A Particular Circumstance

by Shirley Smith

  Bunfield was a powerfully built man in his early forties, a neat and tidy person with crisp white collar and trim blue coat, his boots polished to perfection, and he carried a short staff with a discreet crown at the end, as a symbol of his authority. His eyes, as he surveyed the room, were as bright as the buttons on his red waistcoat and were of a glittering blue.

  ‘Your servant, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said and gave a bob of his head, halfway between a nod and a bow.

  Jane Grayson indicated a seat for him and Adam Brown opened the proceedings with greetings for Bunfield and further introductions. ‘Well now, Mr Bunfield,’ he said. ‘We would very much like to hear your report concerning the recent ghastly discovery at Westbury Hall.’

  ‘Mr Brown, sir, the Felbrook constable attended the preliminary inquest held at The Swan in King’s Lynn on 18 August when Mr Bates declared a provisional verdict of “Murder by person or persons unknown”. Further evidence will have to be gathered and presented to the examining magistrate if the culprit is ever to be identified.’

  He took out a somewhat battered notebook and read from it. ‘“From enquiries already carried out, the body has been identified as that of Mr Charles Westbury, youngest brother to Sir Benjamin and grandfather to Mr Hugo Westbury, who died of a fatal stab wound to his back, delivered with some force, if the coroner’s surgeon is to be believed.”’

  ‘How shocking,’ Jane Grayson murmured.

  ‘Shocking indeed, ma’am.’

  ‘And there is no doubt as to the identity of my grandfather?’ Hugo Westbury spoke very quietly. ‘And yet, we, my parents, that is, were led to believe that my grandfather and his wife had perished on the Golden Maiden in a terrible storm off the coast of Cromer, notorious for the sandbanks which lurk beneath the waters.’

  ‘There seems no doubt of the identity of the deceased, sir, but I shall be making further enquiries there.’

  He turned to Sir Benjamin, whose frail shoulders seemed to be drooping more than ever. ‘They were on their way to Holland, as I understand it, sir?’

  ‘Yes. The child, Hugo’s father, was left with his nurse, but I know not the purpose of their voyage.’

  ‘It was to sell some diamonds, Sir Benjamin.’ Harry Bunfield spoke quietly, but took note of Sir Benjamin’s deliberately blank expression. ‘And the contemporary reports of the sinking of the Golden Maiden state that not all the passengers and crew were accounted for. There is no record of Mr Charles Westbury’s body being recovered, so he was lost, presumed drowned, but I expect you knew that, sir?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Sir Benjamin said reluctantly. ‘At the memorial service for my brother and his wife, hers was the only coffin.’

  There was a silence, broken again by Harry Bunfield. ‘There were two other known survivors, sir, and they were Mr Tobias Todd, a tutor from Lynn Grammar School, and a young sailor, name of Ted Rudkin, and happen if they’re still alive, I shall definitely pay them a visit, Sir Benjamin.’

  Adam Brown passed across to Hugo a small roll of velvet fabric containing the signet ring and the battered silver watch. ‘The coroner has agreed to release the body for burial, sir, and has requested that I give these remaining items to you, as the next of kin.’

  Charlotte looked curiously at Hugo Westbury, but apart from a strained whiteness round his mouth, he gave no sign of any of the shock and horror that Mr Bunfield’s investigations had produced.

  Sir Benjamin seemed to have shrunk even smaller and his shoulders were more bowed than ever. He sighed as he spoke. ‘Alas, my poor dear brother, Charles. He was the youngest and most handsome of us … the most loved … the most blessed. He shall in due season be honourably interred with his dear wife in the family vault. Hugo will make the funeral arrangements.’

  It was at this point that Jane Grayson rang for Phoebe, who brought in wine and refreshments. Jane noticed the way that Charlotte had looked so intently at Hugo Westbury and, without appearing obvious, she positioned herself near to him, offering him a glass of red wine and saying in a voice of utmost concern, ‘I am so sorry that you should have had such a sad shock at your homecoming, sir. Please accept my condolences.’

  He gave her a smile of great sweetness. ‘Thank you, ma’am. But these things happen and at least he may be given a Christian burial.’

  With her skill as a good listener and receiver of confidences, Jane Grayson remained silent and looked at him so sympathetically that he was moved to add, ‘I have no recollection of my grandparents and my mother and father both died young, so it is not so devastating an experience as it could have been.’

  Jane Grayson took the liberty of pressing his hand in silent commiseration and tactfully signalled to Phoebe to refill his glass. What an attractive and sensitive young man. What a pity there seemed to be so much animosity still between himself and dear Charlotte. She looked across at her eldest daughter and could tell by the carefully composed expression of indifference on her face that Charlotte had listened to every word of the conversation and Jane smiled to herself. Perhaps, she thought, Matthew was not, after all, the right one for Charlotte…. She looked speculatively at her beautiful, spirited elder daughter and then back to the darkly handsome Hugo Westbury. What an attractive couple they would make, to be sure.

  Hugo, also acutely conscious of the beautiful Miss Charlotte Grayson, looked across at her over the rim of his wine glass. She was listening respectfully to something Sir Benjamin was telling her and her lovely head was bent towards him, so she could catch what his thin old voice was saying. She offered Sir Benjamin a ratafia biscuit and refilled his sherry glass. All this was done with the utmost kindness and solicitude. What a contrast to her usual confrontational attitude, Hugo thought. She looked so beautiful and womanly, he was forced to make a comparison between her and the insipid Aurelia Casterton, who lacked all Charlotte’s address and grace and could only gaze up at a fellow with those limpid, vacant eyes.

  To the devil with his decision to stay away from Charlotte. At the next brief lull in the conversation, Hugo turned to her and said quietly, ‘The weather seems set to remain fine, Miss Grayson. Perhaps you could be prevailed upon to grant Lucy Baker’s wish and come for a ride with us on Sunday? If her mama agrees, I thought a short ride on Gypsy, after Sunday school, perhaps?’

  He made his request with such polite deference that she looked at him with suspicion. It was true he had acted the perfect gentleman all morning, but speak as you find, she thought grimly. Her memory of the arrogant way he had dealt with the lease of Westbury Hall still rankled.

  He was waiting for her answer, politely patient, one black eyebrow raised in amused enquiry, then he said softly, ‘There is no need to look so serious, Miss Grayson. I am merely inviting you on a little outing to please the child, not a public hanging.’

  ‘Odious man.’ But she was obliged to smile and thought quickly of the little muslin dress she was making for Lucy. If she worked at it, she could have it finished for Sunday and that would be two pleasures for the child.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Well, am I going to have the pleasure of your company, Miss Grayson? If so, I shall approach Lucy’s mama for her approval.’

  ‘Very well, I thank you, Mr Westbury. I know Lucy has very few treats and I am sure she will enjoy it.’

  ‘And you, Miss Grayson?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said stiffly.

  ‘Will you also enjoy it?’

  She looked at him in surprise. In spite of herself, she knew she was colouring up. His eyes, incredibly blue in the morning light, were crinkled with amusement. She was surprised at allowing herself to be talked into this proposed treat for little Lucy Baker so easily. But of course, from the first, it had been impossible to deny Hugo Westbury anything that he really wanted. She wondered ruefully if it would always be thus, but she answered coolly enough, ‘I hope to do so, sir. And Lucy’s enjoyment will be most important, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ He
said it without a trace of irony.

  ‘Very well, then, we are agreed. Sunday at three outside the church, unless Mrs Baker refuses permission, of course.’ She kept her voice light and smiled, knowing Mrs Baker would be only too pleased for Lucy to have such a treat. Then she excused herself politely to go and chat to Adam Brown, who was standing with Harry Bunfield, still discussing the shipwreck of the Golden Maiden.

  Hugo turned towards Kitty and enquired politely how she did, and praised the smooth way that the house move had been effected by the two girls and their mother. Kitty tried valiantly to keep her end up, but was somewhat overawed by him and faltered in her replies, until she was rescued by Sir Benjamin, who, raising himself painfully from his armchair and leaning heavily on his stick, came to say that he and Hugo must be going and to bid farewell to them all.

  It seemed almost impossible to settle down to some sewing again, but Charlotte at least had an incentive now and took up the little dress that she was making for Lucy with the intention of finishing it by Sunday. It was a white muslin with a pale blue dot, made from a piece of material in Jane Grayson’s fabric box. She knew it would suit Lucy’s blonde prettiness to perfection and she planned to take it round to the cottage as soon as it was finished so that Lucy might wear it as her Sunday best.

  All was peaceful until such time as Uncle Bertram arrived, beautifully dressed as was his wont, and as always more than ready to do justice to the ample dinner served up by Mrs Palmer.

  ‘Although, as you see, ’tis a bit of a force pot,’ she declared as she set the steaming dishes on the table.

  But Uncle Bertram waved her apologies away most affably. Not only was he being treated with the kindness and consideration that was usual from Jane Grayson, but the news of Sir Benjamin’s visit added a decided stimulus to his already inflated feeling of self-importance. Bolstered up by a most substantial meal and several glasses of mellow port wine, he took up his customary stance in front of the drawing-room fire and prepared to hold forth to his captive audience. He was determined to inform Jane and her daughters of the procedures to be followed when an inquest was arranged. Jane’s efforts to avoid this melancholy subject were in vain. Although she tactfully sent Kitty and Charlotte on a couple of tasks to try to get them out of the room, while their uncle proceeded to discourse at length on the unsavoury details of the murder, he refused to take the hint. When the girls returned, he was still in full flow about the inquest.

  ‘Bates is the county coroner, you know, Jane, and he routinely holds inquests in public houses.’

  Jane was silent and Bertram took this as a sign that she was interested in the macabre subject.

  ‘Good idea, really,’ he continued. ‘There needs to be a room, you see, where the body can be laid out and where it can be viewed by the jurors. I know the landlord at The Swan is always happy to oblige – the jurors always need drinks and refreshments after their unhappy ordeal. I suppose Bates called Dr Armstrong to view the body, but from what you have said, there was no doubt precious little of it left to view and of course Armstrong will have been paid his expenses. A sorry business, my dear, but, still, Bates will have had to assign a cause of death. I wonder when the funeral will be?’

  Kitty shuddered and said that she hoped it would not be until after Ann West’s betrothal party. Uncle Bertram said pompously that these important family occasions took some time to organize. There were important people to be contacted. Distant, even far-flung relations who must be given notice and opportunity to attend the ceremony. The family vault would have to be prepared, accommodation made ready at Westbury Hall. A thousand and one things would be required to be organized by Sir Benjamin’s great-nephew in preparation for the obsequies of his grandfather, Charles.

  Charlotte remained silent, her head bent over her needlework, wondering if she could find a nice piece of wide ribbon in Mama’s sewing box to make a sash for Lucy’s dress, while her Uncle Bertram continued to pontificate about the funeral. And so the evening passed pleasantly enough, with Jane and her daughters, as if by mutual consent, giving minimum encouragement to Uncle Bertram’s speculations.

  Charlotte was not the world’s best needlewoman, being too impatient, untidy and not remotely interested in sewing, but she was determined to make the dress a success.

  As it happened, it was finished well in time and she took it round to the Bakers’ cottage before the Sunday school.

  ‘Oh, look, Ma, at what Miss Grayson’s brought for me!’ Lucy flew across the room to hug Charlotte, watched smilingly by Mrs Baker, and she said excitedly, ‘Oh, thank you, Miss Grayson. And look! Ma’s bought some ribbons from the gypsy woman.’

  Charlotte looked at the small, heart-shaped face, the smiling lips and bright eyes. Even the gold curls bobbing about on the smooth, babyish forehead seemed to quiver with the excitement of it all and Charlotte was glad that she’d made the effort to finish the dress.

  At three o’clock, Lucy was outside the church, hopping excitedly from one foot to the other when Hugo Westbury arrived. After the formal greetings, the groom held the horse’s head and Hugo lifted Lucy up on to the huge black hunter. Charlotte had decided to have Nell to accompany her, rather than Phoebe, and they set off in silence.

  Not so Lucy Baker. She kept up a constant stream of chatter, mainly directed at Hugo. ‘I love this horse, Mr Wessb’ry,’ she said, ‘and I love my new dress what Miss Grayson has made for me.’

  ‘It is very pretty and smart,’ Hugo Westbury murmured. There was no hint of patronage in his tone.

  ‘Yes, she’m kind, Miss Grayson is.’

  For some reason, Charlotte looked across at him and was disconcerted to find that he was looking at her. His eyes were smiling, full of humour in the brilliant afternoon sunshine, and with the well-remembered fine lines radiating from the corners.

  ‘I had not thought of Miss Grayson as merely kind,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Difficult, argumentative, impossible, perhaps …’ he said softly, looking at Charlotte all the while, until she blushed and looked away.

  But Lucy was now feeling more confident and sat up higher in the saddle to say imperiously, ‘And over yonder is the stream. Gypsy could have a drink and I could get down for a minute, I could.’

  Hugo immediately slowed the horse and lifted her down. The groom led Gypsy towards the stream and Lucy began to dance and pirouette in the little grassy clearing. ‘And look at me, Miss Grayson,’ she cried. ‘I can dance in my new dress, I can.’

  She danced and skipped and twirled and then at last went to lean against a tree. ‘But I can’t dance like grand ladies do, Miss Grayson. Show me how to do it proper, miss. I want to do the waltz, Miss Grayson.’

  Charlotte laughed and, taking both Lucy’s hands in hers, showed her the basic steps and the rhythm, pulling her gently along.

  ‘Well, it is like this, Lucy. Forward side, together. Forward, side, together. And if you dance with a gentleman, you must go backwards and still keep in step.’

  ‘Mr Wessb’ry’s a gennelman. Dance with Mr Wessbr’y then. Show me. Show me!’ she cried.

  Charlotte stood silent and a little nonplussed, not quite sure how to deal with this request, but Hugo stepped forward and echoed Charlotte’s words smoothly, saying, ‘Well, Lucy, it is like this. The gentleman bows to the lady and says, “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Grayson?” and the lady puts her hand on his.’

  Charlotte looked up at him, startled, but as if in a dream, she obediently put her hand on his. ‘Then,’ Hugo said, ‘he puts his arm about her waist and when the music starts, they dance, forward, side, together, forward, side, together.’

  Still in a dream, Charlotte gathered up the folds of her gown and then looked ruefully down at her feet. She had on her sturdy half boots, just right for a walk in the country. ‘I fear I am not wearing my dancing slippers,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Nor I,’ Hugo whispered. ‘I must take care not to step on your toes.’

  He continued to murmur, ‘Forwar
d, side, together,’ a few more times and then as they became more confident in each other’s steps, he began to hum a waltz, very softly and in a pleasant baritone voice. Soon, their steps matched perfectly and at the edge of the little clearing, Hugo led her perfectly to execute a graceful turn and, still humming, brought her back to Lucy, who clapped her hands in delight.

  ‘That were wunnerful, Miss Grayson,’ Lucy squealed excitedly. ‘Oh, do some twirls again, Mr Wessb’ry. Please.’

  ‘Very well, but only one more,’ he said. ‘Miss Grayson has had enough of dancing for one day.’

  But Miss Grayson hadn’t. Her eyes were closed as she listened to his soft humming, allowing him to guide her and, after the final twirl, bring her gently to a full stop. His hand moved from her waist and he held both her hands in his.

  They stood facing each other for a long moment, and he didn’t release her hands. Charlotte had opened her eyes, but her head had fallen back and she was looking up at him as though in a trance. He bent his head towards her and for one heart-stopping moment Charlotte thought he was about to kiss her and, rather belatedly, she attempted to break free.

  Even Lucy was quiet now and Charlotte became aware of Nell, standing still and silent on the edge of the grassy clearing, and of the groom leading Gypsy from the stream, ready for the journey back. She turned her head and stepped away and, reluctantly, Hugo was obliged to let her go.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Before completing the formal funeral arrangements, Hugo decided he would visit Cromer himself and try to find Ted Rudkin, the most promising survivor of the tragic shipwreck, who had been a young sailor on board the Golden Maiden at the time of the disaster. For some reason, he felt restless and ill at ease after his outing with Lucy Baker and Charlotte Grayson. Lucy Baker was always a delight and one half of him had been charmed by the whole spontaneous experience of dancing in the open air with a beautiful young woman like Charlotte Grayson. He was unable to forget the touch of her cool hand, her grey eyes, large and clear in the sunlight, at first smiling up at him and then closed in concentration as he hummed the waltz. Most of all, he couldn’t forget his urgent overwhelming desire to kiss her when he’d had his arm around her slender, lissom waist.