Murder Most Welcome

by Slade, Nicola

  ‘It is unforgivable of him not be here, in attendance,’ she fumed, tearing at a piece of bread. ‘What if my poor darling should faint upon his arrival, overcome by the emotion of his homecoming? It is not well done in the doctor, not well done at all. I have a good mind to dispense with his services, that would teach him a lesson.’

  ‘Indeed it would, Mama.’ Barnard gestured silence to the indignant Lily and Agnes, allowing a slight smile to reach his eyes as he exchanged glances with Charlotte. ‘He would be very well served. Of course, it would not be so convenient for us if we had to engage a doctor from Winchester – as indeed we should, there is none nearer – but it would certainly show Dr Perry the error of his ways.’

  At four o’clock the ladies were gathered yet again, though on this occasion in the drawing-room, where Agnes poured tea with nervous incompetence.

  Charlotte accepted a cup, surreptitiously mopping up the sloppy saucer with her handkerchief, and wondered how they were to survive the rest of the day without breaking into open warfare. Lily had spent the day aiming her sharp little darts at Mrs Richmond, wondering at Frampton’s escape, speculating upon his lengthy journey out of India, tittering at the gossip the whole episode must be occasioning in military circles both abroad and in London.

  As Mrs Richmond responded angrily to this last, Charlotte engaged in some speculation of her own. Was it possible that Lily, of all people, had any suspicions regarding Frampton and his conduct? Not, to be sure, of Frampton’s lack of interest in the ladies. Lily might be a country girl but her upbringing, Charlotte knew, would have been sheltered in the extreme, but might she have heard a hint of Frampton’s financial concerns?

  Barnard, although admirable and steady, was the last man to indulge in any thought beyond his immediate concerns, the estate and his household; could Silly Little Lily have received some intelligence from her Dear Papa? Charlotte had been privileged to meet this worthy and thought it highly unlikely that the Master of Martindale had a thought in his head beyond himself. No, Charlotte decided, if Lily had the slightest notion that Frampton might be under suspicion of making hay with the funds of the officers’ mess, let alone of the even more contemptible matters she, Charlotte, had discussed with Kit Knightley, then Lily’s pink gums and monumental teeth would have been bared in a constant grin of delight and her little piggy tongue would have wagged to such effect that the whole neighbourhood would now resound to the rumours.

  They were still awaiting the arrival of the newly resurrected scion of the noble house of Richmond as they sat down to their dinner. Ahearty one, Charlotte noted with wry amusement. How appropriate, perhaps it would choke them all and thus relieve them of any further anguish.

  With the arrival of her husband drawing ever closer – and surely, she thought, he must be almost upon them – Charlotte found her spirits unaccountably rising. To be sure, she mused, I am afraid of Frampton, particularly of his vicious tongue. But I have been brought up ever mindful of the need for an escape route, running away is what I do best. If the worst comes to the worst, I have that money safely tucked away in the bank in Southampton and I can just disappear. I could make a new beginning in London, Paris, New York, any one of those places must have openings for a governess who can produce the highest references. And some of those references might even be genuine. She found herself concealing a smile. Surely Elaine Knightley or Lady Frampton would oblige, not to mention the doctor’s wife.

  The smile faltered on her lips and the surge of optimism receded. Escape would be perfectly manageable so why am I so reluctant to consider such a course, she chided herself, knowing that the question needed no answer. Because I do not want to run. I have spent my entire life running away from everyone and everywhere and now I have found my place, this southern corner of England, this village with its ancient church, even this family.

  Ludicrous as Mrs Richmond’s ancestor worship might be, rootless Charlotte could sympathize with her, little as her mother-in-law would relish that sympathy. To put down roots, to live in the lands of one’s ancestors, to sleep in a bed that once, a hundred, two hundred years ago, sheltered a man or woman of one’s kin, to walk downstairs with one’s hand on a bannister that had steadied one’s forebears for generations. That feeling could never be Charlotte’s, born fatherless to a frightened child, but living here she could pretend that she had a family, that she had a heritage, that she belonged.

  It was not until the family had gathered uneasily in the drawing-room and were awaiting the tea tray that Frampton Richmond returned to the home of his fathers.

  ‘Mr Frampton, ma’am, he’s home!’

  That was Hoxton as he threw open the door. Charlotte was aware, even as she stiffened in anticipation, that here was yet another member of the Finchbourne household who regarded Frampton’s return to life as a mixed blessing. Behind Hoxton’s mask of perfect service Charlotte was sure that she could detect an air of unease, but why? Mrs Richmond would as soon dismiss one of her children as lose Hoxton, the indispensable butler, no matter what Frampton might say, but why should Frampton do any such thing? What could it be that the man feared, for afraid he certainly was. Charlotte had lived too long as fear’s companion to mistake the signs.

  There was little time for conjecture as Frampton Richmond entered the room and all conversation stilled as the family stared with frank curiosity uppermost among the tumble of emotions each felt.

  He looks … smaller … was Charlotte’s first impression. He looks ill, was her second, and the thought was succeeded by a tiny involuntary shudder of relief. She had not realized how greatly she had feared his strength, that he might yet force himself upon her. Why, she breathed in relief, he looks as though a good strong wind would tip him off his feet. I am strong enough to handle him now.

  As Frampton succumbed to his mother’s raptures, Charlotte studied the man who had entered the room in her husband’s wake. Not what I expected, she concluded, contriving to stare under her lashes, not at all as I imagined. The male companion she had envisaged had been one of a kind with Frampton’s Indian favourite or those she had encountered in townships now and then, usually under the protection of some burly friend. I thought you would be another of those, she inwardly addressed Lancelot Dawkins as she watched him being presented to his hostess by a suddenly bashful Frampton. I expected a pretty boy and instead, what do we have here? A willowy youth, certainly, and very young too, which is no surprise since I saw Frampton’s fancies in India, but this Dawkins could be apprentice to Machiavelli’s Prince! Or to Old Nick? He’s dark and sinister enough, in all conscience.

  Every thought fled her mind now as Frampton, disengaging himself from his mother and brother, hostile Lily and clinging Agnes, made his way across the room towards his wife.

  ‘Ah.’ He addressed her, with an odd little smile. ‘My sorrowing widow, I presume?’

  ‘Frampton.’ She nodded coolly. ‘Won’t you sit down? You must be exhausted after your journey.’ Her reserve broke a little. ‘Indeed, you don’t look well. You should rest.’

  ‘Quite the little Miss Nightingale, is she not?’

  Frampton beckoned to his companion.

  ‘Here, Lance, come and make your bow to my lady wife. Charlotte, meet my dear friend, Lancelot Dawkins.’

  Frampton watched fondly as Lancelot Dawkins bent over her hand and received another cool nod and a polite greeting. Charlotte’s studied indifference was suddenly shattered as, withdrawing her hand from the newcomer’s grasp, she caught his eye. He was appraising her in a manner that was only too familiar yet even as she gave a tiny gasp he turned back to Frampton and resumed his role of admiring, even adoring, acolyte.

  There was no time to puzzle over the episode. Frampton’s arrival broke up the party, even Mrs Richmond ceasing in her paean of joy as she realized just how frail was her son’s health.

  Two days later Charlotte sat in her room awaiting the clangour of the dinner gong. With her hands clasped tightly in her lap she sat, fully dressed a
nd awaiting the summons, reviewing the hours since Frampton Richmond set foot once more upon his own land. Only two days! Less than forty-eight hours and already the fears of so many people, family and estate workers alike, bade fair to be realized.

  The frailty she had remarked in her husband had prevented him from asserting himself on the Friday evening, although his companion, the surprising Mr Dawkins, had been quite assertive enough for the pair of them with his constant harrying of Hoxton, the footmen and the maids, as they scurried to do his bidding, fetching in box after box, trunk after trunk, all apparently acquired en route, draping shawls and covers and hanging lamps as he directed.

  It had fallen to Charlotte to soothe the harassed servants and, on Saturday, to mop up the tears occasioned by demands for delicacies, such as sherbert and curries, unknown to the cook, who, however, did her best, rising to the occasion with a cornflour shape, accompanied by her much-acclaimed raspberry jam.

  ‘Indeed, Cook,’ she attempted to reassure the afflicted woman. ‘We must always remember that Major Richmond has lived in India for several years now and that he is really not at all well. Some recurring fever, I should guess. We must make every allowance for him. Come now, I think that shape looks delicious. Why not serve it up to the rest of us tonight?’

  ‘That I will, Miss Char.’ Cook cheered up and dried her eyes. ‘And if, as I hear, they do like spicy food in those foreign parts, I’ll do a nice sage and onion stuffing for the fowls too, and I’ll make one of my caraway cakes, with an extra help of seeds. Though I must say, dress it up how you may, Mr Frampton always had a nasty way about him and it seems to me that he’s picked his friends according. You’re too good for him, Miss Char, and that’s all there is to it. However did you fetch up with him, if you don’t think me impertinent for asking?’

  ‘I don’t,’ allowed Charlotte. ‘But you had better not let Mrs Richmond hear you say so, or let her hear you call me Miss Charlotte. As to why I married him? Let us just say that I was alone and penniless in a strange land in the middle of a war.’

  Agnes had disappeared after breakfast, pleading a long overdue visit to an old friend in Winchester. She had returned only in time to go straight to bed. Charlotte had tried to talk to her but Agnes put her off, with loving apology.

  ‘It does no good, Char,’ she said in a dull tone. ‘I’ve spent most of the day in prayer in the cathedral and I’ve made up my mind. There is no arguing with Mama when she has Frampton to support her, so I shall tell Percy tomorrow that he is free to love another!’ With a gulping sob and heaving bosom, Agnes shut herself into her bedroom and locked the door leaving her sister-in-law outside wondering whether to scream aloud in frustration or indulge in strong hysterics of her own.

  Barnard had spent a second day out and about the land, coming home only in time for dinner, which was thankfully free of Frampton or his young friend. Lily continued to smoulder though she seemed less inclined now to blame Charlotte for the loss of her hopes for Barnard and even ventured a civil remark once or twice.

  Charlotte herself was grateful to her husband for absenting himself for most of the day. Their only encounter occurred when Charlotte entered the drawing-room to hear Mrs Richmond in full, dramatic flight, telling her son all about her charity work. As the room rang with descriptions of the perversions and horrors she had encountered in her reading, Frampton stared at his mother with an inscrutable expression. He looked relieved at Charlotte’s entrance and turned rapidly on his heel, muttering as he passed his wife: ‘She’s mad, by God! Quite certifiably mad.’

  Old Lady Frampton kept to her room all day, sending for her meals on a tray and refusing to speak to anyone, even Charlotte, apart from a few brusque words uttered when Charlotte collected Prince Albert for a long tramp on the hills in the afternoon.

  The fresh breeze up on the downs did much to clear Charlotte’s head of the anxiety that seemed to assail her at every turn. The recollection of that moment of foresight in setting up a small secret hoard of money in the bank had given her something like hope and the picture in her mind’s eye of the many moonlit escapes engineered by her stepfather reminded her that she was not trapped as she had feared.

  ‘But I don’t want to run away,’ she repeated aloud as she threw stick after stick for Prince Albert to retrieve. How tame Will Glover would have found this life of hers, how urgently he would have sought excitement, following some shimmering rainbow. But Ma would have understood, Charlotte thought, sobering suddenly. Yes, Molly would have entered wholeheartedly into her daughter’s feelings. How she would have relished the bovine Richmonds and the appalling Henry Heavitree; how her eyes would have sparkled upon observing the love-lorn curate and his poor, plain sweetheart; and how she would have enjoyed the friendliness of village and gentry alike.

  At that point in her deliberations, Charlotte espied a tall figure half a mile away on the further hill – Kit Knightley, accompanied by his retrievers. For a moment a longing swept over her, to cast her burdens into his capable hands, along with a desperate desire to discuss with him everything that had transpired since their last meeting, but in truth there was little to tell. And I cannot be rushing to Kit – to Kit and his wife, she reminded herself with a tiny pang – with every little problem. Turning on her heel, she whistled to the dog and headed homewards.

  Just as she had recognized him in the clear light of the summer afternoon so Kit Knightley knew at once the slender woman hurrying away from him. He knew an instant’s hot anger – why should she run from him – then his habitual good sense reasserted itself and he guessed at her emotions. Little enough he could do, in all conscience, he sighed, whistling up his own dogs as he too set off for home.

  Mrs Richmond presided over a largely silent company at dinner on the Saturday night, the majority lost in thoughts too disturbing to utter. The lady of the house, however, had no complaint, indeed it was unlikely that she even noticed the general air of nervous anticipation.

  ‘Aah!’ she cried aloud as the cornflour shape made its appearance at dessert. ‘Well done, Cook. I see she has been trying to tempt my poor boy’s appetite.’

  ‘Your poor boy, Mama,’ rejoined Barnard, ‘has rejected Cook’s efforts to please him, in remarkably ill-chosen words. Unless,’ he added, spooning raspberry jam on to his plate, ‘unless he knew nothing of it and it was all the doing of that … of his companion.’

  His mother turned her astonished gaze upon him.

  ‘Why, Barnard, my dear, you sound remarkably peevish. Do you not feel the utmost gratitude to Mr Dawkins for the care he takes of your poor brother? Indeed, I had a long, cosy talk with the young man this very morning and he has told me, in heartrending detail, of the suffering he has tried to alleviate. We owe him a debt of gratitude, not censure.’

  ‘If you say so, Mama,’ was the colourless reply as the animation faded from Barnard’s face, which then assumed what Charlotte thought of as his ‘dumb ox’ expression, something which had been more in evidence than usual since his brother’s untimely return.

  Lily, however, was not content to leave the matter.

  ‘Did Mr Dawkins himself tell you how good he had been to Frampton, Mrs Richmond?’ she asked sweetly. So sweetly that her mother-in-law eyed her with some suspicion, but her frown was met with a flash of gums and a head tilted in artless enquiry.

  ‘Indeed he did.’ Mrs Richmond had evidently detected no note of sarcasm and made haste to elaborate upon her son’s ailments, all of which had apparently been described in unsavoury detail by his constant companion.

  ‘Serves you right, Lily,’ whispered Charlotte, taking advantage of an interruption by the butler. She was rewarded by a porcine smirk from across the table, quickly followed by a wary glance at Mrs Richmond.

  That lady, however, was otherwise occupied in harrying the butler.

  ‘Old Nurse informs me, Hoxton,’ she said in magisterial tones, ‘that the boot-boy has taken himself off home and it is not known when he will return. I am most displeased.
’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’ Hoxton stood his ground. ‘It’s young Tom, ma’am, my grandson. We had word that his mother, my daughter, that was widowed not long since, has been taken poorly and the boy is needed at home. I took it upon myself, ma’am, to let him go. I hope I did not do wrong.’

  Disarmed, Mrs Richmond could only nod, confirming the butler’s course of action. Charlotte looked thoughtfully at the man, noting his heavy frown and the shadows under his eyes. Looking up suddenly she caught Barnard’s eye as he wrenched his own gaze away from Hoxton; it seemed that the same thought had crossed both of their minds. Did Hoxton have grounds to fear something from Frampton, on his grandson’s behalf?

  That had been Saturday night.

  On Sunday morning Frampton, apparently recovered from his intermittent fever, began to make his presence felt.

  It began at breakfast when the head of the family appeared just after the rest of the household had taken their places at the massive mahogany table in the breakfast parlour, their jangled nerves soothed as they salivated at the vast quantities of bacon and eggs, pig’s cheek, fish and bloody roast beef that temptingly overflowed the best Worcester plates set before them. (Following her outing with Lady Frampton, Charlotte had spent many patient hours coaxing Cook to try something other than boiling and the subsequent improvement in their meals had been met with approval from the family.)

  Now Charlotte, as always, found herself lost in astounded admiration of the gargantuan appetites displayed by her Richmond in-laws. She herself ate sparingly at all times following another of Will Glover’s many practical maxims: ‘Cultivate a small appetite, Char, you never know when you might find yourself in a siege, or worse!’

  Well, she had found herself in just such circumstances only last year during the Mutiny, Charlotte reflected, and had seen for herself the force of Will’s argument as the plumpest had died while she and the rest of Pharaoh’s lean kine had survived famine.