by Robin Paige
“Who knows about Mathers’s accusation?”
“Only you, I, and Mrs. Farnsworth,” the vicar said. “Both your aunt and I felt the matter should be held strictly confidential, and that some sort of committee should be convened to inquire into it.”
“And how does Mrs. Farnsworth view the situation?”
“I do not know, for Sabrina went to see her after she visited me. I would not be surprised if Mrs. Farnsworth discounted Mathers’s indictment. She and Westcott are close friends, some even say...” He paused in his pacing and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Excuse me for offending you, my dear. Some say they are lovers. And Mathers has been a pest since the beginning. He has challenged Westcott’s authority on several occasions. Worse, he regularly harasses people for money for his work in Paris.”
Kate recalled the conversation she had overheard at Mrs. Farnsworth’s. Mathers had been “that miscreant Mathers,” who had made “unprincipled charges.” At the time, she had understood nothing of the exchange, except that the doctor was furious at Mathers and Mrs. Farnsworth anxious to smooth things over. Now, however, the situation was much clearer.
“Do you believe that Mrs. Farnsworth might want to conceal Mathers’s accusation?” she asked.
The vicar resumed his pacing. “I would expect her to. She has a great deal at stake in the success of the Order. She has suffered financial reverses, to the point where she has only the house on Keenan Street and one servant. Members of the temple in Colchester contribute heavily to her support, and are also assisting her in her efforts to reestablish her acting career. If the organization is discredited, the members will be disappointed and angry, some even furious. Their support for her will certainly dissolve.”
Kate could easily understand. If members of the Order believed that Mrs. Farnsworth and Dr. Westcott were lovers, they might even believe that she had been a partner to the fraud. That would be the end of the temple, and of the soirees that attracted such well-known people as Oscar Wilde, Willie Yeats, and Conan Doyle. No wonder she rejected Mathers’s accusation.
The vicar paused once more in his pacing. “Your discovery of the inconsistencies in the letters is crucial. That proof will no doubt persuade her that it is best to expose the fraud now, whatever the personal consequences, for it is bound to come out eventually. I shall have to speak to her in a day or two.” He turned to Kate. “But there are matters of more immediate consequence that must be tended to, Miss Ardleigh—Kathryn, if I may?”
Kate nodded gravely. “I suppose you are speaking of the funeral arrangements.”
The vicar’s expression was infinitely sad. “Yes, of course. But in the meantime, the estate must be managed, decisions must be made. Since you are your aunt’s heir—”
Kate gasped.
“You did not know?”
Wordlessly, Kate shook her head.
“Yesterday, she altered her will, removing her former major beneficiary—”
“Her sister?”
“Yes. Sabrina had come to look upon you almost as a daughter, Kathryn. She wanted you to have Bishop’s Keep and sufficient means to support it and yourself, even if you should choose to marry.”
Kate bowed her head as the enormity of the realization washed over her, overwhelming her in a torrent of feeling—amazement, incredulity, gratitude. The magnitude of her changed circumstances was utterly beyond belief. Then she remembered something, and raised her head.
“In her last conscious moments, my aunt spoke of a child. She called her Jocelyn. Dr. Randall insisted that she was delirious. You have known Aunt Sabrina for a long time. Do you know anything of a child?”
The vicar stood before her, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes were distressed, but his mouth was gentle. “Kathryn, I cannot discuss this matter with you at the present time. I very much regret that I cannot be more forthcoming.”
“I understand,” Kate said, although she did not. If Aunt Sabrina had a daughter, why had she left the Ardleigh estate to a niece?
Who was Jocelyn Ardleigh?
46
“Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you lind a trout in the milk.”
—HENRY DAVID THOREAU Journal, November, 1850
Still thinking about his conversation with Charles, Edward Laken came into the library, one step behind the stiff-backed butler.
“The constable, miss,” the butler said. Laken noticed that he kept his eyes averted, as if the policeman were beneath notice. Or perhaps because he held some sort of guilty knowledge that he did not want the inquisitor to see.
“Thank you, Mudd,” Miss Ardleigh said from her chair by the fire. “You may go.”
When the butler had gone, Laken bowed slightly to Kate and nodded at the vicar, whom he had known for nearly twenty-five years. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon, Edward,” the vicar said somberly. “A most unhappy business.”
“I fear so,” Laken said. He turned to Miss Ardleigh, whose face was shadowed under her heavy mound of mahogany hair. “But I am pleased to tell you, Miss Ardleigh, that we may have discovered the person responsible for your aunts’ deaths.”
“Indeed!” she exclaimed. Her surprise was mixed with distress, Laken saw—quite understandably so. She knew that if he had discovered the murderer already, it could only have been one of the servants. Most people did not want to believe—could not believe—their servants capable of such a deed.
“Yes,” Laken said. “Sir Charles Sheridan, as you may know, is a mycologist.” He looked at her. It was perhaps a term that required explanation. “That is,” he added, “an expert on mushrooms.”
“I know what the word means,” Miss Ardleigh said, with some asperity.
Laken immediately regretted his assumption. But there was something else about her look that made him wonder. Was the mention of mushrooms entirely a surprise to her? Had she suspected, or perhaps even known—
“And what exactly did Sir Charles find?” Miss Ardleigh was making an obvious effort to speak calmly.
“He found what is most likely the means of murder,” Laken replied. “A Death Cap.”
“A deadly mushroom!” the vicar gasped.
“Quite so, sir,” Laken said gravely. “The symptoms of Amanita poisoning are exactly those exhibited by the victims, and Sir Charles located a remaining toadstool in the kitchen storeroom. The scullery maid has told us that she cut up its match for the mushroom pudding—quite unwittingly,” he added. “The circumstantial evidence points to the cook, although—”
“Mrs. Pratt!” Miss Ardleigh exclaimed, her eyes opening wide.
“I understand your consternation, ma’am,” Laken said, bowing his head. “Every effort will be made to get at the truth, I assure you.”
The fact was that the constable had serious reservations about the cook’s guilt. As Charlie Sheridan had observed, the evidence clearly pointed in her direction—the circumstantial evidence, that was. But although Laken rarely had such a serious crime as a murder to investigate, he had over the years met his share of criminals, and he had come to respect his intuitive assessment of guilt or innocence. In this case, while he felt it appropriate to take Mrs. Pratt to the village jail for questioning, he did not think it altogether likely that she was the murderer—or at least, the sole instigator. Of course, some crimes were born of passion, rather than greed. But there remained in his mind that fundamental principle of law, cuibono. He would discover as quickly as he could the identity of the heir. At the moment, he reminded himself, it was quite probable—indeed, as far as he knew, a certainty—that Miss Ardleigh herself was the last Ardleigh. She was the one most likely to benefit from the deaths of the Ardleigh sisters.
But he did not think it proper to share his thinking with Miss Ardleigh, who was frowning at him. “You are arresting Mrs. Pratt?” she asked.
The vicar went to Miss Ardleigh’s chair and put his arm around her shoulders. “I know the idea of the woman’s guilt must disturb you, my d
ear,” he murmured. “But you must admit that we cannot see into the soul. It is possible for a person to appear blameless to the outer view, and yet to harbor an inner nature that is quite the contrary.”
“There is good reason to believe her guilty,” Laken said, watching Miss Ardleigh closely.
“Your evidence is only circumstantial,” she said, rising. “I do not believe that Mrs. Pratt committed murder.”
Laken’s eyes narrowed very slightly. The woman spoke with a surprising confidence—surprising, that is, unless she knew that the cook was not guilty because she knew who was. “May I know the reason for your assurance?” he inquired carefully.
She hesitated for a moment. “We are friends,” she said finally.
Laken stared at her. “Friends?” An odd term indeed, coming from—He stopped himself, recalling that Miss Ardleigh had described herself as an employee, her aunt’s secretary, which made her a kind of superior servant. In that role, it was quite likely that she had become friendly with the other servants. And she was an American, which perhaps also made her less likely to impose a barrier between herself and them. In his limited experience, Americans were an egalitarian lot.
“I see,” he said mildly. “I must suggest, however, that friendship is no warrant of innocence.”
“It is in this case,” Miss Ardleigh said, her voice sharp-edged. She seemed annoyed by his failure to understand and irritated at her annoyance. “If Mrs. Pratt had determined to kill either of my aunts, she would not have used a weapon that might have killed me. She could not know that I would not eat the pudding.”
“I see,” Laken said. He paused, letting the silence linger a second longer than was comfortable. “Why did you not eat the pudding?”
Miss Ardleigh went to stand with her back to the fire. If she was offended by the question, she did not show it. “Because,” she said in a factual tone, “Aunt Jaggers helped herself to my portion as well as hers. What was left to me was what remained from luncheon.”
Laken made a mental note to confirm her report with the butler, while Miss Ardleigh continued, her voice clear and firm. “What is a more compelling argument for Mrs. Pratt’s innocence, though, is the absolute certainty of discovery. Once a foodstuff is implicated, the cook is bound to be suspected. Only a foolish person could hope to get away with poisoning the pudding, and Mrs. Pratt is certainly no fool.”
Laken looked at the woman. She spoke with an intelligence and a conviction that he could only respect. But there was at the same time the stirring of doubt in his mind. A few moments before, he had thought that she was not surprised to hear that her aunts had died of mushroom poisoning. Now, she was defending the cook with an intensity that might, to a suspicious mind, suggest that she knew Mrs. Pratt to be innocent. Laken’s mind, over the years, had become entirely suspicious, for he had learned that the fairest exterior—and Miss Ardleigh was unquestionably fair—could conceal some very guilty secrets.
But he did not speak of any of this. “I admit your point, Miss Ardleigh,” he said quietly, “but I intend to take Mrs. Pratt to the jail for questioning. I expect to detain her overnight. If I discover her to be the culprit, I shall arrest her forthwith. If I find that there is no reason to charge her, I shall release her and continue my search.”
“I believe you will find her innocent,” Miss Ardleigh said. “I suggest that you look elsewhere for the guilty individual. Do you know, for instance, how the mushrooms came to be in the kitchen?”
“Not for a certainty,” Laken said. “The scullery maid says that the cook usually picks them.”
She was silent, her head bowed. Then she asked, “How do you intend to transport Mrs. Pratt? Not on your bicycle, I should hope.”
Laken frowned. The bicycle was decidedly useful, but it presented certain practical problems when he was required to take someone into custody. “Will you permit me to borrow a horse and cart, Miss Ardleigh? I shall see that it is speedily returned.”
She set her mouth. “You may borrow the horse but not the cart,” she replied, raising her chin. “I shall ask Pocket to bring the carriage round.”
Laken’s mouth fell open. “The carriage?”
“Forgive me, Kathryn,” the vicar said gently, “but it would hardly be seemly to—”
“Seemly?” Miss Ardleigh cried. “Let us not talk of what is seemly on such a day! If Mrs. Pratt must go to jail, it will not be in a cart, like some poor wretch on her way to the gibbet or the guillotine. She will ride in the carriage, with dignity!”
Laken stared at her, astonished. For a moment she glared back, then gathered her skirts in her hand and swept out of the room. He shook his head, bemused. Miss Kathryn Ardleigh was surely one of the most remarkable women he had ever met.
47
“The cook was a good cook as cooks go; and as cooks go, she went.”
—H. H. MUNRO REGINALD
Spending the night in the cramped, unheated stone jail behind the constable’s office was not an experience Sarah Pratt would treasure in her memory.
What she would remember, however, to the very end of her days, was riding to jail in the carriage. Pocket, to his everlasting credit, had donned his finest livery for the occasion. Cracking his whip with a fine flourish, he drove like the very blazes down High Street, the constable bringing up the rear on his bicycle, pedaling as fast as his feet could go. The carriage rattled at an amazing rate past the apothecary’s on the corner, where Sarah’s friends Gert and Gilda stopped their gossiping and stared, mouths open, as she drove by. It careened past St. Mary’s on the right, where Rachel Elam was on her way to Ralph Elam’s grave with an armful of purple asters which she dropped in a heap on the path when Sarah waved at her. And past The Marlborough Head, where crazy Mick, sweeping the steps, banged his broom handle into his nose when she gave him a politely condescending bow.
By the time Sarah arrived at the jail and was handed out of the carriage with a great show of dignity by Pocket, she was feeling only a slight resentment at having her day’s work interrupted for a visit with the constable. Granted, she was still a cook, had always been a cook, and would always be a cook, no matter how many carriages she rode in. But the young Miss Ardleigh (God bless her bones) had treated her like a lady, and that gave Sarah something to think about as she prepared herself for her visit with the constable.
As it turned out, however, that visit did not take place until morning. The constable seemed to hold the theory that a night spent on an iron cot in a cold cell might loosen her tongue—or perhaps he had something else more pressing to do. At any rate, he locked her up and sent Lily round from the pub with a bucket of hot stew, a half loaf of bread, and a pint of ale. After that, the cot did not seem so hard, especially considering that she was not the one who had to cook the stew or wash the dish from which she ate.
And as Sarah went to her knees beside the cot, she said a prayer for the soul of the elder Miss Ardleigh and another for the younger, pausing to reflect before completing her address to the Deity. Was it because she was an American that Miss Ardleigh had so little respect for the established distinctions of rank? Were all Americans similarly blind to tradition and social custom? Was that how it was possible that Rachel Elam’s brother Stanton, having sold both his cows and gone to America, now owned his own dairy; and his wife, who made indifferent cheeses with a noticeable tendency to sourness, now was able to command three subordinate cheese-makers? Hearing no conclusive opinion on the matter from Above, Sarah Pratt finished her prayers, climbed into her cot, and went to sleep.
But her sound sleep was sadly disturbed by pangs of conscience, for she deeply regretted Miss Ardleigh’s death and the manner of her dying. While the mistress had an unfortunate share in Jenny’s death, she had been tolerant and gentle; if she had not eaten the pudding, no doubt she would have been true to her word to restore both fire and sofa to the servants’ hall, and jam as well.
Jaggers, however, was another matter. Sarah could not feel remorse when she thought of the
woman’s death. Indeed, she could not help rejoicing—yes, rejoicing!—in every fiber of her being. She felt her own part in the tragedy, deeply, as well she should; she was contrite and remorseful, although she had to admit of a deep satisfaction when she thought of her kitchen with no Jaggers in it. And even though she was not surprised that suspicion had first fallen on her, she knew it could hardly rest there long, for she had not been the one to select and chop the mushrooms. Nor could it fall on little Harriet, for such a young, innocent-looking girl would not likely be called to account for the deaths, and Amelia and Nettie and Mudd had nothing to do with the preparation of the pudding. No, they were all safe from accusation. If anyone were called to account, it would be the one who had introduced the fatal toadstool into the kitchen. And in her heart of hearts Sarah could not but hope that that person, who was more to be pitied than blamed, would also escape accusation. She would do her best to see that he was exonerated as well, and that the poisoning was viewed as the tragedy it truly was.
So Sarah Pratt’s sleep was laced with dreams in which were mingled regret, rejoicing, and relief, with the latter two sentiments prevailing. When the sun rose, she rose as well and almost as cheerily. She washed her face in the chipped basin, straightened her garments, and smoothed her cot, on which she sat patiently until Lily brought in from the pub a dish of fatty bacon, with biscuits and a pint of gravy. Having eaten well, Sarah found herself refreshed, alert, and only a little creaky as to joints. She was ready to answer whatever questions Constable Laken saw fit to ask her. She knew exactly what she was going to say and how, exactly, she would explain the deaths of the two sisters. There was one slightly sticky part, but on the whole Sarah did not expect any surprises.
The questioning began at eight. It was carried out in the constable’s office, a room which was little bigger than Sarah’s pantry, crowded with a table, two wooden chairs, shelf, and iron stove, with a photograph of the queen (God give her a long and healthy life) hanging beside the window. The constable took one chair. Sarah settled herself in the other, smiled at the queen, and prepared to answer the queen’s representative.