by Julie Berry
“At pretending, you mean,” he said. “I’ve seen more cathedral drawings since I walked through these doors than I’ll wish to see in a lifetime. I only came over here to see why a young lady such as yourself should be standing here alone, staring at sketches and muttering to herself.”
Kitty, who felt anything but smooth tonight, would have traded her inheritance to know exactly what this person meant by, “a young lady such as yourself.” But not even a queen’s ransom would induce her to ask.
Kitty’s attention was brought up short by the sudden appearance of Mr. Leland Murphy, bowing to her. “I beg your pardon,” he whispered. “Forgive my interruption. Is your friend, Miss Alice, here this evening?”
Without thinking, Kitty gestured toward the table where Stout Alice sat, then caught her error. “No. I’m sorry. She felt unwell tonight, and remained at home.” She saw disappointment pass across Leland Murphy’s unprepossessing face and made a flash discovery. Leland Murphy? Was he the reason why Alice was so reluctant to come to the social as Mrs. Plackett? Leland Murphy! How could it be possible? Mary Jane called him odious, and though Kitty would not have been so harsh, even she could agree he was, at best, unfortunate in his endowment of personal charms. But over his shoulder she saw Stout Alice watch Kitty speak with him, with an expression that betrayed all. Alice’s other beau, Admiral Lockwood, unaware of his young rival, had taken her hand in his while with the other he urged her to drink her punch.
Leland Murphy regained control of his expression and bowed abruptly. “Will you convey to her my best wishes for her health?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and left.
“Poor fellow,” observed her companion, who had watched this exchange with interest.
Kitty noticed again the strange note in his accent. “You’re not from Ely, are you?”
“Originally,” he said. “Christened right here at Saint Mary’s. But I’ve grown up in the colonies. My mother and I are here visiting after many years away.”
That explained his sunbaked color. “How do you find England after such an absence?”
He paused to consider. “Pleasant,” he said. “But smoky, and gray, and wet. We were in London two weeks before coming here. I think my mother hoped I’d be dazzled by its society. But I prefer the wildlife at home to London.” He smiled at Kitty, and she found the effect entirely unsettling. “I suspect I shall prefer both the climate and the society right here in Ely.”
Kitty felt warmth rising in her cheeks and hoped her flush didn’t show. If she were as bronzed as he, her feelings would not be so easily advertised. She caught sight of Stout Alice turning to look at her, with a perplexed expression. What a spectacle she must seem! She should hurry back to the table. But she couldn’t tear herself away just yet.
“Besides,” the young man said, with a playful glance at the cathedral painting. “London’s galleries can’t compete with Ely’s art.”
Kitty suppressed a laugh. “Stop! You’re too cruel.”
“Cruel? You’re the one calling every work of art a gelatin.” He steered her a pace down the wall. “Look. Speaking of gelatin, here’s a sketch of a fisherman with his basket full of eels. Lifelike, yes? An eel jelly of a painting. One feels as slimy and wet as the piece’s subject.”
Kitty couldn’t help giggling. The young man’s laughter didn’t help matters. Mercifully, the flutist’s song ended, and applause filled the chamber, covering their crimes. They added their own guilty applause to the noise. Over in the corner Kitty caught a glimpse of Mary Jane pulling away teasingly from the curtain in the far end of the room. The constable seized hold of her hand and kissed it for an eternity and Mary Jane made no protest at being thus pulled back. Such behavior, and in public! Kitty would flay Mary Jane alive for it. Then she realized she’d clapped a beat or two longer than the rest of the room, and blushed to find her gentleman stranger watching her with an amused look. Flaying Mary Jane could wait.
“I saw you today,” the young man said. “I was out riding.”
Kitty had no wish to remember how he’d seen her. “Are you fond of strolling our English country lanes on horseback?”
“I could be, with good company to pass the time,” he said. “Today I went in search of someone’s home. Directions led me to where I saw you—and you ought to have at least waved to an old friend—”
“Old friend!” Kitty protested.
“Yes, an old friend. As I say, directions led me there, but I have it on good authority that my address was wrong. Did I have the pleasure of meeting your sister, two days ago?”
Kitty shook her head. Who could he mean? “I have no sister.”
He cocked his head. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
Kitty recognized the allusion. “A reader of Mr. Carroll’s book, are you?” The young man smiled. “I must ask you, sir,” whispered Kitty, “whether you are in the habit of buying caramels and flinging them at every young lady you meet.”
He regarded her with a look of wounded surprise. “Surely not,” he said. “I discriminate carefully, and save my flinging, as you so callously call it, for only those young ladies whom I can tell favor caramels.”
“You’d be hard-pressed to find half a dozen young ladies in all of England who don’t favor caramels.”
The young man was undaunted by this rebuke. “But I,” he said, “can spot the difference between a workaday taste for sweets and the palate of a true connoisseur. I knew at a glance that your sensibilities in the matter of caramels would be as astute as they are in the matter of cathedral paintings and eel jellies.”
Kitty could only shake her head and try hard not to laugh. “You are a bold one, sir.”
“So much so,” he bowed politely, “that I now make bold to ask your name.”
There would be no telling this person no, and truth to tell, she had no wish to try. “Kitty. Katherine!” Oh, foolish slip, to use her pet name! “Katherine Heaton.”
“Well, Kitty Katherine Heaton, it is entirely my privilege to meet you.” He bowed once more. “I hope we shall again have the pleasure of discussing art and other subjects in their turn.”
“It’s Katherine,” she said firmly. She gave up trying to hide her pleasure. “Our chances of discussing art again, or any other subject, will be materially improved if I, also, learn your name. ‘The Young Man from the Parish Social’ will scarcely suffice for an introduction.”
As she spoke, Kitty’s attention was fractured by hearing a familiar name announced as the evening’s next performer. “… the pleasure of hearing Mrs. Constance Plackett, of Saint Etheldreda’s School, who will sing, ‘’Tis Not Fine Feathers Make Fine Birds,’ by Masters Carpenter and Spoble.” Alice’s song! Oh, no. She should hurry back to her table. But must she? Good luck, Alice, she thought. I … I will listen and support you. From over here.
Her companion was unaware of Kitty’s dilemma, but he noticed Reverend Rumsey’s introduction. He seemed to grow excited. “At last! I must pause to hear this particular number,” he said, “for sentimental reasons. But first, permit me to introduce myself to you. Julius Godding, lately of Bombay, India, at your service.”
CHAPTER 19
The words fell soft on Kitty’s ears. Soft as the folds of a snow-white cravat.
Bombay, India. Darling Julius Godding. Not a child, not lying in a sickbed, and certainly not in India anymore. Her flights of fancy, her musings over coats and caramels, her flattery, even, and all the while this person was Darling Julius Godding.
“Excuse me.” Kitty pushed past him and all but ran to her table. She must warn the others. They would flee from this party and make a new plan, and quickly. Once Constable Quill got wind of who this newcomer was, he wouldn’t rest until he’d combed over Saint Etheldreda’s School with his magnifying glass and notebook.
Kitty slipped into Alice’s vacant chair, dabbed her forehead with her handkerchief, and willed her pulse to resume its normal smooth drumbeat.
Pocked Louise’s eyes met hers, and she
leaned in close. “What’s the matter, Kitty?”
Kitty didn’t trust herself yet to speak. Her mouth felt dry. She reached for a drink then remembered it wasn’t hers. Julius Godding is here tonight. If she had kept a level head she might have asked him useful questions. She might even have found a way to intervene, to forestall the inevitable disaster if she’d kept her wits—if, in fact, she hadn’t parted with her wits when she first noticed Mr. Godding’s Indian suntan.
Oh, the cruel mischance that he should arrive now, of all times, and ruin everything!
Now.
Of all times.
Two weeks in London. A few days at least in Ely.
Mrs. Plackett, poisoned. Her brother, a likely heir, eliminated. And here, out of nowhere, was the chief heir, poised to inherit. She shook the bitter thought from her mind. Could those smiling eyes belong to a murderer?
The air in the crowded hall wavered with heat, but Kitty felt chilled.
Stout Alice climbed the dais, nodded once to her hosts, and then to Martha at the spinet. Martha received the cue and began playing the lively introduction.
“It’s always a treat to hear your headmistress sing.” Admiral Lockwood nodded congenially to Kitty. Her smile made a weak reply. The admiral held up a glass of punch toward the dais as if toasting Mrs. Plackett, and drank.
Finally the introduction ended—Martha had been obliged to play it twice—and Stout Alice took a brave deep breath and began to sing:
A peacock came, with his plumage gay,
Strutting in regal pride one day,
Where a small bird hung in a gilded cage,
Whose song might a seraph’s ear engage.
Kitty rather doubted that Alice’s song might engage a seraph’s ear, or that of any other heavenly creature. Alice’s expression was a mask of stoic misery. She would sing this song if it killed her. Kitty looked around the room to see if any earthly ears had detected a false note in their performer’s voice. But the only face her eyes found in the sea of people was Julius Godding’s, listening with that same thoughtful attention he’d given to the sham cathedral painting. He caught Kitty looking at him, and smiled. Kitty turned away.
As soon as this song was over, she vowed to herself, they’d leave. She’d pry Mary Jane away from her policeman and shake off those eager theological students, and Henry Butts would drive them home. No question, he’d leave the party early for their sakes. He’d wrestle a score of hungry eels for Mary Jane’s sake. Then Kitty noticed the farmer’s son leaning against the wall, watching Martha play the piano. Something in his look made Kitty pause. Could it be someone else at Saint Etheldreda’s upon whom Henry’s attention rested? This discovery sent her thoughts spinning back to the painting gallery, where Mr. Godding still stood, joined now by a handsome woman of middle age who could only be his mother. For shame, Kitty! Quit gawking! Then Kitty’s roving gaze singled out Miss Fringle, staring at Stout Alice. The choir mistress’s face was livid. She clearly wasn’t fooled by Alice’s voice. Oh, they couldn’t leave here fast enough.
Admiral Lockwood began to cough. Kitty and the other girls politely looked away to spare him any embarrassment. His coughing persisted, as old people’s little fits often will, and Kitty rather welcomed the public distraction from Alice’s singing.
While the small bird sung in his own sweet words,
“’Tis not fine feathers make fine birds!”
Clink.
Admiral Lockwood’s glass tipped, spilling a scarlet tide of punch onto the snowy tablecloth. The stain spread till it looked like a giant strawberry in the center of the table. The four seated girls saw the stain, then looked away discreetly. Dear Roberta closed her eyes in pain. Her precious tablecloth.
Clunk.
Kitty jumped. Louise turned. Elinor’s eyes opened wide.
Admiral Lockwood’s large head jolted the table where it hit.
CHAPTER 20
Kitty felt a twinge of irritation. Must he make a spectacle of himself? And at their table, no less? He must have added liquor to his punch. People who couldn’t handle drink should restrain themselves in public.
Then Dear Roberta began to whimper. It rose and swelled to a shrill squeak. Dull Martha’s fingers fumbled on the keys. Stout Alice paused, mid-note.
Smooth Kitty pushed her chair back and hurried to hush Dear Roberta. A fine time this would be for one of her faints. Pocked Louise scooted to the admiral’s side and jostled his shoulder. He made no response. She listened for his breath, and pressed her fingertips into his neck. No one else in the room moved, except Mr. Julius Godding and his mother, who hurried through the stunned crowd to their table. Mrs. Godding, if that was her name, assessed the situation instantly and joined Louise in her examination by checking the admiral’s wrist.
“Let me, love,” she told Louise. “Julius. Locate a doctor quickly.”
Julius turned and addressed the room. “Is there a doctor present?” he called out. “Any physician within close distance? If you’ll point me in the right direction…”
Henry Butts bolted for the outside door. Admiral Lockwood’s elderly servant, Jeffers, approached, trembling. His footsteps faltered. Julius caught him and eased him into a chair. In no time Henry returned with Dr. Snelling, who had joined other less musically inclined men outdoors for cigars. He hurried to the admiral.
Constable Quill emerged from his curtained corner and jammed his helmet onto his head. “What’s happening here?”
By now men and women had risen and gathered round the table, a ring of curious eyes hemming the girls in by the admiral’s still form. Louise felt she couldn’t breathe. Then Stout Alice broke through the throng, with Dull Martha at her heels. “Are you all right, girls?”
Dr. Snelling ministered to the admiral for some moments, thumping his back, listening to his heart, feeling his wrist. At length he laid the admiral’s limp hand down on the table and stood. He shook his head.
The room absorbed this information in thick silence, slowly, like the inhale and release of a painful breath. A small sound escaped from Jeffers’s throat. Comforting hands gripped his shoulders, while tactful eyes looked away.
Kitty gripped her arms tight to her body. The room was beginning to spin before her eyes, and she feared she might unravel and join the whirlwind. More death. Why did it stalk them? And why, when she didn’t feel any remorse at the death of their headmistress and her brother, did she feel so woeful now? She caught sight of Disgraceful Mary Jane slipping discreetly through the crowd. Her cheeks were flushed. No doubt her little tête-à-tête with Officer Quill had taken a fascinating turn. Kitty couldn’t feel any real vexation for her disgraceful roommate’s shocking behavior. Admiral Lockwood had fallen down dead beside her. What difference did propriety make now?
Mary Jane halted at the sight of Admiral Lockwood. The bright blush faded from her cheeks.
Dear Roberta’s sweet voice penetrated the stillness. “Was it poison?”
“Poison!” a woman cried.
“Poison?” a man demanded.
“Now, now.” Dr. Snelling held up his hands. “The admiral had lived to a good old age. It was most likely his tired heart giving way.”
Dour Elinor spoke. “He sat here with us for some time,” she said. “All he had was punch. We all drank punch.”
“Is this his glass?” Constable Quill pointed to an empty glass on the table.
“No,” Pocked Louise said, thinking fast. “The glass he drank from was…”
“Mine.” Stout Alice found a chair and sat down.
Constable Quill and Dr. Snelling sniffed the glasses and reexamined the admiral’s face and lips. No words passed between them.
“It was poison,” Miss Fringle declared aloud. “Poison in the punch!”
Mrs. Rumsey’s words were clipped. “I made that punch myself, Letitia.”
“I was at the piano!” Martha wailed. “I was nowhere near the glasses of punch.”
Everyone turned to stare at Dull Martha.
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br /> “Of course you weren’t, dear.” Julius Godding’s mother was the one who spoke. She had a capable, calm presence. Her gray eyes conveyed reassurance. Kitty felt she would have liked to know her, if she weren’t the mother of their undoing. She cringed at Martha’s inane remark. She must get them home before anyone else did something stupid. Thanks to Mrs. Godding’s tone, others looked upon Martha with pity, and didn’t question her bizarre statement.
Disgraceful Mary Jane made her way to Stout Alice and whispered briefly in her ear. A look of revulsion passed over Alice’s face, but she nodded, and fished for her handkerchief.
“The poor, poor admiral.” Alice spoke in a tremulous voice. She dabbed her eyes and nose. “He was always such a kind and thoughtful gentleman.” She sniffed, and allowed herself to be faintly overcome with emotion. Mary Jane nodded her approval. Leave it to her to remember the romantic angle. How would it look for Mrs. Plackett to feel nothing at the death of her gentleman friend?
Reverend Rumsey, who had watched these proceedings from some distance with alarm writ large upon his long face, now asserted himself. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I pray, let us not succumb to speculation and fear. We are all grieved at the departure of our eminent retired admiral, though I must say, to leave this life while listening to such, er, lovely music was no doubt a mercy. But, I’m afraid this sad event must cut our evening short.”
“Ronald.” Mrs. Rumsey’s expression was severe. “We haven’t served the strawberry trifle yet.”
Reverend Rumsey held up a hand in a rare show of firmness. “Please, let us all disperse to our homes now, to allow the poor admiral’s body to be tended to with proper respect.”
The crowd began to thin slowly, with whispers and stares. Stout Alice obliged them with a tragic sniffle.
A scream emerged from the kitchen. A serving volunteer came running out, leaving the door swinging wide. “Another one!” the young woman cried. “It is poison! Amanda Barnes ’as fallen down dead in the kitchen!”
CHAPTER 21
