The Dead Queen's Garden

by Nicola Slade

  ‘Have you any information on the cause of this sudden dreadful illness?’ Charlotte sat down beside Lily and sipped thoughtfully at the sherry Barnard handed her. ‘I assume her husband was at her side? Miss Nightingale told me that Dr Chant is most highly thought of in the Capital, so every precaution must surely have been taken. Poor young lady, she can have been no more than twenty-five or six, at the most, do you not think?’

  ‘It was a sudden attack of biliousness,’ Lily’s spirits had revived sufficiently to allow her to join in the conversation. ‘I received a short note not an hour ago from Miss Armstrong, the elder sister as I’m sure you will recall. She apologised for importuning upon me but she wondered if she might beg a bed from tomorrow, for a night or two. She has no other acquaintance in Winchester, apart from the Dean’s wife and she could hardly impose on a cathedral dignitary at Christmas.’

  Charlotte was startled. ‘But Lady Granville’s woman said that Miss Armstrong and Dr Chant were returning to London this evening?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Lily was adamant. ‘She is quite mistaken; how do these rumours get around? Our kitchen maid brought home that, and several other tales, when she returned after her half-day in Winchester. I have the letter here, from Miss Armstrong, who states that Dr Chant informs her that his wife’s body will be interred in Winchester at the earliest opportunity, and that he will be glad if she would vacate the rooms which his wife engaged last week, when the sisters arrived in Hampshire for a short holiday together. The rooms are wanted and tomorrow is the final day of their week for I believe they planned to return to London then.’

  Lily looked sharply at Charlotte, her plump, inquisitive little face shorn of its usual artifice. ‘I understand the rent for the rooms would be beyond Miss Armstrong’s means, in any case. I also gained the impression that there is no love-lost between husband and sister and that this little vacation was arranged without the doctor’s knowledge, still less his permission.’ She pouted, ‘Unfortunately, I did not have occasion to discover just why they don’t get on.’ She drew her fine, dark brows together, then continued, ‘Dr Chant was not residing in the same house and Miss Armstrong says that her sister’s sickness increased until she herself became alarmed and sent for a local doctor, but it was too late and the poor young lady’s final breaths were taken sometime in the small hours.’

  ‘Very sad, very sad.’ That was Barnard, interrupting Charlotte who had her mouth open to speak. ‘But Char, what if the poor lady died as a result of something she ate here? At young Algy’s christening party?’ He pulled out a large handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow, looking more like a doleful prize bullock than ever. ‘I doubt I should ever recover from the mortification,’ he announced, his voice tailing away in a doom-laden rumble.

  ‘Dear Barnard,’ Charlotte rose and spoke forcefully, giving him a reassuring squeeze to his beefy, muscled arm. ‘Stop this fretting at once. Now, sit down, take another glass of sherry and listen to me. Good,’ she nodded approval as the large, anxious creature obeyed her. ‘First of all, I have not been ill and neither has Grandmama. Have you, Lily? Or Barnard? Of course you have not. Have you heard that anyone else has been taken ill after yesterday’s party? There you are then.’

  She smiled at him and went on, ‘If there had been something amiss with any of the dishes you served yesterday, you would certainly have been inundated with messages about other guests also suffering. You know what Dr Perry is like; had he been called to attend any bedsides, he’d have been up here, hot foot, to demand a list of recipes and ingredients from Cook.’

  She was glad to observe that the force of her argument had struck both Barnard and his wife, so that a degree of their distress was alleviated. ‘You see? Besides, I overheard a brief exchange between Dr Chant and his unfortunate wife that will, I suspect, provide some explanation.’ She hastily sketched out the scene she had observed, ending with, ‘It seemed clear to me at the time that the lady was hinting that she was with child. Sadly, it seems only too likely that her death must have resulted from some irregularity in her condition.’

  After dinner, Charlotte and Lady Frampton spent a comfortable evening alone at Rowan Lodge, in the cream-panelled dining hall that was their favourite place for relaxing and gossiping. The old lady, who found the stairs difficult these days, used the former dining-room as a bedchamber, while Charlotte slept in lonely state upstairs with a further room set aside there for her own pursuits. The large downstairs drawing-room served for their few formal gatherings.

  ‘Well, I never,’ exclaimed the old lady, when Charlotte had told her the sorry tale of young Mrs Chant’s tragic end. ‘The poor young thing, I recollect thinking what a pretty creature she was, to be sure, all dressed in pink.’ She ruminated for a while then remembered something else, ‘Mind you, Char,’ she said, with a minatory nod. ‘You say nobody else was taken ill, but what about Captain Penbury, eh? ’e collapsed, didn’t ’e?’

  Charlotte looked aghast. ‘Oh, Gran,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’d completely forgotten about that. For heaven’s sake don’t remind Lily or Barnard.’ Her brow puckered as she recalled the occasion. ‘But the captain wasn’t bilious though. It can’t have been anything he ate for he wasn’t ill at all, really. I think it was just a sharp attack of indigestion, although it did look like a heart attack at the time.’

  ‘So it was,’ nodded Lady Frampton. ‘Indigestion, I mean. Silly old fool, he tells everyone he meets about that old musket ball in ’is belly, and I’ve ’ad to shut my ears time and again when ’e drones on and on about his bloomin’ innards. What the devil did ’e think ’e was up to, stuffing himself with all that rich pastry, eh?’ She gave a complacent nod as she bragged, ‘My ’usband used to tell me, “’arriet, it’s a pleasure to see you eat.” It takes a stout constitution like what I’ve got to eat rich and ’earty, so it does.’

  An odd memory struck Charlotte. ‘Didn’t Lady Granville complain that the captain had snatched a mince pie away from young Oz?’ She pictured the scene and nodded. ‘Yes, she did. She said nothing to the captain, but certainly she moaned about it to me, not that Oz gave two pins. He simply used the uproar at the captain’s collapse, to pile his plate high with sugar plums, and make his escape.’

  Lady Frampton made a face. ‘That woman will make a milksop out of the boy, sure as eggs is eggs,’ she grunted. ‘As nice and sparky a lad as any you could wish to meet, but no, what must she decide but that he’s delicate. Delicate my eye! She’ll drive ’im demented one of these days, the way she ’overs over ’im, poor lad. Still, it’s not to be wondered at; all those hopes come to nothing and then at last, this precious boy arriving safe and sound. Well over forty, I believe, before she found ’erself in the family way, at what must ’ave been ’er last chance.

  ‘I’ve seen it before, you know. A “Change” baby he must ’ave been and her took poorly near the whole nine months, as is so often the way with older ladies. And ’is Lordship kept in London a lot of the time, seeing as ’ow ’e was in the Government at that time, though ’e’s retired now.’ The old lady shot her companion a malicious grin. ‘Not that ’e was up to much then, too busy running after the young ladies, so I ’eard. But there, as to Lady Granville, well, it was more than enough to turn ’er into a fussy old hen with ’er one chick, I’m sure, and who can blame her.’

  Charlotte listened with only half an ear, though with a moment’s sympathy for Lady Granville; another memory was teasing her but nothing came to mind so she shrugged it off. It’s none of my business, she told herself firmly and picked up her well-worn copy of Persuasion which she knew almost by heart. After her earlier life, always on edge lest Will Glover’s schemes should come undone, followed by her desperate journey across India during the Mutiny, it was still a novelty and a treat to find herself at leisure to enjoy herself.

  ‘Gran?’ Even Anne Elliot’s travails in Lyme Regis for once failed to keep her interest. She ignored Lady Frampton’s disgruntled muttering as she pursued her thoughts. ‘
Who would inherit Brambrook Abbey and the title if – if anything happened to young Oz?’

  ‘Now what maggot have you took into your ’ead, you silly wench?’ The old lady cocked an eye at her companion and sighed. ‘Oh, all right, let me see. I believe the house and money would go to some cousin or other, lives in Yorkshire and has never been near the place. But ’e’s the son of some great-aunt of ’is Lordship, so there’s no more Granvilles to inherit the title, and it would die out.’

  She roused herself. ‘You ain’t got some bee in your bonnet about that poor old servant’s death the other day, ’ave you? Because you can just stop that at once, you ’ear me, gal? That Maria Dunster was killed by person or persons unknown, the constable said so and so did the coroner, so don’t you get all fanciful and start looking for something to connect it to this poor young lady’s death. I won’t ’ave it, Char, you mark my words.’

  Tucked up in bed later that night, Charlotte nonetheless found herself reflecting on the christening party. Stop this at once, she told herself firmly, I cannot see any point in this conjecture, there was certainly no sinister stranger from Yorkshire in attendance. This is merely the product of an over-active imagination, no doubt brought on by drinking sherry at Barnard’s insistence. Tomorrow will see an end to such fancies.

  She frowned and nibbled at her thumbnail. Tomorrow would also bring a reluctant visit to Winchester. Somehow or other, Charlotte had found herself appointed to take the brougham into town in the early afternoon and rescue the bereaved Miss Armstrong, along with her bags and baggage and convey her to the manor to spend Christmas with her new friend, Lily. Poor soul, thought Charlotte, as she snuggled down under the covers. It won’t be much of a Christmas for her but I suppose she can retire to her room if it all becomes too merry for, she yawned, I can’t see Lily cutting down on the festivities. This is her first winter as lady of the manor and she has plans afoot, plans that are intended to dazzle the neighbours, even though young Algy’s extreme youth will no doubt curtail several of his mother’s more extravagant ideas.

  Next morning Charlotte shivered awake to a sparkling frost on her windows and, for a moment, yearned for the warmth of her far-off childhood climate. With due consideration towards the solemnity of her task, she dressed again in her brown woollen dress and fished out her most sober bonnet ready for the journey. Her plan to visit Elaine that morning had been thwarted by a message from Knightley Hall advising her that Mrs Knightley was not up to visitors that day but hoped to see Charlotte on Christmas morning. Sighing, she busied herself about her usual tasks, wrote letters, did some mending, interviewed the cook, and listened once more to Lady Frampton’s views on child-rearing as it should be applied to young Algy. At last she bade her farewell and set out at a brisk pace across the village and up the short drive to the manor and invited herself to luncheon.

  Lily preceded her into the dining-room, waving to the footman who placed a chair for Charlotte. ‘What a colour you have, dear Char,’ she remarked, with a slight note of envy in her voice. ‘You surely have not walked up from Rowan Lodge?’ She turned to cast a glance in the mirror and pouted at her own rather pale complexion and pudgy cheeks.

  ‘Certainly,’ nodded Charlotte, as she tucked into some ham from one of Barnard’s prize pigs. ‘I think I’ll make my way into Winchester fairly soon and rescue your unfortunate friend in good time. A private lodging house in St Thomas Street, you said, I believe, Lily? I’ll bring her straight back here unless of course she has reconsidered and has other plans.’

  ‘I doubt she’ll do that,’ said Lily, with a toss of her head. ‘Her note was most urgent and it seems clear that she has nowhere to go at present, with Christmas on top of us now. Besides, from what she said, she has precious little in the way of funds.’

  As Charlotte muffled herself once more in her pelisse and shawl while taking her leave, she threw a deliberate crumb of praise towards her sister-in-law. ‘I am full of admiration, Lily,’ she said, giving the other girl an affectionate hug. ‘I’m sure Miss Armstrong will be eternally grateful to you for your generosity, particularly at this festive time of the year. You are quite the Good Samaritan.’ There, she thought as she clambered into the Finchbourne double brougham and waved farewell to the gratified lady of the manor; that should help to ease Miss Armstrong’s stay. Lily dearly loves to be seen as Lady Bountiful.

  A shout from Barnard made her pause. ‘Here, Char,’ panted her brother-in-law as he galloped up to the carriage. ‘I’ve written a note to Dr Chant, inviting him to stay a day or so if he finds himself detained in Hampshire. It seems only right and proper, poor fellow, it’s not the time of year to be stranded in some hotel or other, particularly in the circumstances.’ He thrust the note into her hand and hastened back to the stables saying, ‘Got to get back to the ratting. It’s going famously, the boy is in seventh heaven.’

  Charlotte smiled as they swung out on to the main road, glad that young Granville was enjoying his sport. Dear Barnard, he would do what was right, if it killed him, bless him, even though Charlotte suspected that neither he nor Lily had taken to the new-made widower.

  The coachman drew up outside a narrow, red-brick slice of a house in St Thomas Street in Winchester, a short distance up the hill from the cathedral, and just off the High Street.

  ‘I’ll wait, shall I, Miss Char?’ asked the coachman who, like most people in Finchbourne, both manor and village, had adopted this informal method of address. ‘Yes, please do,’ Charlotte nodded. ‘I’m hoping to be out quickly but if there looks to be some delay, I’ll let you know.’ She took a deep breath and climbed the two high steps to the door, where she seized the bell handle and tried to ring in a muted manner suitable to a house of mourning.

  A subdued young maid showed her into the parlour and went in search of Miss Armstrong, but to Charlotte’s dismay, she found that the stout, middle-aged gentleman standing in the bay window was the bereaved widower himself, Dr Chant. He gave her a curt bow and glowered at her but, after a cursory appraisal, he straightened up and advanced on her with his hand outstretched. Aha, she managed to conceal a sardonic smile, though her outward demeanour remained demure. He has recognised me as a part of the family at the manor and, moreover, has just noticed that my muff is sable and that my rig-out, though plain, is well-made and modish – or at least, as modish as Winchester fashions allow. Whatever grief he was feeling at the loss of the pretty wife who must have been at least twenty-five years his junior, it had not prevented him from brushing his straight grey locks forward so that it disguised his receding hair line, nor was his smooth pink brow furrowed by sorrow.

  ‘I believe we met the day before yesterday, ma’am?’ The voice was unctuous with a suitable touch of gravity and his hand, equally suitably, was warm but not pressing. ‘I regret that I do not recall your name?’ He stroked his neat grey beard then dashed a hand to his eyes, which, Charlotte was intrigued to see, held no sign of moisture or grief. Indeed, she was slightly shocked to observe that there was an air of unmistakeable interest about him as he discreetly looked her up and down. And his poor wife lying dead, perhaps in this very house, she frowned.

  ‘I am Mrs Frampton Richmond,’ she announced in a ceremonial way. ‘I am here on behalf of my relatives at the manor to offer succour to Miss Armstrong and, of course, to you, sir, if there is any way in which my brother-in-law might be of service to you, in this sad time.’ There, she thought, handing him Barnard’s note. Honour is satisfied. Now, for heaven’s sake let Miss Armstrong hurry up and let me go home.

  Fortunately, the door opened at that moment and Miss Sibella Armstrong, slipped into the room. Now here, thought Charlotte, was yet another person who bore no sign of the ravages of grief one might reasonably expect. Miss Armstrong was indeed pale, and her expression anxious and unhappy, with her brow creased in a frown, but her blue eyes were not rimmed with red, nor was her handkerchief sodden with tears.

  ‘Mrs Richmond,’ she said, her voice composed and low. ‘It is kind
indeed of you to give me shelter at this sad time.’ Her gaze flickered towards the doctor who stood aloof from the two women. ‘The servant is carrying my luggage out to your carriage and I am quite ready to leave at once.’

  ‘I am so sorry to hear of your sister’s sad death,’ Charlotte said quietly as she turned towards the door. ‘I believe you will be comfortable at the manor while you collect your thoughts.’ She gave a formal half-bow of farewell to Dr Chant, who responded politely though she was intrigued to note that his face darkened as he nodded distantly to Miss Armstrong. She, in turn, bobbed a slight curtsy but as the two women turned away, the doctor spoke.

  ‘Mr Richmond has kindly invited me to stay for a day or so,’ he said, hesitating a little. ‘If I might accept, that would ease my difficulty. I have decided to have my wife’s body interred here in Winchester instead of returning the – the coffin to London, but the undertaker tells me he can do nothing until the 27 December. Today being Christmas Eve, I am thus detained in Hampshire for a few days and would be glad to trespass on the hospitality of the manor later this afternoon.’

  Charlotte concealed her lack of delight at this intelligence – she had hoped he would hasten to London to seek solace with his illustrious friends – and assured him of a warm welcome from the squire and his lady, all the while aware that the doctor’s late wife’s sister bore no sign of pleasure at this development and indeed, looked distinctly unhappy at the prospect.

  As Miss Armstrong climbed into the Finchbourne brougham, Charlotte stood aside while one of the lodging house servants, a stout, elderly woman, panted back up the steps to the house.

  ‘Why, thank you, ma’am,’ the woman began, then, when she overheard Charlotte urge Miss Armstrong to make use of a fur rug that was lying on the carriage seat, she stopped short with an exclamation of astonishment.