Death Is the Cure

by Slade, Nicola

  ‘Sir? Mr Tibbins? Can I be of any assistance?’ She fished out her own handkerchief from her reticule and he allowed her to exchange it for his own bloody one. ‘There,’ she frowned as she dabbed tentatively at a nasty graze above his left ear. ‘I think the flow of blood is ceasing now. I’ll fold this handkerchief into a pad and you should hold it there for a few minutes more.’

  His obedience was alarming, but she saw that although he was still pale and a trifle stunned, his eyes were alert and he was frowning more with concentration than with pain.

  ‘Lean against this wall, sir,’ she advised, giving him a gentle push so that he had no course but to comply. She took a further look at the wound and opined that it only needed to be washed now and some basilicum powder applied as a further protective measure. He made no reply and she touched his arm.

  ‘What in the world happened, Mr Tibbins?’ she asked, and when he shook his head gingerly, she insisted. ‘Don’t be foolish,’ she admonished him. ‘I have no intention of mentioning this incident to anyone, least of all our fellow inmates.…’ She stumbled, remembering Elaine Knightley’s admonition. ‘I mean our fellow guests,’ she continued, aware of an amused flicker of appreciation from her companion. ‘However, I am perfectly aware that there is a half brick lying in the gutter a couple of feet away from where we stand, and that the wound you are nursing could very well have resulted from that half brick being thrown at you.’

  He turned his head deliberately, to stare at the brick she indicated, and then to stare at her with dawning admiration.

  ‘You are a remarkable woman, Mrs Richmond,’ he said, with an odd half smile of what looked like satisfaction. ‘And you are quite correct in your deduction. I believe that the brick there, that you have so cleverly observed, did indeed make contact with my head and that it was aimed deliberately at me.’

  He glanced round at the throng of passers-by and raised an eyebrow. ‘Five or ten minutes ago,’ he said. ‘I was alone on this side of the street and there was a mere straggle of pedestrians over on the other pavement. I believe that someone spotted me as I walked up the hill and decided upon opportunistic action. He must have concealed himself in that alleyway yonder, providing himself with a handy weapon, ah … the brick, in fact. Then he took his chance that with so few persons around no one would observe his assault upon me.’ His mouth twisted in a wry smile. ‘As indeed appears to be the case,’ he said. ‘You were certainly the only person to come to my assistance.’

  He had shrugged off her further offers of help and had accepted, with some relief she thought, her assurance of complete discretion. But when he left her to resume his journey, she was struck by a thought. Bending to pick up the offending half brick and examine it, she was shocked though not surprised to find traces of blood and hair on it.

  Charlotte set out to explore Bath armed with a guide book that she had dutifully bought the previous week on a last minute trip to Winchester where she had stocked up on a new cap or two, as well as some summer gloves and stockings. ‘I’m going to explore Bath today,’ she said lightly to Elaine, but said nothing to her friend of Mr Radnor’s anxious looks at the sight of Mr Tibbins upon the previous morning. No need to set up doubts in her mind about her new medical practitioner, Elaine was reluctant enough as it was about the whole enterprise. Nor had she mentioned the astonishing attack on the American.

  As she wandered down Milsom Street, marvelling at the quality and quantity of the shops, she idly turned over and over in her mind the various conversations she had witnessed with the surprising Mr Tibbins and other people, both on Saturday night and again yesterday morning. She had only fleetingly encountered the other residents since Sunday morning but her recollection was quite clear. Mrs Montgomery had looked suddenly old and defeated somehow when Mr Tibbins spoke to her in that confidential, familiar manner, Charlotte thought, but why? There had been mention of someone in Brighton, but why should that disturb the owner of Waterloo House? And Mr Tibbins had unsettled Captain Penbury and Mr Chettle too. Charlotte recalled the captain’s gruff uneasiness when some far off battle or other had been tossed into the conversation. What could that have meant? And her newly encountered neighbour from Finchbourne had looked distinctly uneasy at the reminder of his visit, many years earlier, to Egypt.

  To cap it all there was the surprising reaction of young Mr Radnor, otherwise so pleased with himself and his luxuriant whiskers and moustachios which emulated the style of Prince Albert; so confident too, of his ability to cure his patients, or at least to charm them out of their fees, she thought with a cynical grin. Yes, that complacent smile had been wiped off his handsome face and an anxious frown had quite disfigured those regular features, and all because a middle-aged tourist from America, who might not be all he purported to be, had taken a second look at him.

  Oh well, she decided with a philosophical shrug. What do I care as long as Mr Tibbins has no interest in me? But he is a man to watch, she faltered, a man to be wary of, with that intense curiosity about his fellow guests. Such a man might think nothing of ferreting out snippets of information about anyone he met, to store away for future reference. He might even, she pursed her lips, try to find out about the history of an eminently respectable and innocent – oh yes, definitely innocent – young widow visiting Bath with an invalid friend.

  Certainly I must avoid too much conversation with him, she determined, but reluctant as she was to face it, she was aware that Mr Tibbins had held her under a certain scrutiny on each occasion of their meeting in the halls and corridors of Waterloo House. For some reason though, that close watch did not resemble the keen, and slightly, mocking observance that characterized his dealings with the other guests. No, Mr Tibbins’s round, ingenuous face bore an expression of interest and something like approval as he watched her.

  He had looked at her with a similarly approving regard when she had pointed out the half brick in the road and informed him of her belief that it had been thrown at him. Why was he pleased with her? What could it possibly matter to him whether she were observant or no? And there was the most intriguing question of all, why in the world had someone troubled to throw a brick at him in the first place? Certainly the American had brushed aside her concern and laughed it off as of no importance, but Charlotte’s mind was busy with possibilities and unanswerable queries, the greatest of which was: had the supposed accident at Salisbury Railway Station indeed been an accident at all?

  She had racked her brains in an effort to recall what she had seen, but she was no clearer in her mind now than before. She had spotted Mr Tibbins in the throng of passengers about to board the train, along with their friends and relatives all eager to bid them farewell. Had he been standing beside the young woman who so nearly could have been crushed by the train? Had – Charlotte bit her lip in anxiety – had someone pushed that girl by mistake, having meant to send Mr Tibbins on to the track?

  It was inconceivable that Mr Tibbins himself should not be concerned upon that point and she felt some relief that his deliberations must surely deflect his interest from her. A slight anxiety niggled at the back of her mind nonetheless and Will’s words echoed in her memory: If anyone starts to show too great an interest, Char, keep your head down and your nose clean.

  Fortunately so far his interest in her still seemed friendly, but Charlotte had observed other occupants of Waterloo House huddled in what appeared to be reluctant and resentful discourse with their fellow guest. The previous evening Charlotte had put in a brief duty visit to the drawing room before slipping out to dine alone with Mrs Knightley and she had seen both of the Counts de Kersac buttonholed, separately, by Mr Tibbins, apparently no worse for wear and with his mouse brown hair combed forward to conceal his wound. Receiving no encouragement from the French gentlemen he had moved on to the burly clergyman, the Reverend Decimus Attwell who had given him a testy glare and lumbered away growling. Mr Attwell’s stout and sour-looking mother had, in Charlotte’s hearing, snapped, ‘Leave us alone,’ when Mr Ti
bbins had bowed goodnight to her.

  Walking along Milsom Street with her nose in her guidebook Charlotte almost walked into a tall gentleman who was striding along with a purposeful air.

  ‘I do beg your pardon, madame.’ It was the younger of the two French inhabitants of Waterloo House. ‘Oh, mais – but it is Mrs Richmond, is it not? I am sorry to be so clumsy, do forgive me.’

  ‘But there’s nothing to forgive.’ Charlotte hastily pocketed her book as she laughed up at him and held out her hand. ‘I plead guilty to being a world away. I have been assiduously following the instructions of this excellent guidebook and have already trodden on a terrier, stumbled over a small urchin and grievously offended an elderly gentleman who objected when I walked into him. Of the three’ – she gave a reminiscent smile – ‘I fancy the urchin was the most vociferous. But my absorption in Bath history is no reason for knocking you into the road, sir, and I must take care not to risk life and limb, mine or anyone else’s!’

  He bowed over her hand and retained it for a moment as he smiled down at her, admiration plainly written in his amiable features. Not a handsome face, she considered, gently removing her hand, but a very kind one. He looks as if one could trust him. The conclusion startled her. Kindness was not a quality she usually sought when covertly examining a new acquaintance; she was more accustomed to weighing up the chances of being unmasked, or at least, the unmasking of her late stepfather, the beloved but decidedly unreliable Will Glover. No, kindness had not often come her way, particularly not in a man. Or trustworthiness.

  He was still standing there in front of her on the pavement when an irate elderly woman berated him and he moved guiltily to Charlotte’s side. ‘I understand that your friend will be taking the air this afternoon.’ At her blink of astonishment he laughed ruefully. ‘Yes, I know, there are no secret rendezvous for the guests at Waterloo House, dear lady. I did not mean to pry however, rather to enquire if you and Mrs Knightley plan to visit the Pump Room later today. I enquire because my father and daughter have asked me to escort them there and, as we are strangers in Bath, it would be pleasant to meet some acquaintances.’

  She smiled and returned a noncommittal remark but he pressed her. ‘I do apologize, Mrs Richmond, but you see Marianne has taken a fancy to you – I do hope you will not take offence. It is the first time she has expressed an interest in anyone since … since her mother and brother died more than a year ago.’ His large head drooped and he looked dejected, but brightened as she gave him an enquiring glance. ‘Yes, my wife and seven-year-old son, petit Armel, both died of a fever. It was very sudden and Marianne almost died too; she has not yet fully recovered her strength which is partly why we decided to visit Bath. My father, too, is to take the waters, to see if they will alleviate his rheumatism.’

  ‘I shall be delighted to meet you in the Pump Room,’ Charlotte told him. ‘As long as Mrs Knightley has no other plans.’

  ‘So there you have it, Elaine,’ Charlotte was eating a light meal in Elaine’s sitting room again instead of mingling with her fellow guests. ‘If you have no objection I have engaged us to visit the Pump Room so that you can make the acquaintance of a very quiet, elderly French count, his son who is also a count, but not at all high in the instep, and the little girl who looks to be rather delicate.’

  She paused, holding a piece of bread and butter in her hand. ‘I can’t tell you what a relief it is to eat in a room that isn’t papered and curtained and carpeted in dark gold. All the rooms downstairs have the same paper, a heavily figured flock in a dull yellow ochre and the curtains are all heavy velvet to match. The effect is opulent but oppressive, particularly when the temperature outside is so high. I much prefer these light pretty chintzes and silks.’

  Elaine smiled as she nibbled daintily at a slice of cold lamb. ‘An elderly French count sounds an interesting prospect and as devotees of Miss Austen we certainly must greet our new Bath acquaintances in the Pump Room – where else? Can we cast the younger count as Mr Darcy perhaps? I trust he won’t turn out to be a Wickham or a Willoughby.’

  ‘Not a Darcy.’ Charlotte looked thoughtful. ‘As I said, he’s perfectly approachable; friendly even. And no’ – she recalled that odd moment when she had sensed Armel de Kersac was a man to be trusted – ‘definitely not a villain, he’s a very nice man.’

  Elaine said nothing but she looked amused and Charlotte read her thoughts. ‘And no, you need not look so demure, my friend. I have no interest in looking for a new husband as you are well aware. You know that I’m only too thankful to have rid myself of my first one. Never mind why young ladies used to visit Bath in former days, nothing could be further from my mind than snaring myself an admirer.’

  ‘It might not have been your intention, Char,’ murmured Elaine, as they sat in the Pump Room later that day, ‘but you have secured yourself an admirer, nonetheless. The younger M. de Kersac is very markedly showing an interest in you.’

  Before Charlotte could respond the little French girl sidled towards her and shyly took the hand outstretched to greet her. ‘Well, Marianne? Did you drink up your water? Do you feel better?’

  ‘I did not like it, madame,’ whispered the child, still clutching Charlotte’s hand. ‘It is not … it is not nice.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Charlotte stood up. ‘Then I had better pluck up courage and taste it too; I cannot come to Bath and refuse to take the waters. Elaine, you stay there and I’ll bring you a glass.’

  Accepting a tumbler of water from the serving woman, Charlotte tasted it and wrinkled up her nose in surprise. She turned to smile at Marianne’s grandfather who was resting close by. ‘Goodness, surely it would be better to bathe in this water than to drink it?’ she laughed.

  ‘My dear young lady.’ He raised his glass in a toast. ‘I believe you are expected to do both, but preferably not at the same time. I trust it will restore your friend to good health though for your part, I do not believe you are in need of a cure.’

  ‘No indeed.’ It was the younger Frenchman who sounded out of breath having hurried across the wide hall on seeing Charlotte talking to his family. ‘Do forgive me, I had to have a word with someone.’ He seemed dashed when he realized Charlotte already had a glass of pump water but brightened at a thought. ‘Allow me to help your friend over to us. It won’t take a moment.’

  His father watched him and gave a slight sigh. ‘It is good of Armel to take time away from the farm at this time, but he felt it imperative that Marianne should try the waters. I think, myself, that the cure began when she was taken away from home, from surroundings that held sad memories, and that all the child needs is fresh company and new experiences.’

  Charlotte smiled down at the child beside her but addressed the old man. ‘Where in France do you live, M. de Kersac? Did you have a long journey?’

  ‘We are Bretons, my dear, from near Pont l’Abbé far to the west; we live at the coast so it was a relatively easy journey, sailing from Brest to Plymouth and thence to Bath.’

  ‘Breton? Does that then explain M. Armel’s unusual name?’

  ‘It was a custom in my wife’s family to name the eldest son, Armel, and I was content to carry on the tradition. The name is said to mean “a prince of the bear” but my wife always maintained, mistakenly, I suspect, that it was a variant of Arthur, who was, as I am sure you are aware, known to legend as The Once and Future King.’

  A muscle quirked the corner of the old count’s mouth and Charlotte wondered if he was smiling at some inner thought. When he raised an eyebrow at her questioning glance she was convinced that he was amused for some reason but he said no more.

  Armel de Kersac brought Elaine’s chair over to them and over second glasses of the famous water, taken with heroic determination to suffer the benefits, they discussed their journeys.

  ‘Mrs Knightley’s husband was also unable to leave his harvest,’ she told Armel, explaining that his father had told her about their journey. ‘Do you have a large farm? I spent many summers he
lping with harvests in Australia when I was a child, I’m sure Marianne enjoys it too.’

  Brushing aside their interest in her background – how stupid of me to say that, she scolded herself, now I’ll have to trot out the usual story – she asked again about the farm in Brittany.

  ‘It is just a large farm now,’ Armel explained. ‘During the Revolution my grandfather, who was an invalid, kept quietly at home and, as he was an estimable landowner and loved by the peasants, the manoir was not destroyed. Since his death my father has run it as a farm rather than an estate in the old style.’

  ‘It seemed expedient to do so,’ remarked the elder count, in his dry way and Charlotte shot a glance at him from under her lashes. Expedience. Yes, that would be her own way of doing things, she concluded. Do what is necessary to survive; do not draw attention to yourself; get through it at all cost; do not allow anyone close. I wonder, dare I ask him?

  ‘Monsieur? I wondered … might I presume to ask if you were affected in any way by the Revolution, living so far away from Paris, even if the troubles did not destroy your home?’

  Armel de Kersac cast an anxious look at the elderly count and made as if to intervene but his father held up an imperious hand. ‘No, Armel, Mrs Richmond is not displaying vulgar curiosity and I have no objection to her questions.’ His son subsided, a look of astonishment on his pleasant face as the older man turned to Charlotte. ‘No, my dear, do not look so abashed. I told you when we first met that we have much in common, you and I.’

  Charlotte freed her hand from the child’s and stretched it out to the frail old man who took it in his own. Her wordless sympathy seemed to move him and he blinked once or twice before continuing. ‘I was in Paris,’ he said, speaking with difficulty. ‘My mother was imprisoned and I was taken from her when I was a small child. When she … was sent to the guillotine I was taken to Brittany, to the Manoir de Kersac, which has been my home now for many quiet years. I have no happy memories of that part of my childhood, indeed much of my recollection is blurred and fragmented, so it is not a period I dwell upon with any pleasure.’