by Joan Smith
I took a gulp of sherry and said, “Yes, I’m afraid it is.”
“Under a holly bush!”
“Yes.”
“There’s bad luck in hollies, always has been.”
“With one shoe off,” Mary said through her tears. “I’m leaving, Cook. If you’re wise, you’ll do the same. This place isn’t safe.”
Cook gave her a chiding look. “Hush up, you foolish girl. Who’d be bothered to kill the likes of us?” she asked rhetorically. “It’s the money that’s at the bottom of this blood-letting, mark my words. Who ought to get away till it’s cleared up is yourself, Miss Greenwood. Is there any place at all you could go for a bit?”
How I wished there were! Yet as I sipped the sherry, I tried to console myself that I was safe. Aunt Hettie had been killed for the money, and Mrs. Manner because she knew who had done it. But until the will was read, it was unsure that I had any money, and I did not know who had killed Hettie.
“I’ll be all right, Cook,” I said wanly. I finished the sherry and rose. “I must tell Doctor Culpepper what has happened.”
“Why they set a doctor to catch a murderer is above and beyond me,” she scolded, “though Hodgkins is about as much use as a cold in the head.”
“I fancy Sir Aubrey will send off for a Bow Street runner now.”
Before I left, Cook reached out and removed her shawl, which still hugged my shoulders. “I just sent up tea. Mind you have a cup, Miss Greenwood. You look next door to a corpse yourself.”
Culpepper was on his way down the kitchen stairs as I went up. “Where is Mrs. Manner?” he demanded. “I waited an age for you to come back, Miss Greenwood, and finally sent a servant after her. She is not in her room.”
He stopped and stared at me, realizing from my looks that something was very much wrong. “What is it? She’s not ...”
“She is dead, Doctor Culpepper,” I said.
“Good God! Not another.”
“Let us go someplace private to talk.”
I took him to the morning-parlour and we sat at the small table while I opened my budget. I told him everything: that I thought Mrs. Manner had seen one of the nephews around the cheese-room, what precaution I had taken for her safety, and so on. “We must bring Mrs. Manner home at once. We cannot leave her lying in the park,” I said when I had finished.
“Whatever possessed her to go out alone in the park in the dark?”
I looked at the window, and saw darkness had fallen. “It wasn’t dark when she left. It wasn’t even dark yet when I went after her. And she wasn’t alone. That is, she took Duke with her.”
“Where was he, then? How did he come to let anyone at her?”
My mind gave a lurch. Until then, I had forgotten all about Duke. “I don’t know. There was no sign of him. Perhaps he is dead too.”
“The first item is to get the body indoors before the ferrets discover it,” he said.
The very thought made me feel extremely ill. “Do it, at once. She is lying by the stand of hollies in the park. I expect you’ll want to take the gig, and a blanket. I’ll ask Juteclaw for a blanket.”
“And a brace of stout footmen. I am too old to be hauling bodies about.”
“Very well.”
I was glad to have something to do to dispel, temporarily, the awful image of Mrs. Manner’s face, frozen in its mask of horror, and of that one small shoe, sitting forlornly in the path.
I told Juteclaw briefly what had happened. His eyes stared in disbelief, and his lower lip trembled. He bit it to steady it, but I could see his teeth chattering still.
“There’s a devil let loose in this house,” he said, and crossed himself to ward off further evil. Then he quelled down his feelings and said in a quavering voice that he would call for the gig and footmen, and get the blanket.
I was curious to know what Culpepper had been doing in Aunt Hettie’s room, and asked Juteclaw if he had said anything.
“Doctor Culpepper did not go upstairs at all, miss,” he said. “In fact he asked me to lock the mistress’s door to keep everyone out, which I did.”
“When was that, Juteclaw? Just a moment ago?”
“No, miss. He told me when he first came in, over an hour ago. He showed me the letter from Sir Aubrey making him in charge of us all, so I had no excuse to refuse.”
“You didn’t happen to leave a lamp on in her room by accident?”
“Oh no, miss. I didn’t go in the room at all, and besides it wasn’t dark yet. I had set young Jenkins to guard madam’s body for a corpse should never be left alone, and in all the commotion you forgot to do it. I sent Jenkins off and locked the door.”
“I see. Thank you for your help, Juteclaw. I should have seen that my aunt was not left alone.”
“You’re only human, after all, missie, and not used to such weights bearing on your young shoulders.”
I was grateful for his pardon, though I could not quite pardon myself. It seemed a locked door did not mean much in this house. Someone had entered Hettie’s room after Juteclaw locked it. He was obviously looking for something. The first one who popped into my mind was Gregory, having a snoop about for money. He would have found nothing there but the few pounds and pence she kept in her reticule. Her cash-box was kept locked in the safe in her late husband’s study. But in any event, Gregory was in the village.
While Culpepper was awaiting the gig, I drew him into a corner of the hallway for a private, whispered conversation. I told him of the light in Auntie’s room. “Were the gentlemen in the saloon with you at that time?” I asked.
“Only Horatio Farr was there. Did Mrs. Farr keep her valuables there, her jewelry and so on?”
“No, they would be in the safe in the study, along with any significant quantity of cash she kept in the house. Her nephews would be aware of that.”
“And the safe was locked up tight. Whoever it was could not have got much then. Perhaps he was after a look at her will.”
“That could be it. She took it to her room earlier this week for its annual review.”
“No real harm done, it seems. What is in the will won’t be a secret for long.”
Juteclaw came with the blanket, and told Culpepper the gig was ready. My heart sank to my boots as I watched the doctor hasten down to the kitchen. The gig would be at the back door, for easier access to that area of the park where the hollies, those ancient harbingers of ill luck, grew.
I was now faced with the unpleasant task of informing the household of Mrs. Manner’s death, and sending off once more for Mrs. Wiggans, to come and perform another laying out, I would tell Horatio, and let him inform the others. It would be for Juteclaw and Cook to tell the servants.
My fortitude was at an end. I wanted to go to my room, lock the door and roll up in a ball beneath the counterpane. I wished I could set the clock back to before murder struck. My easy assurance to Cook that I was in no danger had deserted me.
It was well to be alert, because if Aunt Hettie had included me in her will as Gregory said, then I did now possess money. I had not made a will of my own. Very likely my money would be disbursed amongst the others. Or perhaps only to the Chapman brothers, as my kin. I was not a blood relation of the Farrs. I decided that if Hettie had not entailed my share of her fortune back to her family, I would ask the lawyer to make me a will when he came tomorrow.
Whom would I leave my share to? I had no one really close to me now, with Hettie and Mrs. Manner gone. It made me aware of how alone I was. I would will the money to the church.
This decided, I turned to the saloon to tell Horatio the sad news. At least Horatio was safe. I would not be afraid with him. He had not killed Mrs. Manner. Though she had actually been gone from the house for well over an hour now, Horatio had not been in the saloon all that time. None of us had. It would not take long for a grown man to cut through the park, armed with a brick or a sharp rock, and beat the life out of Mrs. Manner.
And there was Duke, who had disappeared. I hadn’t a do
ubt in the world that he was dead as well. Duke was familiar with all the nephews. He would not attack any of them. Not at first, in any case. In his innocence, he would let them get close enough to pat him—with a brick!
I shook away the dreadful image and went to the saloon.
Chapter Nine
Horatio sat alone by the fire enjoying a cup of tea and the journal. He looked up with a smile.
“Ah, there you are, Jess. I was wondering where everyone’s got to. You look like death, old girl. Come and have a cup of tea.”
He looked so safe and normal, and it was such a relief to be back to normal, that I suddenly burst into tears. Horatio leaped up and put his arms around me awkwardly, drawing my head to his chest.
“Now, now, what is all this?” he demanded in a hearty voice that did not conceal his lack of ease. “It is nerves. I am as nervous as a tick myself. I shall pour you a nice glass of sherry.”
I lifted my head and tried to speak, but could not get a word out for the racking of my body. I wished that I had gone to my room to suffer this breakdown in private. It was embarrassing. Aunt Hettie had always told me ladies did not make a display of their emotions in public. It was vulgar.
Horatio stroked my head, much as one would stroke a well-loved dog. “Have a good cry then,” he said, resigning himself to my fit of hysterics.
I looked up with a watery smile of gratitude and saw, over his shoulder, Otto. He was standing silently in the doorway, watching us. A cynical smile decorated his handsome face.
“Am I interrupting something?” he said, stepping in. “How extremely tedious of me. You will both be wishing me at Jericho. But lovers, you know, ought not to indulge themselves in public rooms. That is what the bedchamber was created for.”
Horatio released me at once. “Mind your manners, Otto,” he said gruffly. “Can’t you see the poor girl is done in?”
I began wiping at my tears. Horatio handed me his handkerchief, then turned to his brother. “Jessie has cracked under the strain of all this business,” he explained.
“And who shall blame her?” Otto replied in a voice noticeably void of pity.
I glared at him and said, “Mrs. Manner has been murdered. I found her body in the park.”
His body gave a convulsive jerk. “What!”
Horatio’s eyes bulged in astonishment. “Egad! We’re none of us safe. The sherry, Otto. Get the poor girl a toothful of wine.”
I received all the sympathy and attention I could want then. Between them I was assisted to the sofa, handed a glass of sherry, and when I could not hold it for trembling, Otto held it to my lips.
“Drink it up,” Horatio ordered. I gulped it down and felt somewhat better, but whether it was the wine or the solicitude that did it, I could not say.
When I could speak coherently, I outlined what had happened.
“You should not have gone to the park alone,” Otto said angrily. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Why did you not call me?”
“Or me,” Horatio added.
“I took Mary. It is Mrs. Manner who should not have gone with only Duke for protection.”
“Is Duke all right?” Horatio asked. He was inordinately fond of dogs.
“He’s missing. Perhaps Culpepper will find him.”
Otto refilled my glass. As I sat in front of the warm grate being pampered by two handsome gentlemen, my tensions eased away, to be replaced by a languorous glow, no doubt increased by the unusual quantity of wine taken within a short space of time. I felt this was how the annual visit should have been. The feeling of well-being played havoc with my discretion, and before long I found myself telling the Farrs things I had meant to keep to myself, or share only with Doctor Culpepper.
“But why would anyone kill Mrs. Manner?” Horatio asked.
“Because of what she must have seen,” Otto said. “That is why we were waiting for her story, before calling in Bow Street.”
“She did see something,” I told them. Both heads turned eagerly to me. “She saw someone outside the cheese-room, where the belladonna was kept. She was half-asleep when I spoke to her, but—”
“Who was it?” Horatio asked.
“I don’t know, she didn’t tell me, but whoever she saw was afraid she would tell, and that is why she was murdered.”
After a frowning pause Otto said, “Make sure you announce loud and clear you don’t know whom she saw, or our murderer might have you next on his list. And be sure you lock your door at night.”
“I don’t know anything. And what good does locking a door do? He can walk right in—as he did at Aunt Hettie’s room this afternoon.”
“You mean last night,” Horatio said.
“No, this afternoon. There was a light in her room as I came home from the park. Culpepper had had the room locked, but someone was in it. Was it you?” I asked Otto, as Horatio had been downstairs with Culpepper.
“What the devil would I want in her room?” Otto said.
“Maybe to get a peek at her will,” I suggested.
“I can wait until morning.”
Horatio said, “Who is itching to get a glimpse of it is Gregory.”
“Don’t be too quick to accuse Gregory,” I said, thinking of his visit to Mrs. Manner’s room, when I had suspected him of harming her.
Horatio, never one to bother with subtlety, asked, “Is he making up to you? Mean to say, called you 'my dear’ this afternoon. Invited you for a drive. Never did that before.”
“Yes, I believe he is,” I said, and laughed. “Perhaps he wants my share of the money, and is even willing to marry me to get it.”
“You have a low opinion of yourself,” Otto said, examining me closely. "Though perhaps in Gregory’s case, the money would be the main attraction. He is not known for his refined taste in ladies.”
Horatio began fidgeting. “I wonder if Duke got away safe,” he said. “Believe I’ll go out and give a whistle. He might have managed to crawl home. A shame to let him die like a dog on the doorstep.”
“Go ahead. I shall look after Jessie,” Otto said.
“See that you do,” Horatio said with a commanding look, then he hastened from the room. A moment later, the front door slammed.
“Horatio is very nice,” I said, smiling fondly at the memory of his kindness.
“Even if he were not my brother, I would have to agree with you. He is almost too nice. Beggaring himself to keep his friends supplied with blunt verges on the foolhardy.”
“It is hard to find fault with an excess of generosity. Of all the nephews, he is the one I cannot find in my heart to suspect of these murders.”
“Indeed!” Otto exclaimed. “Then I am left with the conclusion that you do suspect me.”
“I did not mean that!” I said at once, though I daresay that was exactly what I did mean. Otto lacked his brother’s generosity. Like most wealthy bachelors, I think he was more interested in himself than the world at large. “I do not say you would murder anyone, but you have not Horatio’s generosity.”
“Well, upon my word, you are hard on me. Have I not put my newspaper—you might as well say my life—on the line for my beliefs? The whole reason I created the Clarion is to fight for justice for the common man. At the moment, I am fighting for the religious rights of Ireland. Horatio only lent Ralph five hundred pounds to buy a cottage.”
“The Clarion is for you yourself, Otto. It is your toy; you enjoy it. I think you even enjoy all the commotion you are causing.”
“I enjoy my work immensely,” he conceded, “but I purposely chose a ‘toy’ that is useful as well as amusing.”
“You need not have libeled the Prince of Wales—and risked five thousand pounds.”
“If you are implying I need my share of the fortune, I admit it would come in handy, but I assure you I did not hasten either Hettie’s or Mrs. Manner’s demise to get it,” he said stiffly.
It pleased me that I could rouse him to anger. “Who do you think did do it?” I asked.
>
“You know who.”
“Gregory.”
“I am already being sued for libel. I shan’t add to it by spreading slander, but I believe we understand each other. Don’t be taken in by him, Jess.”
“I am not that easily gulled.”
I noticed Otto looking towards the doorway. I turned to see what he was looking at just as Felix stepped in.
“Where is everyone?” he asked, glancing around.
“Why, I am here, Felix,” Otto replied, in the satirical way he has. Felix saw no humour in this sally. “I suggest you arm yourself with a glass of wine and take a seat, Felix. We have more bad news.”
Felix just stared, as if frozen. I think he had some intimation of what was to come. “Not—not another death,” he said. His tongue flicked out and touched his lips.
“It is Mrs. Manner, Felix,” I said. The mood of golden languor had dissipated. I don’t know when it happened, for I was still sipping sherry. If fact, my head felt quite light.
“Oh my God! The poor woman.” He sank onto a chair and covered his eyes with his hand. In a moment he looked up. “How did it happen? When?”
I told him. He listened intently, with a sad, dark look in his eyes. “It is hard to credit it,” he said when I had finished. “While I was working in the library, that poor woman ... Why would anyone do such a thing?”
Otto looked at me, then said vaguely, “Perhaps he was afraid she saw something, or knew something. If that is the case, we shall never know what it was she saw, or knew.”
“Is something being done to bring her home?”
“Culpepper is taking care of it,” I said. “He should be back any moment. I shall go downstairs and see if I can be any help when he comes in.”
“Where are Gregory and Horatio? Do they know?”
I let Otto answer the question. I went downstairs and was just in time to see Mrs. Manner being brought in the kitchen door on a litter, with a blanket covering her. The servants stood in a flock, staring silently. The girls were holding on to each other, some of them weeping. The footmen tried to look brave, but they were saddened too, and afraid.