Behold, a Mystery! Page 6

  The library was a sober and fit place for entertaining my grief. The dark leather bindings of a thousand books stood sentinel down the length of the long chamber. Stately busts of old Romans and Greeks looked down from the top of the

  bookshelves. The only illumination came from the French doors at the end of the room.

  Yews beyond the door dripped with moisture onto the sodden grass. It had rained in the night. The sky was a cold, silvery white. It occurred to me that I ought to be wearing a black gown. As I did not possess one, however, my dark-green and dark-blue must do until I could get one made up. That meant a note to the modiste, Mrs. Maherne.

  I went to the writing-table and wrote a brief note requesting her to make me up a plain black bombazine as quickly as possible, using the pattern of my navy sarsenet. With half an hour until lunch, I picked up a book that lay on the table. It was Felix’s youthful translation of Cicero, the book he said he was going to fetch for Mr. Weldon. Perhaps this was the copy Felix had given to Aunt Hettie five years before. Very likely he had taken it down to show Weldon. I opened it and looked at the flyleaf. It bore Felix's own name, nothing more.

  Curious, I went to the bookshelves. Auntie had a special

  row for books given to the family

  by the author. Her copy of Felix’s translation of Cicero was there. What book had Felix given to Mr. Weldon then? Surely Felix did not travel with several copies of his own

  translations? That whole business of Felix’s detaining Mr. Weldon began to seem suspicious. Almost as if he did not want Otto to be alone with him….

  I shook away the wisp of thought. I was becoming overly suspicious. Felix had been in a hurry; he had obviously picked up the wrong book to give to Weldon. I had thought Gregory might have murdered Mrs. Manner too, but she had been sleeping peacefully. There was no liquid by her side that he could have tampered with. I must not let these suspicions turn me into a frightened spinster, looking under her bed before retiring.

  I took the letter to leave on the silver mail salver in the front hall. Juteclaw was just putting up the mourning hatchment, and wrapping the door-knocker in crape.

  “These are sorry times, missie,” he said, shaking his head. “Like a birthing, they’ll get worse before they get better.”

  I hadn’t the heart to chide him for calling me missie. “We must be brave, Juteclaw. How are the servants taking it?”

  “Nervous as hens at setting time, with the poor mistress killed to the bone. Sally says the girls will all sleep on the floor in Cook’s room till the villain is caught.”

  I thought it an excellent idea, and wished I could do the same. But I was mistress now; it was for me to show fortitude and set a good example. I decided I would share Mrs. Manner’s room until the gentlemen left, as a precaution for her safety as well as my own. At least no one was trying to kill me.

  I would soon be disabused of that heartening notion, but at that time I had no fear for my own safety.

  Chapter Seven

  Murder, especially by poison, has a strange effect on a household. Over lunch, I found myself wondering at every bite if I was ingesting poison. To judge by the wary faces at the table around me, the others felt the same way. We would each take a bite of ragout, testing it for a foreign flavor, peering at the barley to be sure it was barley, and glancing at our companions, wondering if they noticed anything amiss, or if they were abstaining from eating altogether, which would suggest a knowledge of poisoned food.

  At length Horatio said, “Dash it, this food came straight from the kitchen. We are all partaking of it, including whoever slipped the belladonna into Auntie’s bottle, so it must be safe.”

  His blurting out what was on all our minds had the effect of loosening our tongues. Nervous tension dispelled itself in an untimely but brief eruption of merriment.

  “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die,” Gregory said, lifting his glass. “Who said that, Felix? One of your Roman friends, no doubt.”

  “Perhaps you are thinking of Horace: Carpe diem. Seize the day,” Felix replied.

  “You may be sure I am not thinking of Horace,” Gregory said with a grimace. “It is probably Shakespeare.”

  “I believe your quote comes from the Bible, Gregory,” I mentioned.

  He smiled at me as if I were a wizard. “I might have known you could tell me, Jess. It is amazing how well-informed you keep yourself.”

  I blinked at this ill-advised compliment. I had never laid claim to any intellectual endeavours. Novels, poetry, the journals and ladies' magazines had been my sole vehicles of learning once I left the schoolroom.

  "Have you switched to blue stockings, Jess?" Otto asked with a satirical smile.

  A moment later Horatio said, "Actually I told a lie, about all of us being here. Mrs. Manner is not with us. You don't suppose she—"

  Our forks returned quietly to their plates. Gregory paused a moment, then said, "Mrs. Manner has the least of any of us to gain. Only five thousand."

  "How do you know that?" Felix demanded at once.

  "I was closer to Auntie than the rest of you. She mentioned it once, some time ago."

  "But she changes the will every year," Felix said.

  I lifted a forkful of ragout to my mouth, to show my confidence in Mrs. Manner. Such nonsense! She hadn't a sly bone in her body.

  Our wary lunch was soon over. The afternoon was busy with calls from the near neighbours offering help. Word had spread, perhaps through Vicar Jennings, to whom we had written a note. Culpepper and Weldon also knew. My aunt's death would be a matter of interest in the neighbourhood, as it meant a new owner of Downsview. None of us were prisoners yet, and we had the freedom of the house. We did not all remain in the purple saloon all the time by any means. Juteclaw brought the black armbands and hatbands down from the attic, and the gentlemen went off to arrange their mourning tokens. Felix spent some time in the library, and Otto went to his room to do work on a column for the Clarion. Horatio, who is interested in antique weapons, spent an hour in the armaments-room.

  We had a call from Vicar Jennings to express his condolences and inquire about funeral arrangements. Gregory offered to drive into the village to order a headstone. Downsview did not have a mausoleum, or even its own graveyard. Hettie's coffin would be placed in the mausoleum of St. Alban's Church until spring, at which time her mortal remains would be placed beside those of her husband in the graveyard.

  Gregory did not invite me to go with him, for which I was happy. I wondered if he meant to call on Mrs. Rampling while he was at Littlehorn.

  Before Gregory left, Doctor Culpepper returned to confirm that the chemical analysis of the cold medicine in Auntie's bottle showed a lethal dose of belladonna. The larger batch was not overdosed, nor was my bottle. Her death was now officially not a death from natural causes.

  "An inquest will be held to determine whether the belladonna was administered by accident, or by design," Culpepper informed us.

  He had brought a note from Sir Aubrey Croton, the Justice of the Peace, informing us that Doctor Culpepper would be representing the law on an ad hoc basis in this matter for the time being, and we should give him every assistance in his investigation. Croton obviously knew the job to be beyond Hodgkins's capabilities.

  "You may proceed with your funeral arrangements and the reading of the will," Culpepper said. "As I mentioned, the disbursement of the monies must await the outcome of the inquest at least. Your solicitor can arrange for the forwarding of whatever small sum is necessary to see to the running of Downsview—servants' salaries, and so on."

  I was surprised that Gregory did not offer to call on Auntie's solicitor while he was in town. It was Felix who suggested it, and Gregory was not slow to take him up on it. In fact he left at that time.

  I ordered tea and Culpepper put forth once more the idea of calling in Bow Street.

  "We agreed, entre nous, to wait until we heard what Mrs. Manner might have to say," Otto told him.

  "Ab
out Mrs. Manner," Culpepper said, "I should like to have a word with her myself."

  I told him she was still sleeping the last time I looked.

  “It is four o’clock. She ought to be awake by now,” Culpepper said.

  I was surprised it was so late. The day had seemed endless, yet with the many interruptions I had not found time to look in on her again.

  “I hope you have not left her alone,” Culpepper said with a minatory look. I knew at that moment he also feared for her safety.

  “A servant is with her,” I replied. I was suddenly overcome with anxiety, and ran straight upstairs to see how she was.

  From two rooms away, I saw that her door was open. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me the last few yards. My heart was pumping wildly, and my head was full of horrible visions. Her bed was empty, and carefully made up. Of Mary and Mrs. Manner there was no sign, but neither was there any indication of a struggle. I ran down to the kitchen by the shortest route, the servants’ stairs, and flung open the door. There at the table sat Mary, enjoying a cup of tea and a plate of toast.

  “Where is Mrs. Manner?” I demanded in a tense voice.

  “She is fine, Miss Greenwood,” Mary assured me. “She was feeling peckish when she woke up, and had a snack in her room. That put her back on her pegs. She wanted a breath of air, and went out for a walk—oh, just around the park.”

  “Alone?” I asked. “Why did you not tell me?”

  My sharp voice brought a guilty flush to Mary’s cheeks. “You had company in the saloon, miss. I didn’t like to disturb you. I offered to go with her. She said she wanted to be alone to think. She took Duke with her, so no one ... he’s a good guard dog.”

  Duke was better than nothing. He is old, but his hackles can rise menacingly when he senses danger to his household. “Did she say where she was going?”

  “She didn’t say, but she always goes to the belvedere, doesn’t she, to look down the road to Littlehorn?”

  “How long ago did she leave?”

  “I couldn’t say for sure. About half an hour, wouldn’t you say, Cook?” Cook agreed.

  “Even half an hour is too long to suit me.”

  The belvedere was Mrs. Manner’s favourite walk. Having lived a long time at Bath, she disliked the isolation of Downsview. She liked to see the carriages even if she could not speak to the occupants. If she had reached the belvedere, she should be safe. It sits at the top of a rise, looking down to the road below. The belvedere is visible for some distance, and thus an unlikely location for murder. My greatest concern was that, to reach it, she would have to pass through an isolated and less easily seen valley.

  “I must go to her.” I did not stop to get my own pelisse, but threw on Cook’s rough woollen shawl. “If I am not back in ten minutes, Cook, tell Doctor Culpepper where I have gone.”

  Perhaps my fear for my friend’s safety showed on my face. I looked an invitation to Mary.

  “I’ll go with you, miss.” She jumped up, leaving her tea and toast on the table, and snatched up her shawl.

  I was thankful for her presence as we left the security of Downsview and entered the park. In the short days of late December, twilight had already fallen. Complete darkness was not far off. It was a cold, blustery day. The white sky had not lightened to blue, but turned a dull silvery grey. Long, boat-shaped clouds of a darker grey were gathering in the west. The tall pines moaned, and the stark branches of leafless trees whipped in the wind.

  Mrs. Manner disliked such blustery days as this. She usually only walked in milder weather. It almost seemed as if she had wanted to escape the house. Well, that was understandable. She had a secret, and she would want peace and privacy to weigh whether she should reveal it, and to whom.

  She had a scrupulous conscience. She would want to do what was right nearly as much as she would dislike to make trouble for any of the young gentlemen. And she must know that if she had seen one of them loitering about the cheese-room door, they had been up to no good. I wished she had confided in me.

  The grass had grown long. It wrapped itself around our ankles and wet our slippers and skirt hems as we hastened towards the belvedere. From the park, only its roof was visible. From the higher level of the family quarters within the house, the upper half could be seen.

  “I should of gone with her,” Mary lamented.

  “She said she wanted to be alone,” I reminded her.

  “She did. Mind you, I sensed she was frightened.”

  “How? Did she say anything?”

  “Just asked where all the gentlemen were, and I told her they were all inside the house. I wondered at her going out the back door, for she usually uses the front. I had the notion she didn’t want to be seen.”

  “Did she mention seeing any of the gentlemen around the cheese-room door yesterday, Mary?”

  “No, miss.”

  I did not wish to frighten Mary, and decided to wait until I caught up with Mrs. Manner to satisfy my curiosity on that crucial point.

  But when we found her it was too late. We would never learn her secret. She was dead.

  Chapter Eight

  We nearly missed seeing her. We were hastening past a clump of holly bushes that grow in a low-lying valley where, two weeks before, Mary and I had come with one of the footmen to cull greens to decorate the saloon for the Christmas season.

  It had been a happy day, Mary flirting with Crump, and myself anticipating the annual visit. Today, the mood was quite otherwise. It was in the path skirting the hollies that Mary spotted one of Mrs. Manner’s stout laced walking shoes. It looked such a pathetic sight, that little black shoe, tipped over on its side. I think I realized at that moment that we were not going to find its owner alive.

  Fear blocked the air in my lungs and quickened my heartbeat until it pounded in my ears. I looked at the shoe, then I looked at Mary. Her large eyes stared back at me in mute fear. The sudden silence was shattered by the chirp of a bird in the bushes, displeased at our presence.

  “We had best go back to the house and ask for help,” I said in a hollow voice. I was mortally afraid to go one more step forward. Yet darkness was falling; if we did not find her now, we might not do it until morning.

  I felt a tugging at my sleeve. Mary pointed to the base of a holly bush, where the heel and sole of the other shoe were visible. An empty shoe would not sit perfectly upright on its heel. It would fall over. Mrs. Manner’s foot was still in the shoe, then. Her other leg was flung out to the side, shoeless. Cold terror gripped me. Was it possible she was still alive? If so, she must be unconscious, for she would not remain pushed into a prickly holly bush if she were able to move. The lower branches grew very close to the ground.

  “We must pull her out, Mary,” I said.

  Mary whimpered. Tears were flowing down her cheeks, but she nodded her agreement. It seemed a horrible way to treat a body, to take hold of the ankles and drag it along the ground, but to crawl on my belly under the sharp branches was the only alternative. Even then, I doubt if I could have done it.

  It had taken considerable force to ram Mrs. Manner under those low-growing branches. Her face must be horribly scratched. We drew her forth slowly, with as much care as possible, already knowing in our bones it was a dead weight we were dragging.

  Her pelisse and the skirt of her dress caught on the holly leaves and stayed behind while her body came forward. I pulled them free and settled them decently around her legs. There was no sign of ripping or blood on the clothes, but some mud from the wet ground stained them. She still wore her tan leather gloves. We pulled a little more, and her shoulders came into view. I dreaded to see her face. We pulled again, gently, and slowly her bonnet appeared. She was lying on her back, but her face was completely covered by her plain black round bonnet. It had got pulled over her face and caught on her chin. I gently eased it back and gazed at her.

  Her face was not disfigured, but the horrified expression frozen on it was disfigurement enough. I knew it would haunt my mem
ory for many a long day. The bonnet had protected her face from scratches, but a trickle of blood oozed from her left temple, matting her hair and collecting in the pocket of her ear. I leaned forward and saw a deep, straight gash, with something whitish-blue that might be skull-bone protruding through the skin and blood. I took several deep swallows of air to keep down the wave of nausea that rose up in me. She had been struck forcibly by a hard, straight-edged object, a brick perhaps. Sweet little Mrs. Manner, who had never hurt a fly in her whole life.

  Mary was kneeling, swaying back and forth, with her two hands rammed against her lips, while a keening sound came from her throat. I knew exactly how she felt. I could not ask her to remain with the body while I went for help, and I was also afraid to stay alone myself.

  “Come,” I said, and drew her up. “We’ll go home, Mary.”

  I put my arm around the poor trembling girl’s shoulder and we hastened back through the gathering dusk, huddled together for comfort. The massive hulk of Downsview loomed before us. Where the rooms were lit, the pointed windows formed an abstract pattern against the stone wall. Juteclaw had lit the lamps in the saloon, of course. The armaments-room was shrouded in darkness, as it usually was.

  Above, in Aunt Hettie’s room, a single light moved surreptitiously. Culpepper, at the scene of the first crime? He had wanted to speak to Mrs. Manner, and must have gone abovestairs to find her. He would be wondering what had happened to her, and to me. I had not given him another thought since I had seen Mrs. Manner’s door ajar. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  When we reached the kitchen, Cook took one look at us and reached for her cooking sherry before saying a word. She pointed us to a couple of chairs and we sank gratefully onto them. Before I caught my breath, Mary said, “Mrs. Manner’s murdered! He stuffed the poor soul under a holly bush.” Then she burst into racking sobs.

  Cook’s face was as pale and flaccid as the unbaked bread that sat on the table before her. “Is it true?” she asked me.