The Dead Queen's Garden

by Nicola Slade

  It came to her suddenly that Lord Granville had addressed his wife as Hélène, the first time Charlotte had heard her given name which, surely, was the French version of Eleanor? It struck her as heartbreakingly poignant that the unhappy, barren Hélène of modern times should identify herself so closely with her fecund royal namesake as to create a garden in her honour.

  She sighed and returned to the ancient book but however venerable, it had to be admitted that the style was a mere chronicle of dry facts. Lady Granville might preach the benefits of reading the lessons shown by history but Charlotte was finding nothing pertinent in her skimming of these pages. As she went to put the book back where she had found it, she noticed that the pages yawned open a little, as if at a chapter that had been read over and over again. She slid her forefinger curiously into the gap and opened it once more.

  She was unprepared for the shock as the name on the page jumped out at her, and she drew in a sharp breath. Was this it? Could that be the story, there all the time? She frowned, drawing a hand across eyes suddenly grown weary: a story familiar from her childhood, one of the tales from history beloved of Lady Meg who had regaled her young goddaughter with them on their frequent journeyings across Australia.

  She could remember the bare bones of the tale but she glanced down at the printed page to refresh her memory. Oh my God, she thought, closing the book once more and setting it firmly down on the cushion beside her. I think I see it now, I see it all. I cannot be right, but I fear that I may be.

  An earlier Queen of England born and bred in France, another Eleanor; was she the one known as the She-Wolf of France? Charlotte thought not, but though she racked her brains to try and recall Meg’s tales, nothing sprang to mind – except the story of that other Queen Eleanor – and the crime that supposedly made her infamous. Here, she thought, might be Lady Granville’s lesson from history.

  She pressed her hands to her temples, trying to rub away the headache, trying to banish the suspicion from her mind. If I am right, she fretted; if my wild imaginings are cold, hard truth, what then? What do I propose to do with such knowledge? Her thoughts flew to the man who had so recently left the party. I cannot go to anyone in authority, Kit Knightley, for instance, as he is a Justice of the Peace, and say to him, I believe Verena Chant was murdered. Nor can I possibly say to him, yes she was murdered and this person, I believe, is the murderer. I have no proof, merely suspicions borne of glimpses of character, comments referring to past events, circumstances that could mean it to be so.

  She caught her breath; still less can I say that the reason I believe this to be true is because of a murder that a long ago Queen Eleanor of England is said to have committed.

  She was still safely alone in Lady Granville’s room, had been there for fifteen minutes or more, but the thoughts jangled to and fro in her brain and gave her no rest, so she picked up her new paisley shawl and went quietly to the door.

  I cannot go back to the Great Hall just yet, she told herself, it must be only too clear that I am disturbed and what explanation can I give? The passageway was empty for the moment so she wrapped herself warmly in the cashmere folds and made her way towards the outside door. It was the work of a moment to turn the handle and she slipped silently out to the gravelled walk, this time unchallenged.

  Fresh air was what she craved, but the icy chill struck her at once and she shivered, clutching the shawl more closely to her throat, but as she faltered there, she saw that Lady Granville must have left the door to the garden ajar. She hesitated, glanced around, and saw nobody, so she pushed the heavy door and entered the mediaeval garden undeterred and unobserved. I need to think, she told herself as she set off at a brisk pace down the path at the side of the stream, wishing ruefully that she had worn stouter shoes; her glacé kid slippers were woefully inadequate for the task.

  What am I to do?

  Her anxiety made her careless and she frowned in dismay as she stumbled awkwardly off the path and onto the snow-covered earth. How fortunate, she thought briefly, that Lady Granville has had these fearsome-looking torches set high on the wall at either side of the entrance to the house. His lordship might laugh at his lady’s obsession with antiquity, but on a night like this, in spite of the brightly shining moon, Charlotte was only too glad of the flaring pitch. In the silent garden she could still hear the crackle and hiss of the flames and it gave her an illusion of safety, made her feel less entirely alone.

  There were no torches at the far end of the garden but still something attracted her attention in the moonlight. The snow had drifted in the hollow at the corner of the two adjoining walls where, in warmer weather, the little stream flowed through a stone arch; though today the splash of water was silent and frozen.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ Charlotte spoke aloud in the still air as she stared at something black just visible on the piled drift of snow. ‘It looks like…’ she gave a shocked gasp and regardless of her thin slippers, she scrambled across to take a closer look. It looked like the heel of a shoe. A shabby, black shoe, the kind of shoe worn by a woman of slender means. The kind of shoe, in fact, worn by….

  ‘Miss Cole? Oh no, no….’ Charlotte hardly dared breathe the name as she bent down and, with a sudden futile urgency, scraped away the snow to reveal a stout leg, attired in a black woollen stocking. And another, both protruding from under a sodden black dress.

  Charlotte backed away in horror until she found herself on solid ground, her hand to her mouth. What did this mean? Her instinct, all her training from childhood, was always to run away from trouble. To run and run and keep on running, so that nobody could associate her with whatever had gone wrong. That was the way she had been brought up, but common sense prevailed and halted her urge to flee. This had nothing to do with her, she reflected, as her breathing settled to a more regular rhythm, and she began to feel calmer.

  I must get help….

  She summoned her distracted thoughts and turned back towards the garden door.

  I need say nothing of my worries, my suspicions about that – other matter. All I need to do is tell the truth, that I found the door unlocked and felt like a last stroll round the garden by moonlight and – and found her. Because it must be an accident, mustn’t it?

  As she hastened back to the house, Charlotte puzzled over this shocking discovery. Could it be that Miss Cole had not, after all, abandoned her mistress in so cavalier a fashion? It had snowed heavily yesterday afternoon, Charlotte recalled, so perhaps the poor woman simply strayed into the garden where she slipped and somehow died. Drowned in the stream perhaps?

  But there was a note….

  Charlotte stopped in her tracks. Miss Cole had left a note of explanation and farewell to her employer.

  Hadn’t she?

  A shocking thought came into her mind. Had Miss Cole, the woman who had been so conveniently on the spot on so many occasions – the death of the maid, Dunster; the wassail cup that might or might not have been tampered with; the bolting pony – had she in truth been responsible for all these occurrences? And could the note to Lady Granville have been a ruse? Could the woman, in fact, have slipped into the garden to do away with herself?

  Shivering, and not only from the cold, Charlotte slipped thankfully into the house, leaving the garden door as she had found it, slightly ajar. Fortunately there was no other occupant of the small room set aside for the ladies, so she was able to effect what repairs she could to the damage caused by the cold and damp. Towels and soap lay ready for the guests to use, so she removed the worst of the moisture from her skirt while a brisk rub warmed her hands and feet when she removed her slippers. A wipe with the cloth made these presentable enough. What a fortunate circumstance, she thought, that they are black kid; it would be impossible to disguise any soiling on satin shoes.

  She tidied her hair at the looking glass and made her way back to the Great Hall, slipping over to warm herself at the fireside. Lady Frampton waved again, and Lord Granville was still holding forth in his
jovial way to Lily and Barnard, while Oz stood proudly at his side. But where was the boy’s doting mama? There was no sign of Lady Granville nor, Charlotte realized as she tried to stare discreetly round the assembled guests, was Sibella Armstrong to be seen. Captain Penbury was still booming away to anyone who had the misfortune to stray into his grasp, but Miss Armstrong was no longer seated beside him. Besides, though this troubled Charlotte far less, the captain’s lady, Melicent, was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter 14

  OH, WHY DID I let Kit go home? I could have confessed my anxieties to him and let him laugh me out of this ridiculous state of panic. If that still did not suffice to allay my fears, I could at least have inveigled him into coming out to the garden to support me while I found someone to bring that poor woman’s body indoors. But how am I to do that without ruining Oz’s party?

  She glanced round the hall again. Barnard was a steady creature, but how could she extricate him from the clutches of Lily and their host without raising a hullaballoo? Dr Perry was another obvious candidate but he was at the far end of the room in a group of local gentlemen who were clearly enjoying Lord Granville’s best brandy. No, the doctor could not help her – and under no circumstances did she feel any urge to confide in the other physician present: Dr Chant’s assistance would not be welcome.

  A passing footman paused to offer another glass of wine and she hesitantly asked whether he knew of his mistress’s whereabouts.

  ‘I believe her ladyship is showing her tower to one of the ladies,’ he told her. She thanked him and he turned to go on his way when she called him back.

  ‘If you have the opportunity,’ she faltered. ‘I should be glad if you would tell Mr Richmond that I’m going to admire the garden. Pray, do not interrupt his conversation with Lord Granville, but it is – rather important so, when he is at liberty, please ask him to come out to me. I may join the ladies in the tower.’ There, that was the best she could do without making a fuss. She wrapped the shawl more tightly round her shoulders, took a deep breath, and slipped out through the glass door once more.

  They must have gone outside while I was drying myself in the ladies’ room, she frowned; ah, thank goodness the wooden door was ajar still. The dead queen’s garden shone silver and black as she slipped inside, the shadows sharply defined and now, to her heightened senses, looking sinister so that when something skittered across the path in front of her, she was only just able to repress a scream.

  ‘Oh, you dreadful creature,’ she held a hand to her heart as a scrawny ginger cat halted in its progress and came to see if she had anything interesting about her. ‘I almost had a heart attack, puss.’ The cat rubbed its head against her skirt, uttering loud yowls of either pleasure or hunger, probably both. She pushed it firmly, shooing it away from her. ‘Be off with you now, I’ve nothing for you.’

  Ignoring its persistent miaowing seemed to do the trick. The cat disappeared in search of more rewarding company and Charlotte hastened her steps along the central path between the flower-beds. There was no sign of Lady Granville or Sibella and when she reached the crossway she could see no further tracks in the snow to where Miss Cole lay undisturbed. There were certainly footprints leading to the ivy-clad tower at the end of the garden, however.

  As she hesitated, Charlotte stared at a flicker of light up on the battlements; there was someone up there, someone carrying a candle. She took a deep breath, and another, to try to calm her fears, then gritted her teeth and headed for the narrow archway at the base of the tower.

  If I am completely wrong about all of this, she told herself, if there is no mystery and Oz the belated blessing he is said to be, while Lady Granville is merely being polite to an old acquaintance – even so I must still catch up with her and tell her what I have found. It’s her garden and her companion, she is the lady of the house and she must be told first. Somehow, the possession of a legitimate errand gave her courage and strengthened her resolve. Never mind her almost hysterical romancing, here was a real task ahead of her.

  The door to Lady Granville’s garden-room, in the thickness of the wall, was shut and barred. The mock-mediaeval torches on the stairs were unlit and no comforting spit and crackle of flames warmed her, but she could hear distant voices away up at the top of the turret. Her heart in her mouth, she began to tiptoe upwards, wondering what on earth she could say when she reached the top; then, when she was halfway up and approaching the niche within the walls, allegedly for an archer to stand guard by the arrow slit, she tripped over something hard and fell heavily to her hands and knees.

  Her stifled cry was echoed by a gasp from someone else, very close by.

  ‘Who – who is it?’ she whispered, shakily feeling about her to see what had caused her fall. To her astonishment she saw that Melicent Penbury, just visible in a glimmer of moonlight, her eyes wide and terrified, was lying in an awkward huddle in the archer’s bay, her false leg – which Charlotte had tripped on – lying at an unnatural angle across the step. Charlotte bit off the startled questions that sprang to mind and crawled over to the captain’s lady, who was clearly scared out of her wits and in considerable pain besides.

  ‘What on earth has happened?’ she hissed. ‘Let me help you to sit up, Melicent. Here….’ She thrust an arm round the older woman and helped pull her into a more comfortable position, fishing a handkerchief out of her pocket as Melicent burst into tears of relief. ‘Hush, now, hush, it’s all right, don’t fret.’ Her brave words rang hollow to herself but Melicent seemed reassured. ‘Quickly, tell me what you’re doing here? Are you hurt? Did you fall?’

  It seemed to Charlotte that it was more urgent to attend to Melicent than to creep up the last turn of the stairs; besides she was ruefully aware that emerging at the top of the turret was at this moment the last thing on earth that she wanted to do. She patted the other woman’s hand and bent to listen to the anguished whisper.

  ‘I heard Lady Granville press Miss Armstrong to see the ruins,’ Melicent stammered. ‘And I was rather affronted that she didn’t ask me too.’ She started to bridle at the memory but Charlotte hushed her again, so she continued, ‘I thought it was impolite but I decided that if I simply followed them and came up to them, in a casual sort of way, it could not signify and they would be bound to invite me to join them.’

  Charlotte sighed. Poor Melicent, always left out, always resentful, never understanding why she annoyed people so.

  ‘Go on,’ she murmured. ‘So you followed them into the garden and into the ruins, what happened then? Did you fall?’

  ‘I slipped in the dark,’ said Melicent. ‘I don’t know how I did it but I twisted somehow and in falling, I felt the strap on my harness break.’ She shuddered and dabbed her eyes again. ‘The harness on my – my leg, you see.’

  ‘Oh goodness, you poor soul.’ Charlotte’s ready sympathy rose up and instantly banished her uncharitable thoughts. ‘I’ll go for help in a minute, and don’t worry, I’ll be very discreet. Nobody will know a thing about it, other than that you felt unwell and had to be taken home. Just let me go up and see if – if Lady Granville is at liberty so that I can tell her.’

  Melicent shrank back and Charlotte understood. ‘I won’t betray your confidence, never fear. I’ll make up some story about you dragging yourself in here to shelter.’

  It sounded unlikely in the highest degree that a woman in such a case could have reached the halfway point of the staircase but it was the best Charlotte could do on the spur of the moment and it seemed to satisfy Melicent, which was all that mattered just now. As for tackling Lady Granville, Charlotte admitted to herself that she was quite terrified. She strained and could still hear a murmur up aloft, so she crept up the stairs and hid at the top.

  ‘Why do you not answer me? You do not speak. Tell me, why did you come here, to Winchester?’ The voice had to be Lady Granville’s because it was so much deeper than Sibella’s, but otherwise, Charlotte would not have recognised those anguished tones. ‘I could not believe my e
ars when Cole told me she had seen you and your sister in the Cathedral that day. She knew you at once, she said, and hurried home to tell me that you were to attend the Richmond child’s christening.’

  ‘I didn’t know, I thought you would be in town. I assure you I didn’t know you were in the country, Lady Granville.’ That was Sibella’s voice, ragged and breathless. ‘My sister suggested a short visit to Winchester and I had been so ill that I went where she took me. I would not have come here for the world, had I known you were here. You must believe me, you must.’

  ‘All these years,’ the other woman said, a sob rising in her throat. ‘All these years and I was safe. My maid…’ The harsh voice ceased for a moment and Charlotte shuddered anew. ‘But she – died and only Cole remained. And then, there you were, the pair of you, your sister simpering and smirking and you, never saying boo to a goose.’

  Charlotte held her breath. What on earth should I do, she agonized. Dare I run for help? How can I leave Melicent here in this state? Tension had her nails running into the palms of her hands as she wavered, meanwhile Lady Granville was speaking again. What was Sibella doing, she wondered. Was she cowering away from the passionate anger in the older woman’s voice? And am I right about what this means, she wondered, ashamed that curiosity should be uppermost in her mind at such a time.

  ‘Dunster had become senile and she talked too much so … oh well. Then, when Cole told me,’ the voice sounded calmer now, almost reflective, as though the speaker were reminiscing, ‘I was beside myself at first but I realized that I could take steps to remove yet another threat to my son’s happiness. What?’

  Charlotte felt a shiver run down her spine as Lady Granville actually laughed, albeit mirthlessly.

  ‘Allow my darling to be disowned, cast out as a bastard? I think not. It was simple enough in the end, to decide on a solution. I had only to spend time working in my garden, always a place of solace, and as always I found peace here.’