The Dead Queen's Garden

by Nicola Slade

  Suddenly Charlotte was startled by a loud outcry from her old friend. ‘If I won’t go and forget my own head,’ Bessie exclaimed. ‘There, Miss Char, sit you down again for another minute, if you please, while I tell you what it was that struck me when that poor young lady was ill.’

  Her former nursling stared with equal dismay. Charlotte had also forgotten until this moment Bessie’s murmured words at the door of the guest-house in Winchester a few day’s previously. ‘Goodness,’ she agreed. ‘Yes, of course; you said, did you not, that there was something odd about Mrs Chant’s sudden illness? But I understood that it was put down to a sudden, unforeseeable consequence of her situation?’

  ‘Situation indeed,’ the older woman gave a snort of indignation. ‘I’ve looked after ladies and children off and on for more than thirty years, Miss Char, and I think I can claim some knowledge as to whether a lady is in a promising way or not.’

  ‘Not?’ Charlotte put the question in some surprise.

  ‘Not,’ agreed Bessie, warming to her topic. ‘The young lady certainly looked poorly when they arrived at their rooms, at one moment flushed, and then pale as a ghost and feeling faint. So I stepped in and offered to look after her, tucked her into a bed with a couple of hot bricks to warm her, and made her drink a nice hot cup of tea, nothing more, but tea is a great comfort.’ She shook her head. ‘The illness came on fairly rapid after that and a sad night we had of it, what with bouts of terrible sickness and cramps. Poor lass she certainly suffered, but just a few hours after midnight, it was all over.’ She sighed and dashed a hand across her brow. ‘That wasn’t what I wanted to say though, Miss Char. It’s this idea that it was all to do with her being in the family way, for that’s the reason that has been put about.’ She shook her head, ‘And my mistress is more than thankful to lay the blame well away from her own house. Well, I could not discuss this with anyone else, you understand, my dear, but you being a married lady, I can say quite plain, that was not the case. If you’ll excuse my speaking about such matters, that young lady had her courses that day. I was sponging the sweat off her in an attempt to cool her down and make her comfortable, so before you say anything, I’m certain sure what it was, and that there was no question of her miscarrying that night.’

  ‘But, Bessie…’ Charlotte was frowning and wondering how she could frame her question delicately, when she was interrupted.

  ‘Now, Miss Char,’ Bessie spoke decidedly. ‘As I just told you, I’ve seen enough young women to recognise any sign you care to mention; besides, I know she wasn’t in the family way because I asked her straight out, and she told me there was no question of it. And no need for you to look at me like that, for I’m sure she spoke the truth and no reason to lie, for she was too frightened and I could tell she trusted me. I was wondering if we should try ipecacuana in case she’d eaten what she ought not. It’s a powerful emetic, as you know, but violent retching would have done her no good if she was that way. She managed to gasp that she was not, but by then it was too late to try it in any case.

  ‘So, my dear, there it is. I wasn’t easy in my mind when they told me word was going round that the lady’s death was a consequence of being in a delicate situation. That she wasn’t, poor girl.’

  ‘Her husband was there when I came to fetch Miss Armstrong, had you seen him about the place before that?’ Charlotte wondered what Bessie thought of the bereaved husband, aware that she had so far encountered nobody who could be said to like him.

  ‘Never saw him then, and never seen him since, not to my knowledge, dearie.’ Bessie was quite definite. ‘He wasn’t staying there, you know, and he hadn’t been to call upon his wife, or at any rate not when I was about the place, for it was a doctor from Winchester that attended her, a well-respected local man, they told me. I didn’t see him then and I wouldn’t know him if I saw him now, for I was up half the night with the poor young lady and only went to my own bed a couple of hours before dawn.

  ‘Most days my duties keep me up on the bedroom floors and I always use the back stairs anyway. It was only by chance that I was downstairs when you arrived, Miss Char,’ she explained. ‘The house was upside down with the poor young lady’s illness and death, so when I’d snatched a few hours’ sleep, I got up and helped my mistress out as best I could.’

  Conscious that Lily would heartily disapprove gossiping with a servant, however long their acquaintance, Charlotte saw her visitor to the inn door and along to the smithy, a slight frown marring her forehead as she struggled to assimilate Bessie’s revelations. As she hugged the old woman and sent her on her way, Bessie hesitated and looked back. ‘There, if I didn’t remember something after all. The gentleman had a beard,’ she said. ‘I remember now. The one I saw standing by the pony yesterday. The one that could have prodded the poor beast.’

  A beard? Charlotte waved farewell and decided to go back to the manor. There was no sign of the stable boy, her appointed protector, but the road to the manor hid no secluded nooks where the murderer might lurk. She left a message for Lily with the coachman and set off, walking at a brisk pace, taking a childish delight in jumping in frozen puddles to see the ice crack. The wind had risen again and although there had been no further snow after the heavy overnight fall, the sun had gone in and there was a biting chill in the air. It was not the day to be standing around in idle conversation, even had the village not been still rife with the fear that a murderer lurked behind every bush bent upon rape, slaughter and pillage.

  A beard? Thawing out as she huddled over the fire in the deserted morning-room, Charlotte made a mental review of all the gentlemen who had been anywhere near the lych-gate on Christmas morning, starting with Barnard, who sported a pair of dashing curly black side whiskers that gave him something of a military air, and of which he was secretly inordinately proud. No, not Barnard, she was quite decided on that; he was too much of a horse lover in any case and would never have made the pony bolt. Besides, if he had been close enough when it happened, he would have seized the reins himself. No, certainly not Barnard.

  Who else? Percy Benson had been hovering in the vicinity, greeting the members of his flock but the thought died in an instant. Percy did have a regrettably unbecoming straggle of a beard; he had started it on his honeymoon in the summer, apparently in an attempt to make himself look more impressive. Agnes had confided to Charlotte that she admired her husband’s new whiskered look and that the vicar intended to allow his beard to grow to biblical proportions. Charlotte maintained a diplomatic silence regarding her views as to whether the beard was a becoming adornment. It was her considered opinion that Percy looked less like an Old Testament prophet than a man being attacked by a singularly moth-eaten ferret.

  Who else had been there? Lord Granville went straight into the church and in any case, was another who favoured the military style, though his flourishing silver side-whiskers were rather more in the mutton-chop style. Captain Penbury, who sported a mahogany tonsure surrounded by a halo of grey curls, was clean shaven apart from two curious tufts of grey hair high on each weather-beaten cheekbone. ‘Slovenly things, beards, y’know, dear lady, they catch crumbs. Admiral Lord Nelson,’ he had boomed at her once, ‘his lordship, of blessed memory, never wore a beard, and what was good enough for Horatio Nelson, is surely good enough for Horatio Penbury, hey?’

  Charlotte frowned again. Kit Knightley had not been at church and besides, Kit was clean-shaven too and Dr Perry, although he wore a tidily trimmed grey beard and moustache, had been nowhere near the lych-gate at the time. Nobody else, male or female, known or unknown, bearded or not, had moved away from the vicinity of the pony chaise towards the gate, so that meant…. She stared blankly at the glowing coals. The only candidate she could think of was Dr Chant, with his smooth pink cheeks adorned by a neat grey beard. He must have been the man Bessie had observed, and of course Miss Cole was the plump and fussy spinsterish woman.

  At first it seemed highly unlikely that Bessie could have seen what she claimed, but
Charlotte remembered her mother’s words, ‘Bessie may have the world’s worst taste in men, Will, but you must agree that she is as honest as the day is long. I doubt if she could tell a convincing lie, anyway, she would turn red as a beetroot and get in a terrible fluster.’

  Just then, she was interrupted by the entrance of Dr Chant himself. Seeing her seated beside the fire he came forward, all geniality, and rubbing his hands together at the blaze.

  ‘Good morning, good morning,’ he cried heartily. ‘And how is Mrs Richmond today?’

  Startled, Charlotte replied politely that Mrs Richmond was very well, while common courtesy demanded that she invite him to take a chair. ‘You also found it too chilly at the meet, did you, Dr Chant?’ He looked startled so she explained, ‘I was shivering so much that I slipped away and came home before the others. I confess I was surprised that the day’s hunting was not cancelled, but I suppose the going was softer than it first appeared.

  ‘I’ll ring for some refreshment,’ she told the doctor, wishing he would go away but sadly aware that he was settling himself comfortably in Barnard’s favourite chair. ‘That will ease the chill. I believe you know that I’ve lived all my life in warmer climes than this, so the degree of cold has come as a shock, beautiful as the snow undoubtedly is.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed.’ The doctor seemed bent on being charming as he embarked on a description of London life, with particular reference to his own place in society, along with mention of his own rising popularity. ‘His Royal Highness, the Prince Consort has been gracious enough to call, more than once, upon my skills,’ he told her and looked satisfied as she expressed her admiration. ‘You walked back from the village?’ he asked and, at her nod, went on, ‘I have noticed that you have a long, elastic stride, my dear young lady, and your glowing health confirms a theory of my own, that walking is of benefit to the fairer sex.’

  Charlotte could only bow her thanks, but inwardly she giggled. A long, elastic stride? Honed, no doubt, by a lifetime of running away from the equally long arm of the law after the pickles her stepfather had landed them all in.

  But what on earth is going on here, she wondered. Has Dr Chant settled upon a prosperous young – and clearly very healthy – widow as the next Mrs Doctor? She recalled her first conversation with him, at the lodging house in Winchester when she had suspected him of viewing her with admiration. And his poor wife not even in her grave yet!

  She shot a covert glance at her unwelcome companion. No, she mused, with a decided shudder, I cannot like him. He has a pompous little tilt to his head so that he seems to be looking down at people all the time, in spite of being of slightly under the average height. And his little neighing laugh grates on me.

  Before she could interrupt the flow of placid self-congratulation, Charlotte was startled when he suddenly enquired, ‘Are you well-acquainted with Miss Nightingale? I must say I was considerably impressed to learn that she has singled you out in such a manner; she is notoriously fastidious in bestowing her friendship and patronage. Perhaps I might call upon you when you have moved to the capital?’

  ‘I have no plans to move to the capital,’ Charlotte protested with rising indignation. ‘I do not intend to accept Miss Nightingale’s offer, flattering as it may be. In fact I have another…’ she stopped herself from announcing that Sibella Armstrong would be a better candidate for the position. Time enough for that when she had sounded out the forlorn governess and gauged her reaction to the plan. ‘I am not in the least acquainted with Miss Nightingale, though she is a friend of the family.’

  This conversation was beginning to irritate her, but how to turn it to phrase the question that was burning in her brain. I suppose I cannot simply ask him straight out if he jabbed something at the pony to make it panic, she sighed, but then she brightened. I can at least try to turn his thoughts in a more suitable direction.

  ‘I regret so much that I did not have the opportunity to become acquainted with your late wife,’ she said, with a grave sympathy. ‘It is tragic indeed, to think of such a lovely young woman so suddenly lost to all who loved her.’

  ‘Ah, yes, yes of course.’ Dr Chant blinked for a moment then accepted his cue and assumed a solemn expression. ‘Verena was a lovely creature, there can be no doubt of that. But I fear we were not hap– she was not….’ At Charlotte’s raised eyebrows, the doctor shook his head and made play with his silk handkerchief. ‘Excuse me, my dear young lady,’ he harrumphed then, finding no further expressions of sympathy or admiration forthcoming, he gave up the attempt and finally took refuge in a series of heavy, heartfelt sighs, accompanied by meaningful and mournful glances.

  Now what did he mean by that, Charlotte mused. ‘…she was not…’ Not what? And ‘we were not hap–’ Again, what had he meant to say? They were not happy? And that Verena was to blame?

  At that moment, relief, in the shape of Hoxton the butler, arrived.

  ‘Miss Char,’ he said, respectfully. ‘Her ladyship’s dog has unfortunately managed to fall in the duck pond.’ At her cry of dismay, the butler held up his hand. ‘No, miss, madam I mean, the dog is quite safe. I believe he was chasing a rat when the ice gave, but one of the grooms hauled him out and he’s safe and sound in the barn. I merely felt you would wish to be informed, her ladyship being so fond of the animal.’

  Charlotte leaped to her feet and made her excuses to her unwelcome companion. ‘I must go at once, do forgive me, Dr Chant.’

  She hastened to her room to fetch her coat and employed the same explanation when she encountered Melicent Penbury on her way downstairs. Melicent, it appeared, had noticed Charlotte’s disappearance from the village and taken it as licence to follow suit. She had persuaded the coachman to convey her up to the manor since Lily was not ready to abandon the gathering.

  ‘We must have a comfortable, cosy little talk, my dear Mrs – er, Charlotte, must we not?’ That was Melicent’s opening gambit. ‘After all, we have scarcely had a chance to renew the friendship we embarked upon during our delightful stay in Bath.’

  ‘That would be most pleasant.’ Charlotte’s answer was mendacious. ‘We must certainly arrange to do so, but alas, I have to make an urgent visit to the barn. Hoxton?’ She turned to the butler who was again at hand. ‘Mrs Penbury is chilled, would you bring her something warming to drink, please?’ And to Melicent, ‘Do, pray, excuse me.’

  Phew, Charlotte’s whistle was unladylike but heartfelt, while all thought of enquiring after Melicent’s increasingly painful-looking limp vanished uncharitably. There had certainly been no friendship between herself and the damply drooping former governess. Indeed, Charlotte had often scolded herself for her most unchristian dislike of the other woman. And to what portion of their time in Bath did Melicent allude to as ‘delightful’? Charlotte smiled and sighed as she slithered aside to allow one of the stable boys to pass her in the yard as he dragged a toboggan full of logs and kindling towards the house. Last summer’s visit to Bath had provided her with some unforgettable new friends indeed, but the over-riding impression she retained was of danger and death. Had Melicent conveniently erased those memories?

  She satisfied herself that the dog, Prince Albert, was uninjured, although the racket he set up when she appeared was loud enough to denote fire and pillaging so, after petting him for a while, and taking a cautious peek at the new kittens, she wondered whether to make her way back down to Rowan Lodge to look for Lady Frampton’s knitting which had been left at home. As she hesitated, Charlotte heard a clattering and turned to see the baker’s horse and cart drive into the cobbled yard, drawing up at a peremptory exclamation from its passenger.

  ‘Miss Char, Miss Char, dearie!’ Bessie Railton leaned down to greet her former nursling. ‘I won’t hold you up a minute, my dear, and I’m off to Winchester myself so I can’t stay,’ she nodded briefly at the smith’s brother who touched his hat to Charlotte. ‘I just remembered something I meant to tell you.’

  She wheezed and nodded but refused to alight and rest
for a moment. ‘There, I’m all of a dither, but it was preying on my mind, and I felt I had to come and tell you. Now what was I, oh yes…. That matter we were discussing, dear. I recalled where I saw the plump, fussy lady before. T’was a few days ago and I’d gone into the Cathedral to take the weight off my feet. It’s quiet in there and out of the rain and cold. Anyway, there I was, not quite dozing, when in came the two young ladies; the one that died and her sister.’

  Charlotte listened with interest but did not interrupt the flow, recollecting how easily in her childhood she had been frustrated when Bessie lost the thread of a story.

  ‘Yes, indeed, and they took a stroll round the aisles, the younger one talking quite unsuitable for such a place and the other one telling her off. They were talking about the christening – that’d be here, of course, and saying that they meant to go.’ She whisked a handkerchief from her capacious muff and mopped her brow. ‘Nothing to remark upon there,’ she said sagely, ‘but I wasn’t the only one listening that day. When I heard the door open and the ladies come in, I sat up, and set about tidying myself, ready to carry on with my errands, and I looked across and spotted that plump lady I told you of. A fierce scowl there was on her face as she watched those two young ladies make their way out of the place.’

  ‘You must be talking about Miss Cole,’ said Charlotte, almost to herself. ‘She fits the description you gave me of the scene when the old pony was upset and she could well have been taking a rest in the Cathedral. I know she has a friend in Winchester whom she visits now and then. She was scowling at the young ladies you say?’

  ‘Indeed she was,’ Bessie was emphatic. ‘I watched her, as I said. At first she was just nosy, like me, eavesdropping on a chance-heard conversation, but then she perked up when one of them mentioned a christening at Finchbourne Manor.’ Bessie opened her eyes wide at Charlotte’s gasp of astonishment. ‘She did, Miss Char, true as I’m here with you. That was when she turned and took a proper look at the two of them and my word, she was taken aback. I could tell that from where I was sitting. Quite white, she went, and out came some smelling salts and her handkerchief and she set to fluttering away. No, Miss Char, dearie. I’ve no idea what it was that struck her so about those two ladies, but struck she was, and not in a happy way. If looks could kill, they’d have dropped like stones, the pair of them, poor young things.’