothing looked out of the ordinary when I arrived.”
“Are you ruling out foul play?” I asked.
He nodded. “I believe so. If I had to guess, I’d say this was a violent heart attack. It killed him suddenly.”
“Isn’t he a little young for a heart attack?” I asked.
“He led a rough lifestyle,” Lady Ashton said. “Drinking, and there were rumors of dangerous drugs. Would that contribute to an early heart attack, Doctor?”
“It could,” Dr. Shaw said. “It can also run in a family. Do either of you know anything about his parents?”
“Nothing,” Lord Ashton said, wrapping his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “He has been our neighbor for years, but we were not friendly. Of course, we invited him to the estate this weekend, but we extended an invitation to all of the neighbors. It was a courtesy. I suppose we should call the police, shouldn’t we? Someone should know this has happened.”
I couldn’t remember ever hearing Lord Ashton so flustered. His eyes were darting back and forth and he just kept talking.
“I’ve already told Burton to telephone the police,” Edward said, interrupting his father’s ramble and making everyone in the room jump at his entrance.
I assumed the “Burton” he spoke of was the head butler, a stout, white-haired servant I’d seen around the house.
When Edward saw Mr. Matcham, his face went pale. “So, it’s true, then?”
“I’m afraid so,” Dr. Shaw said. “A suspected heart attack.”
I stepped closer to the bed, knowing I wouldn’t have another opportunity once the authorities arrived. Dr. Shaw was right. There didn’t appear to be a single sign of struggle. No bruising or scratches. No defensive wounds. Even with the Chess Master’s warning flashing in my mind, I had to wonder whether Mr. Matcham’s death wasn’t a coincidence. I studied his lifeless face and trailed my gaze down each of his arms before I noticed the tiniest inconsistency on his otherwise perfect skin. A small prick near his wrist.
“What is that mark from?” I asked, pointing towards his arm, careful not to touch him.
Dr. Shaw leaned in closer and squinted. “It looks like a type of insect bite.”
“That would make sense,” Edward said. “We were outside a good deal yesterday.”
“It seems to be the only one on his entire body,” I said. “And I don’t have any similar bites on mine.”
“I’ll be sure to point it out to the authorities when they arrive,” Dr. Shaw said. “Perhaps, we should clear the room until then.”
I nodded, content with Dr. Shaw’s answer. The authorities would know whether the mark was anything to be concerned about. Their response would tell me whether this was the murder I was meant to solve or whether there would be yet another before the weekend was out.
9
Catherine had been a mess since the moment we’d returned downstairs with confirmation that Mr. Matcham was deceased.
“How did he die? When? Did he suffer?” she asked, alternating between pacing the length of the dining room and collapsing down into the chair Mr. Matcham would have sat in if he’d made it to breakfast.
Dr. Shaw relayed all the information he had but kept insisting that everyone should wait for the authorities.
“Do you believe Mr. Matcham was murdered?” I asked, unable to stop myself.
Not until I saw the startled expressions of everyone around me did I realize this was an abnormal assumption to leap to, from most people’s perspectives.
“No, he does not believe that,” Lord Ashton said firmly, answering for Dr. Shaw. “At this point, we have no reason to suspect anyone was murdered.”
Except for the letter I received several days ago that said someone in the Somerset countryside would be murdered, I thought. It seemed like too big of a coincidence that Mr. Matcham would die suddenly in his sleep at the same time someone was meant to be murdered. However, if Dr. Shaw thought his death was brought on by natural causes, who was I to disagree? He was a medical professional. The bite mark on Mr. Matcham’s wrist had seemed suspicious, but it also could have just been a bite mark. The Chess Master’s warning could have been causing me to see clues where there weren’t any.
“Can I see him?” Catherine asked, moving towards the entrance hall.
Her mother reached out and stopped her. “I don’t think that is a good idea, Cat. We should wait for the police.”
“He’s all alone up there,” Catherine said.
“He’s been alone up there for hours,” Edward said.
Everyone’s attention turned to him. Lady Ashton narrowed her eyes at her son and Catherine looked on the verge of sobbing.
“That’s what Dr. Shaw said.” Edward shrugged. It was strange to see him even the slightest bit repentant. “I just mean, Mr. Matcham no longer minds being alone.”
“We don’t know how he died yet,” Charles said, moving to stand between Edward and Catherine. “He could be infectious and spread something to you.”
At this, Catherine’s nose wrinkled. She looked slightly less sad and a bit more disgusted. Dr. Shaw folded his hands self-consciously behind his back, and I suddenly felt myself itching for a bar of soap.
“We have no reason to believe he is infectious,” Lady Ashton said, calming the worry everyone could sense building in the room. “Dr. Shaw suggested it could have been a heart attack. With Mr. Matcham’s unsavory lifestyle, it isn’t out of the question. But we won’t know anything for certain until the authorities arrive.”
“The police will be here?” Alice asked a bit too excitedly.
I could see Lady Ashton growing weary of her children. Between Catherine’s stifled sobs, Edward’s snide remarks, and now Alice’s inappropriate excitement, I
knew she was only a few minutes away from snapping. Intervening, I pulled Alice into my side and rubbed her shoulder.
“Yes, the police will be here, but we will have to stand back and let them do their work,” I said.
Alice stood on her toes and whispered. “Can I see the body?”
“NO! You cannot see the body,” Catherine exploded. “He isn’t a side show for you to ogle.”
“You wanted to go up and sit with it,” Alice snapped back, arms crossed over her chest.
“He is a HE, Alice. Not an IT,” Catherine shouted.
“I’m going to call for some drinks,” Lord Ashton said.
“It’s morning, dear—”
Lord Ashton held up a hand to cut off his wife. “Special circumstances.”
Wine and brandy were offered and nearly everyone, except for Alice, accepted a drink. Even Lady Harwood sipped a small amount of wine. Under normal circumstances, she probably would have refused, but Mr. Matcham’s death seemed to have rattled her. She’d made the suggestion that morning that perhaps he’d been ill with whatever she’d had the night before, and I was fairly certain she now believed a similar death could come for her at any moment. The impromptu examination she demanded for herself saved Dr. Shaw from the endless questions the guests had about his brief examination of the dead man.
“Did Mr. Matcham seem ill last night?” Mrs. Worthing asked after her second glass of wine. “I don’t recall him looking unwell at all.”
“Heart attacks can come on quite suddenly,” Mr. Worthing said. “It’s why they are called ‘attacks.’”
He found this to be a rather funny joke but stopped laughing when Mrs. Worthing elbowed him in the side.
“He looked to be in fine health last night,” I said, trying to gauge the reactions of the rest of the party. Everyone had seemed equally surprised at the news of his death, but only Catherine seemed genuinely distraught. In fact, Catherine had been the only person at Ridgewick Hall to act as if she liked Mr. Matcham when he was alive. Everyone else seemed to simply tolerate him.
Lady Ashton had been displeased with Mr. Matcham’s presence all weekend. She’d even gone so far as to keep me from sitting next to him at dinner. Edward had definitely taken the loss of the card game to heart. He was convinced Mr. Matcham cheated him out of his money. Charles’ affections for Catherine put him at direct odds with Mr. Matcham because of the spell the other man had managed to cast over Catherine. And Mr. Matcham’s general attitude was enough for me to guess he had plenty of enemies outside of Ridgewick Hall. If he had been murdered, the list of suspects would undoubtedly be a long one.
“Is our resident detective going to have to solve another murder case?” Mrs. Worthing asked, winking at me and nearly sloshing her drink on the carpet.
Dr. Shaw had been enjoying a rare moment of peace since Lady Harwood had managed to doze into a mid-morning nap, but that ended as soon as Catherine spun towards him, arms waving accusatorily. “I thought you said Mr. Matcham wasn’t murdered. You said he died of a heart attack. You said he died of natural causes.”
Catherine was closing in on the poor man. He looked up at her, horrified, and I couldn’t blame him. Catherine was a lovely woman, but after so many tears and silent sobs, her eyes were red and puffy, her cheeks streaked with salty tears, her lips nearly bloody from where she’d been chewing them.
Dr. Shaw held up his hands to hold her off as though he was afraid she would lunge out and attack him. I wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t. Catherine seemed several notches short of stable.
“Mrs. Worthing was joking,” I said, trying to grab my cousin’s attention. “She was teasing me.”
Catherine froze and then spun towards me, redirecting her anger. “What kind of a joke is that? It doesn’t sound like a joke. Are you all lying to me?”
“Why would we lie to you, Cat?” Lady Ashton asked. “You have the same information as everyone else. No one is lying.”
I didn’t think Mrs. Worthing capable of embarrassment, but her face was a violent shade of red. “Yes, dear, it was a poor attempt at humor. I’m so sorry to have offended you. I didn’t realize you were close with the man.”
“I wasn’t,” Catherine snapped. “Close with him, that is. But if there is a murderer in our midst, I’d like to know. We all would have a right to know.”
“There is no murderer,” Edward said, stepping forward and rubbing a hand across his sister’s shoulder. “Everyone is understandably tense. We just need to relax.”
This seemed to ease Catherine, but then Vivian stood up and cleared her throat. “What did Mrs. Worthing mean about Rose being our resident detective?”
I held back a groan.
“There was a murder aboard the ship we took from Bombay to London,” Mrs. Worthing said excitedly. “And Rose discovered the identity of the killer.”
Vivian raised an eyebrow and looked at me. “You solved a murder?”
“And another one a few weeks ago,” Edward added absentmindedly. “A bartender at a jazz club was killed, and Rose was a witness.”
“I wasn’t a witness exactly,” I tried to correct. “It was a misunderstanding.”
“But you investigated that matter, too?” she asked.
I knew it would look suspicious. Murder seemed to follow me around. If I was anyone else, I’d suspect me, too. “I’m not a detective,” I said. “I asked some questions, followed some clues. It was nothing.”
Vivian pursed her lips, and I could see the thoughts forming behind her eyes. If the authorities arrived and declared Mr. Matcham to have been murdered, my name would be the first one to cross Vivian’s lips.
Before anyone could respond or change the subject, the butler appeared, announcing that the police had arrived.
The rest of the morning passed in a flurry of activity. People were moving up and down the stairs, tromping down the hallway to Mr. Matcham’s room and back again. Strange voices floated through the house, filling the nearly silent sitting room where most of us had settled. Lord and Lady Ashton helped direct the officers through the house and gave statements, but I caught them whispering to one another about whether to send everyone home and cancel the weekend.
“This has been traumatic,” Lady Ashton argued. “We all need the support of being together.”
“A man has died, dear.”
“Exactly. More reason to stay here and make sense of it before we send our shocked guests back into the world. Besides, I am certain the police will want us all where we can be easily reached should they have any questions over the next day or two.”
I didn’t get to hear their final decision because just then an officer called my uncle away to ask whether there was another, more discreet staircase they could use to remove the body.
When I went back to the sitting room, Dr. Shaw had pulled himself away from Lady Harwood and taken up position in front of a bookshelf in the corner. He had a heavy leather-bound book in his hands, so he didn’t notice when I approached him.
“Interesting morning, doctor,” I said.
He jumped slightly, closing the book suddenly. “Yes, more interesting than most.”
“Most? Do you do this kind of thing often?” I asked.
“Well, I’m a personal physician,” he said by way of explanation, but upon seeing my lack of understanding, he continued. “Normally, only those who are already rather ill need a doctor always on hand. So, my employers are predisposed to dying suddenly.”
“Oh, right. Of course,” I said, feeling daft. “Between you and me, Lady Harwood doesn’t seem all that ill.”
“She is an elderly woman,” he said, shifting his feet, and looking around to be sure Lady Harwood wasn’t within hearing distance. “But if you are suggesting she isn’t in dire need of a personal physician, then I’d have to agree. The woman may outlive me.”
We laughed and then settled into a comfortable quiet. “Dr. Shaw, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Miss Beckingham,” he said warmly.
“The mark on Mr. Matcham’s arm,” I said, leaning in so as not to be overheard. “Do you truly believe it to be an insect bite?”
He nodded immediately. “I do. Are you not convinced?”
“Not entirely,” I admitted. “It was a single puncture and there didn’t appear to be any irritation around the site.”
“Not all insect bites cause a histamine reaction,” he said.
“And most needle injection sites could be mistaken for insect bites,” I said quietly, eyebrows raised.
Dr. Shaw’s face turned stony. “You believe he was poisoned?”
“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m asking you. Are there any medications that could kill someone instantly?”
“Why instantly?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed.
“Mr. Matcham was a large man. If he’d felt the injection going in, he would have fought. Everyone in the house would have heard him shouting and we would have run to his room. If the killer wanted to escape, they would have had to kill him instantly.”
Dr. Shaw seemed to think on this. So long, in fact, that I began to wonder whether he wasn’t willfully ignoring me, hoping I’d go away. After several minutes he leaned in and whispered. “There are some fast-acting tranquilizers that, in high enough doses, can be lethal. Depending on the dosage, Mr. Matcham could have succumbed to the medicine before there was time to struggle. But those medications are very difficult to come by. No ordinary person would have access.”
Just then, Dr. Shaw seemed to understand the implication of what he was saying and shook his head. “But you must know, Miss Beckingham, that I would never harm a soul. If that is why you’ve come to talk to me, to try and gather evidence against me, then I must warn you that I do not look kindly on it. You may fancy yourself a resident detective, but I will not have my reputation questioned because of the opinion of a young woman with no medical expertise.”
Dr. Shaw had been a quiet, subdued man since I’d first met him, so his sudden anger shocked me. I stepped back and blinked, trying to calm myself before I continued.