The Black Orchid (A Lady Jane Mystery Book 2)

by Annis Bell

  O’Connor cleared his throat. “Terrible thing, with the boy.”

  “What did Miss Molan tell you?” Jane asked, flipping the fur-lined collar of her coat against the icy wind.

  “That Cedric was apparently poisoned, and because Lady Charlotte doesn’t want to send the boy to boarding school, one could easily imagine that—”

  “That she deliberately poisoned her own child? A serious allegation, and one for which there is no proof.”

  Hettie, who had been uneasily looking up and down the street, said quietly, “I’m going to the alehouse, ma’am. I’m cold out here.”

  Both of them knew that Hettie wanted to keep an eye on Miss Molan, and Jane nodded her assent.

  “And I must leave as well,” said O’Connor. “Something in Winton Park is off, my lady, so off that it stinks to high heaven, if you know what I mean.” O’Connor nodded. “I wish you a pleasant day.”

  What was he trying to say? That even women in the higher reaches of the nobility were capable of committing a crime? Gathering up her skirts, Jane set off after Hettie. The frozen ground crunched beneath her boots, and she caught up with Hettie within a couple of minutes.

  “There you are, ma’am. Miss Molan’s just gone into the Trout Inn.” Hettie hesitated.

  “We wanted to eat anyway, didn’t we? Let’s see if the trout they serve does justice to the name.”

  There was nothing in Allenton to justify a visit from travelers. The Trout Inn was the best of a disenchanting clutch of impoverished houses. Sir Frederick was the owner of the land they had been built on and therefore responsible for the houses of his lessees, but instead of enhancing the properties, his income was diverted buying expensive orchids or sent abroad to Colombia.

  From the outside, the building looked skewed, its black wooden beams leaning considerably. It was not much better from the inside. Stinking of rancid grease and damp walls, the ceilings were so low that Jane was on constant lookout lest she bang her head. Squeaking shadows scurried along the walls, spoiling any appetite Jane might otherwise have had.

  At one end of the room, which held six tables in all, was an open fireplace, welcoming enough for visitors to overlook the general lack of comfort and cleanliness.

  “Oh!” Hettie cried happily as she flopped onto a chair in front of the fire and lifted her skirts.

  “Careful, Hettie, or you’ll catch your dress on fire!”

  Two men with frozen faces were spooning down soup and drinking beer at a nearby table. There was no sign of Miss Molan.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, did a young woman in a black dress come in just now?” Jane asked the men, who looked like cattle herders.

  The men looked at each other and grinned. “Another one?”

  “I’m going!” called a woman’s voice, then an older woman carrying a tray stumbled into the room.

  Mugs and a pitcher swayed ominously, but the woman managed to set her tray down safely on a table. “Everyone in black today, and all of ’em oh-so-fine. Must’ve been someone big to bring such fine sorts out here. D’you want something to eat? We’ve still got soup, and we’ve always got trout.”

  Hettie looked angrily at their hostess. “Do you know who you’re talking to, you old hoddy doddy?”

  “If she ain’t the Queen, then I don’t care who she is.” The hostess laughed hoarsely, and her considerable bosom quaked beneath her dirty apron.

  “Our Gertrude don’t give a fig for social classes!” The men joined the woman in her raucous laughter.

  “Forget it, Hettie. We’d like something to drink, some wine and bread. And where might I find the lavatory?” Jane asked, removing two shillings from her purse.

  The woman stopped laughing instantly and held out her hand for the coins. Her straggly gray hair was tied in an untidy knot, and her face was covered in small pimples.

  “Down the hall, past the kitchen, in front of the steps on yer left.”

  Jane nodded. “I’ll be back in a minute. Wait for me here. If Zenada and Sally come in, invite them to our table.”

  Avoiding looking into the kitchen, she walked to the rear of the house. A wooden stairway climbed to the first floor, and the corridor to the left, judging by the smell, led to the lavatory and out to the yard. She could hear pigs and chickens outside, along with the scrape of a shovel, accompanied by cursing. Jane glanced back up the corridor and saw a scruffy man’s head disappear into the kitchen. There was no one else in sight, so Jane cautiously climbed the footworn wooden stairs, which creaked with every step she took. The frosty air found its way in through the fissured masonry and rickety windows, and Jane noted the thin layer of ice that had formed on the glass and wooden surfaces inside. Finally, she reached the second floor; standing at the banister, she listened for sounds coming from the dark corridor in front of her.

  “Lissy, don’t make things so hard for us. It doesn’t have to be like this. We’ll find a way, trust me.” It was the voice of Mr. Hartman.

  Miss Molan said something in reply that Jane did not catch, but then she heard, “. . . and what if the boy dies?”

  The floorboards on the other side of the guest room door creaked, and Jane heard the bolt slide back. She tapped down the steps again as quietly as she could and stood at the bottom.

  “The doctor was there, wasn’t he? He will certainly take good care of the lord’s heir.” Hartman’s voice was deep, with the kind of unplaceable accent that Jane had heard many times from well-traveled people. It was probably only natural for people to adapt themselves linguistically to their surroundings, she thought. Maybe Hartman was from the Continent, and his profession had brought him to England. Who knew what dreams Miss Molan might harbor? Jane heard the woman’s skirts rustling on the stairs.

  “I hope so. You have to get to know the boy before you can like him. He’s a little devil, but I know how to handle him.” Miss Molan descended the last steps on Mr. Hartman’s arm and almost bumped into Jane, who acted as if she were on her way to the toilet.

  “Oh, Miss Molan!” Jane stopped and looked expectantly from the dismayed face of the governess to her companion. “I was just on my way to the lavatory.”

  Seeing him this close, Jane realized that Hartman was an attractive man. His moustache was too bushy for Jane’s taste and the lines of his face too soft, but she could understand the governess’s interest in him.

  “This is Mr. Hartman, an old friend and a teacher,” said Miss Molan. “He applied for the position of tutor for Cedric.”

  Hartman gave Jane a small nod.

  “May I ask how you know each other?”

  Hartman began to explain. “From—”

  “We were both employed in the house of Sir Robert Parks’s sister, some years ago,” Miss Molan interrupted. “We have stayed in touch since.” The woman smiled mirthlessly.

  “That would be Lady Darringham? In Surrey?”

  Miss Molan nodded.

  “It’s very nice that at least you and Mr. O’Connor were able to come to Rachel’s funeral. I thought there would be more people there, that she was popular in the house?”

  “She wasn’t there very long. My lady, please excuse me, but I have to be getting back soon and would still like to talk with Mr. Hartman for a moment.”

  “You can come with me in my coach. You’ll find me in the dining room. Do you have plans, Mr. Hartman?” Jane asked politely.

  “Uh, yes, actually. The staffing agency has offered me two other positions. I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

  “Then I wish you every success with those. Best of luck!” Jane turned back toward the dining room.

  “My lady, the lavatory is that way!” said Miss Molan.

  “Oh, well, I’ve changed my mind,” said Jane, screwing up her nose.

  20.

  As the coach bounced over the frozen ground, Jane gazed out the window, watching the snowflakes drifting ever more heavily earthward. With the frost of recent days, an icy white blanket had formed quickly over the landscape, and when t
hey climbed out of the coach at Winton Park, Hettie looked up at the sky then at her traveling companion. Miss Molan had ended up returning with O’Connor after all.

  “The snow’s even staying on the roof, ma’am. I hope we’re not going to see much more of this. Oh, there’s the butler,” she whispered to Jane as they walked. “He might be good-looking, but I don’t like him.”

  “I don’t like him very much, either, but a butler carries a heavy burden of responsibility, and with the lords of this particular manor, he doesn’t exactly have an easy time of it.” Jane cleared her throat and climbed the front steps. “Good day, Mr. Draycroft.”

  “My lady. It was very nice of you to attend the funeral.” He bowed a little deeper than usual and accompanied them inside.

  “How is Cedric?” Jane allowed him to take her coat.

  Draycroft turned away rather awkwardly. “Not very good, my lady. We are deeply concerned about the young Lord Halston.”

  “And Lady Charlotte?”

  “There is nothing new I can say about her. Does my lady wish for something to eat?”

  Jane saw Hettie’s eyes light up. “Gladly. Have tea and scones brought to my room.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  On the way to Jane’s room, they passed maids running around nervously and heard Sir Frederick’s imperious voice rumbling out of an open door.

  “No, Charlotte! Enough is enough. You’re not in your right mind. Doctor . . .” The door slammed shut, and Hettie stared at Jane in fright.

  In the seclusion of Jane’s room, Hettie said, “Poor Lady Charlotte. I can’t believe she would do something so horrible to her own child, but that’s what her husband seems to think, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what it sounds like, but let’s not jump to conclusions.” But Jane, tossing her gloves on the bed and sitting in an armchair, felt exactly the same way as her maid.

  Hettie helped her out of her boots. “Lady Charlotte isn’t very happy, is she?”

  Jane looked at the young woman, who was concentrating on loosening her bootlaces. “I’m afraid she isn’t, Hettie. Really, any halfway normal person would go insane inside this gloomy box.”

  “Is that it? Has she gone mad?”

  Sighing, Jane held on tightly to the arms of the chair as Hettie pulled off the tight-fitting boots. “No. On the other hand, there are certainly things that we don’t understand. People are capable of the cruelest acts for seemingly incomprehensible reasons. Do you recall the case of the solicitor’s jealous wife? She poisoned both her daughters because her husband loved them more than he loved her.”

  “Terrible! The woman was hanged, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, it was a tragedy . . . but Charlotte loves her children! She would not seriously risk something happening to Cedric simply to keep him with her a little longer.”

  “What if she thinks her son is better off sick with her than healthy at boarding school?” Hettie brushed the boots and set them aside, then went to find a fresh dress for Jane.

  Hettie’s words gnawed at Jane. She could hardly eat any of the scones Draycroft sent up and flinched at every sound in the hallway.

  “Didn’t you think it odd that, of all people, Mr. O’Connor and Miss Molan came to the funeral?” said Hettie, stacking the used saucers and plates.

  “Not really. Mr. O’Connor really did seem downcast. I’m sure that he liked Rachel, and she was a very pretty girl. And Miss Molan wanted to meet Mr. Hartman. For her, the funeral was simply a good excuse to do that. I’m going to visit Ally now. You could try to speak with Della or Gladys.”

  Out in the corridor, Jane paused and looked across to the Halstons’ wing of the house. An oppressive sense of powerlessness crept over Jane when she saw Dr. Cribb, his face grim, come out of the children’s room and go into Charlotte’s.

  “Jane!” Alison cried from her daybed when Jane entered the room. “You’re finally paying me a visit! What is going on today? No one tells me anything!”

  “For good reason, dear Ally. You are not supposed to be getting upset, but I simply have to ask you about Charlotte.” Jane summarized what had happened as objectively as possible.

  Alison’s face filled with a mix of sympathy and horrified disbelief. “Whatever you and the others might think, I’ll stand by Charlotte to the ends of the earth!”

  “No one likes to think that a person they love could do something like that. That’s only natural. But when you think about all your times together, were there ever any . . . odd moments with Charlotte? Did she ever strike you as especially jealous or possessive?”

  “You must be joking! You know how close we were as children. It’s normal for young girls to be spiteful when it comes to their first love,” Alison replied forcefully, but something in her tone made Jane prick up her ears.

  “Spiteful?”

  Running her hands over her rounded belly, Alison closed her eyes. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but since you’re asking, and considering the circumstances, it happened one summer out at my parents’ country place in Kent. Charlotte was visiting along with two other friends. I’d been looking forward to the weeks with Isabelle and Georgina very much because it was their last summer in England before leaving for India with their parents. Two lovely girls. We did painting courses together at the Royal Academy, and they were both far more talented than me!

  “Isa is similar to Charlotte: shy, rather pale, but pretty. Apart from painting, we also played music together. Isa has a wonderful voice! If she had wanted, she could have joined the opera. We four girls practiced a short program to perform at a garden party. I recited a poem, Georgina and Charlotte did a pantomime, and Isa sang. It was a beautiful song. Let me think . . . yes.” She hummed softly for a moment, then sang, “Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white . . .”

  Alfred, Lord Tennyson had written the poem about the transience of beauty, and it was as melancholic as it was moving. Jane nodded. “And Charlotte was jealous of Isa’s voice?”

  “Wait, no, no, that too, but there was a young man, Claude, a guest from France at the party. We were so young—giggly, silly little girls. But Charlotte was a bit older and took everything awfully seriously. All of us had flirted with Claude, but he liked Isabelle the best. He had dreamy, dark eyes and soft, curly hair, and he wrote love poems to Isa and secretly read them to her in the rose garden. When Charlotte found out, she surprised them both there and pretended that she had caught them doing something indecent.” Alison straightened one of her pillows. “It was horrible. Isa got in terrible trouble, and Claude had to leave. Her parents thought she had lost her virginity, and she was examined by a doctor. The poor girl . . . and all because Charlotte had made such a big fuss and spread mean lies about the two of them.”

  “She could have destroyed both their lives!” said Jane.

  “She hadn’t thought that far ahead. She was jealous. Later, she wrote Isabelle a letter apologizing for what she had done, but by then the girls were already in India and had taken that dreadful memory of their last summer in England with them.”

  “Charlotte’s actions were self-serving and scheming. I would never have thought her capable of something like that.”

  Downcast, Alison said, “Neither would I, Jane, believe me. We didn’t see each other much after that. Charlotte got married, and it was only at her wedding that we became close again. And then we both had children, and I no longer thought about that summer.”

  “And now she’s unhappy and doesn’t want to be separated from her son,” mused Jane aloud.

  “Oh, Jane, we might be doing her a terrible injustice!” Alison grasped Jane’s hand.

  “I hope so.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Hettie entered carrying two envelopes. “Excuse me, ma’am, this was just delivered for you. And this one is for you, my lady.”

  “Oh?” Alison tore open the envelope. “How sweet, Thomas misses me. The twins are well, and he’ll come collect me soon.” She pressed the notepape
r to her lips. “Is that from David?”

  “Hmm? Yes.” Jane glanced up from the short, telegraphed message and turned abruptly to Hettie, who was waiting patiently. “He’s been shot!”

  Hettie clapped her hand to her mouth. “But the captain will get better again, won’t he?”

  With a grin, Alison said, “Another woman’s heart broken by our captain.”

  “No, my lady, I mean, I like the captain very much, but not like . . . ,” Hettie stammered, blushing.

  “It’s all right, I know what you mean.” Jane refolded the telegram. “It’s not a serious wound, but he can’t come up here. That, and he’s also chasing down a lead—in St. Giles,” Jane added gloomily.

  “Well, it’s no wonder someone shot him!” Alison exclaimed. “What’s he doing running around such a wretched part of London? At least he tells you what he’s doing. Thomas doesn’t share anything about his work with me.”

  “Maybe because Thomas’s kind of parliamentary work is deadly dull.” New conflicts constantly arose between the two biggest political parties, which led to continual delays of necessary reforms. One current battleground was about the workers’ right to vote. Jane shared David’s opinion that everybody should have the right to vote, that anyone who worked should also have a voice in how things were run; it was only fair. “Which minister is he working for now?”

  “I think he might have moved into the trade ministry. Oh, Jane, you’re right. Even if he had told me, I wouldn’t have remembered, but right now, it’s more important that we help Charlotte.”

  Jane slipped the telegram into her pocket. “Good. Where’s Nora?”

  “She went to find some lavender for me. The scent is calming.” Alison took a deep breath. “I don’t think I can get through another pregnancy like this one. After this child, I need a break.”

  Jane kissed her friend’s forehead. “Be brave. We—”

  A horrible scream resounded through the house.

  “I’ll come back later, Ally. Hettie, follow me!”