by Blythe Baker
“Doctor, I never suggested a thing, I assure you. I only came to ask whether you thought it possible the insect bite could be more than a bite? I’m sorry if there was any miscommunication.”
Dr. Shaw straightened up and ran a finger under his shirt collar. “In that case, forgive me. It’s been a stressful morning. To answer your question, no, I do not believe the puncture is an injection site. I believe it is a small insect bite Mr. Matcham acquired sometime yesterday while we were out of doors.”
I thanked Dr. Shaw for his time and turned away just as Lady Ashton came into the sitting room, arms raised to gain everyone’s attention. “Mr. Matcham’s body has been removed, and although we will not know the cause until there has been an official examination, it appears his death was entirely natural.”
Everyone in the room seemed to sigh in relief.
“Well,” Lord Ashton said. “Now that’s settled, I think we all need some sustenance. I’m sure everyone’s appetites are low, after the events of this morning, but it’s important to keep up our strength. With that in mind, tea has been arranged outdoors. Shall we retire to the garden?”
Catherine stood up abruptly, let out a loud sob, and ran from the room.
10
Try as everyone might to go on as normal, the weekend had taken a decidedly somber tone. Catherine could hardly get through ten minutes without hiccupping and excusing herself to cry. Charles usually followed after her, though he would undoubtedly return a minute later, claiming Catherine needed to be alone. Edward grew more cross each time Catherine broke down in a fit of emotion. And Lord and Lady Ashton insisted on moving forward as though nothing had happened. I wasn’t sure which reaction was worse: Catherine’s unending sadness or her parents’ immutable cheerfulness.
During afternoon tea in the garden, Lady Harwood was regaling everyone with a tale of the last time Mr. Matcham had visited her home.
“The man couldn’t go a single evening without attempting to win himself money somewhere,” she said, her tone toeing the line between criticism and amusement. “He harassed poor Dr. Shaw to no end to go in with him on whatever mad business venture he was pursuing at the time.”
“Did you go in with him, Dr. Shaw?” Vivian asked.
Dr. Shaw shook his head, but before he could say anything, Lady Harwood let out a bark of laughter. “Of course not. No fool would do business with Mr. Matcham. I know we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but he was a horrendous businessman.”
Catherine had only just returned from a crying fit, but that didn’t seem to matter. Her face puckered, and she burst into tears once again, running through the grass up to the house. Charles rose to follow her, but Lady Ashton held him back.
“She may be in need of womanly company,” she said. “Rose, would you mind checking on her?”
Everyone else Catherine would even consider speaking to had gone to comfort her more than once, so it was definitely my turn. “Of course, aunt.”
With everyone outside, the house was eerily quiet. I couldn’t even hear Catherine, though she’d run into the house sobbing.
“Cat?” I called, my voice echoing off the tile floors.
I moved through a side door, down a corridor, and into the main entrance hall without seeing or hearing a single sign of my cousin.
“Catherine? Are you all right?” I called. Still, there was no answer.
I’d been debating all morning whether Mr. Matcham’s death was the one foretold by the Chess Master or whether I should still be on alert for yet another death in our party. These thoughts only added to the anxiety I felt each time I called for Catherine and she didn’t respond. Was my cousin dead? Had I allowed the murderer to commit his horrid deed?
I walked up the stairs, thinking and hoping perhaps she had gone to her bedroom to be alone. Her room was on the opposite end of the hallway from Mr. Matcham’s, and I continued calling for her as I made my way to her door and knocked three times.
“Catherine? Are you in here?” I asked. My heart began to beat quickly. Would I open the door and find my cousin the way Dr. Shaw had found Mr. Matcham?
“Catherine?” I called again, gathering all my courage and cracking the door open. “I’m coming inside now.”
Her room was dark as I opened the door, and my eyes darted to her bed immediately, half-expecting to see her lying there in a prone position.
Mercifully, the room was empty. It didn’t exactly quell my concerns that Catherine had been murdered, but I at least knew she had not been murdered in her bedroom. I planned to close the door and continue looking for her, but just as I turned towards the door, something caught my eye. I couldn’t say for sure why the slight bulge in the mattress meant anything to me. The duvet was still rumpled from Catherine sleeping in it the night before and the maid, with everything that had happened that morning, hadn’t come up to make the beds, so the lump beneath the mattress was almost imperceptible. Almost.
At the bottom corner of the bed, the mattress lifted slightly, as if something had been hastily shoved beneath it and then forgotten. Under normal circumstances, I would have decided it was none of my business. Because, in truth, whatever Catherine had hiding under her mattress was none of my business. In this instance, however, I felt I had a duty to the departed Mr. Matcham to investigate. I wanted to believe my family members were beyond reproach. Certainly, none of them could be capable of murder. I wanted to believe that, but something inside of me still urged me forward. I had to investigate for my brother Jimmy, if for no other reason. The Chess Master had promised me information, and I needed it desperately.
I took slow, light steps across the floor, afraid they would be heard in the silent house and Catherine would run up, demanding to know why I was snooping through her things. After every step and every squeak of the floorboards, I stopped, ear quirked towards the hallway, and listened. Silence. Another step, another squeak. Stop. Listen. Silence. This pattern repeated for what felt like hours, though surely it was only a few seconds.
When I finally reached the bed, my heart was thumping in my chest. Even though I desperately wanted answers as to how Mr. Matcham had died and who, if anyone, had killed him, I didn’t want Catherine to be a murderer. I honestly didn’t even want to know anything about her personal life. It was easier to love and respect your family members when you knew only the things they wished for you to know. For instance, no one in the Beckingham family would love me if they knew I was truly Nellie Dennet. Of course, my situation was a little different than something hidden beneath Catherine’s bed, but the point remained. People had secrets for a reason, and I wanted Catherine to be the sole keeper of hers. Unfortunately, privacy was a luxury no one could afford at such a time.
I pulled back as little of the duvet as possible. I didn’t expect Catherine would notice if her bed was slightly more mussed than it had been when she’d left, but I didn’t want to take any chances. Then, I reached my hand beneath the mattress and immediately felt a small wooden box wedged just under the corner. I pulled it out and set it on the bed.
The box was a dark stained wood with a matching lid that slid into etched grooves in the sides. It looked like it could have been an expensive cigar box. Though, why Catherine would have a cigar box was beyond me. I carefully slid the lid open, but it caught at an odd angle in the grooves and refused to open anymore. I closed the box and tried again, pulling it out slowly, but yet again the lid caught. I shimmied the wooden piece from side to side, hoping to wiggle it free, but to no avail. Finally, I closed the lid and then yanked it open with all of my strength. This time it opened fully. Unfortunately, the piece of wood broke free from the box entirely and clattered to the floor creating what, to me, sounded like a deafening racket.
I held my breath, waiting for footsteps to move down the hall or for someone to call out to me, wondering what was taking so long. But there was nothing. In the back of my mind, I still couldn’t decide whether this was a comfort. Did no one respond to the noise because no one was in t
he house to hear it or because the person in the house—Catherine—was no longer in a position to hear anything—dead? I pushed my anxious thoughts away and focused on the task at hand. I’d discover what was in the box and then find out where Catherine had disappeared to. If she was dead, a few minutes spent investigating her room wouldn’t change that fact, though it would make me feel incredibly guilty.
Confident no one was coming to immediately apprehend me, I turned my focus to the now open box. The contents of which were: a pair of diamond earrings, a red silk pocket square, and a folded piece of paper. The edges of the paper were worn with either time or repeated handling. I opened it and at once recognized it as a letter. Some of the ink was smudged with fingerprints and water stains, but it was legible enough.
Dearest Catherine,
I hope this letter finds you well. You know how difficult I find it to express myself in writing. And with you, more than anyone, I’d much rather express myself in person. But for you and you alone, I will try my best to say what I feel.
It has been too long since I’ve laid eyes on your beautiful face. You have doubtless heard talk of the many scandalous affairs I am taking part in on my travels, but please know they are nothing more than salacious rumors. You are the only woman in my life. The one I think of constantly and wish I never had to part from. I cannot wait until the day we can be together in the open, but until then, I will steal whatever moments I can and cherish them always.
I plan to be back in London in three weeks. I would be back sooner, but I have to make a stop in the country. A debt to settle with a doctor in Somerset. You know to whom I’m referring, so I won’t sully this letter with his name. Please promise me we’ll see one another when I return. I know it is hard for you to get away, but I can’t spend a minute longer than necessary separated from you.
Loving you always,
Thomas
I read through the letter several times, committing every line to memory. Who was Thomas? And which doctor from Somerset had he been referring to? I had never guessed my cousin was involved in a secret love affair, but the real question was, why was it secret at all? I’d heard Lady Ashton press Catherine on more than one occasion to find herself a good man. Why would she keep Thomas a secret? Unless, of course, Thomas was not a good man.
“Rose?” a voice I at once recognized as my aunt’s echoed through the house. It sounded very distant, as if she was on the staircase. “Rose, where are you?”
“Upstairs,” I answered loudly, scrambling to refold the letter and place it back inside the box.
“Catherine is outside with the rest of the guests,” she called. I could imagine her ascending the stairs as I slipped the lid into place. “I grew worried when you didn’t return.”
“I was looking for Catherine,” I yelled back as I practically threw myself across the bed to shove the box beneath the mattress. I moved the blanket back over the corner of the mattress, ran through the door, and closed Catherine’s door behind me.
By the time I made it into the hallway, Lady Ashton was at the top of the stairs. She saw me standing in front of Catherine’s door, narrowed her eyes slightly, and then smiled. “Catherine went for a walk. Edward found her on the trail through the woods. She is taking Mr. Matcham’s death quite hard, poor thing.”
“Has he been a family friend long?” I asked.
“You don’t remember Mr. Matcham from when you were younger?”
I shook my head. “Not much,” I said, hoping this wasn’t too suspicious. Thus far, everyone in the Beckingham family had been forgiving when I forgot the names of relatives or family acquaintances, but they would eventually find it suspect if I couldn’t remember a single person from my life before India.
She looked at me for a long minute, making my palms sweaty, and then shrugged slightly. “That isn’t so surprising, I suppose. Mr. Matcham was in his early twenties when you left, and he travelled often.”
“Was the travel for work or…?”
“Or is right,” Lady Ashton said with a bitter laugh. “The man never worked an honest day in his life. His fortune was the kind that came from excessive gambling and unearned luck. I suppose he wasn’t so lucky in the end, though, was he?”
“No, I suppose not,” I said, surprised by my aunt’s coldness. She was usually the epitome of civility. Or, at the very least, of decorum. It seemed very unlike her to speak ill of anyone, especially the dead.
Suddenly, Lady Ashton’s eyes widened, and she looked up at me, horror-stricken. “I’m so sorry, Rose. Forgive me. That was terribly unkind.”
“No need to apologize,” I said, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “It is only the two of us here, and you are free to speak your mind.”
“I trust you, Rose, but some things ought never to be said. Especially when they can reveal so much of someone’s heart,” she said, placing her hand over her chest. “I pride myself on being a kind woman, but where Thomas Matcham is concerned, I’m afraid I have a tendency to lose my head.”
I would have sworn my heart stopped beating in my chest. My ribs seemed to suck inward, crushing my lungs, and it was a miracle I didn’t fall over right there. I dropped my hand from my aunt’s shoulder and ran it across my stomach as calmly as possible, trying to encourage my body to inhale. Thomas Matcham. Had I not, only minutes before, been reading a love letter from Thomas to Lady Ashton’s own daughter? Suddenly, it felt as though my aunt could see the truth of what I knew on my face.
“Are you all right, dear? You look a bit pale,” she said.
I nodded quickly. “Oh, yes. I’m fine. I think I’m just a little tired.”
“You should lie down. The guests will understand if you are feeling unwell. It has been a big day for everyone. Go rest, and I will explain your absence to the others,” she said, her head tilted to the side in motherly concern.
“Thank you, aunt. I won’t be long.”
“There is no rush, dear,” she said.
I felt her watching me as I walked down the hall to my room. When the door closed behind me, I felt like I was able to take my first breath in several minutes.
Mr. Matcham’s first name was Thomas and I had found a love letter written to Catherine from a well-travelled, debt-collecting man named Thomas. Could that be a coincidence? If so, it would be one of the largest I’d ever heard of. Was Catherine secretly seeing Mr. Matcham? That would certainly explain how closely she’d stuck with him the day before. However, the letter had looked rather old. Either, their relationship had been secret for a long period of time, perhaps even years, or the letter had been written long ago and the relationship had since fizzled out.
If the relationship was no more, how had Catherine taken that news? She seemed very distraught at Mr. Matcham’s passing, but I knew better than anyone how easy it could be to play a part. Could Catherine have killed Mr. Matcham to keep him from moving on? Were her tears really from guilt rather than anguish? Or, perhaps, Lady Ashton had found proof of the couple’s relationship. She’d said herself that she lost her head when it came to issues regarding Thomas Matcham. What would she do to protect her daughter from the ruined reputation she would no doubt earn by partnering with Mr. Matcham? And then there was another suspect still. In the letter, Mr. Matcham had made reference to a doctor in Somerset. The relationship between the two men was clearly not a good one. Could that doctor have been the same Dr. Shaw who had discovered and examined the body that morning? Who better to deliver a fatal dose of poison than a doctor?
Suddenly, the excuse I’d made to Lady Ashton about feeling tired was no longer a lie. I sat on the edge of my bed and ran my hand across my face. I really would need a nap if I was going to solve this murder, because it was a murder, wasn’t it? I’d had my doubts, but the proof continued to stack up. Mr. Matcham had been a healthy young man yesterday, and now he was dead. I now realized it was time to face the facts. The murder the Chess Master had alluded to had occurred, and if I wanted any information on Jimmy or to sleep soundly amon
gst my family members ever again, I had to solve it.
Mrs. Worthing had been joking before, but her words suddenly rang true. The resident detective was present and ready to solve another murder case.
11
When I rejoined the group, everyone, Lady Harwood included, was still outside. They seemed to prefer the outdoors, especially now that a man had been murdered inside the house, and I couldn’t blame them in the least. Catherine still looked puffy and moments away from tears, but she had pulled herself together enough to sit and watch while her siblings and the Barry siblings played a game of croquet in the grass. I suspected it had been my aunt’s idea to keep the young people distracted, so there was less time to dwell on the unhappy event that was never far from our minds. Alice and Vivian were beating Edward and Charles, but the men seemed to be letting the women win, which I thought was oddly charitable of Edward.
Despite the somber cloud hanging over the party, the weather was quite lovely. Sunshine flecked through the overhang of trees, creating bright spots in the grass, and a cool breeze rolled across the grounds constantly, acting as nature’s fan. It was a picturesque afternoon. Vivian and Charles sported matching brown flannel outfits, and Alice’s yellow dress had a smart, crisp white collar. Edward, per usual, wore a dark suit. He looked as ready for an office as the garden.
Out of the whole party, only Lady Harwood seemed to mind the breeze. She frowned and pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders to combat the light gust.
“Are you feeling better, Rose?” Lady Ashton asked as I approached.
Lord Ashton, Catherine, Mr. and Mrs. Worthing, Lady Harwood, and Dr. Shaw all turned at the mention of my name to watch me approach their chosen spot in the shade.
“Yes, a nap can do wonders,” I said with a smile.
This pleased Lady Ashton, and everyone turned back to the game, except for Dr. Shaw. I couldn’t help but notice his gaze lingered on me much longer than everyone else’s. I offered him a wide smile, but his eyebrows still pulled together, and he only looked away when Lady Harwood complained about a horrible cramp in her calf.