Midnight in Austenland

by Shannon Hale

  “Colder than I thought,” she said, even though it was exactly as cold as an English pond in midsummer should be. But she was definitely trembling. There was a BMW sitting on the bottom of the pond. And that’s a heavy, expensive piece of scenery to dump underwater. And there was no logical reason Colonel Andrews would have put it there as part of his little Gothic mystery. And that meant someone else had for other reasons. And the only reason she could think of was—

  “Let me take you inside,” said Eddie.

  “Body,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I … yes, inside. Please.”

  The only reason to dump a car in a pond was to hide it, since the owner wouldn’t be driving it home. Because the owner was dead. And stashed in the trunk. Surely the guards at the gate, under Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s orders, wouldn’t allow any car through to disrupt the Regency ambience—any car besides the master’s, that is. His would have been the only car on the premises that night, the only one to leave those tracks in the mud. Mr. Wattlesbrook was in the trunk of his car at the bottom of the pond, and the murderer was likely someone at Pembrook Park. Someone who’d been on-site to kill him, leave his body in the secret room, dump it out the window after the game of Bloody Murder, get it to the car, and drive the car into the pond to conceal the dirty deed.

  She was barely aware that she was wearing Eddie’s black jacket. His arm went around her as they walked back. Neville was dusting the dinner gong in the front hall. He looked over Charlotte in her chemise drippiness.

  “Mrs. Cordial fell off her horse and into the watering trough,” Eddie said. “It can happen, you know.”

  “Quite, sir,” said Neville. He eyeballed Charlotte’s dry dress hanging over Eddie’s arm, perhaps wondering why Charlotte had undressed before falling into a trough.

  Eddie winked at him and walked Charlotte to her room.

  “Do you require any further assistance?” Eddie asked.

  “Thanks, I’m just going to get out of these clothes and bathe off the pond scum.”

  “Are you going to ring for your maid?”

  “No. I’d rather not have to explain why I’m soaked.”

  “I could help with the laces,” he said.

  She laughed and wagged her finger. Sly dog, such a womanizer, even though I’m his sister—ew, is that creepy?

  But his expression was serious.

  “Well …” she said, considering his offer. A corset was hard enough to take off without help, maybe impossible when wet.

  He entered the room and shut the door behind him, the click like an alarm bell.

  Charlotte backed away, her fingers and toes tingling with adrenaline. Why had he shut the door? He knew. About Mr. Wattlesbrook. And the car in the pond. And the only way he would know was if—

  “Shy, dear sister? I promise not to look.” He kept coming forward.

  “Why did I want to swim in that pond today?” she demanded of him.

  “Because you are half mad?” he said with a smile, innocent dimples showing.

  “You know why, Eddie, don’t you?” She backed into the window, and her fingers searched for the latch. If she screamed, would someone hear?

  He raised an eyebrow. “I cannot fathom the complexities of your thoughts. I gave up understanding women long ago. Charlotte, you are the only woman I dare comprehend, and right now even you have left me leagues behind.”

  “I have?”

  “Speaking of behind, turn yours toward me so I can undo you. I don’t like how you are shivering.”

  She was shivering, her arms around her chest, her chemise clinging to her skin like a frog’s tongue to dinner. But was he here to kill her? She’d shown her hand. Colonel Andrews had said that Eddie hit Mr. Wattlesbrook in the face. That showed an inclination for violence toward the man. Did they have some history? If Eddie had killed him and dumped his car, Eddie now knew that she knew, and that she knew that he knew that she knew too. There was a lot of knowing going on. But then why not just kill her at the pond and bury her there as well?

  “No … I’ll … I’ll do it. You can go.”

  Eddie made a noise of exasperation and closed the space between them. Should she call for help? Why was she hesitating? Scream already!

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around. She squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled sharply, but the scream lodged frozen and useless in her chest. His cold fingers lifted her wet hair from her neck and placed it over her shoulder. She clenched her jaw, anticipating his hands circling her neck, tightening, trapping her breath in with the unscreamed scream till everything turned dark as midnight.

  Except his hands left her neck. She felt light tugging on her back, and in moments her corset was loose on her chest, held up by her arms alone. His hands dropped away. She opened her eyes.

  “That was fast,” she said, still not turning around. She spoke softly, her heart beating so hard it shook the breath out of her. “You must have practice.”

  “One of the many duties of a gentleman. Now I will leave you to your mysterious womanliness.”

  And he left.

  He hadn’t killed her. Just a few moments before she’d been sure he was going to kill her. And she’d submitted her corset lacings to him without a plan of escape or attack. Because he was Eddie. And she was nice. Wow, that’s an eye-opener.

  Since she was still alive and breathing, she took a bath. There wasn’t a lock on her bathroom door either.

  She submerged her head under the warm water and saw again the car, sunken like a child’s toy in a goldfish bowl. If Mr. Wattlesbrook, inebriated on fine sherry, drove the wrong way in the dark till he found water gushing in the car windows, he would either drown in the car or flee. He certainly wouldn’t remove the keys and lock the doors.

  She dressed for dinner sans corset—since she only had the one and it was sopping—and hoped no one would notice. Would a drowned BMW be enough evidence to merit calling the police? Perhaps, but she still had no idea who’d done it, and that was the whole point of a whodunit, after all. Besides, she felt compelled to figure this out, exactly in the way she hadn’t figured out James. She needed a direction to point her finger, but rifling through everyone’s personal belongings to look for a bloodstained dagger might not be exactly Regency appropriate.

  She came out of her room just as Miss Gardenside emerged from hers.

  “Good evening, Charlotte,” she said without a trace of worry.

  Just how could Miss Gardenside immerse herself so completely in a different character? And what had happened to that dreadful consumption?

  Charlotte smiled uneasily and hurried ahead, taking the stairs alone. Coming up was Mrs. Wattlesbrook. She barely acknowledged Charlotte. Her eyes were hooded, as if she hadn’t slept well for days. Gnawed by guilt? She recalled the glimmer of a smile on the woman’s face when Charlotte had claimed her fictional husband had died a painful and tragic death.

  Charlotte leapt down the last three steps and entered the dining room. The maids continued preparing for dinner, their glances taking her in. Suspiciously? Charlotte tried not to make eye contact. Neville approached, his thin arms behind his back.

  “May I be of service?”

  She was too freaked out to attempt a casual inquiry. “Neville, how many servants are employed here?”

  “Let me see … kitchen, maids, stables, gardeners—seventeen all told.”

  Seventeen!

  “They all live on the property? Do any of them come and go?”

  “They return home to visit family. However, all seventeen remain here for the duration of our guests’ stays.”

  She nodded. She didn’t know what else to ask except, Hey, are any of your staff potential murderers?

  “Forgive me for the observation, Mrs. Cordial, but you are curious. It reminds me of what happened to the cat.”

  Charlotte swallowed. Was that a warning from a man so infatuated with his mistress he’d kill for her? Or from a butler who wished her gone from
his tidy dining room?

  She scurried out, shutting the doors behind her.

  The usual six were in the drawing room, and all their faces turned to her as she entered. Her heart stuck to her ribs, too frightened to beat. Someone in here was probably a murderer. Did they suspect what she knew? Or were they staring because they noticed she wasn’t wearing a corset?

  “I propose a game,” she said. “I’ve been inspired by the colonel’s mystery. Let’s say …” She cleared her throat, starting to lose her nerve. “Let’s say there’s been a murder in the house, and one of us is guilty. The victim could be, oh … Mr. Wattlesbrook,” she said casually, “since he hasn’t returned.”

  Mrs. Wattlesbrook choked on nothing. Mr. Mallery looked up sharply. Eddie shook his head. Miss Gardenside shifted in her chair. Miss Charming gasped, delighted. Charlotte felt her face go red hot, but she didn’t blink.

  “Splendid!” said the colonel. “A locked-door mystery.”

  Encouraged, Charlotte ventured forward. “We’ll go to everyone’s room one by one and search for murder weapons, clues for a motive, that sort of thing.”

  “Yes, yes!” Miss Charming clapped her hands. “Blood splatter on dress hems and bottoms of shoes, clues in pockets and purses, and I’ll write up a list of what everyone has in their room, then, all detective-like, we’ll come back here and decide who’s the guiltiest.”

  “I do not find this appropriate,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said.

  “Oh come now, madam,” said Colonel Andrews. “It is just a game.”

  “I don’t mean to offend you,” Charlotte said. “I just thought we could pretend, you know? Anyway, it would be nice to have everyone involved, including you. All of us in this together.”

  Miss Gardenside stood. “I have always said, Charlotte, that you have a very clever mind. Does she not, Mr. Grey? A very clever mind. Would you not agree, Mr. Mallery?”

  “Very clever,” Mr. Mallery said.

  “Right-o, pip-pip,” said Miss Charming. “Just give us all a tit, or a tat or whatever, to go straighten up first.”

  At once, all were on their feet, moving toward the door.

  “No, we have to stay together!” said Charlotte. “If one of us is a murderer, we can’t separate, remember?”

  “Right, right, Mrs. Cordial,” Colonel Andrews said. “But hold that thought for ten, and then we shall begin.”

  “It has to be spontaneous or people can hide evidence!” Charlotte pleaded.

  “I’ll leave out my murder weapons, but no one is seeing my toiletries bag,” said Miss Charming, the first to the drawing room doors. “Ooh, I hope I’m the murderer!”

  “Meet back in the drawing room in ten minutes, all!” Colonel Andrews called.

  And like that, Charlotte was left standing alone. No noise but the ticking of a clock. It sounded scoldy—tsk, tsk, tsk. She reached into its chest and murderously held the pendulum till it stopped. She knew she’d messed up; she didn’t need some obnoxious mantel clock going on about it. If the murderer was one of the drawing room denizens, he or she likely guessed that Charlotte knew. Evidence would be hidden. How to catch the murderer now?

  Her plan was foiled, but perhaps she could still glean information. She went upstairs, shut the door to her room as if she were inside, and secreted herself behind the drapes of a large hallway window. The servants pulled them closed in the afternoon to protect the paintings on the walls from bright sunlight. She stood perfectly concealed, one eye peering through the lace edging. She waited.

  Seconds later, someone emerged from down the hallway. Through the lace she could only tell that it was a man. He paused at her door as he walked past, then kept going toward the spiral stairs.

  Her insides itched with curiosity. The hallway was empty, the doors all closed. She left the safety of the drapes and followed.

  The night of Bloody Murder, Charlotte had been confused by the rules of the game. If a murderer was hiding in the house, why would they seek him out? Wouldn’t it make more sense for the players to hide from the murderer? Yet here she was in real life doing just that, seeking a murderer instead of hiding. She wanted answers, and she was tired of being afraid.

  No one was on the stairs. Up she climbed, the spiral unraveling. She could see only a few steps at a time. Anyone could be lurking. Perhaps she should just wait at the bottom to see who came down. But knowing who left the game to go upstairs wasn’t evidence of murder.

  The second floor was still. The servants were probably downstairs preparing for dinner. Should she check all the rooms? She approached Mary’s room and heard the squeak of a mattress. Someone was in there. Coming toward the door? Charlotte panicked and fled, opening the secret door and hurrying inside.

  And she almost collided with Mr. Mallery.

  Home, years before

  When they were little, Beckett and Lu loved to play chase. Charlotte would zoom around the kitchen, and they would flee, laughing and squealing and even screaming.

  Upon the shout of “Safe, safe!” any noncarpeted place automatically would become safe—a chair, a stool, a bed, a book, a blanket. They’d need a moment to know they were okay, but they’d never stay still for long. Seconds later, they’d take off again, hoping Mom was on their heels.

  What fun was safe?

  Austenland, day 11, cont.

  Mr. Mallery looked up at the sound of the door. His hand was on the lid of the black Chinese vase Charlotte had inspected so often. He withdrew it hastily.

  “Mrs. Cordial,” he said with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  Charlotte felt sick to her stomach. What could she do? Well, when Beckett had a stomachache, she’d tell him to lie down and drink some soda pop and eat crackers. But as practical as that advice was, it didn’t apply to this moment. Stomachache aside, what could she do? Run? She didn’t want to run. She had to have evidence so she could put this mystery aside and go to the ball with—wait! The night of Bloody Murder, Mr. Mallery acted as if he hadn’t known anything of the secret room. Had he lied?

  “What are you doing here, Mr. Mallery?” she asked.

  He did not answer. And he most certainly did not look pleased.

  “Oh, I wish it wasn’t you,” she said with a groan.

  Shut up, her Inner Thoughts warned.

  Charlotte didn’t pay them any mind. She was deep in the story now, feeling it acutely. Reading Austen had felt safe, like sitting on a big sister’s bed and hearing stories about the far-off world. But now that she was actually in Austenland, there were no guarantees. Miss Jane the narrator wouldn’t swoop in to make sure all turned out well for the heroine. Real life was dangerous. Pembrook Park was dangerous. Mr. Mallery was dangerous. Charlotte knew this without thinking it aloud, and yet in the moment, she found herself responding like a narrator, commenting on the action instead of acting. It was still a story. It wasn’t real yet.

  “What is it that you wish, Mrs. Cordial? Perhaps it is in my power to grant it.”

  “I wish you weren’t the murderer, I really do.”

  “You have found me out.” He bowed formally. “Now, who did I kill? Your game has a victim—Mr. Wattlesbrook, is it?”

  “Yes, because he’d done away with the other estates, and he planned to divorce Mrs. Wattlesbrook and sell off Pembrook Park too, and you couldn’t have that, because … because … why? Why, Mr. Mallery? Do you love it here so much? I can almost believe it. You do seem to belong here.”

  Mr. Mallery squinted and tilted his head to one side. “I’m afraid I’m not following.”

  “You, Eddie, and Andrews carried Mr. Wattlesbrook off and locked him in a room. Someone let him out. Then I found a body in here and … and how did you know about this room?”

  “I believed you. If you said there was a room without a door, then you must be right. You are a clever woman. I sought it out for a time before discovering it, though I never found any corpse.”

  “But … but what are you doing here now?”

  “Searc
hing for evidence in support of your game, though I am afraid it grows more complicated by the moment.”

  “Evidence. His car. I saw it.”

  “Whose car?” Mr. Mallery asked.

  “Mr. Wattlesbrook’s. I saw it in the pond.”

  “Did you see that old thing down there?” Mr. Mallery smiled. He had such a dazzling smile. She’d never noticed that before. Or was this the first time he’d fully employed it? “You are enterprising, I must say. How did it look after all these years?”

  “Years?”

  “Hm? Yes, Wattlesbrook drove his car straight into the pond one night while drunk. That was two … three years ago? The vehicle he purchased after that one is probably still in a ditch near York, where he last left it. He does go through BMWs like handkerchiefs, though I suppose I should not talk about it. Don’t mention this to Mrs. Wattlesbrook, will you? She knows I think her husband is a complete pillock, but speaking frankly of modern things with the guests crosses her line.”

  This Mr. Mallery was different. Eddie and Colonel Andrews allowed glimpses of their non-actor beings to peer through, as did Mrs. Wattlesbrook and the ladies. But Mr. Mallery had always been solidly Mr. Mallery. Now he showed cracks. Why did this, his actor self, feel less true than his character?

  “Let’s not mention the car, all right? It will upset Mrs. Wattlesbrook. But I am game for your game, my dear. Come, let’s return and I will play your murderer.”

  The car. It could have been in the pond for years. Why hadn’t that occurred to her before? There was a reason why she was so sure the car had been sunk recently, wasn’t there? She looked at Mr. Mallery’s patented smolder and couldn’t remember a thing.

  The door was behind her, Mr. Mallery a few paces away. Her heart was pounding in an uncomfortable manner, and her head felt swimmy, but one thought floated to the surface: I am still an idiot. This was the universal truth she had always believed in.

  Charlotte emitted a squeak. Then a laugh.

  “I did it again. I told myself I wouldn’t get caught up in the story, but I did, and I really believed there’d been a murder and you were the murderer and … and—”