‘I believe I know your house. It is just at the end of the village, is it not?’ Charlotte remarked, having worked out who he must be. ‘Out on the road to Winchester, the imposing red-brick residence with the charming clump of silver birch trees to the side? I’m happy to meet you, Mr Chettle, and sorry to hear that you are so tired by your journeying.’
‘Thank you, thank you.’ Mr Chettle looked gratified at her description of his house – in truth a bleak-looking barn – and he nodded gratefully over the hand he retained in his own sadly clammy grasp. ‘I had embarked on my tour with high expectations, you know. It was to be a tour of discovery, concentrating on funerary monuments and mourning customs on the Continent, as this is my great interest.’
Charlotte blinked but maintained an air of interest while gently withdrawing her hand. It took her all her resolution not to wipe it surreptitiously on her skirt.
‘Alas, although the first two months of the trip were an outstanding success, my dear mama, who always insisted on accompanying me upon my travels, was taken ill near Innsbruck and succumbed to a paralytic seizure that sadly took her from me.’
‘How truly dreadful for you,’ Charlotte commiserated with him. ‘I do hope you felt able to continue on your pilgrimage? I’m sure that your mother would not have wished you to curtail your investigation, even in such sad circumstances.’
‘My dear Mrs Richmond,’ he cried in admiration. ‘Why, you have chosen the very word. It was, it became indeed, a “pilgrimage” as I took care to follow every arrangement of our itinerary. As you rightly suggest, dear Mama would have wished nothing less. Indeed, during my initial unbridled grief I did consider taking Mama in her coffin along with me on my travels, so little did I wish to be parted from her, but luckily I fell in with an English clergyman who had been most inconveniently delayed in Innsbruck by the unfortunate and premature demise of his own wife. He represented to me the difficulties of such a proceeding and offered to conduct my dear mother’s funeral service.
‘By then I had consoled myself that Mama would be happy for me, in the interests of my lifelong research, to experience a Tyrolean interment.’ He gave a gusty sigh and looked disappointed. ‘Sadly, the service was very plain as he turned out to be an evangelical and very low church, so there was none of the ceremony and colour of our own dear High Anglican church at Finchbourne or, indeed, that of the more usual Roman Catholic obsequies prevalent in that part of Austria.’
‘Oh dear.’ Charlotte felt that some response, however inadequate, was necessary. ‘How very unfortunate. I do hope you were able to pursue your interests later on?’
‘Oh yes,’ he responded happily, beaming at her from under that heavy black brow. ‘Rome was of particular interest, of course, especially the catacombs, and I have many little mementoes of my visit. I found it was quite easy to purchase small grave ornaments and mourning devices. I shall have a delightful time cataloguing my souvenirs when I return home. I am happy, too, to be able to inform you that I attended, in person, no fewer than sixteen funeral services when I was on my travels.’
He rubbed his hands with glee and Charlotte wondered, with detached interest, if the gentleman was conscious of his own unpleasantly clammy grasp. He nodded round at the rest of the guests, or at least those who had not found it prudent to move away. ‘I made no distinction between denominations either and was able to compare the various services, to the advantage of our own system of belief, of course.’ He edged closer towards her with an air of concern mingled with a sudden eager gleam of interest. ‘But I believe I have not offered my condolences, my dear young lady. I understand you are but recently widowed? I was only slightly acquainted with Major Richmond, but, of course, he was abroad so much with his regiment.’
Charlotte, taking a backward step as unobtrusively as possible, murmured polite gratitude but it was of no use. He surged forward to loom uncomfortably close as he continued, taking her hand again and pressing it with damp fervour between both of his own: ‘I feel it very much that I was not able to attend the funeral,’ he assured her. ‘You must tell me all about it.’ He nodded again, eagerly thrusting his large face even closer to Charlotte’s own. ‘I make it my business to attend the obsequies of all my acquaintances,’ he told her earnestly. ‘I feel it is a kind attention and I know that it offers comfort to the bereaved. I tell you sometimes the grieving relatives are so overwhelmed with grief that they cannot attend sufficiently to the wants of the visiting mourners. When that is the case I make certain that I introduce myself to everyone present, whether known to me or not, and I can assure you that sometimes gentlemen have been struck silent at this attention. It is very gratifying.’
‘Indeed, sir, I can readily believe it must be.’ Charlotte was grateful to her hostess when Mrs Montgomery whisked her away with an apology to Mr Chettle followed by a small scream of protest.
‘Oh, Mr Chettle,’ she shrilled, scuttling towards a small ormolu table. ‘Pray do not disturb my little arrangement of objets d’art. Those little porcelain animals and boxes are Meissen and were left to me by a dear, dear friend, now sadly departed.
‘Let me present you to Mrs Attwell and her son,’ she urged, having satisfied herself that Mr Chettle had proved obedient and was looking abashed as he slunk towards the imposing bay window which was draped in opulent gold velvet curtains that matched the gold in the flocked and figured wallpaper. She led Charlotte to a pair of chairs at the fireside where a lady, surely on the shady side of seventy, sat with a choleric-looking younger man, as wide as he was tall, in clerical dress at her side. Their relationship was evident in the similarity of features and in their large-boned figures although the lady lacked her son’s height and could frankly be described as squat. The reverend gentleman, although probably no more than one or two and forty, displayed a domed skull as innocent of hair as the fine ostrich egg Charlotte had owned as a child and the wisps of hair that dared to escape the lady’s sternly utilitarian cap showed a faded auburn that matched her son’s bristling eyebrows. There was no mistaking their kinship and their expressions too, evinced an identical curiosity at greeting a stranger.
The lady inclined her neck very slightly and extended two stubby fingers as she shook hands but the trace of a frown creased her brow as she cast a further, appraising look at Charlotte, then she took over the introductions from her hostess who bustled away. ‘My son,’ she said, her rather harsh voice softening as the clergyman rose. ‘The Reverend Decimus Attwell. We are in Bath for a short visit while Decimus consults various doctors.’
Decimus Attwell’s small brown eyes lit up as he surveyed Charlotte and he moved closer to her, ignoring a disapproving maternal sniff and stretching out an inordinately large hand which, as a surreptitious downward glance confirmed, matched his inordinately large feet. ‘My mother coddles me to a degree,’ he confided, with a louring glance at his parent. ‘I had a bad bout of pneumonia in January and am finding it difficult to shake off the weakness it engendered. The warmer weather is helping, but that wasn’t quick enough for my mother, so here we are. My parish is in Leicestershire, quite a distance, so we are making a stay here, three weeks at least.’
Mrs Attwell frowned more deeply. ‘I wish you would not treat your illness so flippantly, Decimus,’ she reproved him, then turned to Charlotte with a slight baring of her teeth. ‘I understand you are not seeking medical attention yourself, Mrs Richmond. Mrs Montgomery says you are here with a friend.’
During dinner Charlotte found herself seated beside Mr Chettle who, while leaning a little too closely towards her, enlightened her about the funerary customs of the ancient Etruscans, along with some passing, and detailed, references to the disembowelling and embalming to be found in many cultures, customs which he assured her he greatly admired. On her other side sat Captain Penbury who gave her a very full account of the engagement between the Royal Navy and the United States Navy on the occasion of the capture of the USS Chesapeake in November 1813, as well as some interesting and distressing i
nformation on the unpleasant consequences entailed upon carrying around a musket ball inside one’s anatomy. Discretion overcame his eagerness to describe his symptoms quite in every particular however and he bent once more upon his depressing invalid diet of grey gruel.
Released to the comparative safety of the drawing-room once more, she was just deciding to make her escape on the ground of fatigue and of wishing to attend to Elaine, when Captain Penbury hailed her.
‘My dear Mrs Richmond,’ he bellowed, in his bluff quarter deck style. ‘Allow me to present my new acquaintance and one of our fellow guests at Waterloo House, Mr … ah … Mr Jonas Tibbins, it that not correct, sir? Been dining out elsewhere tonight. A visitor to our shores from the United States, no less, but latterly from our fair capital city, so he tells me.’ Captain Penbury then ruined the encomium he had bestowed upon London by adding, ‘Dreadful place, mind you, not surprised you’ve headed west to get away from it. Inhabited largely by foreigners and criminals, it’s my belief.’
‘Delighted.…’ Charlotte began, then faltered into silence as she gazed into the eyes of the man who had been watching her with such keen interest on Salisbury Station earlier that day.
‘But my dear young lady,’ Mr Tibbins broke off his suave greeting, to exclaim, ‘you are looking very pale; may I be of assistance?’
‘No, no, pray do not be concerned, sir,’ she hastened to assure him. ‘It is merely that I am rather tired after a long day’s travelling. A night’s rest will certainly restore me.’
He gave a sympathetic nod and looked at her again, more closely. ‘But surely we have met before, ma’am?’ He frowned as she shook her head wordlessly, her mouth too dry with a moment’s sudden panic to speak. ‘Ah, I believe I recall the occasion. We were fellow travellers on the train from Salisbury. That is it, I remember now.’ His eyes narrowed and he looked at her with such renewed interest that she had to summon all her powers of self-control not to shuffle guiltily under his scrutiny.
‘Are you recovered, sir,’ she managed to speak without croaking, ‘from that unfortunate accident? I saw you bravely rescuing that young lady; how fortunate that she did not fall under the moving train.’
‘Indeed.’ His voice, with the faintest of drawls, sounded slightly absent as he continued to gaze at her. ‘The lady suffered a flesh wound only, I believe. Did you … did you happen to observe what actually happened, ma’am? How she came to fall like that, I mean?’
‘I fear not.’ She shook her head and he pursed his lips. ‘I assumed it was the press of the crowd, people boarding the train and others bidding them farewell.’
‘That must be so,’ he agreed, though his slightly balding forehead was still creased by a frown, then he made a visible effort and smiled at her. ‘I was on my way back to Waterloo House after a day or so away and when I first observed you, ma’am, you were standing on the platform with a gentleman, your husband, no doubt?’
Paying no attention to her denial Mr Tibbins looked round the room. ‘Indeed, that is he, is it not? The tall gentleman in conversation with our hostess? Pray allow me the honour of an introduction to him.’
‘Oh no.’ Charlotte hastened to put him right. ‘I am a widow, sir, and the gentleman you saw this morning is married to my friend, Mrs Knightley who has dined in her room tonight, being an invalid. That gentleman with Mrs Montgomery is a French count, I understand. I believe he is here with his small daughter and his elderly father.’
‘A French count?’ Mr Tibbins, already scrutinizing the other guest, now straightened up, his eyes alight and eager. ‘I must make his acquaintance, if indeed, we are not already known to each other. I have many business interests in France and am often to be found in Paris.’
Later, in her room, Charlotte thoughtfully plaited her hair for the night and bit her lip. I really must not allow myself to panic so, she decided. How likely is it that someone from my childhood in Australia will turn up in Bath to unmask me? Or from my travels in India last year. The devastation wrought by the Mutiny can cover a multitude of sins, even mine, if anyone should question me. Besides, I have certainly never visited America and nor did my stepfather, but the mere recollection of her alarm was causing her heart to pound more rapidly even now.
What a relief that he lost interest in me so rapidly. Charlotte blew out her candle and climbed into bed. But he was certainly more than usually interested in the younger M. de Kersac, I wonder why? And he was right; I suppose there is a superficial resemblance between my fellow guest and Kit Knightley, from a distance at least. Thank heaven I was able to make my excuses to Mrs Montgomery and escape shortly afterward. I was mistaken this time about his interest, but am I never going to be able to relax? It seems as though the past is always just around the corner, waiting to trip me up.
Next morning Charlotte looked in on Elaine before going down to breakfast.
‘Before you ask, Char,’ smiled her friend, ‘I slept most of the night and am feeling rested. There’s no need for you to telegraph to Kit, or for him to come galloping to my rescue. And you need not sneak a sidelong look at Jackson either: she’ll confirm that I am perfectly well.’
The maid gave her a grim smile and nodded to Charlotte. ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, exactly, but she’s none the worse for the journey, Miss Char. You go and get something to eat.’
All the other guests at Waterloo House were gathering at the breakfast table, obviously eager to avail themselves early of the medical delights on offer in Bath. Captain Penbury greeted Charlotte with one of his flourishing bows, cut off rather abruptly by a groan as he bent a little too vigorously. Mr Chettle leaped to the door when he spotted her as did the younger French count. Both gentlemen, however, were forestalled by Mrs Montgomery who glided forward and greeted Charlotte with her anxious but hospitable smile.
‘Do come and sit here, Mrs Richmond,’ she beamed. ‘No, no, not just there, I do beg of you, that seat is always kept empty in honour of my dear late husband. Here you are. I’m sure you will be comfortable between Mr Tibbins and M. de Kersac. I wonder, do you speak French at all, though, of course M. de Kersac speaks English most delightfully?’
Charlotte contented herself with a deprecating smile as she took her seat, ushered thence with great ceremony by the imposing footman. One of her stepfather’s maxims slipped into her head: Always keep something back, Char. No need to enlighten all and sundry as to your intelligence or abilities. Sometimes indeed, it can be advisable to appear a dull bluestocking but on other occasions it might be better to be thought of as a sweet young thing without a thought beyond fripperies. Either way you should never give a hint that you might have more brains in your little finger than most men have in their whole bodies.
In fact Charlotte spoke French almost fluently having learned the language from her godmother whose despairing mother had been wont to declare that at least Meg could boast of one of the accomplishments expected of a lady. Charlotte gave a reminiscent smile; the countess, Meg’s mother had not, fortunately for her own peace of mind, survived to hear of Lady Meg’s rather less ladylike habits which had culminated in her hasty departure from England. Sometimes, too, there had been lessons from various elderly French people, all claiming to be aristocrats who had fled abroad from the Reign of Terror. Lady Meg had been privately scathing about some of these claims and had once descended in wrath upon a lesson, declaring the teacher’s accent to be quite unacceptably plebeian for her god-daughter. Charlotte recalled with a fond smile that her mother, Molly, had run into the street after the old lady, to thrust half a loaf and a few pence into her hand, to soften Meg’s accusation.
Charlotte found herself giving the elderly French gentleman a slight curtsy as he resumed his seat beside her. Even Meg could have had no doubts about his aristocratic antecedents, Charlotte decided, but the gentleman from America and London, on her other side, received only a polite inclination of her head.
Do I like him? She pondered the question as she applied herself to her meal. Beca
use I just don’t know and that’s not like me; I usually weigh people up before I pronounce judgement. Mr Tibbins however, makes me feel uneasy and has done so from the moment I clapped eyes on him and I simply don’t know why. She recalled an old woman in Freemantle, said to have been born in the Highlands of Scotland, who once complained that one of her neighbours gave her a ‘cauld grue’. That’s it, she decided; the American gentleman, although he seems perfectly pleasant, gives me a cauld grue and whether unfairly or not I do not trust the man.
To do him justice there was nothing unpleasing either in the man’s appearance or his manners. He was of medium build, medium height and of undistinguished appearance with a pleasant voice that held, Charlotte thought, the merest trace of what she supposed must be an American accent. He was solicitous in looking after her needs and engaged her in light conversation, enquiring after her plans for the day.
‘I don’t know yet,’ she told him. ‘I’m here with my friend who is to try various medical treatments so until she is happily situated I can make no plans for my own entertainment. Besides,’ she added, ‘as today is Sunday I expect we shall spend the day very quietly, recovering from the exertions of the journey, though I certainly hope to attend a service in Bath Abbey if it proves possible.’
The old Frenchman on her right ate silently and sparingly, apparently absorbed in his breakfast, but Charlotte was aware of a keen intelligence and a wariness about him. She recalled his remark of the previous evening: ‘When one has been very much afraid, it leaves a mark that is unmistakable to a fellow sufferer.’ Well, he was right about me, she thought. During this last twelve months I have lost the mother and stepfather I adored; I’ve been alone and penniless, one of the enemy in the middle of a country torn by war; forced by circumstances into marriage with a dreadful and frightening man; and finally, when I allowed myself to believe that I was safe at last, I found myself embroiled in a mystery and threatened by a murderer. I wonder what great fear it can be that M. de Kersac remembers? I imagine it is probably the French Revolution; he must surely be old enough to have lived through the Terror and that, without question, would have ‘left its mark’ on him.
Death Is the Cure Page 4