A Death by Any Other Name

by Tessa Arlen

  “Don’t waste your energy, my dear Leddy Montfort.” The elderly man stepped forward out of the shadows and into the light and Clementine felt almost reassured by the normalcy of his appearance now that she could see his eyes behind the lenses of his spectacles.

  “I think it would be fun,” she said gaily. “We can make it into a parlor game, lighten the mood a little with all this talk of war.”

  “Yes, let’s treat it like a parlor game, for I promise you, dear Albertine has already decided what name she will give to Rupert’s pretty rose. I can quite assure you of that.” And with all the courtesy of the late-Victorian gentleman, he gently herded them out of the conservatory and back into the salon, where the company was arguing over an appropriate name for Mr. Bartholomew’s rose.

  “Leddies, leddies, please—I thought war had already broken out. What are we trying to accomplish here?” he cried as he preceded Clementine and Mrs. Jackson into the salon and stood in front of Mrs. Lovell and Mrs. Bartholomew, who dropped their eyes and apologized.

  “We are trying to decide,” Mrs. Lovell said quickly, before she could be interrupted, “the best name for Rupert’s white rose.” And Mrs. Bartholomew folded her hands in her lap and compressed her lips.

  She doesn’t want them to be involved, Clementine realized. And I don’t blame her one little bit. This has nothing to do with them at all, it was her husband who bred this rose, after all.

  Mrs. Haldane put down her paintbrush and came over to join them. “Why don’t we name it after a bird? Rupert so loved birds. What about White Dove, the dove of peace?”

  “Not for a rose,” said Mrs. Bartholomew very firmly.

  Over in the far corner, Mr. Wickham sighed and put down the paper. “Make a list,” he ordered. “And then Albertine should choose—but we must agree with her choice if she wishes the rose to be registered with the Royal Horticultural Society, it says so in our bylaws.”

  “Oh, but I have an idea,” Clementine put in. “Let us each take a slip of paper and write down the name that we think would best suit the rose. Why, we could make a game of it. If Mrs. Haldane were to put the rose in the middle of the table, here, we could each come up with our best choice and write it down. Then we each draw one and try to guess who chose the name. Perhaps this way Mrs. Bartholomew will find the name she is looking for.”

  “What a wonderful, wonderful idea!” Mrs. Haldane looked quite pretty as her face lit up with a smile of genuine pleasure. She had been so low-spirited and quiet these past few days that Clementine was quite convinced she was suffering still from her husband’s brutality to her three nights ago.

  Mrs. Lovell, their practical leader, took charge. “Gather round in a circle, that’s it. A game will help shake us out of the doldrums.” When Mrs. Lovell smiled, her large plain face was most attractive, but tonight, to Clementine’s mind, her toothy smile was unnerving. I simply must get a grip on myself, thought Clementine; all that sinister talk in the conservatory about poison has completely unnerved me.

  Mr. Urquhart smiled. “And if we can’t come to an agreement through Leddy Montfort’s parlor game, we might ask the celebrated rosarian Henry Bennett for his suggestions.” And Mrs. Haldane and Mrs. Lovell burst out laughing as they looked at each other. The suggestion of a parlor game had eased the tension and restored good humor all around and Clementine felt less tense and almost lost the feeling that she must be on her guard.

  “Henry Bennett advised Finley on how to best breed his pretty Cupid, didn’t he, Finley?” said Mrs. Lovell, and she and Mrs. Haldane giggled like naughty schoolgirls teasing their schoolmaster.

  “Yes, my dear leddies, he most certainly did. Dear Mr. Bennett gave me very precise instructions, which I followed to the letter. Laugh all ye wish, it was indeed a celestial intervention and a most useful one, too.” His smile was benevolent as he gazed at them both, neither discomfited nor annoyed by their laughter.

  Clementine decided she needed to know a little more. “I don’t understand,” she said, looking for clarification.

  “There is a sphere, another physical world, where those who have gone on to the next life enter, and it is on this plane that we can converse with them,” the old man explained.

  My goodness, thought Clementine, he is quite serious. What an eccentric Mr. Urquhart was, with his tea-time cakes, his herbal remedies, and his knowledge of roses, plant poisons, and the occult. Now that he was indulging his friends’ teasing his interest in the spirit world, she had quite forgotten how disturbed she had felt in the conservatory. But evidently Mrs. Jackson had not. She now spoke out with marked disapproval.

  “I don’t believe in that sort of thing,” she said rather primly, looking down her nose. “If those who have gone before can indeed communicate with us, I don’t think we should stir things up and bother them. It is wrong to interfere with things we don’t completely understand.”

  Was this her circumspect housekeeper who barely uttered a word of opinion unless it was strongly sought? Making discoveries has certainly brought Edith Jackson out of her shell. Clementine realized that she enjoyed hearing her housekeeper’s inner monologue.

  “I am inclined to agree with you, Edith,” said Mrs. Lovell. “But Finley only calls on people who have done good things, and his questions are quite benign.”

  An argument broke out between them all on the rights and wrongs of contacting the world of the dearly departed, until Clementine interrupted them.

  “I have a wonderful name for Mr. Bartholomew’s exquisite rose,” she said. “Shall we all write up our suggestions?”

  And Mrs. Haldane obediently searched for pencils and cut strips of paper from her sketch pad.

  “I will just spectate, if I may.” Mr. Urquhart took two tiny white pills from a gold box. He caught Clementine’s eye and said, “Peppermint,” in a faint voice and she nodded her commiseration.

  “One slip of paper each,” Mrs. Haldane said as she handed out paper and pencils. “Edith, please come and sit by me. You will have to help me, I am sure I shall never think of anything. I am such a dunce at parlor games.”

  They settled down in a circle around a table on which Mrs. Wickham had placed an empty basket for their slips of paper, together with the china-blue pot in which grew the sturdy stems, leaves, and blooms of Mr. Bartholomew’s white rose. Even Mr. Wickham came over to join them, saying officiously, “We only write the name of the rose. Nothing else, otherwise it might give the game away.”

  Clementine had not expected them to participate quite so thoroughly as the Hyde Rose Society’s chatter died down. They sat and thought, bit the ends of their pencils, and then concentrated in earnest. The minutes ticked by; the mantel clock chimed a silvery peel and six pencils scratched away on paper.

  “Have we all written something? We must fold our papers exactly in half and put them in the basket. No, Maud, just in half, that’s the way,” commanded Mr. Wickham. “And I will give it a good shake.” He picked up the basket and passed it for their offerings. He reminded Clementine of a terrier: every movement was brisk, and if they didn’t comply with his exact wishes they might be given a little nip.

  “Dear Albertine, even if you don’t choose my name, I will not mind at all.” Mrs. Haldane hastened to assure her friend that there would be no hard feelings and Mrs. Bartholomew gave her hand an affectionate squeeze and murmured her thanks.

  “It is, after all, just a little game to pass the time,” said Mrs. Lovell, as if to convince herself that they would not all fall out again if a winner was not chosen from their suggestions.

  Mrs. Bartholomew put her hand into the basket. “What do I do now?” she asked Clementine.

  “Draw one out and then read what is written there, and we will try to guess who named the rose.”

  “What fun!” cried Mrs. Wickham, her girlish spirits quite restored. She smiled at her husband but he turned his head away. What a miserable little worm he is, thought Clementine. Why does he always seek to put her in her place?

/>   Mrs. Bartholomew plucked out a folded paper and opened it.

  She laughed. “‘Pure Justice.’ Well, this is Clive’s choice most certainly. You completely gave it away with your ‘Justice’ reference, Clive.” Clementine glanced at the paper as it was thrown down on the table. It is true that people’s handwriting accurately represents their character, she thought. Mr. Wickham’s handwriting was tight and small with an aggressive dash at the end of the word justice.

  Mr. Wickham said, “I think it is a good name, it would do justice to Rupert’s hard work.” As usual his tone was tetchy, and Mrs. Bartholomew shot an almost scornful look in his direction.

  “I will pick one next,” said Mrs. Lovell. “Let me see, what do I have? ‘The Pearl.’ Oh dear, of course I can guess who—because it is mine. How silly, I have picked my own name.” Mrs. Jackson craned her neck to look at the slip of paper, and Clementine glanced down at Mrs. Lovell’s hand holding the paper next to her. Her writing was well formed, upright, and even. Yes, thought Clementine, just one look at the handwriting is enough to guess who has written it, but it is nothing like that on the list of poisonous plants.

  “Mrs. Jackson’s turn,” said Clementine.

  “‘White Hart,’” read out Mrs. Jackson as she looked around her, and her eyes came to rest on Mrs. Wickham, who was simpering and looking coy.

  “Dorothy, you just gave yourself away, my dear. Of course ‘White Hart’ is yours.” Mrs. Lovell patted Dorothy’s arm as if she had done something clever. And Clementine picked up the discarded slip and looked at the ornate, immature hand. Not your handwriting on the list, then, Mrs. Wickham, she thought, and said as she looked across at the young woman, “I think that is a beautiful name for a white rose, Mrs. Wickham, especially since you have spelled it h-a-r-t, most suitable.”

  Mr. Wickham put his hand into the basket next. “Hmm, hard to say who could have come up with this one. “‘Rupert’s Pride.’ Let me think now. Well, it is either Lady Montfort, Albertine, Mrs. Jackson, or Maud. I say Mrs. Jackson.”

  “Wrong.” said Mrs. Jackson and cast a brief look at the slip of paper in his hand.

  “Well, I know it’s not Maud, so I am guessing Albertine.”

  Albertine shook her head.

  “Well then, it is Lady Montfort.” Mr. Wickham turned to her with a fussy little bow of his head.

  “Yes it is mine. I think ‘Rupert’s Pride’ is a wonderful name. I hope you decide to use it, Mrs. Bartholomew.”

  Mrs. Bartholomew returned to them from her thoughts and said, “Don’t you English say that pride comes before a fall?”

  There was a shocked silence at this remark, but the Frenchwoman either was not aware of her faux pas or didn’t care. She has been in a strange mood today, thought Clementine, unsettled out of her usual composure, and almost aggressive about the naming of her husband’s rose.

  “Now there are just two slips left,” said Mrs. Lovell. “Both Lady Montfort and Maud should pull them out at the same time.”

  They both opened their slips of paper and Clementine laughed as she read hers. But Mrs. Haldane sat staring at her paper, a small frown gathering. And then she looked around at them all. “I don’t understand,” she said, holding out her slip, and Mrs. Jackson neatly took it from her.

  “Albertine, why did you write your own name? Why would Rupert put your name to his rose?” Mrs. Haldane asked, her perplexity etched on her face in a deep frown, her voice quite sharp.

  And why wouldn’t he? Why wouldn’t he name his rose after his lovely wife? Clementine asked herself. Mrs. Jackson handed the slip of paper to her. Mrs. Bartholomew had written her Christian name, ALBERTINE, in even capital letters, almost as if she were shouting it. And of course there was no way to identify if her handwriting matched that used to write the list of poisons.

  The slip of paper Clementine had drawn read “The Dove,” and it lay in her lap, in the pretty feminine handwriting of Mrs. Haldane, with its round-hand scrolls, loops, and curls: the handwriting that had been on her letter inviting Clementine to come to her rose symposium.

  “Albertine, why would you name Rupert’s rose after yourself?” cried Mrs. Haldane again. And Mrs. Lovell rushed in to say, “I think Rupert would have wanted his last rose named after his wife and Albertine is a perfect name for a white rose.” She had reached out her hand to her friend, who was half out of her chair, her accusing face turned to Mrs. Bartholomew. “Albertine means noble and…”

  “I am not sure he would…” said Mrs. Wickham, and Clementine saw there were tears standing in her eyes.

  “And I am quite sure he would not,” Mrs. Haldane’s voice held no hint of her usual appeasement or apology; she was expressing herself almost angrily. It is staggering, thought Clementine, that this mild-mannered woman could be so vehement. Mrs. Haldane’s eyes were angry and hard, and her lips clamped so tightly that she sounded as if she were talking through her teeth. Well, it seems to me, thought Clementine, that we need not ask what sort of relationship Mrs. Haldane and Mrs. Wickham had with the late Mr. Bartholomew. Their outrage that he might have preferred to name his rose after his wife had most certainly upset them both prodigiously.

  “My dear Maud, of course the rose should bear my name. It must be named after its creator.” For the first time since she had heard that her country might be in danger from a German invasion, Mrs. Bartholomew looked at ease and quite sure of herself.

  “Its creator?” said Mrs. Wickham, tears spilling from her eyes.

  “Yes, it was I who developed this rose, not Rupert.”

  And all the good-natured humor of the evening evaporated in an instant, as the group of rosarians exclaimed in horror and asked Mr. Bartholomew’s wife exactly what she could possibly mean.

  Clementine watched Mrs. Bartholomew shrug her shoulders in that wonderfully Gallic way that expresses impatience and distaste and a certain disregard for what others think.

  “It is quite simple, really. Rupert loved roses, and so desperately wanted to create a rose of his own. Unfortunately, he was often rather muddled in his approach. So I helped him. I helped him to develop Golden Girl, which made him very happy. But it was I and I alone who spent two years creating my white rose: Rosa Albertine. It is quite simple, what is there to understand?” Again that dismissive little shrug, as if she was quite indifferent to the uproar she was causing.

  “Are you saying that Rupert lied to us?” Mr. Wickham had a most censorious expression on his face; he had picked up a pencil and was beating a rapid little tattoo on the table with it, as if he were trying to decide whether to convict or not.

  “Well, Clive, I think that is rather an unfortunate thing to say. I know that he took the credit for Golden Girl, and since I did not mind, what was the harm in that? But did he actually tell you that he had bred this white rose? I am quite sure he did not!”

  “Are you saying that he would have told us that the rose you created was his?” cried Mrs. Lovell, not quite as distressed at this information as were her fellow rose breeders. She turned to Mrs. Haldane and said, “Would he have actually lied to us? Of course he would, I always told you he was a vain and ridiculously silly man, and now we have proof.” Clementine did not find it surprising that Mrs. Lovell had such a low opinion of the erstwhile Mr. Bartholomew. In that moment it came to her that Mrs. Lovell had never been in love with Mr. Bartholomew or even merely attracted to him. But she might very well have been jealous of Mrs. Haldane’s romantic inclinations toward him. As Mrs. Jackson had observed, Mrs. Lovell was very protective of Mrs. Haldane—motherly in her concern for her well-being—and when Mr. Haldane was in proximity quite assertively so. That’s it exactly, thought Clementine. She was not jealous that her friend was infatuated with a man that she herself was attracted to, she was jealous of their close relationship. She felt excluded. The charismatic Mr. Bartholomew must have been a considerable distraction in the close friendship between the two women.

  “I do not know what Rupert would have done or said to y
ou about this rose. As you know, he came to show you the rose when I was in China. And then of course he died.” Mrs. Bartholomew turned her face away, and a tear rolled out of the corner of her eye. “Ah,” she said as she dashed the tear away, and it was a deeply broken and drawn-out sound, “all I wish to do now is return to my family. There is no reason for me to be here in this country any longer now that Rupert has gone.”

  Despite what was her obvious jealousy over the naming of the white rose, Mrs. Haldane could not bear to see Albertine hurt. She jumped to her feet and put her arms around her, bending over her from behind the sofa, a lock of her faded blond hair hanging down over the Frenchwoman’s shoulder. “Albertine, of course you should name your rose. We are just so terribly surprised. Please forgive us for making you justify yourself.” She lifted her head and looked around the room to her friends. “Of course we understand. You were such a good wife to Rupert. The rose is Albertine. A lovely name for your beautiful rose.”

  Aha, thought Clementine, she does not mind that this is Albertine’s rose. She does not care that Mr. Bartholomew bamboozled all of them by pretending he knew how to breed roses. She simply could not bear the idea that if he had created this rose he would wish to name it after his wife and not Mrs. Roger Haldane.

  There were murmurs of dissent at this statement; Mrs. Wickham cried out that she was convinced the rose could only have been bred by Rupert and no one else, and Mrs. Lovell shushed her quite briskly.

  Mr. Wickham took control. “We must abide by our bylaws. If the rose was Bartholomew’s—and since he implied it was and is not here to tell us otherwise—it must legally be considered one bred by a member of our society.” Which caused everyone to start talking at once.

  Clementine turned her elegant head to Mrs. Jackson with her eyebrows ever so slightly raised. Having created this stormy interlude between the members of the Hyde Rose Society, she judged it best that they leave them to it. She nodded to the door and they murmured unheard good-nights before they left the Hyde Rose Society standing in the middle of the room, each one shouting down the other. But before she left, Mrs. Jackson, the perfect paid companion, turned at the door, returned to the little table, and swept up all the little slips of paper littering the table into a basket that she took with her from the room.