Death Witnessed

by Beth Byers

  “Just so.”

  11

  CHARLES AARON

  The house that Miss Schmitz lived in was tiny. Smaller even than Georgette’s little cottage. It did, however, have a lovely patch of flowers outside and a cat sitting in the window. Georgette clucked to the cat as she approached the door. It was like her, he thought, to notice the details and to take in account the feelings of even a cat. He doubted anyone went unnoticed when Georgette was around.

  “Does she live alone?” Charles asked her. She glanced up with those honey-brown eyes, and they were shining more than they should have been. “Don’t think about it,” he said. “We’ll do what we can for her.”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have left.” Georgette looked fraught with concern. “I told her I wouldn’t leave her alone and then I did.”

  “If she has a loved one, my dear Georgie, she wants them there. Even over you, as comforting as I’m sure you are to her.”

  Georgette knocked on the door and there wasn’t an answer. The cat placed a paw against the window. “Do you think it’s very bad if we let ourselves into her house?”

  “She’s dying, Georgette. If she lives alone, she can’t give you permission. If she does not, anyone reasonable would understand. Joseph certainly will. I’m sure he’s investigating that teashop carefully trying to identify where the poison came from, though, so he can’t give us official permission, but he will after the fact.”

  Georgette shuddered. “Maybe the poisoning was a random act.”

  Charles’s doubt-filled glance met her own. “You don’t think so, and neither do I.”

  She shook her head and knocked again. A moment later, she seemed to steel herself before she opened the door to the cottage. It wasn’t locked and she stepped inside with Charles only a step after her. It was small enough to all be one floor with what looked like a parlor, kitchen, bath, and bedroom. There was a small ladder that led up to a loft.

  Georgette peered into the parlor then stepped into the bedroom, finding a desk. “I’ll look through her desk for letters or perhaps an address book.”

  Charles looked around the tiny bedroom again. It was too small for them to not trip over each other, and Charles suspected his lovely Georgette wasn’t quite comfortable with such close quarters while they were secluded. He left her to the bedroom and went to the kitchen. There was a box with bread and a bowl with onions and potatoes.

  There were a few letters on the small table, and he looked them over, but they were only a few things from the grocer and the post office. Nothing that provided further information on who Miss Schmitz was or who her people were. Charles returned to the small hall area and pulled down the ladder.

  Likely, he thought as he climbed the steps, that it was only a storage area. As his head rose above the floor and into the loft, however, he noted the small bed. Perhaps Miss Schmitz didn’t live alone? He heard a sound and paused, but it was only Georgette talking to the cat. He smiled at the idea and realized if he could persuade her to love him, he’d hear her talking to her dogs often.

  She wouldn’t, he thought, be very happy in London for long. They’d need to find another place to live. Perhaps, they could reveal that Georgette Marsh—no, Georgette Aaron—was the author, Joseph Jones.

  Perhaps with the release of her new series Josephine Marie. Or perhaps she’d be happier to release Josephine Marie under her own name while leaving those early books in Joseph Jones’s name? No, he thought, they’d have to rebuild a career around the new author name.

  Those weren’t the thoughts he should be pursing at that moment. He stopped listening to Georgette talk to the cat and stepped out into the small loft. The room didn’t allow him to stand upright. He was so focused on the desk next to the bed, it took him a moment to take in the full view. Tiny bed—more of a cot really. The tiny desk. A small trunk with a few hooks for dresses on the wall. And reaching from behind the cot—a hand.

  Charles stared for a moment, trying to make sense of it, then cursed and hurried across the floor to drop to his knees.

  The body was an older woman. She was breathing quietly, but her limbs were stiff. He cursed again and lifted her from the floor to the cot. Her eyes went wide and he said to her, “Don’t be afraid.”

  That statement did nothing to calm her, so he guessed what Georgette would say and added, “I’m here with my friend. I will send her to you and get you help.”

  The woman nodded. She wasn’t quite as stiff as Miss Schmitz had been and she groaned, “Thank you.”

  He knew he needed to hurry for the doctor in case anything could be done for her, but he asked, “Did you eat anything that Miss Schmitz also ate?”

  The woman groaned again. “Chocolates. Shouldn’t have.”

  “You really shouldn’t have,” Charles said. “Miss Schmitz is also ill.” He stood as tall as he could and called, “Georgette! There’s a woman here. She needs you while I get the doctor.”

  He heard her gasp, the clatter of her rushing to the ladder and then he stopped her. “Let me down first, please. I’m afraid it’s even tighter up here than down there.”

  “Is she—?”

  “She’s not quite so bad, I think,” he said as he quickly descended. “She can talk. Keep her calm. Maybe don’t explain what is happening.”

  Georgette’s eyes swam with tears, but she nodded quickly. As he was rushing out the door, Georgette was moving into the kitchen. He had little doubt that some thought had occurred to her that would bring the poor old woman relief.

  Charles ran through the village, passing his nephew, and stopped long enough to say, “A serving woman who lives with Miss Schmitz is also ill. She said they both ate chocolates.” With quick directions, Charles sent Joseph to Georgette and hurried on for the doctor.

  GEORGETTE DOROTHY MARSH

  Georgette was well and truly afraid that she was going to be holding this woman’s hand and dabbing her forehead with a wet cloth while she died in the cottage. The woman wouldn’t be her first body. She’d buried her grandmother as a little girl and her parents when she was barely eighteen years old. Even still, she’d never had to do it alone.

  “I’m Georgette,” she said after too long. “I’m afraid I was there when Miss Schmitz fell ill. We came here to look for names of her family.”

  The woman groaned. “My arms and legs. My jaw.”

  Georgette met her gaze. “Perhaps I might try rubbing them?”

  She grunted a yes, and Georgette carefully massaged the woman’s arms. She was still and her muscles were spasming, but moving them seemed to provide a little relief. Maybe it wasn’t so much lesser pain but the fact that each touch made her fully aware that she wasn’t alone. It must have been terrible to have the poison hit her while she was without anyone nearby to help, leaving her waiting in fear and pain for Miss Schmitz to return.

  Georgette began talking to the woman as she worked, randomly speaking about the weather, the teashop, the new tea flavors she’d been trying. She chattered until the door opened and Detective Aaron called, “Georgette?”

  “Up here,” she answered and then told the woman, “That’s Detective Aaron. He’ll help us until the doctor gets here.”

  “Doing fine,” the woman groaned and shifted. “This is horrible. Someone poisoned Miss Schmitz? Shouldn’t’ve eaten. Stingy.”

  Georgette smoothed her hair back as Joseph climbed to the loft.

  “Is she—?” His gaze was fixed on where Georgette knelt next to the woman on the cot.

  “She’s not as bad,” Georgette told him. “Did you just eat a little?”

  The woman nodded. “One. Chocolates.”

  Joseph’s gaze brightened. “The doctor is coming, and we’ll help get her down the ladder with his stretcher. I think we’ll need to be quite clever about it.”

  “We’re all right,” Georgette replied, using the wash cloth to cool the woman’s forehead. “She’s breathing easier than Miss Schmitz. Though stiff, she’s quite a bit less rigid. She’s hot
, but the cloth is helping her cool down.”

  “Keep taking such good care of her, Georgette,” Joseph said.

  He disappeared down the ladder, and Georgette went back to massaging the woman’s limbs, cooling her forehead, and chattering about nothing to distract the woman. After a time, Georgette asked, “What is your name?”

  “Ruth Dogger.”

  Georgette kept talking about random Ruths that she had known over the course of her life. She laughed at herself. “I’m sorry. I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

  “Distracting me,” Ruth replied. “Nice. Hurts.”

  Georgette re-wet the cloth and continued to work until she heard the sound of an auto. It took only minutes for Dr. Wilkes and Charles to appear. They’d brought with them the local police constable, and the four men, with Joseph, got Ruth out of the loft with Georgette following. She found herself crouched behind the seats on the floor of the auto once again, moving with a woman to the surgery.

  Charles pulled Georgette free, but she didn’t need to help this time. She followed them in and found Mrs. Wilkes and one of the maids sitting with Miss Schmitz.

  “Is she sleeping?”

  “Something a little more than normal sleep, he thinks,” Mrs. Wilkes replied for her husband, who was attending Ruth Dogger. “The doctor fears that Miss Schmitz won’t wake again. What about the other woman?”

  Georgette shook her head, sitting down by Miss Schmitz. “I believe she took less of the poison. She seems quite a bit better than Miss Schmitz. Not quite so hot, responding to the washcloths. She’s able to speak even though she’s quite clearly in pain.”

  Mrs. Wilkes glanced Georgette over and said rather suddenly, “I’m surprised you were so forward with helping. You’re usually so quiet.”

  Georgette snorted to herself but her voice was kind enough. “Someone had to help. I fear Miss Schmitz has made a number of enemies.”

  “But not you?” Mrs. Wilkes asked.

  Georgette had no intention of answering that. It would open her to follow-up questions that Georgette had no desire to explain. Georgette simply smiled vaguely and found that—once again—putting on her old persona didn’t quite fit. The thought to leave Bard’s Crook occurred to her once again.

  After holding two poisoned women’s hands and having to face that one, at the least, would die, Georgette wondered what this village would do to her if her secrets were uncovered. Even if they’d never found out her secret, she kept slipping back into this vague, dim, simpleton version of herself. It was what people expected of her, and Georgette found that having gone back to it after her first book had been the easiest, but she’d been far less comfortable in that old persona lately. Perhaps she should at least consider the possibility of leaving Bard’s Crook.

  12

  CHARLES AARON

  They had to persuade Georgette to leave Ruth Dogger and Miss Schmitz. It was only when Dr. Wilkes told Georgette flatly that Miss Schmitz wouldn’t wake again and that Mrs. Dogger was sleeping comfortably and would likely survive that they were able to shoo her out of the doctor’s surgery. The walk back to Georgette’s cottage was completely silent. He didn’t know how to comfort her.

  “We need to find the poisoner,” Georgette announced. “We can’t let this stand.”

  “Joseph will do that, my dear Georgette,” Charles said.

  She gave him a withering glance, and Charles gaped at the change in her. “I can’t…I won’t… stand by and do nothing.”

  “This is his position, Georgette,” Charles tried again, ensuring that he used the gentlest tone he could provide. “If we meddle, we may well ruin his investigation.”

  Georgette didn’t reply, but Charles couldn’t help but note that she was moving along at a smart clip once again. Her skirt was snapping against her lovely calves, and her hands were fisted at her sides. He hadn’t changed her mind in the slightest.

  Charles followed in her wake and when they reached her cottage, she told him, “Detective Aaron, even the constable, they can’t do for those women what I can.”

  Her dogs were barking at the other side of the door, which opened a moment later to reveal Marian and four of the young dogs, who darted out to Georgette and sat down with wagging tails.

  “What can you do?” he asked sincerely.

  “You’ll never get the women of this village to reveal to you why they were being targeted by Miss Schmitz. Never. But I could.”

  He stared at her, taking in her cheeks flushed with anger, her shining honey-brown eyes, the way her perfect white teeth nibbled on her bottom lip, and then conjured that gentle side of himself. “But Georgette, they don’t confide in you now. Why would they confide their secrets to a person they don’t bother to see?”

  “I’ll make them,” she said. “Marian, you’ll help. We need paper, Eunice, and tea.” She shot a glance back at Charles. “I fear I cannot offer you tea today, Mr. Aaron.”

  To his utter shock, she nodded at him once again and shut the door in his face. Charles blinked at the door before turning away. He walked, bemused, back to the little house where he and his nephew had been forced to rent a shared room and took his satchel, leaving the house for the library. Perhaps Miss Hallowton might offer him a place to work in her library.

  Charles stopped in the pub on the way and found Harrison Parker sitting at the bar. He considered taking a table and then sighed and crossed to the younger man. He tried not to scowl at the broader shoulders or handsomer jaw when he took the stool next to the man. He ordered fish, chips, and a pint and then turned to Parker. “Why are you here, Parker? In Bard’s Crook?”

  Parker glanced over and then blushed. “My cousin, of course.”

  “For friendship or marriage?” Charles demanded, ignoring manners.

  “Ah, friendship. Marian’s like a sister to me. Her father asked me to keep an eye on her.”

  “So you’re avoiding work to follow her around?”

  Harrison shot Charles a look. “I don’t quite need as much time to get my work done as they think. I double up some days, work a few more hours, and then come here.”

  “For Miss Marsh?”

  Harrison’s jaw dropped. He shook his head emphatically. “Marian swears Miss Marsh is an excellent writer and I’d thought to get her to look my stories over, but honestly man, I can’t see it. That quiet mouse?”

  Charles ignored the rush of relief. In a jovial tone, he said, “I know some fellows in publishing. Tell me about these stories of yours.”

  Georgette Dorothy Marsh

  “The people in the teashop don’t necessarily matter,” Georgette told Marian, “given that Mrs. Dogger was poisoned as well. Who matters isn’t who was in the teashop but who gave her chocolates that were laced with, well, whatever they used.”

  Eunice set a tray of sandwiches on the table, followed with a teapot. “If I were to guess, Mrs. Yancey doesn’t want anyone to know if—” The dogs’ barking drowned out whatever Eunice was going to say, and they all looked towards the door. Eunice rose and walked down the hall to the front door as someone knocked.

  “Who do you think it is?” Marian whispered.

  “Your great aunt or one of the Aaron men,” Georgette whispered back. “No one else ever comes here.”

  Eunice walked back to the kitchen. “It’s Harriet Lawrence. She wants to know if you’re quite all right.”

  Georgette’s jaw dropped, and her gaze darted to Marian, who jumped up. “Ooh! Maybe she has an idea of what has been happening with Miss Schmitz.”

  Georgette followed Marian to the parlor after asking Eunice to bring tea. Harriet turned from where she was looking out the window and took in the two women. “I shouldn’t have simply dropped in, but I was worried about you. Are you quite all right?”

  Georgette provided her usual vague answers as they sat, but Harriet Lawrence’s gaze narrowed as Marian twitched suddenly and stood. She crossed to the small desk where Georgette had left much of her book work out and closed the roll-
top. It was too overt not to notice, and Georgette winced. It would have been quite better for Marian to leave it be.

  “Would you like some tea?” Georgette asked as Eunice arrived with the tea tray. She poured a cup quickly, offering a few of the small sandwiches, and Harriet took the plate with a focused gaze. Georgette sighed. She suspected that her first local was beginning to realize that she had been hiding who she really was. Rather than give herself away, Georgette tried for a vague smile and stared beyond Harriet’s shoulder.

  “Is Miss Schmitz going to be all right?” Harriet asked.

  Georgette paused, thinking that Harriet and the doctor’s wife were rather close friends. Why was the woman coming to ask Georgette when her closest friend would certainly have access to better details and be more inclined to share? That being said, however, Georgette didn’t think it was wise to pretend stupidity about something that it was known that she knew.

  “The doctor seems to think that Miss Schmitz will not wake.”

  Harriet’s mouth dropped open for a moment and then her state seemed to occur to her and she snapped her mouth closed. “What happened?”

  Again, Georgette wasn’t quite sure how to answer. Harriet was far better connected to the gossip of the village and why someone might try to kill Miss Schmitz.

  “Both Miss Schmitz and her rather unfortunate—well, I don’t know if Ruth Dogger is a servant or a relative or what, but they were both victims of a poisoning.”

  Harriet set her teacup down. “Would you repeat that?”

  Georgette said it all again and Harriet stared.

  “Do you know why?”

  The demand was so intense that Georgette was instantly sure that Harriet had a very specific reason for wanting to know that had little to do with Miss Schmitz and everything to do with Harriet Lawrence.

  “I assume it has something to do with how she was trying to uncover who had secrets and how to discover them.”