‘I was wondering, M. Armel,’ she began, ‘how it is that you speak such excellent English? Your father is quite fluent, but you have almost no accent at all, and neither does Marianne.’
He looked pleased at this manifestation of interest. ‘Did I not mention it before? There is no mystery, it is just that my mother was born to royalist émigré parents and brought up in England. After the Battle of Waterloo when it became clear that France was once again safe her family returned to their château in Broceliande.
‘Brittany,’ he explained. ‘is not like the rest of France. For many centuries it was a separate country and we still strongly value our independence. The royalist cause was never entirely defeated in the region and both my parents were fortunate in that their homes were not destroyed in the Revolution.’ He wiped his mouth on his napkin. ‘One of the many benefits of living on the edge of the world.’
‘Of course.’ She was stricken with contrition. ‘I believe you did tell me, in the Pump Room, but – oh dear – that seems so long ago!’ She shot a guilty smile at him and was relieved when he laughed at her. ‘And did, pray forgive me, did your wife also speak English?’ She was intrigued at the notion of exiles returning to their homeland. That will never be my own fate, she surmised, though, of course so many of the settlers in Australia spoke of England as Home, and here I am after all.
‘Only a little.’ Armel de Kersac looked encouraged by her interest. ‘But my mother taught Marianne until her death only two years ago. Maman made a point of speaking only in English to the …’ He hesitated, his pleasant features suddenly bleak. ‘To the children, and petit Armel spoke the language very well for his age.’
She was moved by the distress manifest on his large, tanned face and on impulse laid her hand on his sleeve. At his look of delight she drew a breath, cursing herself inwardly. Oh no, this will never do. He must not think of me in that way, but she knew that it was too late. Armel de Kersac was already thinking of her in that way and clearly his intentions towards her were strictly honourable. She was going to have to do something about that and sooner rather than later.
For the rest of the meal Charlotte maintained a flow of light, bright chatter and turned as often as she could towards her other neighbour, Dora Benson whom ordinarily she would have avoided like the plague.
‘Do you not agree, Miss Dora,’ she enquired, still in that slightly artificial, social tone, ‘that Mr Chettle would enjoy visiting the ruins at Pompeii? We discussed it the other day, did we not? I wonder if he has had any further thoughts on the subject. I’m sure he would find artefacts and funerary objects there to satisfy even his tastes.’ She cast around for something else to say about her Hampshire neighbour. ‘Did you chance to observe his house at Finchbourne? The large red-brick place on the left hand side of the road to Winchester?’
To her astonishment the usually staid and commanding Dora Benson actually simpered in reply. ‘I do recall admiring that house,’ she admitted, directing an unpractised fluttering of her lashes at Mr Chettle who was seated opposite. ‘Very handsome indeed. And to answer your question, I believe Mr Chettle has quite resolved to undertake a protracted tour to southern Italy very shortly. As you are aware he has but recently returned from Rome, but I think I can say, with some certainty …’ At this point she electrified Charlotte by giving vent to what, in a less stately personage, could only be called a giggle. ‘As I was saying,’ she continued, ‘a trip to Pompeii is very much on Mr Chettle’s proposed itinerary when we …’ Her hand flew to her mouth in confusion and she blushed a fiery scarlet. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she hissed in Charlotte’s ear. ‘It’s a secret, but I’m sure I can trust you. Mr Chettle and I are to be married and Pompeii is to be the destination for our wedding trip.’
Charlotte gave complete satisfaction by gasping in admiration, squeezing her hand in womanly sympathy and nodding in a significant manner to Mr Chettle who was gazing across at his intended bride with a smile that could only be described as besotted. He looks like a mooncalf was Charlotte’s uncharitable conclusion, but Elaine is right, they’ll spend most of their time traipsing around the world digging up unfortunate dead people who would much prefer to rest in peace, so I can afford to be tolerant. Besides, she sighed, I can only sympathize and rejoice in her good fortune as a woman with no money but what she can earn and no home unless she takes up residence with poor Agnes. And that would never do.
Elaine’s favourite chair attendant appeared at his allotted hour and Charlotte walked down Milsom Street and as far as Mr Radnor’s consulting rooms. I’ll go to see Mrs Liddiard tomorrow, to say goodbye, determined Charlotte. Perhaps I might confess to the truth, some of the truth, or at least let her know that I have identified and talked to the lady she recognized the other day. But not today, I need time to digest it all myself.
‘I’ll make my own way back,’ she told Elaine, who nodded, preoccupied with the nurse who was settling her and making sure her arms and feet were placed correctly in their pans and buckets of water, ready for treatment. At the door, Charlotte was accosted politely by the medical Faradist himself who wore a slightly furtive air.
‘Mrs Richmond,’ he murmured, drawing her into his office, ‘might I trespass upon your good nature for a moment? Thank you,’ he said, as she nodded, looking mystified. ‘I have not liked to ask Mrs Knightley but there have been rumours flying round the city. Is it true that the American gentleman from Waterloo House was actually murdered?’
She nodded and waited.
‘Ah.’ He bit his lip and looked perturbed. ‘I wonder who … I had seen him, you know, a year or so ago when I was practising in Paris. I know nothing of him except that after I had observed my employer’s junior partner in conversation with that gentleman, he, the junior partner, disappeared along with all the money he had withdrawn under some pretext from my employer’s bank. What Mr Tibbins’s dealings with the man may have been, I have no idea and cannot speculate without slanderous supposition, but I had no desire to have any association with him. It was a considerable shock to me when I encountered him here, but I trust he did not recognize me.’
‘Oh dear,’ was all Charlotte, who knew that he had indeed been recognized, could think of saying, inadequate though it was, and then, without pausing to consider her words, ‘Where were you, Mr Radnor, on the afternoon of his death?’
There was a shocked hiss of breath as he realized what she was asking but he quickly recovered himself and looked down his nose at her pompously. ‘I am shocked that you could even think of asking such a thing, Mrs Richmond,’ he announced. ‘But as it happens I was visiting a patient up on Claverton Down and was with her from noon until her evening dinner which she graciously invited me to share.’
He turned on his heel with a curt nod of dismissal and Charlotte gave a philosophical shrug. Oh dear, I’ve offended him, but no matter, I’ll never need to speak to him again. What shall I do? I’ve visited quantities of the places named in my guide book and I have said my prayers in the Abbey, so perhaps a walk along the river would be pleasant in this heat.
First, however, she strolled along to the station to look at the timetable and discovered that the train would leave just after noon the day after tomorrow. That errand completed, she hesitated – the seats overlooking the river failed to attract her; she was reluctant to sit alone, afraid of the thoughts that crowded into her mind so she gladly let herself be distracted by the sight of several ladies eating and drinking in what was evidently a coffee room, just along North Parade Passage. As she was ushered to a small table, Charlotte noticed that the other customers all seemed to be eating buttered buns.
‘Those are Sally Lunns, madam,’ said the waiter. ‘This is Sally Lunn’s house, and our buns are famous.’
‘Then I must certainly try one,’ Charlotte nodded. ‘Who is Sally Lunn?’
‘Some say she was a French lady who escaped those bloodthirsty Frenchies,’ came the reply. ‘Others say ‘twas not her name, but nowadays they still make her specia
l buns which nobody has ever been able to copy.’
‘Really?’ Charlotte was intrigued. ‘Did she come over during the Revolution, then?’
‘No, indeed, madam. It was hundreds of years ago; them foreigners are always fighting and chopping people’s heads off. Nasty place it must be, abroad.’
In the end Charlotte decided on a brisk walk up past the Royal Crescent, taking in a rest on a bench in Victoria Park where she stared unseeing at the ducks on the pond, barely conscious of a refreshing breeze. Foremost of her anxieties was Mrs Montgomery. What should I do, she fretted? Should I stand up in the drawing room and announce that I suspect she is blackmailing some of the guests at Waterloo House? And should I then expose her as being less than the driven snow herself? That would be the simplest way to put a stop to her activities, but what then? Those people are staying in the house, she is their hostess; what are they to do? How are they to look each other in the eye if I have announced that each has a guilty secret? And how is Mrs Montgomery to continue in her role as landlady, provider of meals and beds, if they all know she has a shady past and that she has not scrupled to make use of stolen knowledge? And that’s a consideration, she realized. Just how did Mrs Montgomery discover the secrets that Mr Tibbins was aware of, or has she her own sources of information so that blackmail is simply another ‘service’ that she offers?
No explanation occurred to her and she chewed reflectively at her thumb. Besides, there was the unsigned letter: It will be the worse for you. Is that an empty threat? Or should I be constantly on my guard against some kind of attack by her? What could she do anyway? I’ve already considered that a physical assault seems unlikely. I suppose she could poison me if she really wanted to, but she must be aware that the police inspector, whatever his name was – Mr Nicholson, that was it – that he would be exceedingly interested in a house that was the scene of two suspicious deaths in so short a time.
Mrs Montgomery also seemed an unlikely candidate when considered as a potential murderer, Charlotte sighed. It was impossible to picture the small, elderly woman punching the sturdy American so vigorously that he fell to the ground and even less likely that Mrs Montgomery would have picked up a naked blade and stabbed him where he lay.
Her thoughts flew to the other occupants of Waterloo House who apparently had something to hide. Captain Penbury, she thought. He was badly disturbed by Mr Tibbins and has looked dismayed when Mrs Montgomery hove in sight. Could I have been hasty in dismissing him so easily? He is prone to attacks of discomfort from his musket ball, but for the most part he is a large, strongly built man with experience of warfare. Her mouth twisted at the thought. That’s the sticking point, she told herself; the captain is a trained warrior and surely the very method of Mr Tibbins’s death seems to indicate a spur of the moment attack. Not a planned, disciplined campaign.
Simeon Chettle was another whom she had not seriously considered as a murderer, but he too had simmered with anger and resentment whenever the Pinkerton’s detective engaged him in conversation. Since the murder Mr Chettle had gone from initial relief to evident discomfort, notwithstanding his transports of delight at his speedy romance with Dora Benson. Have I been too urgent in my desire to ship Dora off to Italy, Charlotte wondered? She shook her head. Mr Chettle was no trained military man but neither did he fit the bill as an opportunist assailant. His habit of monopolizing conversations and of standing much too close to one might be irritating, but he showed no sign of rancour when his reluctant audience managed to sidle away. Surely a man who would kill in so unpremeditated a manner would have revealed earlier signs of unbridled anger?
The kind of unbridled anger that characterized Decimus Attwell, perhaps. Charlotte gave a gasp. If Captain Penbury were too disciplined and Mr Chettle too unnoticing, who among the occupants of Waterloo House had consistently displayed a temperament given to outbursts of rage and sudden thunderous glowering?
A hopeful duck pecked about her feet and eventually gave up in disgust upon receiving no crumbs, but Charlotte scarcely noticed it as she examined her theory. With her own eyes she had observed Decimus Attwell’s explosive outbursts and his barely concealed resentful muttering when thwarted. Beside that she had the testimony of his own doting mother that The Revd Decimus had been prone to violence from an early age; that glancing mention of an injured boy, together with the history of the unfortunate governess who, it was only too plain, had been raped by Mrs Attwell’s ‘high-spirited’ schoolboy son.
She pressed her hand to her eyes. It seemed to fit so well, but conjecture alone was of no use. What can I do, she asked herself? I can hardly drop a hint to the police inspector, for what could he do about it? Mr Attwell would meet any accusation with a growl of rage at such impertinence and in the absence of any proof, the police could not proceed. In fact, she made a wry face, if such a charge was made, Mrs Attwell would make it her business to have the inspector removed from his post, or at least subjected to strict discipline.
Could she have done the murder herself, Charlotte wondered, suddenly distracted by the notion? She is a veritable tiger when her cub is even mildly criticized, let alone threatened with whatever it was that Mr Tibbins knew. And what was it that he knew, anyway?
She rose reluctantly from her bench, smoothed down her dress and headed back towards Waterloo House. I must behave with circumspection, she told herself, for the short time I am still a guest. Mrs Montgomery must be persuaded that I am far too dull and demure to excite her suspicions and I must maintain my aloof manner with Decimus. His mother has avoided me since her outburst after the concert so all I have to do is keep out of her way; after all, neither she nor her son has any reason to think I suspect him of attacking a man in a fit of madness so I am in no danger from them. She shuddered and consoled herself. It’s not for much more than twenty-four hours and then I’ll be safely away from Bath and I can leave it in the lap of the gods.
Despite her brave words her feet dragged a little and she made a detour back down to the bustling shops; anything to distract her from the anxieties that weighed so heavily upon her. Pat upon her musing in the park it was suddenly borne in upon her that the large figure some fifty yards ahead of her was in fact that of The Revd Decimus Attwell. Oh my God, she faltered, I cannot speak to him now, surely he would deduce my thoughts as he glared into my face?
She slowed her pace, keeping a weather eye on the burly cleric who seemed, to her feverish conjecture, to be looking more irate than ever. Even at this distance and glimpsed only from behind any barrier that offered, Charlotte could see that Mr Attwell was muttering to himself and that, now and then, he punched the air with a fist the size of a ham. Oh dear, Mr Attwell looked to have worked himself up into a fine old fury. She grimaced. This is certainly my cue to keep out of his way. What could have aroused his ire so badly, she wondered? But with a shudder she cast the thought aside. Never mind why, she determined, all that matters is that he does not let his eye fall upon me.
Keeping at a discreet distance from him, Charlotte rounded the corner and made her way up the steep incline towards Waterloo House. Across the square she could see Armel de Kersac teaching his little daughter to catch a ball while his father seemed bent on mending something, possibly a doll.
Just as she felt safe to heave a sigh of relief at reaching the house in safety, Charlotte was startled at the abrupt appearance on the pavement of Mrs Montgomery herself. In spite of her earlier resolution Charlotte felt a pang of alarm as she realized the other woman not only looked distrait, but was glaring directly at her.
‘G-good afternoon,’ she faltered, hoping to avoid any kind of confrontation. After all, what could the woman accuse her of? I’ve done nothing, the thought flashed through her mind. Nothing to threaten her and the questions I’ve asked have been quite innocent, not really intrusive, so why does she glower at me so furiously?
‘Mrs Richmond, you are a nuisance.’ It was a bald statement and Charlotte was stopped in her tracks by the malevolence in the older woma
n’s voice. ‘I am tired of your looks and glances, your questions and your meddling; interviewing my servants, of all things, and eavesdropping upon private conversations that are no concern of yours.’
‘But I haven’t done anything,’ Charlotte protested, putting out both her hands, palms up, in a gesture characteristic to her, a kind of supplication. ‘You wrote that note, I suppose, but I don’t know what you mean by it.’ At the same time she was aware that The Revd Decimus Attwell had halted in his tracks and was looming behind the other woman, a reddish glint evident in his choleric eye.
‘What’s that?’ he bellowed. ‘You are the author of those damnable notes, madam? You’ll pay for that just as that other did. I silenced him, by God.’ Charlotte let out a gasp at this confirmation of her suspicion, but she had no time for further consideration.
‘Why, I’ll.…’ He gobbled with rage, his face contorted, and lunged with outstretched hands at Mrs Montgomery who ignored him as she continued to harangue the girl who shrank from her. His face crimson with passion, the maddened cleric cannoned into the older woman, pushing her quite off balance so that in turn she stumbled heavily against Charlotte, elbowing her into the road.
Charlotte gasped and cried out as she tried to right herself but Mrs Montgomery was falling and Charlotte along with her. Something … someone … heavy and roaring barrelled past her, propelling her and the landlady into the path of a smart little equipage, a dowager’s britzka and pair, so that the terrified horses snorted and started to rear, accompanied by warning shouts from the coachman.
Death Is the Cure Page 20