by Anne Ashley
‘Yes, it does seem hard to imagine, I know, but we must strive to keep an open mind. She had worked there, I understand, for a short time only. So I can only assume that she must have discovered something that someone in that house feared becoming common knowledge. With any luck, we should have a clearer idea tomorrow.’
He raised a warning finger. ‘It would seem the others have decided to follow our example by taking a breath of fresh air,’ he murmured, and Emma could not decide, as he led her across the lawn towards the house, whether she felt relieved or disappointed at having what for her were rapidly becoming very precious moments alone with him brought to an abrupt end.
Sir Lionel Brent betrayed no little astonishment when he cast his eyes over the visiting-card his butler handed to him early the following afternoon. Nevertheless he didn’t hesitate to instruct his servant to show his surprising visitor in at once.
‘My dear Grantley, this is an unexpected pleasure!’ He came forward to shake his fellow member of White’s warmly by the hand. He then frowned slightly as he noticed a second figure appear in the doorway, and it was left to Benedict to perform the introductions.
‘I do not know, sir, whether you are acquainted with my nephew, Harry Fencham.’
‘No, I cannot recall that we have ever met before,’ Sir Lionel admitted candidly, before shaking the younger man’s hand no less warmly. ‘But I do know your father quite well. How is he keeping these days?’
‘Oh, he’s in fine fettle, sir, although not at all happy to be in town. He ain’t one for a deal of socialising these days. He much prefers the peace and quiet of the country.’
‘Well, town life doesn’t suit everyone,’ Sir Lionel remarked, after inviting his guests to sit down and instructing his butler to furnish them with some refreshments. ‘Like to spend some time in the capital each year myself, but I must confess I’m always glad to get back here.’
Making himself comfortable in his favourite chair, Sir Lionel waited only for his butler to perform his duties, and leave the room, before asking in his usual forthright manner, ‘So, what brings you to these parts, Grantley?’
Although he took a moment to sample the excellent burgundy, Benedict saw little point in trying to avoid the issue. ‘I’m here at the request of Lavinia Hammond.’ His eyes never wavered from his suddenly alert listener’s face. ‘She is not wholly convinced that her husband’s death was simply the result of being in—how shall I phrase it?—the wrong place at the wrong time. In other words, she believes his death was planned. And I have to say that from what I’ve managed to uncover thus far, I’m inclined to agree with her.’
‘I see,’ was the only response forthcoming, before Sir Lionel leaned back in his chair, his bushy grey brows snapping together above the bridge of the prominent, hawk-like nose. Then, ‘I am aware that you have had no little success in solving certain puzzling events which have confounded the authorities, Grantley—your locating the whereabouts of the famous Penticote pearls, to name but one of your achievements. So I shall not dismiss your suspicions out of hand, but would ask on what grounds you base them?’
Just a hint of reserve had crept into Sir Lionel’s manner. Understandable in the circumstances, Benedict considered, for the Baronet must have tried everything humanly possible to discover the identities of his friend’s murderers.
‘Before I answer that, may I ask you a question, sir? Were you perfectly satisfied that Hammond’s death was purely and simply a tragic mischance?’
A grudging smile tugged at one corner of Sir Lionel’s thin-lipped mouth. ‘Confound you, Grantley! No, I was not. But what I fail to understand is why he should have set out to visit me in the first place when he knew I wouldn’t be at home. I’d written to him, cancelling the arrangement. And before you ask,’ he went on, ‘I know for a fact that my letter was delivered to his home. Alice, the young maid I employ here, swore that the note was pushed under the door, and I have no reason to suppose she would lie.’
Sir Lionel paused for a moment to stare down into the contents of his glass. ‘Naturally I questioned Lavinia’s servants, and was assured that neither of them had picked up any note from the mat. So I can only assume that Hammond himself must have discovered it there, swiftly apprised himself of its contents, and then threw it away. Influenza was rife in the area at the time. I had only just recovered from a bout myself. Half the county had been affected by the outbreak, and poor Hammond was rushed off his feet. With so much on his mind, I can only imagine that he forgot our Friday evening had been cancelled.’
‘That’s certainly a possibility, Ben,’ Harry agreed, thereby earning himself a mild look of approval from their host.
‘I might wholeheartedly agree with you,’ Benedict responded, ‘if I was not fairly sure that his attackers were lying in wait for him, certain that he would be keeping that appointment with Sir Lionel.’
Reaching into his jacket pocket, Benedict drew out the late doctor’s diary, opened it at the page containing the very last entry, and then handed it over to their host. ‘And that, sir, is why I believe your friend was murdered.’
The look of astonishment on the Baronet’s face, after reading the last words written in his late friend’s hand, was too spontaneous not to be perfectly genuine. ‘But—but…this is ridiculous! What on earth was suspicious about the maid’s death? She died as a result of a fall—simply tripped and fell down the main staircase at Ashworth Hall.’
‘Did you happen to see the girl’s body, Sir Lionel?’
‘No, Grantley, I did not,’ he freely admitted. ‘I was staying with my sister in Bath at the time, recovering from that bout of influenza I mentioned earlier, and taking those confounded waters. Not that they did me much good. I was pretty knocked up.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I wish Lavinia had come to me about this, though perhaps it’s understandable why she did not. I have been deliberately keeping my distance.’
He caught the faint glimmer of surprise in Benedict’s eyes. ‘Good Lord, man! You know what small places like this are for wagging tongues. Lavinia Hammond’s a damn fine woman. I’ve never made any secret of the fact that I admire her immensely. But I had no intention of adding to her distress by visiting her regularly and giving rise to gossip. This, however,’ he added, handing back his late friend’s diary, ‘is a different matter entirely, and must be looked into.’
‘I could not agree more, sir.’ Benedict returned the diary to his pocket. ‘And might I suggest that for the time being, at least, you leave it to me… Yes, I know, strictly speaking, the matter should be left in your hands,’ he continued, when Sir Lionel looked about to protest, ‘and I have no intention of attempting to undermine your authority as the local Justice of the Peace. None the less, if you begin to make further inquiries, suspicions will instantly be aroused, whereas a stranger asking questions might be considered as nothing more than merely inquisitive. Give me a week, two at the most, and if I uncover nothing, then I shall willingly leave the whole matter entirely to you.’
The Baronet appeared to debate within himself for a moment or two, then nodded his head in agreement. ‘Very well, Grantley. But on the strict understanding that you report any findings straight back to me.’
After receiving this assurance, Sir Lionel looked gravely across at his visitors. ‘If only for Lavinia’s sake I’d like this business cleared up. She’s a lovely woman, and little Deborah is a sweet girl.’ He frowned heavily. ‘I just wish I could say the same about my ward!’
‘I did not realise that you had a ward, sir,’ Benedict remarked, not out of any undue interest, only as a means to prolong the visit. There was much more he needed to uncover from Sir Lionel. ‘Does she reside with you?’
‘No, thank the Lord! It’s Ashworth’s gel, Clarissa. I have joint guardianship with Isabel Ashworth. The chit lives with her aunt up at the Hall—an arrangement which suits me very well, I might add. Beautiful girl, but spoilt to death.’ He shrugged. ‘Still, I suppose it’s understandable in the circumstances. I
nitially Roderick Ashworth blamed the child for her mother’s death. Clara Ashworth died of childbed fever, you see. It was touch and go for a while whether Clarissa herself would survive. It was only thanks to her aunt that she did. Isabel returned, took charge of the household again, and arranged for a new nursemaid to take care of the infant. It certainly did the trick. The baby lived, but it was quite some time before Roderick would have anything to do with her. Time, as they say, though, is a great healer and eventually, after two or three years, his attitude began to change and he simply doted on his daughter, possibly because she had inherited her mother’s fair hair and blue eyes. But I can’t say she resembles either of her parents to any great extent. With the possible exception of George, the younger brother, the Ashworth family were never famed for their good looks.’
‘You are evidently very well acquainted with the family,’ Benedict remarked, not slow to make use of the opening offered, and Sir Lionel, thankfully, appeared willing to satisfy his curiosity.
Benedict listened carefully to the reasonably detailed account of the Ashworth family history, while committing certain interesting details to memory. ‘So, the family automatically assumed that George Ashworth had died when he failed to return to the ancestral home?’ he prompted when Sir Lionel eventually fell silent. ‘Did the late Lord Ashworth make no attempt to discover what had happened to his young brother?’
‘I believe he did make certain inquiries, yes, but when he discovered that even George’s closest friends had received no communication from him, after he had arrived in America, he assumed his brother had died. Which, I’m afraid, was typical of Roderick. He was never one to bestir himself unduly if he could possibly avoid it. Why, his sister Isabel has run the house, and managed the estate for years! They were twins, you see, Isabel and Roderick. She was born half an hour before her brother. I’ve always maintained that it was a pity she hadn’t been born the boy. She was undoubtedly the one with the brains and determination.’
‘The fact that George Ashworth not only survived, but married and produced a son must have come as something of a—er—shock to certain members of the family,’ Benedict suggested, bringing a grim smile to Sir Lionel’s mouth.
‘Yes, it was definitely a bitter blow to Cedric who, I might add, has made frequent visits to Ashworth Hall since Roderick’s demise. But there’s no denying the fact that George’s son, Richard Ashworth, is the rightful heir. I’ve recently discovered that contact has been made with him, and he is now on his way back to England. He was, in fact, born in this country,’ Sir Lionel went on to divulge, thereby confirming what Benedict had discovered from Lavinia Hammond. ‘George returned, with his American wife, and settled in Yorkshire, where Richard was born. Sadly, twelve years later, both George and his wife died in a smallpox epidemic, and young Richard was sent back to America to be raised by his maternal grandfather.’
Benedict frowned. ‘It is rather odd, don’t you think, that George never attempted to make contact with any member of his family, after his return to this country?’
‘Yes, I certainly do,’ Sir Lionel agreed. Then he shrugged. ‘But as I’ve already mentioned, George wasn’t close to either his brother or his sister. I just hope that young Richard, when he eventually does arrive here, proves to be a little more amiable, though Isabel and Clarissa have been well provided for in any event.’
He turned to stare out of the window, as he detected the sound of a carriage pulling up outside his house. ‘Ah! Most opportune! If you have not as yet met the Ashworth ladies, gentlemen, then you are about to be granted the opportunity to do so.’
Benedict was not unduly surprised to see his young nephew’s jaw drop perceptibly when Clarissa Ashworth, accompanied by her aunt, entered the room a few moments later. Although he had masterfully concealed the fact yesterday, when he had first set eyes on her during his visit to Salisbury, he had been forced to own that Miss Ashworth was one of the most outstandingly pretty young females he had ever clapped eyes on in his life. Large, cornflower-blue eyes, set in a heart-shaped face, the whole framed in a riot of shining, golden curls, was enough to take the most hardened gentleman’s breath away. It was certainly a face that one could not easily forget. If there was a slight flaw, then it was that sweet bow of a mouth about which there was just the faintest hint of sulkiness when she was not smiling.
There was not the smallest hint of sullenness now, however, as Sir Lionel made the introductions, and she found herself the focal point of a handsome young man’s openly admiring regard. Benedict’s attention, as before, was most definitely focused on the older female, whose surprisingly direct gaze betrayed a keen intelligence.
‘Am I correct in thinking, sir, that we have met somewhere before?’
‘We have never been formally introduced, ma’am,’ Benedict answered, resuming his seat once the ladies had made themselves comfortable on the sofa, ‘but our paths did cross in Salisbury, late yesterday morning. That is perhaps why I seem familiar.’
‘Oh, yes, I remember!’ Clarissa put in. ‘You were with that person who resides at the village inn.’
Perhaps no one else noticed, but Sir Lionel thought he could detect just the faintest hardening of the muscles along a square, powerful jaw, and hurriedly intervened. ‘And to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit, Isabel?’
‘Oh, we came here to remind you not to forget my party on Friday week, sir,’ Clarissa answered, before her aunt could do so. ‘If you do not come there will be hardly anyone there!’
‘Clarissa, my dear, that simply is not so,’ her aunt countered, thereby proving that she was quite capable of edging in a word when she chose to do so. ‘Nearly all those who were sent invitations have accepted.’
‘I’m referring to people of consequence,’ her niece returned, peevishness increasing. ‘A great many of the notable families are still in London, enjoying the Season. And why you felt the need to invite the Vicar and his family, Colonel Meecham and his wife, and the Hammonds, I’ll never know!’
Benedict noticed the look of admiration swiftly fading from his nephew’s eyes; glimpsed, too, an expression on the Baronet’s face which suggested that it would have afforded him the utmost pleasure to slap his ward, and Benedict, for one, could not have blamed him if he had.
‘I shall have you know, young lady,’ Sir Lionel snapped, ‘that Mrs Hammond and her daughter are well respected in these parts. Their behaviour is always impeccable.’ He did not add, ‘Which is more than can be said for yours’, but the sentiment hung in the air all the same.
‘They are, indeed, very refined,’ Miss Ashworth agreed, hurriedly stepping into the breach. ‘It is understandable, however, that Clarissa is feeling a little disgruntled. Had her dear papa not passed away last year, she would be celebrating her eighteenth birthday at a ball in the capital, instead of having to be content with a small country party to mark the event. None the less,’ she added, turning her surprisingly astute gaze in Benedict’s direction, ‘perhaps if Mr Grantley and Mr Fencham will still be in the area, they might consider favouring the occasion with their presence.’
‘As we have many more places of interest to visit, we have made no immediate plans to move on just yet, and so shall be delighted to accept, ma’am,’ Benedict responded, before a glint of sheer devilment brightened his eyes. ‘Would your generosity, I wonder, extend to a third party, if I should care to invite a—er—friend?’
Easily gaining her consent, Benedict then rose to his feet, and took his leave of the Ashworth ladies. Sir Lionel saw them safely into their carriage, extracting a promise from Benedict that he and his nephew would return that evening to dine with him.
‘I say, Ben,’ Harry remarked, as the carriage turned out of the drive and into the lane where the late Dr Hammond had met his death, ‘I’m glad you didn’t hesitate to accept Sir Lionel’s invitation to dine this evening. I rather like him. He’s a bit of a dry old stick, but at least he has a sense of humour.’
‘Possibly just a
s well. One would need to possess one, being the guardian of such a girl.’
‘Dear me, yes,’ Harry agreed, smiling wryly. ‘I must confess when I first clapped eyes on her, I was pretty well bowled over. But her manners are deplorable! Mama would never allow any of my sisters to behave in such a fashion.’
‘No. I cannot help wondering for how much longer Sir Lionel will be able to suppress his desire to school her.’
Harry frankly laughed. ‘I’m rather surprised you accepted the invitation to her birthday party. Not that I object to putting in an appearance as Debbie and her mama will be there.’ He frowned as a thought suddenly occurred to him. ‘And who the deuce are you intending to bring along to make up one of our party?’
A smile hovered about Benedict’s mouth, as he leaned back against the plush velvet squabs and closed his eyes. ‘Someone who has more refinement in one of her hardworking little fingers than Miss Clarissa Ashworth will ever attain.’
Chapter Six
Although Emma had always considered herself to be a very level-headed and even-tempered member of her sex, she would never have presumed to describe herself as a born optimist. None the less, she had striven never to give way to despondency. Today, however, her sunny disposition seemed to have deserted her completely, and no one working at the Ashworth Arms was in any doubt whatsoever that she was in a rare ill humour.
She had slept badly the night before, lying awake for much of the time, endeavouring to suppress ever-increasing emotions that she feared could only end in heartache. Consequently she had risen much later than usual, and had been behind in her work ever since.
It certainly had not helped the situation having to spend some considerable time gossiping to the Ashworths’ cook, trying to discover what she could about the servant-girl’s death. Then, no sooner had Mrs Wright eventually taken her leave than Lucy, behaving true to form, had brushed against the tray of freshly baked bread cooling on the table, sending the halfdozen loaves rolling in various directions across the kitchen floor; and now, in the full heat of a very oppressive June afternoon, a fresh batch was having to be made.