Death Is the Cure

by Slade, Nicola

  But she had not seen him in the yard until Captain Penbury had given the alarm and spectators thronged the cobbled mews so where…? She was struck by a memory, of herself giving a cursory glance into the stable where the old pony chomped placidly at his feed. Could Mr Attwell have secreted himself in there somehow? The stable was large and its corners shadowy and dark; a desperate man might well have flattened himself against the wall not daring to breathe until he heard the sound of many voices outside. It would have been simple enough then to saunter out and join the mêlée and if anyone had remarked his presence at the stable door, why, he could simply have claimed to be calming the pony.

  I’ll never know, she sighed, but it could have happened that way; in any case, he has paid the price now. She turned her thoughts away in distress, only to wonder what Mr Tibbins had found so interesting about the two Breton gentlemen but she was too tired, too affected by events, to speculate further.

  In the drawing-room the remaining residents of the house huddled together round the imposing fireplace as if warding off any further disasters, but Charlotte was instantly aware that once again there was an inappropriate air of relaxation, of tension dissipated and even departed. It was uncannily like the assembly after the stabbing of the Pinkerton’s detective.

  As she entered the room there was a flurry of activity as several of the women surged towards her, crinolines billowing and hands fluttering as they hastened to express their shock, their horror and their relief at her delivery from danger. She nodded and thanked them and pressed their eager hands, was intrigued to notice that the female guests had all taken the same route as she herself had done, and were wearing gowns in sober hues but that not one of them had specifically arrayed herself in mourning.

  Melicent Dunwoody was, indeed, wearing her shabby black dress, but that was an instance of necessity, while Dora Benson was arrayed in a dull purple silk. Charlotte and Elaine had merely refrained from bright colours. At least we’re not hypocrites, Charlotte thought and glanced at her own dark green silk and hid a smile, but sobered instantly as she thought: no, I would not wear mourning for a woman who tried her damnedest to murder me.

  The gentlemen were equally urgent in their expressions of relief at her miraculous survival and of good wishes, and glasses of sherry were thrust under her nose from several quarters. She tried to answer with a universal smile of thanks and took the glass from the nearest hand. To her hastily concealed dismay the hand belonged to Armel de Kersac who loomed over her with an anxious frown creasing his brow and with a dawning smile as he realized she had chosen to accept his proffered sherry above all the others.

  Oh Lord, her sigh was weary but she disguised it gallantly and smiled again. I’d forgotten all about Armel. I suppose I shall have to allow him to speak and then let him down very gently. I shan’t be able to leave Bath without doing that. Her glance shot beyond Armel to where his father stood beside the mantelpiece, watching her with an expression of studied blankness. He caught her eye and she saw an involuntary warmth lighten his features; he nodded, smiled very slightly and raised his glass to her.

  Dinner was a testament to Mrs Montgomery’s careful management and to the skills of her excellent cook. Insensibly too, as the meal went on, the atmosphere grew warmer and lighter, possibly assisted by the liberality with which the wine belonging to the late mistress of the house was served to all the guests. Charlotte suspected that the wine would be served in equally generous measures below stairs, and why not? The servants would soon find themselves out of a job as the household was broken up; let them make the most of it.

  The gentlemen did not linger over their port this evening but made their way to the drawing room hard upon the heels of the ladies, as if unwilling to forego any moment of this final evening.

  Charlotte found herself sitting beside Lady Buckwell on a small spindle-legged sofa to one side of the room. The lacquered little lady of the previous day was now returned in full fig, with no trace of the grandmother who had, with unaccustomed tenderness, held in her arms a trembling, shocked young woman.

  ‘I hope you are quite recovered, Charlotte?’ That was Lady Buckwell, demanding her attention and looking pleased at Charlotte’s reply in the affirmative. ‘I am glad to hear it but to be honest, I expected no less. You are indeed my granddaughter!’ She lowered her voice to a discreet pitch. ‘We will not say goodbye, my dear, but au revoir. My son’s estate is in Hampshire and when I go to visit him next I shall write to invite you to stay with me there. Your company will provide me with a welcome leaven from that sanctimonious wife of his.’ Her mischievous smile lit her face. ‘However, I fear we cannot have you calling me Grandmama, can we? And Lady Buckwell is far too formal. Shall we tell everyone that we have discovered relatives in common – perhaps on my father’s side of the family? He was an artist and that is quite obscure enough to excite no interest. I suggest we settle on it that you should call me Aunt Becky. How does that suit?’

  ‘I shall be honoured and delighted, Aunt Becky.’ Charlotte smiled in reply and unseen by the rest of the assembly, their hands joined under cover of their flowing skirts.

  Elaine Knightley had gone to her room soon after dinner, assuring Charlotte that she was perfectly well but wanted to be sure of a good night’s sleep before the next day’s long journey. When she returned from accompanying Elaine to her room, Charlotte’s heart sank as she observed Armel de Kersac approaching her, determination writ large on his amiable countenance.

  ‘It is a beautiful evening,’ he began and with some skill shepherded her towards the drawing-room door. ‘Won’t you take one last look at Bath by moonlight?’

  There was no escape; Armel was going to propose to her and she was going to refuse him, so she summoned up a smile and allowed him to drape her rose-patterned shawl around her shoulders. As he did so she caught Lady Buckwell’s eye and looked away, only to see that the elder Count de Kersac was also observing her. She turned her head aside to hide her distress but was unable to avoid seeing that the old man was regarding his son with affection but also with pity.

  Armel held out his arm and she slipped her hand into it as they strolled over into the square. She said nothing and indeed she could think of no words that would alter what was to come. Better let it happen, she sighed.

  ‘Mrs Richmond … Charlotte,’ he began, pressing her hand with urgent affection. ‘You cannot be in ignorance of what I am about to say to you.’ He shook his head as she opened her mouth. ‘No, pray let me speak. I have told you something of my home, of Brittany and of the magical stories that abound. I also told you about the legend of the fairies that inhabit our land. I know that I am not mistaken in saying that you were intrigued at those tales, and that you would find the Manoir de Kersac to your taste.’ He took a deep breath and Charlotte remained silent.

  ‘You know also that my wife and son died last year and that it was a great grief to me, but I have my little Marianne still and I flatter myself that you have come to love the child during our short acquaintance.’ He led her to a bench under the trees and sat beside her. ‘Oh, do not be apprehensive.’ He gave a short, embarrassed laugh. ‘I have no intention of kneeling down to say this, but say it I will and must. Could you, dearest Charlotte, extend your love for my daughter to include myself? And would you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?’

  Hot tears sprang to her eyes and she found herself unable to speak for the surge of emotion that rose within her breast. He was such a good man and he deserved so much more.

  She gulped and found her handkerchief.

  ‘Oh, Armel,’ she faltered, keeping her eyes downcast and looking at her lap. ‘I – I can’t, I simply can’t. You are quite correct; I do love Marianne and I love your father and I love you too, but not in the way you want me to love you. Not in the way you should be loved. I should never be the wife you deserve because I should never be able to give you the love you need and besides, it’s not …’ She hesitated. ‘It’s not suitable, it really is
not. No.’ She put a gentle finger to his lips. ‘Don’t, please don’t. I’ve … I’ve been married before, as you are aware, and it wasn’t a success. It is not an experiment I anticipate repeating for a long time, if indeed I ever do. Please don’t make me hurt you any more.’ She rose and held out her hand to hold him off. ‘No, don’t come in with me. I must go … I can’t.…’

  As the clock in the hall struck midnight Charlotte was still awake, curled up in the comfortable upholstered chair provided by her deceased, but thoughtful, landlady. She had been unable to restrain a storm of painful tears as a result of her refusal of Armel de Kersac’s offer of marriage. I know I hurt him, she thought, gulping down one of the sobs that still threatened to overwhelm her. Dear God, if I had met him a year ago, six months even, how I would have leapt at such a chance and done all I could to make him happy. But now? I know that I cannot marry him, it wouldn’t be fair. He is too good, too true and I cannot offer him less than he deserves and no, it would never do. She shied away from the emotions that the episode had stirred and forced herself to turn her attention to the other events of the evening.

  No mention had been made of any notebook being found on either of the victims of the carriage accident and her own swift search of Mrs Montgomery’s apartment after dinner had revealed nothing, if indeed there had been anything to find. I know nothing at all, she sighed, it is all speculation so I shall keep my mouth firmly closed. No good can come of my raking up old embers that I don’t understand, and I have lived long enough with secrets of my own so why should I expose those of other people? Mr Chettle can rest easy as can Captain Penbury. I have no need to hold them up to public scrutiny, let them marry their willing governesses and go off to dig for funeral urns in Italy or reminisce about old naval campaigns in some snug little town along the coast.

  Mrs Montgomery is beyond exposure now and no useful purpose can be obtained by telling anyone about her activities either in Bath and recently, or long ago and all across the country. As for Decimus Attwell, his mother, poor woman, has her own hell to inhabit and I will not make it worse by hinting at secrets and suspicions.

  She remembered her last brief conversation with Jonas Tibbins when he had mentioned the two cases which concerned him at Waterloo House and a third which looked promising. I suspect that Mr Tibbins was investigating the proposed bishop, she mused, employed to do so by someone who had heard about Mr Attwell’s scattering of bonny little bastards and perhaps also his episodes of violent temper. Mr Chettle and Captain Penbury looked angry and disturbed by the detective’s hints but surely they came under his heading of minor misdemeanours that were not his concern. As for the commission he was hoping to acquire, that must have concerned Mrs Montgomery, which leads me to what I suspect was his primary business here.

  She came at last to the greatest mystery of them all: something she had returned to over and over again in the few quiet moments she had been granted lately. Reaching into her reticule she stared at the tiny bundle before her and, with a hesitant delicacy of touch, untied the cord and opened up the piece of blue velvet cloth to reveal the locket so that the two miniatures lay face up in front of her while she gazed at them with something like awe.

  As the last chime of midnight died away Charlotte cast one more searching glance at the two portraits and sighed. It could not be true, she thought, biting her lip, but the more she assured herself of the impossibility of her deduction, the more the two painted faces stared back at her and she could no longer deny the resemblance. If one were to substitute white hair for fair.…

  No, she said firmly, as she restored the locket to its velvet wrapping. It cannot possibly be true and yet, how can it be otherwise? And if it is true, if this one astounding circumstance is indeed proven, everything will change.

  Next day Lady Buckwell and Elaine Knightley joined together in making Charlotte breakfast in her room so that she was only just dressed when, at ten o’clock, Lady Buckwell tapped on her door.

  ‘I think you should not go downstairs yet, Charlotte,’ she announced without ceremony and carried on, cutting short Charlotte’s enquiry as she closed the door firmly behind her, ‘an employee of the late Mr Tibbins has just called, having only yesterday learned of his principal’s death. Fortunately he was brought to me in the drawing room where I was alone so I was able to help him conclude his business with dispatch. In short, I referred him to Inspector Nicholson of the local constabulary and told him that depositions had been taken regarding the discovery of the body.

  ‘He was naturally distressed, but when I informed him of yesterday’s sad “accident” and the subsequent deaths of Mrs Montgomery and Mr Attwell, he gave me a very straight look particularly when I was able to give him an eye-witness account of the tragedy. After several minutes of deliberation he thanked me for my assistance and said he was confident that no guest remaining at Waterloo House would now be an object of his organization’s attention. Whereupon he left to go and see the inspector.’

  Charlotte listened in silence and Lady Buckwell ended by saying, ‘I did not ask the man about Mr Tibbins’s profession, nor did he volunteer any information, but I can draw conclusions as well as the next man or woman.’ She raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly. ‘I see you either know what he was, or have come to the same conclusion, so we will say no more. I believe we may rest easy that we shall have no further communication upon the subject.’

  ‘M. de Kersac?’ Ever since she had lain in bed at dawn, cataloguing her bruises, Charlotte had wondered how she was to broach the subject that was to occupy her every waking moment so far that day, and here he was, the elder Breton gentleman, about to make his way across the road evidently bent on a short rest under the shade of the beech trees. She had observed his progress from an upstairs window and had paused only long enough to hurry into her own room and take a small packet from the leather valise that had been Will Glover’s.

  ‘Mrs Richmond? You will not, I feel sure, object if I call you Charlotte?’ There was a familiar wariness in those pale-blue eyes but there was pleasure and yes, affection too, while a smile of welcome softened the austerity of his features as she smiled and nodded permission. ‘Are you also bound for a few moments’ peace and quiet? Pray do me the honour of bestowing your company upon me. We shall have no more opportunity for our little discussions.’

  ‘As long as I do not disturb you, monsieur?’ She hesitated, but he held out his arm in a courtly gesture so she walked with him, suiting her pace to his own.

  ‘I am glad of an opportunity of talking to you, my dear young lady,’ he began, as they made themselves comfortable on a bench some distance from the road and barely visible from Waterloo House and any inquisitive eyes.

  She opened her mouth to speak but bit her lip instead. The old man had something on his mind, better let him relieve his anxieties. She could guess what he was going to say.

  ‘My son is very unhappy at your decision, my dear,’ he said gently and, as she raised her eyes to meet his gaze, he took her hand in a cool, but friendly clasp. ‘He had told me of his intention; that he hoped to make you his wife and I had assured him that if he was sufficiently fortunate to win your love, nothing would give me greater pleasure.’

  She tried to speak but he raised his hand to silence her. ‘No, ma chère Charlotte, do not tell me anything. I saw from the outset that your relations with Armel were mere friendship and liking, however much I, as well as he, tried to delude ourselves that you felt otherwise. You must not reproach yourself, you were honest and open and not once have I observed anything in your conduct either with Armel or with any other gentleman in this house, that could give rise to any other interpretation.’

  He sighed and squeezed her hand. ‘Like my son I could indeed have wished for a different, happier, outcome. He has suffered so much grief in this last twelve months that your acceptance of his offer would have been a beacon of hope to us all. Marianne, also, is more than half in love with you and in no time at all would have been your own
loving little daughter.’

  Charlotte’s head was bent, but she was aware of his eyes on her and of his affectionate sympathy. ‘I have said nothing of this to Armel, my dear, but I have come to suspect that your heart is not your own.’

  ‘Oh no.’ She lifted her head in dismay. ‘M. de Kersac, pray do not say so. There is nothing, no one. It is merely that having had no reason to look back upon my late marriage with any pleasure I am reluctant to try again so soon. I do assure you.…’

  His smile deepened and he patted her hand again. ‘Assure me of nothing, my dear Charlotte, for I should not believe you.’ The smile vanished and he gave her a searching glance. ‘I think I can guess your fate, my child, but rest tranquil, I shall say nothing, either to my son, Armel, or to any other living soul.’

  For a moment hot tears stung her eyelids and she had to bite her lips to prevent a sob escaping them. Sympathy was not something Charlotte had experienced very often of late and that it should come from this man, of all men, touched her heart.

  ‘Thank you, monsieur,’ she said gravely, as she took her hand from his and reached into her pocket. Her thoughts were in turmoil. Should I do this, she demanded of herself? Must I tackle him at such a time? But time was running out and there was no real question, no dilemma, and no option but to continue with what she had begun.