Murder Most Welcome

by Slade, Nicola

  She frowned as she gazed towards the horizon and returned to her argument. ‘Even Lady Frampton feared he would pension her off somewhere, I think, from remarks she has let drop and Uncle Henry’s comments about him are positively sulphurous. In fact, apart from his mother I think the only person who would wish to see Frampton alive is poor, mad Lady Walbury and that only so that she could rip him limb from limb!’

  ‘And you?’ asked her companion, concern shadowing his face. ‘What of you?’

  ‘I?’ The distant chiming of the church clock recalled her to her situation and saved her from further discussion so she spoke lightly. ‘I can only say that widowhood suits me.’ She changed the subject firmly. ‘Oh dear, I must take Prince Albert home. Thank you for allowing me to express my foolish fears. I have so much enjoyed being up here under the sky where one can breathe. I find it very enervating being hemmed in down in the valley when I have been accustomed to so much space.’

  He rose and offered his hand to help her to her feet, looking down at her for a moment, his face unreadable. ‘I’ll walk down with you,’ he said. ‘I need a word with Barnard and besides, what you have told me about this mysterious fellow is a little alarming. I’ll have a word in the village constable’s ear tomorrow. I cannot have you continually accosted.’

  They parted in the stable yard, Mr Knightley to hand over his dogs to a groom before calling on Barnard, Charlotte to slip indoors and relinquish to the boot-boy the weary but happy spaniel. She changed into her one simple black silk dress, splashed cold water on her sun-warmed cheeks and confined her glossy mane of dark brown hair into a netted snood, then pausing only to refresh her flowers in a glass of water, and to fasten Lady Meg’s acanthus leaf brooch, she set her features into a decorous expression and took herself downstairs at the pace Mrs Richmond considered appropriate for a widow.

  In the drawing-room Charlotte shook hands ceremoniously with Mr Knightley, who had just entered with Barnard. As Agnes pressed cups of tea on them and entertained them to an interminable story about one of the cottagers, an exclamation from Mrs Richmond brought all conversation to a halt.

  ‘How extremely odd,’ she repeated, looking up from the letter the butler, Hoxton, had delivered on his silver salver. ‘This is from the mother of dear Frampton’s fellow officer, Lieutenant. Payton. She writes of the consolation she has derived from the visit paid to her by Colonel Fitzgibbon some two months ago, when he called to pay his condolences on her loss. It seems the colonel is presently home on leave.’ She scanned the letter once more, turning it this way and that, to make out a passage where her correspondent had crossed her lines.

  ‘How extraordinary.’ Her face was shorn of all its customary artifice and for once expressed genuine emotion. ‘I have received no such visit from the colonel. Indeed, I have heard nothing from him or from the regiment since he wrote telling me of my sad loss.’

  Charlotte stood aloof from Agnes and Barnard’s attempts to comfort their mother. Enough of hypocrisy, she thought. Stand back, Char, and let them get on with it. A casual glance at Kit Knightley made her stiffen. He was staring at Mrs Richmond, an arrested frown creasing his brow as he drummed unconsciously on the edge of the table in front of him, the brown fingers on his square, capable hands beating out a tune of sorts. As though he sensed her stare he looked up, caught Charlotte’s eye and for a moment the frown deepened, then his shoulders moved in a very slight shrug and he rose to his feet, taking his leave of them in his normal friendly manner.

  Charlotte slipped quietly out of the room behind him. Running after him, her skirts caught up to protect the hem from the straw and mess of the cobbled stable yard, she called out to him to wait.

  ‘What is it?’ she burst out, with no polite preamble, her hazel eyes wide with dismay, knowing, somehow, that she could trust him implicitly. ‘Why do you look so? Does it matter, except to her, that she has not been officially wept over?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He made no pretence of not understanding her, or fobbing her off with platitudes. ‘I cannot say. It is unusual to say the least, I should have thought. After all, Frampton Richmond was the senior officer involved in the ambush, was he not?’

  His voice tailed off. Charlotte met his eyes bravely and knew that the same impossible, unwelcome thought had struck them both, that her conjectures might, after all, be proved correct.

  ‘No!’ It was almost a cry of pain and she actually put up her hand as if to ward off an idea too terrible to contemplate. ‘No, I can’t really believe it. He was a dreadful creature, a monster, Lady Walbury spoke of him to me as “an abomination of desolation” but he was a competent enough officer. Besides …’ She shook down her skirts and was again her usual composed self. ‘There must, surely, have been some communication from the army if—’

  ‘If the authorities suspected him of gross incompetence or negligence.’ Kit Knightley completed the sentence for her. ‘They might have kept it quiet, bearing in mind the turmoil in the country, though when we first met, if you recall, you spoke of the rumours that were flying around the bazaars. Remember, it would be unthinkable to allow the men to lose their trust in their officers during a time of rebellion. And afterwards – well, he was dead, so perhaps they let it lie. As to your other conjecture, that Frampton might have been murdered by one of his own men – I don’t know. How can we know? It seems far-fetched, to say the least.

  ‘But …’ He took her hand for a moment and gave it a little shake, adding in a bracing tone: ‘We’re only guessing after all, Mrs Richmond. Charlotte, then,’ he corrected himself, as she made a gesture of protest. ‘It could explain the colonel’s surprising dereliction of duty. Words of condolence would choke in my throat if I believed a man’s incompetence to have caused so many deaths.’

  He released her hand and nodded in farewell. ‘Don’t let it disturb you, Charlotte. I’ll make enquiries about your mystery man tomorrow and as to the other matter … In all likelihood we shall never know, so pointless to start a hare without cause. In any case, we shall be utterly confounded if it proves to be purely an oversight.’

  A little comforted Charlotte nodded and watched his tall, strongly made figure as he walked purposefully to the loose box where his dogs were yelping at his approach. Pointless to worry, as he had said, until the facts were known, if they ever were. But we both had the same idea, the niggling persisted in her head. We did think it. What an epitaph for a man that such a spectre could be raised and not immediately dismissed. And there was that major too, in the cathedral. And the Indian.

  Attendance at morning service in the little parish church came as a revelation to Charlotte. I believed I knew all there was to know about going to church, she thought, as she stood entranced during the singing of the first hymn on her second Sunday in Finchbourne. The first week she had still been too wracked with nervous tension after her arduous journey to appreciate the service. Now, she savoured it. Henry Heavitree was an experience to be relished as he ranted against everything and everyone under the sun from anarchists to the perils of educating women lest their inferior brains collapse under the strain, but Charlotte could close her ears to Henry’s diatribe and let herself be overtaken by the ancient peace of the place, enjoying a time that was both calming and uplifting. No need here, or ever again, please God, to be on the watch for the troopers, or to keep alert for the beginning of a murmur about the church funds; no necessity of maintaining a valise packed and ready for instant flight when one of Will’s more enterprising schemes came unstuck.

  She found herself enjoying everything about the service, even the ineligible Percy Benson who had almost redeemed himself during the hymn singing with the revelation of a fine tenor voice. Charlotte found herself wondering how she could make poor Percy into an eligible party. Could he rescue Mrs Richmond from a runaway carriage? No, the curate, puny and short-sighted with a bobbing Adam’s apple, was no natural hero. Besides Mrs Richmond would be far more likely to give him a tip after such a rescue than bestow her daugh
ter’s hand in marriage. The only thing, Charlotte speculated, that would weigh with the lady of the manor was for Percy to be the incognito son of a duke.

  Only that morning Agnes had ventured the opinion that Percy was confident of winning Uncle Henry’s approval of the match, that Henry Heavitree was bound to come round to it sooner or later. Charlotte, to Agnes’s chagrin, had burst out laughing. ‘Win round Uncle Henry? As soon turn the pyramids on to their points! I can see only one solution, dearest Agnes. You and Percy will have to elope.’

  As the congregation spilled out of the cool cavern of the church into the spring sunshine, Charlotte realized that she was beginning to feel dangerously at home in this tiny corner of England. Nodding to this one, shaking hands with that, stopping to talk to Dr Perry who asked her if she was recovered from her encounter with the eastern visitor. Reassured, he nodded and walked on, leaving his wife to hover diffidently.

  ‘My dear …’ Mrs Perry hesitated then spoke decisively. ‘If you ever find you need a friend, at any time, pray call on me. I have known your mother-in-law since we were girls and I know what she … Oh well, never mind.’

  A curious thing to say, Charlotte thought at the time. What was she offering? Friendship merely? A shoulder to cry on? Does she think I shall need one?

  Charlotte’s friendship with the Knightleys, husband and wife, progressed daily. Kit Knightley’s intervention seemed to have had some effect; the Indian gentleman had made no further attempt to question Charlotte, though he had called on Barnard three more times in one day, to no avail. Meeting Kit on the hills, when walking the elderly spaniel, Charlotte had thanked him and they had encountered each other several times since, walking the dogs together and discussing everything under the sun – except Charlotte’s suspicions of her late husband’s perfidy.

  With Mrs Knightley too, she felt able to relax, calling informally, as Elaine had begged her to do. It was an inexpressible relief to be able to speak just as she pleased and to Elaine, she did, occasionally, speak of Frampton and the circumstances of her brief marriage. Some things, however, she did not discuss and Elaine respected her reserve though she must, Charlotte suspected, spend much time in speculation during her wakeful, weary nights.

  For example, although Charlotte was quite forthcoming about life in general in Australia, she knew that Elaine recognized that these were edited confidences.

  ‘Before Ma met my stepfather,’ Charlotte said on Tuesday, ‘we spent some time on the west coast. There are settlements out from Freemantle all along the Swan River. Ma travelled as Lady Meg’s companion for many years, with me in tow. When Meg was in funds we lived high on the hog, and when she wasn’t, Ma set up as a governess and kept us all.’ She sighed. ‘I loved it out west; Ma missed England and the seasons, but Lady Meg loved it and so did I. It’s so … so alive, so vibrant and exciting, you can have no notion.’

  She jumped up suddenly and paced around the room, her movements coltish as she reached up to sniff at a lemon-scented geranium trailing down from a cast-iron étagère bearing fragrant plants in pots from Minton and Wedgwood, touched the cheek of a Parian nymph by Copeland and Garrett, or paused to whistle to the pair of canaries shrilling in an elaborate wire cage.

  ‘I declare,’ she exclaimed, ‘this birdcage is shaped like the Taj Mahal, imagine!’ Her admiring gaze took in the elegant slenderness of the iron columns and wrought-iron decorative trim. ‘This really is a splendid conservatory, isn’t it? How I wish Ma could have seen it. She would have loved your little fountain, splashing away in its mosaic basin and – what’s this? Oh my, a miniature rock garden.’ Charlotte knelt in delight to stare at the pretty trifle. ‘It’s a fairy place.’ Oh, Ma. She sighed, touching a tiny yellow-flowered sedum with a gentle finger. It’s so lonely without you. I’m trying, I really am, to settle down here and to make a place for myself, but I’d give it up in the blink of an eye if only you and Will could beckon to me.

  She stood up and braced herself as she turned back to speak to Elaine. ‘Now I see an English spring with my own eyes I can appreciate what Ma missed so badly. It’s so truly different. Once Ma and Will were married we spent much more time in the outback where the heat is all-embracing.’

  Her eyes softened and Elaine Knightley nodded with the warm sympathy that was so typical of her.’You were very fond of your Godmama, were you not?’ she asked with interest. ‘What happened to Lady Meg, when your mama remarried, I mean?’

  Her face shadowed, and Charlotte answered briefly, with none of the vivacity that had earlier lit up her rather angular features. ‘Lady Meg died,’ she said quietly. ‘We were visiting Sydney at the time. Meg was seeking news from home. It was a – a happy passing, you could say. At least she was doing what she loved best. And yes, I loved her very much, so did Ma. Without Meg our lives would have been bleak. Indeed, after her death and without her protection Ma was near desperation, with no money and a child to support – I was just coming up to twelve at the time. Then Will came into our lives and transformed them.’

  She smiled affectionately at the memory. ‘He was so hugely alive, so bursting with vitality and energy and the joy of living. He had the effect of lifting one’s spirits and of bringing sunshine into a room. A gathering with Will in it was lifted out of the ordinary into a special occasion, a celebration. He was a darling, wonderful man, was Will Glover.’

  She fell silent and Elaine patted her shoulder. ‘He must have been a rare gift to the parishes where he served,’ she ventured kindly. ‘What wouldn’t I give for a vicar like that, rather than our own inimitable Henry Heavitree.’

  ‘I think you would have welcomed Will.’ Charlotte stifled a giggle and refused to elucidate. ‘I don’t know about Mrs Richmond, though. His sermons verged on the inspired sometimes, particularly when it came to raising funds.’ Her voice tailed away as she remembered the downside of those inspiring sermons, the laden collection plates and the shame and anxiety that Molly had always felt. ‘Yes, well …’ she sighed. ‘Sometimes it’s better to have a rather less inspiring man about the place; Ma adored Will and so did I, but there’s no denying he could be a handful and sometimes things grew to be a little too exciting—’

  ‘My dear,’ Elaine broke in. ‘Your stepfather sounds both charming and intriguing.’ She laughed as Charlotte shrugged and bit her lip. ‘Don’t worry, I shan’t press you for details unless – or until – you wish to tell me.’ To Charlotte’s surprise Elaine Knightley interrupted herself with a peal of laughter. ‘Oh heavens, do forgive me, but I have just recalled a favourite pastime of my governess’s. She would, by way of encouraging discussion, ask my sister and myself to choose which characters from history we should like to entertain to dinner. I remember I scandalised her by suggesting Lord Byron.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Charlotte, always ready to be diverted, shook her head. ‘Meg said he was such a fussy eater. He’d upset the cook and leave you with a domestic crisis. I rather think Charles II would be an ideal guest – think how irresistible to the ladies.’ She raised an eyebrow as she glanced at her friend. ‘It’s an interesting idea, I grant you, but I don’t quite understand what this has to do with Will?’

  ‘Merely that he sounds the kind of man one would always want at one’s table, to charm the ladies, banter with the gentlemen and leaven the leaden,’ explained Elaine.

  Charlotte laughed. ‘No fear that he would annoy the servants, either. He told me once that he was staying in a grand house when the cook dropped dead, and so he, Will, turned to and whipped up an impromptu banquet.’ She dwelt fondly for a moment on the vision of Will, let loose in this neighbourhood, joking with Mr Knightley, hail-fellow-well-met with Barnard, teasing Agnes and buttering up Mrs Richmond. Ah well, useless, pointless speculation. She shrugged and sighed and turned to her hostess.

  ‘Tell me, what will be my duties at this bazaar tomorrow?’

  ‘You will be required to do three things.’ Elaine made no comment on the abrupt change of subject. ‘Firstly you will be expected to
wear your best bonnet to allow the population to inspect you as the latest-comer to the place; secondly you must dance attendance on your esteemed Mama-in-law as she wheels in state around the assembly room at the back of the Three Pigeons; and thirdly you will be needed to prevent Agnes Richmond from having a collapse of nervous exhaustion after doing all the work and receiving none of the credit.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Charlotte grinned. ‘I can readily imagine that Agnes does all the work – I’ve seen her at it already – but tell me who claims the credit? No, don’t tell me, I can guess. Never fear, I shall bring Agnes to everyone’s attention, however much she bleats at me. As to the other conditions, I suppose I can bear to act as chariot slave to my mother-in-law. At least there will be plenty of diversions and I expect I can support the interest in me. I had better look out my best trimmings when it comes to the bonnet, though.’

  ‘The bonnet is actually a metaphor,’ Elaine laughed. ‘The bazaar is held late in the afternoon and carries on into the evening. The people look forward to it immensely as an unofficial ball and the local gentry turn out in force. So, when I said bonnet, I really meant you must wear something rather more formal – your prettiest evening cap, no less.’

  ‘Hmm …’ Charlotte’s eyes sparkled. ‘How diverting. But I shall never be allowed to indulge in something so frivolous.’ The gleam of excitement died as she shrugged. ‘It’s of no use though, I have nothing to wear, apart from the deepest, darkest mourning for my dear departed. Besides, will Mrs Richmond let Agnes and me attend the dancing? No, she’d never permit the memory of the hero of the Richmonds to be tarnished by such a breach of etiquette.’