by N. C. Lewis
As I turned to leave, I noticed Lady Herriman was leaning forward on her throne, eyes wide open and alert.
Chapter 51
It was after 9 p.m. when I stood by the bedroom window in Mrs Rusbridger's boarding house. A single oil lamp cast a gentle glow into the darkened chamber. Outside, a full moon shone in the long garden, a gorgeous buttery lantern in a greyish magenta sky.
The conversations with Lady Herriman, Dolly Trimmings, and Withers tumbled around my mind. Why had Her Ladyship agreed to cast out Dolly so readily? What about the wedding? And what did Withers know about the murder of Miss Antoinette and the disappearance of Lady Sandoe? My brain worked hard trying to piece it all together but found no answers.
After a while, I thought about Father and Uncle Tristan, but no matter how hard I searched, there was no sign of a silver lining to the money situation. Everything was lost, but it was too late to visit Uncle Tristan. It was well after dark. I gazed up at the sky.
"At least he'll have a peaceful sleep."
First thing tomorrow morning I'd walk to Mrs Banbury's garden, find his shed, and share the bad tidings. Tonight, though, I'd watch the moon and think.
A hunger pang growled across my stomach, intensified, and multiplied. I clenched my jaw. I hadn’t eaten all day. And at this hour, the boarding house kitchen was closed.
"Not even a cup of tea," I muttered bitterly.
That the gold mines in Peru were a sham wasn't a great surprise. But a deep sense of injustice niggled. For Uncle Tristan, for my father, and for all the other investors who'd suffered losses in Sir Sandoe's phantom scheme.
Again, my stomach rumbled.
"Oh bother!"
When I focused on something else, the pangs eased. I closed my eyes. Frank Perry's image filled my mind. The dagger, Sir Sandoe crumpled on the ground, and the letter. I saw it all in vivid detail.
My eyes snapped open.
To my surprise, I felt a deep sense of injustice for Sir Sandoe. Whatever his crimes, he didn't deserve to die at the end of a jagged blade. Cold-blooded murder was no righter than stealing.
A gentle tap-tap on the bedroom door scattered my thoughts.
The door creaked open.
Mrs Rusbridger came hurrying into the room. She carried a tray on which rested a large plate next to a silver tankard.
"Brought you a bit of supper, seeing as you missed breakfast and dinner." Swiftee trotted at her side. "Thought I'd bring the little fellow as he ain't seen you all day."
"Thank you," I gushed, grateful for the food. "What delights have you rustled up from your wonderful kitchen?"
She wiped her hands on the apron. "Cold swan with duck lard on a bed of roast nettles." The corners of her mouth twitched with tiny upward movements. "And turnip juice to wash it down."
"Oh!"
Mrs Rusbridger's lips broke out into a wide grin. "Was only joking, me dear. But I heard from Cook that's what was on the menu at Bagington Hall. Ain't nobody eats roast swan about these parts except Lady Herriman, and turnip juice gives me the runs. Did you get to taste the sparrow pudding?"
"No, no," I said, nose wrinkling in disgust. "The fact is I didn't sample a morsel of Lady Herriman's Victorian delights."
"God bless ya." Mrs Rusbridger placed the tray on the writing desk. "Well, sit down. Eat up. Cold ham with buttered bread, cheese, and pickles, washed down with a tankard of cider. That'll help keep ya till morning."
My stomach rumbled in appreciation. The boarding house felt more like home every day.
"Sit and eat," said Mrs Rusbridger, pointing at the chair.
I sat.
Mrs Rusbridger walked over to the window, and as I ate, peered out into the garden. "Harvest moon tonight, like daylight out there. Bet Swiftee catches a mouse or two."
"Mmm, guess so."
As I drained the last drop from the tankard, Mrs Rusbridger turned and with a sad smile said, "Is it true?"
I put the tankard down. There was no point denying it. If Mrs Rusbridger knew of Uncle's financial reversal, so would all of Cromer.
"Yes, it's true. Uncle Tristan—"
"My God, it ain't right!" Mrs Rusbridger clapped her hands in annoyance. "A funeral on Wednesday and wedding Thursday, and Miss Antoinette only just laid to rest with Sir Sandoe's killer still on the run. Cook told me everything, but I couldn't believe me ears."
"Oh," I said, realising she was talking about Lady Herriman's wedding. "It is rather soon."
"Soon! If Her Ladyship were younger, I'd think she were up the spout. But she's older than my grandma. Only thing I can think is that Withers 'as put something in her food to make her mind turn funny, but Cook swears that ain't the case."
I thought about the silver pendant and Withers' soothing hypnotic words but didn't want to add fuel to the Cromer gossip fire, so I kept quiet on that detail and said, "It's a real mystery. What do you think lies at the bottom of all this?"
"Sir Sandoe's murder."
"Pardon?"
Mrs Rusbridger said, "If I didn’t know better, I'd think Withers put Frank Perry up to it."
I opened my eyes wide. "But how did Withers pull off such a trick, and why would Frank Perry agree?"
"Revenge!" Mrs Rusbridger paused, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Everyone knows Mr Perry was sweet on Miss Antoinette. And as for Withers, I know his type. Wants to be lord over Bagington Hall."
I'd seen that much for myself and had to agree.
Mrs Rusbridger continued, "Me thinks Withers let Frank Perry into Bagington Hall and told him where he could find Sir Sandoe. The evil toad might 'ave even given Frank the dagger."
"But how did Frank evade the staff and get into the scullery yard?"
"Easy. 'Tis a large old house, lots of hidden passageways and stairwells. Withers knows them better than the master." Her face creased in concern. "It won't be long after the wedding bells that Lady Herriman ends up in Saint Magdalene's cemetery: mark my words. Then Withers will 'ave it all and rule Bagington Hall with an iron fist."
I considered that for a moment. The man was devious with a violent temper. What wouldn’t he do to get what he wanted? With power over the estate, his wickedness would be limitless.
I said, "What do you know about Withers' background?"
Mrs Rusbridger's eyes narrowed as she recalled the details. "Years ago, he worked in a travelling circus—as a clown." She said the word as if it had a foul taste. "Ever wondered about all that powder on Her Ladyship's face?"
I had but kept my mouth shut and waited.
"Miserable sods, clowns—devious too." As if to emphasise the point, she jabbed her index finger in the air. "Withers had a side enterprise as a hypnotist then worked as a fortune teller but couldn’t make a go of it."
I let that sink in and settle. There was not much doubt about Withers' desire to advance himself. And that was almost impossible in the ridged British class system. The surprising thing was by next Thursday he'd have pulled it off. I didn’t like the man or his method but couldn’t help but admire his determination to better himself.
"Nowadays," said Mrs Rusbridger as the corners of her mouth twitched upward, "I hear he gives Lady Herriman makeup tips while swinging his deceitful pendant. He's a slimy toad, he is. Now I thinks about it, wouldn’t be surprised if he hypnotised the old hen into marriage." She shuddered. "Like I say, clowns are devious little buggers."
I said nothing because it would have been pointless. Withers was a blighter and wicked with it.
Swiftee clambered into my lap. I stroked the kitten's chin. He purred.
Mrs Rusbridger chuckled. "Seems like you've conquered the cat allergies."
The woman was a master at changing the subject. I didn’t mind and said, "Apple cider vinegar. Three times a day. Got it from Mrs Mullins, and it works."
She nodded, pondered for a moment, then her voice dropped an octave. "Since you're to be Lady Herriman's new chambermaid, I hope you won't forget old Mrs Rusbridger and drop by once in a while to update me on
the goings-on at Bagington Hall."
She wanted to add me to her network of chattering women. They were the grapevine along which gossip flowed. It was an honour to be asked, but I had to let her know the situation.
I said, "Alas, I did not accept the job offer."
"Don't blame you. Her Ladyship works the staff like slaves. I hear she orders the horsewhip to the laggards. It ain't right. And if there were more jobs in these parts, no one would put up with it. Miss Darling, you're too intelligent a woman to take a position like that."
When Mrs Rusbridger left the room, I returned to the bedroom window. The glittering moonlight illuminated the garden like a lantern. As I watched the shadows dancing, something niggled at the back of my mind. The moon dipped behind a cloud plunging the room into darkness penetrated only by the sputtering glow of the oil lamp. The niggle became a loud thump that hit me hard and quick.
When the moon reappeared, I pulled on my coat, cloche hat, and set out towards Mrs Banbury's garden and the shed by the vegetable patch. I had to tell Uncle Tristan of his misfortune before word got to him on the Cromer gossip grapevine.
Chapter 52
I stood at the entrance of Mrs Rusbridger's boarding house, staring at the long, narrow gravel path that led to the lane. The salty scent from the sea mingled with the tang of oak trees, hedgerows, and grass.
The moon disappeared behind a wall of black clouds. As I waited for it to reappear, I wondered at the wisdom of creeping about Cromer at night. In London, the dark hours attracted criminals like a moth to a light. It wasn’t wise to walk the streets of the capital city alone after sunset.
"Not London," I muttered, as the buttery globe appeared from behind the clouds. "This is Cromer, a sleepy Norfolk village." The most I expected to meet on my journey was a rabbit, owl, or maybe a fox.
With soft steps, I turned onto the gravel path that led to the gate at the end of the garden. I paused for a moment to take in the lane, lined with hedgerows and oak trees, and the fields beyond. It was less than three miles to Mrs Banbury's cottage, past the church, Hilda Ogbern's house, then right onto a dirt lane. I could do that inside of an hour. Once there, I'd share the news and be back at the boarding house before 1 a.m.
The gate swung shut behind me with a loud creak. I glanced warily over my shoulder, half expecting to see Mrs Rusbridger on the doorstep, arms folded, scowling. But the rough grey stone of the house was in darkness, the only movement, the gentle swaying shadows of clematis and tea roses illuminated by the glow of a solitary oil lamp.
The light waxed and waned as more clouds marched across the face of the moon. The wind picked up. Leaves skittered in mad circles. The hoot of an owl echoed above the sound of wind rustling through the trees. I quickened my pace, pulling the coat tight about me and kept to the edge of the lane, close to the hedgerows.
After perhaps forty-five minutes, the tower of Saint Magdalene came into view. It was then I considered the best approach to share the news with Uncle Tristan. I didn’t want to say anything rash that would throw him into a blind panic. But my appearance in the dead of night would herald bad news before my lips spoke the words.
The minutes flashed by as I turned the matter over and over in my head. There was no solution. The best I could do was remain calm. Together we would work out a plan.
At the iron gates at the entrance of the churchyard, I stopped. The dark trees gloomed down, their shadows dancing like sprites. Something flickered between the headstones. I stared wide eyed as a long shadow crept close to the ground.
Instinct took over. I crouched low against the railings. The scent of dusty soil mingled with the sharp tang of grass. This is silly. There would be no one in the graveyard. Why were my legs shaking?
The moon dipped behind a cloud casting the church into darkness. For several moments, I scanned the space. At the far side of the graveyard, a tall, dark jumble stood above the headstones. It might have been a prayer chapel. It was from that direction a scraping, crackling sound echoed in the darkness.
I couldn’t tell what made the noise. The longer I squatted in the shadows, the less sure I became. It might only have been the wind rustling leaves.
I kept still, forced myself to stare. Ahead and to the left of the tall, dark jumble, a shape came into view. It scurried on all fours.
"Fox," I mumbled. "Must have trapped a rabbit."
I waited.
The moon broke free of the clouds. What I had taken as a prayer chapel turned out to be a stone monument with a tall cross yellowed with moss. To one side, the creature snorted.
Wait! It was too large to be a fox. Much too large for that. It moved like a wolf.
Suddenly the air seemed perfectly still. For a terrible moment, I thought of Black Shuck and curses and death. The pounding of my heart was so hard it was a continuous rumble in my ears.
The creature lifted its head, tilting it in my direction. The moonlight reflected a yellow glint in its eyes. It remained very still, staring. With almost imperceptible movements, it eased forward, then with long galloping strides, raced in my direction.
"Dobbin, sit!" I commanded. "Hilda Ogbern won't be happy that you've escaped again."
But the dog didn’t sit; he rolled over.
Breathless, I rubbed his stomach while I collected my thoughts.
After several minutes of play, I rose to my feet. Dobbin trotted at my side until we came to the Ogbern's cottage. The narrow wooden gate swung back and forth in the breeze.
"So that's how you got out, eh?"
I shooed the dog inside, eased the gate shut, and watched as he bounded off towards the front porch.
At last, I came to the lane that led to Mrs Banbury's. Soon the cottage came into view. There were laurel bushes and long grass on the other side of the path that led up to the main house. Through the garden gate, around the side of the house into the vegetable plot, and there at the end, stood Uncle Tristan's shed.
It was a ramshackle structure built from long strips of assorted wood. There were no windows, and the door hung at an angle as if fitted as an afterthought.
A bank of clouds rolled across the moon. Darkness engulfed the garden.
Suddenly I felt a cold breath on the back of my neck. A heavy hand clasped tight onto my shoulder.
"What are ya doin' 'ere?"
I spun around.
Frank Perry's flat eyes stared back. In his right hand, raised above his head, he held a long-handled, Victorian hunting dagger.
Chapter 53
There was a tense moment of silence when I heard only the low thud of my heartbeat and the harsh whistle of the wind through the trees. I shrunk back, kept my eyes on the dagger, and prepared to scream or run or both.
Frank Perry repeated his question. "I said, what are ya doin' here?" His voice crackled with static, but he didn’t move any closer.
Keep him talking, I told myself. That's what I did with the crazies in the pie-and-mash shop. Words seemed to sooth them, take their minds off their madness for a while. But what to say to a deranged killer?
"Frank, the police are looking for you." I had intended to say something else, something more pleasant.
"They'll never find me 'ere."
I snatched a furtive glance at the laurel bushes and long grass on the other side of the path that led up to the main house. I'd have to get closer to the building for my cries of help to carry above the wind. To do that, I needed a distraction.
"Run!" The word came from my mouth as a half shout, half command.
Frank didn’t move.
"Run for your life, and you might escape the hangman's noose."
He glanced towards the house but still didn’t move.
"Stay, and you'll be captured."
"I'll not leave Cromer until I'm done." He spat the words out with a sharpness that splintered the night air.
The moon drifted behind a bank of clouds. Everything became dark. A loud screech sounded. The door of the shed eased open.
"Maggie!"
Uncle Tristan appeared, his silhouette outlined against the faint glow of an oil lamp. "Quick, come inside, else we'll have the neighbours nosing around and then we'll be for it."
My eyes darted to Frank and back to Uncle Tristan. "But—"
"Ssshh!" Uncle Tristan whispered. "Hurry."
"After you, Miss Darling," said Frank, placing the dagger in his jacket pocket.
Chapter 54
The hut was dark and smelled of damp earth mingled with burnt tobacco. I took a shallow breath and gazed around. There was a little round table, two rough sacks that served as beds, a couple of stools and a chair.
My heart sunk. It was clear—Uncle Tristan was harbouring a man wanted for murder. Had the two men worked together to perform the grisly deed? I stifled a gasp, trying to think of an explanation.
I failed.
"Close the door, Frank." Uncle Tristan stooped to fiddle with the oil lamp. Its orange flame spluttered then intensified, bathing the small space with bright flecks of reds and yellows and whites like a morning sunrise.
"Righto." Frank closed the door then shuffled to the far side and eased onto a stool. He leaned back, resting his shoulders against the shack wall. His eyelids fluttered shut, revealing dark, sunken sockets.
Uncle Tristan sat on a low stool and directed me to the wooden chair. "Maggie, tell me everything about your meeting with Lady Herriman."
I said, "Why don’t you explain what's going on here?"
"On second thought, just skip to the part about the bank cheque."
Frank let out a piggish snort. His head drooped.
I continued in a whisper, "Have you gone crazy? The man is wanted for murder."
"Did you ask about the bank cheque?"
"Uncle, have you lost your mind? You'll end up behind bars or worse." I kept my eyes on Frank Perry as I spoke.
"Don't mind Frank," said Uncle Tristan. "Nothing you say will ever cross his lips. Isn't that so, Frank?"
