A Jane Austen Encounter

by Crow, Donna Fletcher

  The form wriggled backwards and sprang to his feet. “Hullo. I’m sorry if I startled you. We’re looking for our cricket ball.”

  “Yes, I noticed you’d stopped playing. Was it a good match?”

  The boy with curly blond hair, whom she recognized as one from the choir Sunday evening, made a face. “Nah, we were down eleven runs. Narnia’s brilliant. We never beat them.”

  Elizabeth was rather confused by the speech. “Well, I hope you find your ball.” She held out her hand. “I’m Elizabeth. This is Richard.”

  “Oh.” Their young friend suddenly remembered his manners. He wiped his hands on his trousers and took Elizabeth’s in a firm, if gritty clasp. “I’m Stav.”

  Just then they were joined by three others. “These are my mates.” He introduced Nilay and Sahil, the dark-haired choristers with snapping black eyes who had attracted her in the cathedral. “And Jack.” The taller boy with thick, sandy hair offered a ruddy-cheeked smile and produced a small red ball.

  “It was over there.” He pointed to the far side of the park. “I didn’t know I could hit it so far.”

  “Well done, you,” Richard said. “So your school names its houses for C. S. Lewis?”

  “Yes. We’re Perelandra,” Nilay said with a note of pride. Now Elizabeth understood the earlier reference—the English system of organizing students into houses for sports and academic competition.

  “Great idea, since Lewis was Headington’s most famous resident. What are the other houses?”

  “Aslan and Malacandra.”

  “Aslan always gets the most academic points, but Perelandra’s tops in music.”

  They walked back toward the lawn, the boys chattering enthusiastically as Richard questioned them about their school. They had just entered the manicured lawn when Elizabeth caught sight of a charming statue. A small boy in Edwardian clothing leaned against a tree stump, his cricket bat resting at his side, the game abandoned for the book which absorbed his interest. “Oh, let me get a picture of you all with this statue.” She pulled out her camera and the boys posed obediently for her, Jack holding out the errant ball.

  “I’m famished,” Sahil said as soon as the camera had snapped. The others agreed, reminding Elizabeth how long ago breakfast had been.

  “Want to join us? Mr. G arranged a picnic by the pool,” Nilay invited.

  “It sounds delightful,” Elizabeth said, “But won’t we be barging in?”

  “Nah, Mr. G won’t mind. There’s always lashings of food.”

  “Who’s Mr. G?” Richard asked, but the boys were running across the lawn toward what, judging by the splashing sounds coming from beyond the hedge, must be the pool.

  “Oh, how lovely!” Elizabeth exclaimed as she entered the pool garden. In front of her was a pillared pavilion with fanciful twenties-style bathing beauties and woodland animals painted on the walls. A plentiful lunch of sausage rolls, meat pies, crisps, fruit, and an assortment of biscuits and tarts covered the glass-topped table. Herbaceous borders of goldenrod, pink hydrangeas, and purple phlox lined each side of the large pool, and at the far end, a statue of Neptune wielding his trident reigned over his hedge-enclosed world. The area was alive with school boys heaping plates with food, chasing one another around the pool, or swimming in the blue water.

  “Come on,” Stav invited and led the way toward the grey-haired man refilling the supply of crisp packets on the table. “Mr. Graves, sir, we found some Americans in the park.”

  “Ah, well done, you.”

  “We invited them to eat,” Nilay added.

  “Quite right, too. I’m glad you did.” He held out his hand to Richard. “Graves, Simon Graves. Housemaster for this lot.”

  Richard introduced himself and Elizabeth and explained briefly about their Jane Austen tour. “Ah, fellow English literature buffs. That’s my field too. Along with riding herd on Perelandra—well, all of them right now. Springer, their choirmaster, got married here Saturday. He delayed his honeymoon long enough for them to sing in the cathedral, but now it’s all over to me.”

  They continued to chat while Richard and Elizabeth helped themselves to plates of food, then Sahil suggested, somewhat shyly, that they might like to eat in the topiary. As Elizabeth had just been splashed by a particularly energetic swimmer jumping into the pool, she was pleased with the suggestion.

  Sahil and Jack led the way through the rose garden bordering a tennis court, along a row of rose trees, and through an arch in the high brick wall into the most hidden of the gardens. Sculptured boxwood bordered gravel paths lined with a variety of white flowers. In the open, grassed center, water splashed from a fountain in the middle of an ornamental pond with water lilies.

  The boys flung themselves on the grass and began devouring their laden plates. “This is lovely. It’s so nice of you to invite us.” Elizabeth savored a flaky sausage roll.

  As soon as the first wave of their hunger was assuaged, the boys put their plates aside for more conversation with their guests. Nilay and Sahil explained that they boarded at the school because their father worked for the British High Commission in New Delhi. Stav’s parents were both teachers in an English language school in Israel, and Jack, whose parents divided their time between London, Dublin, and Boston, was the third generation of O’Brien males to attend Headington. His father had been a chorister and a member of Perelandra as well.

  They all agreed that Headington was a brilliant school and, although they missed their parents—and younger siblings, in Jack’s case—they loved boarding. They were rather concerned, though, about what it would be like next year. It seemed that Mr. Graves, who was “wicked”—which Elizabeth took to mean really cool—would be retiring after Michaelmas term.

  They chattered on a bit between crunching crisps, then Elizabeth, thinking of their own project, turned the conversation to their more immediate surroundings. “We had hoped to see the house, but it seems to be closed to visitors.”

  Stav looked offended for them. “That’s silly. We’re visitors.”

  “Yes, but you were arranged for,” Elizabeth said.

  “Yeah, because Miss Billington, er—Mrs. Springer, as she is now—grew up here.” Jack said. “It’s a brilliant place to stay, even though our rooms are better at Heads.”

  “Heads?” Elizabeth asked, then realized that was their name for Headington.

  “So the top floor is all dormitory now?” Richard asked. “Or the attic?” He had noted the row of tiny dormer windows extending from the roof.

  “Top floor is classrooms,” Jack explained. “Dormitory is in the wings—by the entrance to the gardens. Probably servants’ rooms back when they had such.”

  “Yeah, it must have been amazing when it was a house.” Sahil crumpled his crisp packet and reached for a jam tart. “The attic’s bril, too. Lots of old junk: chairs, lamps, pictures, books . . .”

  His brother jabbed him in the ribs and gave him a not-too-subtle shushing. “You won’t tell, will you?” He looked at Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth was quite certain she could deny that young man nothing when he turned those enormous brown eyes on her. “Don’t worry. I don’t know anything to tell.”

  “We were just looking around,” Stav added. “We didn’t hurt anything.”

  “Maybe we could take you inside,” Nilay offered.

  But before anyone could respond, Mr. Graves was calling the boys to order. Nilay groaned. “Oh, I forgot. We’re going to Richborough Castle this afternoon.”

  He sounded disappointed, but Jack was enthusiastic. “It’s brilliant. I was there once a long time ago. There’s enormous stone walls the Romans built to keep the Saxon pirates out and an ampitheatre and everything.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” Elizabeth pushed to her feet and brushed loose bits of grass off her trousers. “Will you still be here tomorrow?” They agreed that they would. “Perhaps we’ll see you then.” She was amazed at the tug she felt at her heart as they waved good-bye and ran off to join their
fellows. Their open enthusiasm and well-mannered generosity were a delight.

  Richard put his arm around her and they walked slowly toward the arch through which their young companions had exited. Before they reached it, however, they heard voices from the rose garden, and a moment later Arthur and Claire came into the topiary. “There you are!” Arthur said. “We couldn’t imagine where you’d got to.” He turned to his companion with a smile. “Claire came.”

  Elizabeth smiled at the needlessness of his statement, but his obvious pleasure in making it. “Hello, Claire. Lovely to see you again. Are you doing another article for the Centre’s newsletter?”

  “Oh. Er—yes. Yes, I am, but I must get back soon. We have our Regency Ball this weekend. So much to do. Still, I couldn’t miss this chance.” Elizabeth wondered what chance she meant, since it seemed the article was a bit of an afterthought. Paul and Beth entered next, and Beth set to work taking pictures. At least the newspaper reporter hadn’t forgotten her task.

  Nor had Paul, as the publisher revealed when he took Richard aside to inquire whether or not he had any more leads on finding the document Edith referred to in her letter. Elizabeth listened long enough to know Richard was explaining to him that apparently there was nothing to find, then she wandered into the rose garden.

  English roses were her favorite for their delicacy and sweet scent. She stopped before a bush marked ‘Evelyn’ covered with peach-colored blossoms. She cupped the largest blossom with her hand and was just leaning over to smell it when a movement at the entrance to the garden caught her eye.

  The figures about to enter pulled back sharply, but not before she recognized them. What was Geraldine doing with Brian Woodhouse?

  Chapter 20

  A SHORT TIME LATER, Richard grinned with his own pleasure in Elizabeth’s delight as she made her third attempt to express her enchantment. “I can’t believe it. Is this place really real?” She turned around once again, taking in the whole village square of black-and-white half-timbered houses. “Surely we’ve wandered through a time tunnel or onto a movie set.”

  “Both, actually. It’s real enough—Tudor, to be precise—but Chilham was used as the setting for the Gwyneth Paltrow movie of Emma. I think Walter had it best, though—he called it ‘a chocolate box village’.”

  Elizabeth just shook her head. “And we’re staying in the castle?” She motioned toward the high wrought-iron gates on the far side of the square through which they could just glimpse a redbrick fantasy of tall chimney pots, myriad gables, and high bay windows.

  Richard laughed. “Well, not quite, my love. But close. In the former gardener’s cottage, which might be even more comfortable.” He took her arm and directed her toward a smaller, whimsical wrought-iron gate further along in the wall and they entered the B & B.

  After checking in, they wandered back across the square and sat at a small outdoor table where the tearoom was offering an early supper. Villagers and guests ambled across the square in the golden evening light, most of them walking dogs or pushing prams, many stopping to visit with neighbors. A flock of seagulls flying overhead was a reminder of how close they were to the sea.

  Waiting for her tuna mayonnaise jacket potato to cool enough to eat, Elizabeth leaned back in her chair. “It’s so sad that Muriel can’t be here enjoying all this with us. She set it all up for us in such great detail and then . . .” She swallowed. “Such a stupid accident. Such a waste.”

  Richard reached across the table and gave her hand a squeeze. “I know. I miss her too.”

  “Experiencing her careful planning makes me realize how brilliant she was. I’m so sorry we couldn’t find a lost manuscript or something to make her book a real sensation. I know Paul will do his best, but I wish there could be something more to be a real memorial to her scholarship.” She took a tentative bite of her potato. “Do you believe her death was accidental?”

  Richard held up his hand. He didn’t want to go there. Especially, he didn’t want Elizabeth dwelling on anything so sordid. He turned the topic instead to the boys who had adopted them so wholeheartedly that afternoon.

  Elizabeth smiled. “Charming, weren’t they?”

  “Lucky chaps to be attending such a good school.”

  “Yes, they seemed very happy, although it must be hard—living so far away from one’s family.”

  “Hard for the parents, too, I should think.”

  “Yes.” Elizabeth turned her attention to her food.

  When the white china teapot had been drained, they strolled hand in hand around the square, admiring the flowers in gardens and window boxes. Just as they passed St. Mary’s Church, the clock on the tall tower struck six o’clock. They walked on past the gift shop and the antique shop, peeking through the ancient leaded-glass windows to the treasures inside the closed shops. But at Clarissa’s Book Gallery on the far side of the square, the door stood open.

  When they stepped in, it was easy to see why the owner, a middle-aged woman with her dark hair pulled back in a wide silver clasp, hadn’t yet locked up for the day. Geraldine had Clarissa cornered behind a stack of books and was questioning her intently about the venue of her used volumes. “We mostly buy from estate sales,” the bookseller was saying as Richard approached.

  “Good evening, Gerri. Sounds like we’re on the same track.” He turned to Clarissa. “We were wondering what became of the books from the Godmersham library when it became a school. Did any come to your shop?”

  “Oh, I wish.” She shrugged. “I would love to have gotten a look at them. I’ve heard they had thousands of books. When Mrs. Tritton died in 1983—the Trittons it was who restored the house in the ’30s—there was an auction. I suppose the books were sold then.” She paused. “It’s odd, really, because nothing with their book plate has ever turned up. I’ve kept a lookout. They would sell really well for us.”

  Gerri interrupted to ask the price of a book she was perusing, then Clarissa turned back to Richard. “Interesting you all,” she included Gerri, “should ask about the Godmersham collection. A bookseller from Canterbury was in just last week asking the same thing.”

  The frail form of Frances Whipple being carried into an ambulance filled Richard’s mind. “Thank you.” He grasped Elizabeth’s arm and turned toward the door, then stopped. “Be sure you lock up tightly tonight.”

  The shop owner looked surprised, but replied calmly, “I always do.”

  “Richard, what a strange thing to say,” Elizabeth said as they walked back to their B & B.

  “I know. I’m sure she thought me an idiot, but I can’t accept everything that’s happened as coincidence.”

  Elizabeth stopped. “Oh, I forgot to tell you!” She recounted seeing Brian Woodhouse with Gerri that afternoon.

  “You’re sure?”

  “It was just a glimpse, but the long hair, the sloping walk . . . Yes, I’m sure.”

  The niggling unease Richard felt was too vague to voice, but he was long falling asleep that night. Had the mysterious Brian Woodhouse been in Canterbury Sunday evening? Paul Exeter, who made no secret of his interest in finding a lost manuscript or something of that nature, had been there. So had Arthur, of course, although Richard had no reason to suspect their driver of any ulterior motives. Still, how well did he really know him? Beth, the focused, ambitious reporter had been in the area of each untoward event. As had Gerri. And Claire . . .

  But what could any of it mean? Moving carefully so as not to disturb the sleeping Elizabeth, he slid from under the duvet and put on the fleecy dressing gown provided with their room. He took out his notebook and made a list of columns across the top of the page: Donation to Centre, Claire hit. Packet of letters stolen. Single letter taken. Packet returned. Room searched. Brian Woodhouse. Muriel falls. Muriel killed. Elizabeth’s bag taken. Whipple attacked.

  Under each heading, he listed who had been in the area at the time and possible motives. Then he sat and just stared at it. At last he sighed and closed the book.

&nbs
p; Nothing made a pattern. And yet he was convinced there was something. Something they didn’t find at the Jane Austen Centre, nor at Chawton House, nor Winchester, nor Canterbury. Yet all had been so carefully planned—orchestrated, even—by Muriel. Could she have been planning the search from the beginning? Could she have set their whole agenda to end at Godmersham, culminating in the discovery of something she suspected all along, but wanted help finding or a stage-managed audience to add drama to her discovery? And then it all went horribly wrong . . .

  THE QUESTION WAS STILL with Richard the next morning as he suppressed a yawn while spreading homemade strawberry jam on his toast.

  “What a delicious breakfast,” Elizabeth said. “Everything is locally grown.” She speared a crisp brown sausage, then frowned at her companion. “But you look terrible.”

  Richard grinned. “Sorry. Actually, I spent a lot of the night thinking.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing, really. Nothing concrete. It just seems like everything was leading to Godmersham.”

  “Everything what? I thought we’d decided there wasn’t anything to find from Edith’s letter.”

  “That’s the problem. I couldn’t figure it out. I do want to have a closer look at the documents in the museum today, though.”

  “But there can’t be anything hidden there. Everything is on display. It’s a museum, after all.”

  “Maybe that’s it. Perhaps Muriel worked out something no one else realized from something that’s there for everyone to see. One of the letters or something.”

  “Ah, like ‘The Purloined Letter’ hidden right out in the open?”

  “Something like that. I want to have another look, anyway.”

  “And hopefully Walter will have made arrangements for us to see the house. Mmm, these tomatoes are incredible.” Elizabeth enjoyed another bite, then continued, “Anyway, I’m hoping to see our charming young friends again while you’re rootling around in the museum.”