Death Is the Cure

by Slade, Nicola

  Surveying Mr Chettle now, Charlotte wondered if that could be true. The notion of her neighbour savouring fresh air stood at odds with his pasty complexion. No, Mr Chettle seemed more of an indoor creature; she pictured him bending enrapt over his precious funerary relics, his pale fingers stroking and cherishing pieces of terracotta pottery; his small dark eyes glinting with pride of ownership as he read aloud inscriptions copied down from obscure tombs.

  But that must be nonsense too; she was struck by the sudden thought. I have heard him with my own ears go on and on about the times he has spent searching among gravestones and exploring cemeteries. There were the interminable stories about the long periods he had spent assisting at archaeological excavations where, she was very much afraid, he must have been a considerable hindrance to the experts in charge. She looked at him again and frowned. He certainly possessed a swarthy but somehow pale complexion, but perhaps it was the kind that never tanned. She had come across pale-faced men and women under the Australian sun, where most of the population sported tanned or weatherbeaten features and even the fine ladies had fought a losing battle against the sun’s rays under their parasols.

  Mr Simeon Chettle was shorter by six inches at least than the captain but his shoulders were broad, his neck resembled a tree trunk and his hands, though pale, were large and hairy. Indeed, the wrists that protruded from his snowy linen cuffs were so thickly hirsute that he looked first cousin to the monkeys she had encountered in India. He might appear fusty and fubsy, but he was obviously possessed of enough physical strength to kill a man. She shivered a little as she recalled the fanatical glow in her Finchbourne neighbour’s eyes as he described the Roman grave ornaments he had secured in the spring. Strength of body and strength of will too, she thought. But why in the world should he wish to do so?

  Charlotte’s morbid fancies were interrupted by an exclamation of pleasure and surprise from Mrs Montgomery. The butler had processed grandly across the golden carpet and proffered a silver tray upon which reposed one of the two letters that comprised the evening post, the second missive being handed to Charlotte with considerably less ceremony.

  ‘Oh, what a kind attention. Ladies and gentlemen, do pray attend me, I beg of you.’ Mrs Montgomery rose, gesturing to the gentlemen who had risen politely with her. ‘No, gentlemen, do please be seated again. I have just this minute received an invitation, addressed to us all. A dear, dear friend of mine tells me that she has invited a private party to visit the Assembly Rooms for tomorrow night – to attend a concert apparently, organized by the leaders of society here in Bath. There is to be a collection in aid of orphaned children in the town and I am sure it will be a delightful occasion. My friend, Mrs Smith, writes that sadly some of the friends she had invited are unable to attend owing to a sudden outbreak of illness caused alas, by some fish that was past its best, amongst the party staying at the White Hart. As you can easily imagine, Mrs Smith was most discomposed until she thought of me and Waterloo House. She writes: … and so, my dear Mrs Montgomery, I was forced to lower my sights whereupon I hit upon you. I trust that none of your lodg … – Ahem, she means my guests, of course – will embarrass me and I am sure that the dreadful event which has occurred in your mews will be of interest to my more refined guests.’

  Briefly Charlotte met Elaine Knightley’s dancing eyes then both women looked away. Mrs Montgomery would scarcely take kindly to laughter and mockery of her illustrious friend. Charlotte’s amusement was silenced abruptly by a trill of delight from Melicent Dunwoody.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Montgomery, how exciting. What a great delight that will be! To mingle with the upper echelons of Bath society. What an honour—’

  ‘Nonsense.’ That was Dora Benson’s sharp rebuke. ‘We shall certainly not be on social terms with “the upper echelons of society”. That honour will be allocated to Mrs Smith’s more refined guests, but at least we shall be permitted to enjoy a pleasurable diversion.’

  So that had rankled with Dora, had it? Charlotte was intrigued. Miss Dora Benson was possessed of a lack of tact so entirely wholehearted that it was almost splendid. Charlotte had lived with the governess in the same house for more than a month and could not recall a single occasion upon which Dora had exercised any thought for the feelings of her companions. And yet the egregious Mrs Smith’s downright rudeness had upset her, but had not apparently ruffled the feelings of the normally only too sensitive Melicent Dunwoody.

  If only they had arrived here a day or so earlier I could wonder about their part in the death of Mr Tibbins, she thought, giving herself up to a moment’s idle speculation. Why could they have killed him, she mused? Sadly I can think of no convincing motive for either of them to commit murder. They are far more likely to become the victims of such a crime themselves.

  Taking advantage of a discussion that did not include her, Charlotte quietly opened her own letter, having recognized the scatter of exclamation marks and the looping calligraphy of her sister-in-law Agnes Benson. It was as she had earlier suspected: Agnes had now discovered that she was with child and expressed her delight over several pages before mentioning something of interest to one of Charlotte’s fellow guests: Barnard was so interested by your mention, dearest Char, of the Chesapeake! He says he heard, only recently, that there is a mill at Wickham not fifteen miles from here that has some timbers from that very ship! He says, in his joking way, that he must invite the gentleman to visit us and to undertake an expedition!

  ‘I am so glad to see that your friend is feeling well enough to join us at dinner.’ Count Armel bent to speak to her in the deep, calm voice that seemed to epitomize his character. Armel, as Charlotte had decided long ago, was a large, restful and reassuring creature and a bulwark against the attentions of the captain and the relic collector. Thrusting the letter from Agnes into her pocket she smiled assent and he continued, his slight accent adding a pleasant note, ‘Mrs Knightley has a delicate beauty that reminds me of some of the legends of my home on the far west coast of Brittany.’ He gave a slightly embarrassed shrug and smiled. ‘When I first beheld her tonight in that pale gown I thought at once of La Princesse Lointaine, the unattainable lady, although that legend, indeed, is not confined to Brittany alone. My mother, who was a distant cousin on my grandfather’s side, came from further inland though still in Brittany, although she was actually born in England, to émigré parents. Her family hailed originally from the forest of Broceliande where there abound stories of fairies and brave knights, along with enchanted caves and magic springs which guarantee eternal beauty to any woman brave enough to dabble the water on her face.’

  He turned an admiring glance towards Charlotte and produced a shy smile. ‘Mrs Knightley, and of course you yourself, would have no need of such spells and entrancements.’

  Oh dear. Charlotte suddenly became aware that this large, friendly man could very well end up being badly hurt by her. He was clearly entertaining some serious intentions towards her and she was suddenly frightened at the prospect of making someone so congenial unhappy, and even more by the recognition of how sorely she was tempted to allow his gentle advances; to let him take care of her and carry her off to that far off stronghold on the edge of the world, where the only requirement was that she should be happy. It was too tempting, too possible, too impossible, so she brushed his remarks aside, taking care to do so gently. ‘I fear you are a flatterer, M. Armel,’ was all she said.

  ‘Well, perhaps we must disagree upon that subject.’ He smiled at her, apparently unruffled by her rebuff. ‘We have fairies at home also, at Kersac.’ He glanced across the table to where his father was talking eagerly with Elaine Knightley. ‘I believe my father sees it too,’ he said, in an aside. ‘The resemblance, or rather the suggestion, I mean. She is so like a fairy princess should surely be.’ He reddened, cleared his throat, then laughed at himself. ‘There you are, Mrs Richmond, I, too, am caught up in her enchantment. But I was telling you of my home. The manoir is ancient, built of stone to withstand centuries of
marauding visitors from the sea and from the land and the story goes that the house was built by a mortal man, a knight, who strayed into the circle of standing stones on our domain. There he met a fairy maiden who told him she would release him from the enchanted circle only if he built her a house and stayed with her forever.’

  Charlotte was entranced. All her life she had yearned for a home of her own, for a place that took her to its heart, for roots and family and most of all to belong. And here was a man who had all of those things and more and who, with the slightest encouragement, would lay them gladly at her feet.

  He smiled at the intensity visible on her charming, angular features, and went on, ‘And so now we have our own fairy legend and we believe that if a man or a woman strays somehow into the stone circle the enchantment will bind him or her to Kersac for ever.’

  In bed that night Charlotte put aside the memories of the shocking events of the afternoon until she could think clearly about the late Mr Tibbins and what must have been, she feared, a third and sadly successful attempt upon his life. Instead, she once more considered Count Armel and his increasingly particular attentions to her. There is nothing for it, she concluded. I must gently turn the conversation every time he ventures on one of those shy remarks that yet reveal the trend of his thoughts. Oh dear; she heaved a sigh of regret. I might be mistaken, but I really don’t think so. She closed her eyes for a long, thoughtful moment. And it is so very beguiling. But no, it won’t do. Perhaps I can avoid letting him come to the point; I shall have to be very busy with Elaine and – oh my goodness!

  She sat bolt upright in bed aghast that something so momentous could have slipped her mind although murder, she conceded, might constitute sufficient excuse. Mrs Liddiard and her extraordinary tale of a lady from London and the baby, little Mary Wellesley. How could I possibly have forgotten about that? For Mary Wellesley and Mary, (or Molly) Wesley were surely one and the same person? They must be. And that person had been Charlotte’s own darling mother. The details were too many and too similar and Charlotte could scarcely believe her good fortune in stumbling upon the one person in the entire world who could give her this information. She snuggled back against her pillows and counted off the coincidences on her fingers.

  Mary or Molly Wesley (later Molly Glover) had been born at the end of November in 1819, in or near Bath. That was all she would ever admit to Charlotte, brushing aside Charlotte’s questions with her laughing: ‘It’s ancient history, Char, nothing to do with us now.’

  Mary Wellesley had been born late in 1819 in a private house in Bath.

  Molly Wesley had been either been born in, or sent as a baby to, an orphanage somewhere in Somerset, possibly in Bath.

  Mary Wellesley had been sent as a baby to a small privately run orphanage in Bath.

  Molly Wesley had been taught, she had once confided to her daughter, to speak like a gentlewoman by a friendly creature at the orphanage. Sadly for Charlotte’s current investigations Molly had never mentioned the name of this well-intentioned person.

  Mary Wellesley had been taught to speak like a gentlewoman by Mrs Liddiard who knew the child was quality-born.

  At the age of twelve, Molly Wesley had been despatched out into service at a clergyman’s house somewhere in Somerset, presumably outside the city of Bath itself. At the age of thirteen the seventeen-year-old schoolboy son of the house had fallen in love with her and his mother had taken drastic steps to nip the unsuitable affair in the bud, by the simple if ruthless means of accusing Molly of theft. This unscrupulous act had resulted in the girl, as yet quite unaware that she was with child, being shipped off to Australia as a convicted thief.

  What had happened to Mary Wellesley at the age of twelve?

  Charlotte chewed at her bottom lip and pondered the question. The two babies – children – had to be one and the same; it was straining coincidence too far to believe otherwise. And if that were the case then she was now in possession of something wonderful, something she had never thought to achieve. She knew something, a very little something perhaps, but far more than before, of her mother’s background. Charlotte wondered about that society lady who surely was, must have been, her own grandmother. A lady who was probably already married and had ‘made a mistake’; a lady who had already borne at least one child; an open-handed, impatient, hoity-toity piece, not pretty, but taking in her ways.

  In the darkness Charlotte wondered again what could have gone amiss. The lady had showered money on the midwife and given her more money to find temporary respectable foster parents for the little Mary, because she planned to return at Easter to make permanent arrangements. But the day after Mary’s mother returned to London the midwife had died and the child ended up in the orphanage. Had Mrs Wellesley returned that Easter? Had she been distraught at what she learned in the city? Or had she looked upon it as the hand of Providence offering a neat solution to her problem?

  Charlotte cast up a fervent prayer for the soul of the lost child who had become her own mother and added a wistful hope that Mrs Wellesley had not simply abandoned her daughter. And if she is still living, she thought, does she remember that little daughter now and then, with a sigh perhaps? I wonder if I could ever trace her. Charlotte opened her eyes wide as she considered the idea. There was some suggestion that she was related somehow to the Duke of Wellington, but that might have been a joke and too late now, to ask His Grace, who had been dead for six years. Probably too delicate a matter to enquire about amongst his surviving family too, she grimaced. Oh well, I must talk to Mrs Liddiard again when Elaine goes for her treatment tomorrow.

  At last she allowed herself to think of Mr Tibbins and his dreadful fate. A sob shook her slight body as she recalled the admiration in his eyes when she justified his faith in her by some intelligent deduction and she wondered, vainly, if he had recognized his attacker. But for that unlucky blow, as surmised by Inspector Nicholson, Charlotte was quite sure Mr Tibbins would have been a match for any assailant, but he must have been taken by surprise.

  She spared a prayer for him, wondering if she might be his only mourner, and wondered too, if she should inform Inspector Nicholson of Jonas Tibbins’s profession. Nothing had been said so she was forced to assume that no documents had been found that could identify him as anything other than the American tourist he purported to be. She wrestled uneasily with her conscience and concluded that discretion was, in this instance, the better part of valour and that Mr Tibbins would not have wished her to reveal his concerns even now.

  But what a day it had been. As she drifted into sleep Charlotte was aware of momentous happenings all around. Elaine is looking so much improved in health, she whispered to herself. I have perhaps discovered something about my grandmother; and I tripped over the bloodstained corpse of a man I had begun to consider – if not a friend, then perhaps something of an ally. I wonder what tomorrow will bring.

  At breakfast next morning Charlotte remained absorbed in this new and fascinating puzzle that had landed so unexpectedly in her lap. At five o’clock she had struggled awake from a tangled jumble of dreams and had merely dozed since that hour, worrying away at the ghost of an idea that she was sure might be helpful. Sadly, the notion that teased her so had proved elusive. Elaine had slept well, but was not tempting fate by rising early so she was taking her breakfast on a tray with the faithful Jackson in attendance. Later that morning the three of them, Elaine, Jackson and Charlotte would make their way on foot and by Bath chair to the consulting rooms of young Mr Radnor who would surely be delighted and gratified to hear of his patient’s happy improvement.

  Despite the appalling event of the previous afternoon, the even tenor of the Waterloo House breakfast-table was maintained, broken only by a small shriek from their hostess as Captain Penbury moved his cup and saucer rather abruptly out of his way.

  ‘Oh, Captain Penbury,’ she admonished him. ‘Pray take more care. That breakfast china is Rockingham, you know, and came to me from my late husband’s mother’s cou
sin. It is quite irreplaceable.’

  It was fortunate, Charlotte considered, that Mrs Montgomery appeared not to have heard the captain’s gruff mutter of, ‘If that is the case, madam, then why the devil do you put it out for use?’ She shot him a smile of consolation and reached carefully for her own cup. Count Armel de Kersac was again at her side.

  ‘I am relieved to observe, madame,’ he murmured. ‘That you seem to have recovered from yesterday’s ordeal. What do you plan to do this morning?’

  ‘Indeed I am feeling much more composed, thank you, M. Armel,’ she nodded. ‘This morning I propose to accompany Mrs Knightley when she goes for her electrical treatment. It seems to be doing her a great deal of good, so she is anxious to continue.’

  And I propose to pump the nurse, Mrs Liddiard, she told herself. There may be more details of Ma’s story that she has forgotten. It was an intriguing and exciting prospect and it would take her mind off sudden death. The former nurse might, of course, begin to suspect that she had rather more interest in the story than might be expected, bearing in mind that Charlotte had mentioned an acquaintance as the source of her knowledge; if she comes to the conclusion that I have a personal interest, I rather believe I shall give her an edited version of Ma’s life history. She grinned suddenly under cover of her damask table napkin; that edited version had better not include anything to do with being transported, or with Will Glover’s occupational hazards.

  The morning’s visit to the medical Faradist followed the same procedure as that of the previous day. Jackson stalked grimly down the length of Milsom Street in attendance on Elaine’s Bath chair, keeping a minatory eye on the burly and respectable man engaged for the task of conveying the invalid to the doctor’s consulting rooms. Inside those rooms Jackson dismissed the nurse with a barely disguised sniff as she firmly closed the door on the changing-room.