The Dead Queen's Garden

by Nicola Slade

  ‘She used to be her ladyship’s nurse,’ an officious newcomer informed Charlotte, and the others chimed in. ‘Dunster was a good enough soul in days gone by, though she did hold her nose up at anyone what her ladyship disapproved of,’ said one.

  ‘Sadly gone off, though,’ added two more in unison. ‘Poor old soul’s mind was beginning to fail.’

  At the manor, Lily was in despair and Charlotte was required to comfort and advise her on the propriety of holding a christening party so hard on the heels of such a crime. A note from Lady Granville had decided the matter: Mr and Mrs Richmond were please to carry out their original intention, if they would, and her ladyship had every expectation of attending the ceremony and the celebration to follow. The inquest had taken place, as had the funeral of the unfortunate victim, and the whole sorry business was concluded.

  Charlotte found such sang-froid chilly but practical. The village constable had been called to the scene of the crime and taken a statement from the only witness to the effect that a burly man had been seen making away over the fields. The coroner had found for murder by person or persons unknown and now, in church, Charlotte glanced at the poor victim’s employer and marvelled at her composure.

  Bellowing his responses, Lord Granville also seemed unperturbed by the shocking occurrence on his own drive. At least a decade older than his wife, he resembled nothing so much as a robust countryman, with a shock of wiry, grizzled hair, ruddy complexion and whiskery countenance; he was above middling height and almost as broad as he was tall. He looked to be hail-fellow-well-met as he peered at everyone, his small, round blue eyes disappearing into slits in his fleshy face as he nodded genially on his progress back to his own pew.

  ‘Give me an ’and to get up, girl,’ demanded the old lady beside her, and Charlotte helped her to heave her considerable bulk up off the stout oak pew. The congregation straggled to its feet for the final hymn which was sung with gusto and with anticipation of the christening feast to come.

  As she sang, Charlotte returned to her earlier thoughts, then sighed and gave a philosophical shrug. Lord Granville had an eye for the ladies, of that there could be no doubt. She had the bruising to prove it where he had squeezed her hand in a fervent greeting, along with the recollection of his hot breath on her face where he had come far too close on being introduced. She supposed he was accustomed to take liberties unless – a thought struck her – was he perhaps a little short-sighted? It had not been until he was right beside her that his eyes had brightened, with a sudden gleam in his eye as he appraised her tall slender figure clad against the December chill in her best winter outfit: a green cashmere dress with a velvet jacket. The plain bodice of the dress was buttoned high to the neck, relieved only by a lace collar which was pinned with her godmother’s gold acanthus leaf brooch. She wore a narrow sable tippet that matched an edging of fur on her saucy little green velvet-hat, the whole ensemble finished off with the muff, also of sable, that she carried primly in her hand.

  Oh well, after today I need not run across his lordship again, she consoled herself. He looks like a spent force so I expect he’s harmless enough and besides, I’ve met his like before; at his age they are usually content with little pats and the occasional surreptitious pinch, but seldom anything more encroaching.

  With the closing notes of the last hymn, it was time to make the short journey from the chilly, ancient stone church across the village green to the old Tudor manor house, Charlotte’s home for the first few months of her widowhood in England. In no particular hurry, she waited while Lady Frampton gathered up her shawls and muff, as well as her prayer book and capacious reticule. As they made their slow promenade down the aisle, Lady Frampton decided she needed to take a further rest, and subsided with a groan of relief on to a chair near the porch.

  ‘You go and see if that idle groom is ’andy,’ she instructed Charlotte with a peremptory wave of her hand. ‘Then, when I’ve ’ad a bit of a breather, you can give me an ’and up and ’elp me down to the road.’

  Obediently, Charlotte headed into the porch but was held up at the door while Lady Granville’s companion, fussing all the time, made her way towards the exit. People stared and gave way to her, whispering all the while that this was the poor soul who had found the body of Lady Granville’s maid. Deep curiosity, tempered with respect, caused the congregation to allow her to join her employer who, however, remained inside the church, talking to a neighbour and waved the companion on ahead. Charlotte made her way into the crowded porch, but suddenly there was a commotion just ahead of her; cries of alarm, voices raised in concern and a general flurry of questions, comments and complaints. Several people cried, ‘Murder!’ and even, ‘Fire!’ and were hastily hushed.

  Someone beside Charlotte knocked against her, setting her off balance, and she found herself tottering as the crowd of about a dozen people surged forward. Luckily, she was at the side of the group and managed to clutch at the iron ring protruding from the porch wall. Unable to see who was pushing, or why, she fought for breath and was about to relinquish her hold on the ring, when she realized that there had been an accident. Someone had actually fallen into an open grave close to the door.

  ‘Good heavens,’ she exclaimed aloud, edging curiously towards the crowd milling about outside the porch. After looking round to check that Gran was safely out of harm’s way, she stood on tiptoe and tried to see what was happening, while keeping away from the excitable spectators. All she could see was a balding pate that looked familiar. ‘Why, that’s the vicar! What on earth is he doing kneeling over that grave? And who is down there?’

  ‘You may well ask.’ The response came from an unexpected source. Lady Granville had turned back towards the church looking so flushed and angry that Charlotte took her arm.

  ‘Do come and sit in the porch for a moment,’ she suggested in a soothing voice as the lady fussed about arranging her cloak tidily. ‘You are quite shaken, I’m sure you should take a few minutes to catch your breath. Are you hurt, ma’am?’

  ‘Did you see who pushed me?’ Lady Granville did as she was bidden but her voice bore a throbbing undertone of something like hysteria that surprised Charlotte.

  ‘Pushed you?’ Charlotte could only parrot the question. ‘No, I saw nothing, I’m afraid. I was right at the back of the crowd, to the side, and knew nothing until I was caught up in the rush to look. Are you injured in any way, ma’am? No? You didn’t fall, did you? But what in the world happened, pray?’

  ‘I was pushed,’ came the startling pronouncement. ‘I felt a sharp jab in my back and was knocked a little off balance so that I had to reach out and grab at whatever was handy. Fortunately, my son had only seconds earlier skipped away to the side of the porch or he would certainly have been sent flying into the open grave as, I believe, has happened to the curate.’

  Lady Granville had by now resumed her colour and she straightened up, looking composed once more.

  ‘A most disgraceful episode,’ she said sternly. ‘I did not see the instigator of this outrage but I am most disturbed. I shall not however, say anything to Mrs Richmond. I do not wish her to feel mortification at the behaviour of some of her guests.’

  ‘Most magnanimous of you, ma’am, she will appreciate such consideration.’ Charlotte kept a straight face and was rewarded with a slight nod of approval as the lady made her stately way out of the church to join her husband. At her approach, the gabbling group beside the grave seemed to melt away, no doubt recalling urgent business as they did so. Lady Granville, Charlotte reflected, wore a most forbidding expression.

  Her husband, ignorant of the near-calamity, was engaged in jovial banter with assorted other gentlemen at the lych-gate. Lady Granville’s plump but dowdy companion, heroine of the recent crime, was fussing and fluttering about, flapping her handkerchief in a distracted fashion as she waited to assist her employer down the two shallow steps. Charlotte had spotted her sitting at the back of the church, as befitted her lowly situation, though with a s
cornful look about her down-turned mouth that belied her humble posture. She looked gratified at the number of people who stopped to offer their condolences and congratulations at her narrow escape, but resumed her humble demeanour as she approached her employer once more.

  Charlotte made to move towards the kneeling vicar, then stopped. The fuss was dying down and, as there seemed no real cause for alarm, no need for her to rush to anyone’s assistance and add to the confusion, she tugged at the heavy door handle and joined her elderly relative. It might be advisable, she thought, to wait inside the church for several minutes until peace reigned outside so she wandered around the ancient building that she loved so dearly, admiring the seasonal arrangements of Christmas roses and holly, adorned with sprigs of mistletoe and wreathed round with trails of ivy.

  ‘Give me an ’and up again, gal.’ The order came from the old lady who had been reposing bolt upright with her hands folded on her ample bosom, and with her eyes tightly shut. ‘It don’t seem as if there’s any call for us to commence to worry. Whatever it was that ’appened seems to have sorted itself out.’ She nodded philosophically at Charlotte. ‘Most fings do, I find,’ she said. ‘Did I ’ear some daft soul calling out “Murder”?’ she added. ‘He’s long gone, that fellow, days ago, if ’e ’as any sense, and there’d be no sense at all hanging about in a churchyard.’

  Indeed, there was certainly no remaining sign of accident or distress outside, still less of a lurking ruffian, and the congregation could be seen straggling across the village green towards the manor, leaving only the vicar’s wife who was fussing over several long streaks of mud that disfigured her husband’s surplice.

  ‘Oh really, Percy,’ she was complaining as she darted ineffectual little dabs at his flowing robes. ‘I do think you could have left it to someone else to get dirty. You simply must remember the dignity of your position nowadays.’ She looked up at the newcomers’ approach and left off her attempts. ‘Grandmama? And Charlotte? Did you see what happened? Such a commotion and just look at Percy.’

  ‘What in the world has happened, Agnes?’ Charlotte addressed her sister-in-law as they headed towards the lych-gate, while the vicar escaped thankfully across the churchyard to the sanctuary of his vicarage. Charlotte watched him go with a smile; he had been the meek curate of the parish, secretly engaged to the daughter of the manor, but if he had believed his promotion would make him less downtrodden, he was mistaken. Since her marriage, Agnes had blossomed into a most determined wife and she managed her husband for his own good. ‘Lady Granville told me someone pushed her and that the curate fell into the grave. I saw Percy kneeling beside him, but how does he come to look now as if he has just climbed out of the grave himself?’

  ‘He has,’ was the startling reply. Agnes still looked put out and was clearly glad of an audience for her complaints. ‘I’m not perfectly sure what happened, but in the press of people coming out of the church, someone must have pushed against Lady Granville for she cried out: “Stop that at once, stop pushing me!” Imagine, how rude; to push a lady so, and one of her years and standing too. Anyway, she stumbled against the person in front of her who happened to be Miss Armstrong. You remember Lily and I met her and her sister at a Deanery tea party? Poor Miss Armstrong in her turn staggered and almost fell against her sister, Mrs Chant.’

  ‘It sounds like a game of human dominoes,’ commented Charlotte. ‘I was right at the back and didn’t observe anyone pushing, though I was caught up in the general teetering as someone started to fall. I do hope nobody was hurt in the crush?’

  ‘Thankfully not,’ Agnes shook her head. ‘Though when Mrs Chant was tilted off balance she did bump into the new curate and he, silly creature, fell into the grave that has been opened up for the blacksmith’s old aunt. If you recall, that was her family grave and the old lady insisted she’d haunt them unless she was buried there, even though it’s almost full to bursting. That’s how Percy managed to get covered in mud, pulling the curate out of the grave.’ She shook her head, with a frown of annoyance. ‘And what must the silly young man do, but pull so hard at poor Percy’s hand, that they both ended up in the mud, and there’s been so much rain lately.’

  ‘Did Lady Granville say who had pushed her?’ In spite of her better judgement, Charlotte gazed round anxiously, infected by the recent violent death in the village and by today’s general clamour at the graveside. ‘She didn’t tell me. It seems remarkably clumsy of whoever it was.’

  ‘She couldn’t tell,’ Agnes replied. ‘But she did give short shrift to whoever was shouting about murder. Oh dear, I’d better go and make sure Percy is all right, he’s so helpless about things like clean surplices. I’ll see you both in a few minutes.’

  ‘We seem to have missed all the excitement,’ Charlotte complained with a grin, as she helped the waiting groom to hoist Lady Frampton into her pony chaise for the short journey from church to manor. She and the old lady had been carried in this conveyance on the outward journey from her own home, but now Charlotte decided to walk along beside the equipage, keeping pace comfortably with the fat cob that had, in any case, no notion of travelling quickly.

  ‘I’d like to have seen the curate fall into a grave. He’s such a pompous youth it must have done considerable damage to his self-importance.’

  It was noticeable that those guests who were walking the short distance to the manor kept close together, several of them casting anxious glances round and shivering as the shadows lengthened. Charlotte sympathised. The news had shocked them all to the core and nobody was likely to venture out alone tonight.

  But wait, wasn’t that the Granville boy sidling alongside the wall of the churchyard? Charlotte opened her mouth to call out, then closed it as she saw him shoot a glare of considerable dislike at his mother’s companion who was hallooing and waving to him. Oh well, he can’t come to any harm, Charlotte decided. He was in company with some of the village lads and was probably heading down Church Lane towards the shop, so she decided not to give him away. The sky was still showing one or two streaks of daylight and there were plenty of people milling about to keep an eye on him. He’d no doubt join his parents at the manor shortly.

  As they passed Rowan Lodge, a compact brick-built house next to the vicarage, Charlotte sighed with undiluted pleasure. This was her home now, where she and old Lady Frampton had lately taken up residence, leaving Lily resplendent as chatelaine of the manor. The relief was unspeakable and Charlotte looked up at the old lady with a slight smile.

  ‘Best thing we ever did, eh girl?’ Lady Frampton clearly knew where Charlotte’s thoughts lay. Their loving friendship might have seemed unlikely to a casual observer – a girl from Australia who kept very quiet about her shady background, and the cockney whose vast inheritance from her husband, a London merchant, had made it possible for her now deceased son to marry into the aristocratic Richmond family and assume their surname. The link between Charlotte and Lady Frampton was their shared connection to the old lady’s grandson, Charlotte’s late and decidedly unlamented husband. ‘Peace and quiet away from Lily’s tantrums and Barnard’s bellowings,’ Lady Frampton nodded complacently. ‘And room to spread ourselves; good thing too, now the little piglet rules the roost over there.’ She frowned, reaching forward to rap the groom on his shoulder. ‘Get a move on, will you, my lad, I’m sharp-set and wanting my victuals.’

  There was another chuckle at Charlotte’s shoulder as the groom bullied the pony into breaking into a reluctant trot, and she glanced round to see the Granville boy, slightly breathless from running along behind her. There was a stickiness about his mouth so she had guessed correctly. The owner of the village shop was known to keep elastic opening hours and usually had a supply of home-made toffee on sale there. Still, she frowned slightly, relieved to see him; he ought not to be out alone at such an anxious time.

  ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ he spoke diffidently as he fell into step beside her. ‘But would you be so good as to tell me who that old lady is? She
seems a regular good’un. Is she a relation of yours?’

  ‘That’s Lady Frampton,’ she told him. ‘Mr Richmond’s grandmother and my own grandmother by marriage. I’m Charlotte Richmond, the Squire’s sister-in-law. And yes, you’re perfectly right; she is a good’un and I love her dearly.’ She looked round but could see no sign of his illustrious parents. ‘You must be home for the Christmas holidays,’ she suggested. ‘Where do you go to school?’

  A scowl disfigured the boy’s face. ‘I’m not allowed to go to school,’ he muttered. ‘My mama thinks I’m too delicate so I have a tutor, and my papa never bothers to argue with her.’ He caught her speculative glance at his slight, but wiry frame. ‘I know, it’s nonsense. I’m perfectly tough and healthy but she will insist on coddling me. It wouldn’t be quite so bad if only I had a brother or sister,’ he added in a disconsolate tone. ‘It would give Mama somebody else to worry over.’ And keep her off my back, was the unspoken message Charlotte received.

  ‘It must be lonely,’ Charlotte sympathised and was surprised when he broke in on her speech, a glimmer of pleading in the blue eyes, his tone diffident.

  ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon,’ he apologised. ‘But – I – don’t suppose you and the old lady would like to come to tea tomorrow, would you? It would be so good and I’m sure Mama would be pleased.’ He clearly expected a refusal and Charlotte could not bring herself to hurt him. Besides she felt a good deal of sympathy for a boy of his age, lonely and hedged around by anxious adults. He gave her no chance to refuse but went on urgently. ‘I’ll tell you what, ma’am, if I say to my mother that you and Lady Frampton are interested in gardening and in history, and would dearly love to see her mediaeval garden, I can ask her to invite you. She would be delighted to show off the garden and it would all go swimmingly. I’m sure you really would be interested anyway.’

  ‘A mediaeval garden?’ Charlotte was intrigued, her hazel eyes sparkling. ‘I only know about growing vegetables and very little about flowers; our old gardener at Rowan Lodge is set in his ways and doesn’t allow us to interfere, but a mediaeval garden? Yes, Lady Frampton and I might well be most intrigued.’ She thought for a moment. ‘As it happens, I believe we are both free tomorrow and I promise I’ll come even if Lady Frampton doesn’t feel equal to it. Provided of course, your mama really will wish to invite me?’