Painfully, Charlotte crawled down a couple of stairs and reached out a hand for the shawl. It had been part of her life since her childhood, Molly Glover’s one aspiration to gracious living, the one belonging that was never pawned. Soft, silken and familiar to the touch, Charlotte knew the shawl could be padded small, the brightness of the flowers concealed in its folds. It could have been laid in an inconspicuous corner on a dark oak staircase, just where a young woman might not notice it and slip on the polished treads – a young woman who was known to be in the habit of making a late-night visit to check upon an elderly invalid and whose path would take her in this very direction. A young woman who had been asking awkward questions.
After a few moments during which her mind appeared completely empty, as though all cerebral function had ceased, Charlotte pulled herself together. I must get to my room, she determined, aware that while the practical Charlotte was inclined to make a further search for any more traps, the inner Charlotte, hitherto the cynical commentator, was even now struggling not to indulge in a hearty bout of tears.
The least movement jarred every bone in her body but she called on her innate determination and hauled herself upright again. After painfully climbing up the opposite half-flight to the Queen Anne wing, she hesitated, but although the noise of her tumble had sounded like the Last Trump in her own ears, it had evidently not roused the household. For a moment or so longer she wavered, then abandoned everything else apart from the effort of reaching her own bed where she somehow scrambled under the covers and fell at once into an exhausted slumber.
Next morning Charlotte began to wonder at the conclusions she had drawn. There might be any number of reasons why her shawl had found its way to the top of the stairs, she argued with herself as she tentatively tried her weight on her injured foot. No, certainly not broken, and by some mercy, not even sprained, all she could discern was the purple discolouration of a bruise accompanied by a slight swelling. How very ungratifying, she grimaced, all that fright and discomfort, and only this to show for it. Her shoulder, however, more than made up for the lack of visible injury, as she discovered while putting on her thin black merino dress.
‘Ouch, that hurts. Now how am I to account for a painful shoulder?’
A thought, blinding in its simplicity, struck her. She would tell the truth. It would have the charm of novelty. She gave a rueful smile, which faded as she picked up the black silk shawl from the floor beside her bed. Taking care not to make any sudden, awkward movement, she flung the shawl across her shoulders. That should allay Mrs Richmond’s irritations about mourning for an hour or two, she decided, admiring the effect in her looking-glass, while shying away from the knowledge of those broken threads amongst the silk.
As she limped into the breakfast parlour, it was inevitable that Agnes should be the first to observe her halting steps, and with a loud cry of apprehension the daughter of the house leapt to her feet, causing only minor damage to the cutlery and crockery but sending her coffee cup flying into her neighbour’s lap. Luckily her brother was seated next to her and, inured by long custom, Barnard merely let fly a muffled oath and accepted the ministrations of the butler in mopping up the deluge.
‘Oh, Barn, I’m so sorry! But Charlotte, dear Charlotte, what is amiss? My dear, your poor foot? You are limping. Oh dear, what can have happened? Have you spoken to Old Nurse? Where is the arnica? You must sit down at once, dearest, and let me do what I can for you.’
‘Thank you, Agnes,’ came the prosaic response as Charlotte took the chair Barnard was now setting out for her. ‘There is no occasion for alarm. It is merely that I tripped on my shawl somehow, on the staircase, and wrenched my shoulder and ankle. Pray do not concern yourself, my dear, I shall certainly live.’
As she made the final pronouncement with some defiance Charlotte’s gaze swept rapidly round the table to try to read the effect of her words. Lady Frampton, when her attention was distracted from her laden platter, looked concerned and addressed a couple of kind platitudes to her. Lily stared at her with undisguised interest tinged with anxiety.
‘You slipped? Oh, Barnard!’ She turned to her spouse. ‘If those stairs are dangerous I shall have to be carried down them. There must be no risk to me at this delicate time.’
Barnard responded with suitable anxiety and Lily subsided complacently, attempting an appearance of fragility which was strongly at war with her air of lumping, rosy good health, while Agnes continued to bewail the incident and had to be forcibly dissuaded from fetching her smelling salts to brandish under Charlotte’s protesting nose.
As an exercise in determining guilt, Charlotte had to concede it was a complete failure. Her observations had included the butler and footman and she could detect nothing unusual about their expressions. But I don’t really suspect any of them of trying to send me tumbling down the stairs, she thought, any more than I seriously believe that Gran, or Barnard, or Lily, or Agnes actually smothered Frampton. I think I have led too adventurous a life, she concluded. Whatever I may have encountered in colonial parts I must remember that it is not likely that an allegedly respectable major would be murdered in his own bed in a quiet English country town.
But Frampton was not a respectable major and he was murdered, the inner voice clamoured insistently in her head. You found those threads of silk in his nostrils, and the threads matched the broken ones on the shawl.
It isn’t easy to suffocate a grown man, Charlotte argued with herself, and barely needed to listen to the answer. But Frampton was ill, drained by the current attack, and already enfeebled and debilitated by months of fever. Lancelot Dawkins said so, and besides, it was perfectly obvious the first time he walked into the drawing-room. She had thought it herself; a puff of wind would have blown him over.
Charlotte frowned at her recollection. Surely Frampton would have tried to resist? He had been asleep but she could not believe he would not have woken and at least made some attempt to save himself.
At this point Charlotte became aware that her assembled relatives-in-law were staring at her.
‘Charlotte?’ That was Agnes, of course. ‘Char, dear, are you quite well?’
‘What? Oh yes, I’m so sorry, I was just thinking. What’s that? Coffee would be very nice, thank you.’
The butler, Hoxton, bent obsequiously towards Agnes. ‘What would you wish to be done about Prince Rupert’s chair, Miss Agnes?’
‘Prince Rupert’s chair?’ Charlotte emerged again from her reverie to stare with lively curiosity at Agnes. ‘What on earth is that?’
‘My dear Charlotte,’ interposed Lily. ‘Can it be that nobody has shown you the sacred chair upon which Prince Rupert of the Rhine is believed to have taken his rest? Agnes has been failing in her duties!’
‘Oh, do hush, Lily.’ Agnes sounded uncannily like her mother. ‘It’s that very old oak chair that lives on the landing, Charlotte, and as Lily says the family legend is that Prince Rupert, who, as you will of course remember, was nephew to King Charles I and cousin to King Charles II, left it behind after a visit during the Civil War.’
‘He was a damned brilliant cavalry general,’ announced Barnard unexpectedly, looking up from his plate. ‘Played havoc with old Ironside. Had a big poodle dog, called Boy.’
‘That’s as may be, Barnard,’ reproved Agnes. ‘The thing is, Charlotte, that someone seems to have left a window open last night, at the end of the Tudor landing, and the rain blew in and has spoilt the cushion on Prince Rupert’s chair and thoroughly soaked the chair itself. You had better give orders, Hoxton, that they must try to dry the cushion, and be certain to give the chair a good polish when the wood is quite dry.’
‘Certainly, Miss Agnes.’ Hoxton expressed suitable gratitude at being given this intelligent advice.
‘The landing window?’ Charlotte was startled and then very thoughtful as she remembered the flickering of her candle when she emerged from Uncle Henry’s room. The flame had remained quite steady as she entered the room. Could it be t
hat while she tended Uncle Henry somebody had opened that window – a narrow casement with leaded lights, as she recalled – the same somebody who had already positioned a folded black silk shawl in a shadowy corner of a well-polished staircase, to await the careless tread of a young woman who might be thought to know too much?
‘Before I forget, Charlotte,’ Barnard broke in. ‘I understand that Mama wishes to talk to you this morning, after breakfast, about Frampton’s will.’
‘His will?’ All conjecture about the manner of her husband’s untimely but welcome death fled. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘My dear Charlotte.’ Lily assumed a world-weary tone and looked delighted at the opportunity to enlighten the other girl’s apparent ignorance. ‘Frampton was your husband, and it is a husband’s duty to provide for his wife – or widow.’
‘Thank you, Lily.’ Barnard’s curt words implied a reproof. ‘You need not concern yourself, my dear. But Lily is right, Char,’ he continued with a slight smile. ‘I think you need not appear so surprised at a perfectly normal circumstance.’
She was shocked because there had been nothing ‘perfectly normal’ about the circumstances of her marriage or her widowhood (on either occasion). This initial response was followed immediately by speculation about Frampton’s will. Had he indeed made provision for her? And if so, when had he done this? There had been precious little opportunity since his return home. She contained her curiosity while she ate her breakfast then excused herself and headed upstairs to see Mrs Richmond.
‘Ah, Charlotte.’ Mrs Richmond, out of bed and draped in even more black veiling than usual, greeted her daughter-in-law with a surprising brisk cordiality. ‘Sit down. Barnard has explained, I have no doubt, that Frampton naturally made provision for you in his will, but I felt I should impart the details to you.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Charlotte’s posture and bearing were demurely grateful. ‘When did Frampton make this will, might I inquire?’
Mrs Richmond cast a frowning look at her then addressed her gaze to the document in her hand.
‘It was on the day of your marriage,’ she said and directed another stern glance as Charlotte gave a slight gasp. ‘You might well express surprise,’ she conceded with a martyred sigh. ‘Frampton had no idea, I believe, that this will still existed. It came into my hands through Colonel Fitzgibbon.’
‘Ma’am?’ Charlotte was unable to contain the exclamation but bit firmly on her lips to prevent further speech.
‘I received word yesterday morning that the colonel was unable to be present at the sad obsequies owing to an unfortunate indisposition, and this morning the post brought another letter containing Frampton’s will. As you may be aware, my son’s former commanding officer, whom I gather you met in India, went to his Maker as a result of injuries received during the Mutiny when a grenade rolled into the hospital tent where he was having a minor wound dressed. That brave and gallant gentleman ran to pick up the missile, without a thought for his own safety, and ran with it to some wasteground, no doubt intending to throw it out of harm’s way. Alas …’ Her voice throbbed with emotion and she touched a handkerchief to her eyes, which were, Charlotte noted with interest, as dry as Charlotte’s own. ‘Alas, his aim was untrue and he blew up himself along with half a dozen chickens, a mule, two goats, a pariah dog and a punkah wallah.’
Charlotte bent, at this point, to retrieve the handkerchief which had slipped from Mrs Richmond’s grasp.
‘Thank you, my dear. Colonel Fitzgibbon assumed command and brought back to England with him many relevant papers, including this last will and testament. As Frampton had only his pay and an allowance from myself, he had no great riches to leave you, but if you will examine this sheet of figures I believe you will agree that you will have a competence upon which you can live quite comfortably, here with us all.’
Bemused, Charlotte approached the bed and held out her hand for the document which she scanned with increasing astonishment. Frampton to have done such a thing? Casting back to that period of confusion, all she could remember was her desolation at Will Glover’s untimely death and her increasing panic as to her situation, alone, unmarried and penniless in the middle of an uprising. Small wonder that she had grasped at the bargain proposed to her by Frampton Richmond, himself desperate to salvage his career from a disgrace that meant dismissal with ignominy, together with the prospect of imprisonment if it became public knowledge.
Had it been Frampton, though, who initiated the proposal that was to be their common salvation? Through the haze of grief and fragmented memory, she recalled that the colonel, Mrs Richmond’s ‘brave gentleman’, whose aim was so sadly inexact, had been much to the fore. Had he suggested to Frampton that he marry the lonely waif cast upon his hands? And in doing so might he not have insisted upon drawing up a will to make some provision for her? It was too much to take in all at once but even as she dropped a polite curtsey to Mrs Richmond and quietly left the room, a swelling chorus of gratitude rang in her ears and whether the gratitude was owed to Frampton himself or to that soldier whose name she could not recall, it made no difference at present. I can stay here, she exulted as she made her way back to her own room. I can help Barnard around the farm, and Lily with the baby; I can push for Agnes to marry her foolish little curate and I can act as lady-in-waiting to Lady Frampton.
The warm feeling of security remained with her as she set about her daily tasks and although the insistent inner voice called to mind, several times, her uneasy suspicions, she was, for the most part, able to put aside the conundrum that teased her.
An early encounter was with Lady Frampton.
‘Well now, me dear,’ the old woman nodded comfortably. ‘We’ve nothing to fear now, ’ave we? Not with Frampton gone – well, there, I’ve no wish to speak ill of the dead.’
‘Of course, Gran.’ Charlotte squeezed the fat old hand. ‘We shall do very well now, I believe. Have you heard that I am a widow of substance?’ She sketched out the terms of Frampton’s brief will.
‘An ‘undred a year? That ain’t enough to live on,’ protested Lady Frampton. ‘I’ll give you an allowance meself, I should’ve thought of it earlier. You h’ought to ’ave a decent screw, you being the eldest son’s widow, so you h’ought.’
‘No, Gran!’ Charlotte’s protest was vehement. ‘You are a dear creature, and I love you, but you must not. If I can live here with all of you I shall be very comfortable indeed with the money from Frampton as pocket money.’
Her revulsion of feeling surprised her. All very well to take Frampton’s money – it was part of their bargain and she had completed her side and earned it. But she couldn’t take money from Frampton’s grandmother, not without telling the truth about herself, and the old lady would be happier if she did not know. Apart from anything else, Charlotte acknowledged with a grin, Lady Frampton would feel the secret an intolerable burden next time Mrs Richmond tried her beyond measure. How could she stand by, knowing what she did, and not use that knowledge to shoot darting malice at the lady of the manor and her pride in her lineage? How could she bear to refrain from informing Mrs Richmond that her daughter-in-law was the bastard child of a convicted felon, goddaughter of a nymphomaniac (but a nymphomaniac of impeccable ancestry, was Charlotte’s sardonic reminder to herself), stepdaughter of a thief and with a history of dubious honesty on her own account. No, it wasn’t in human nature that Lady Frampton would retain such a juicy plum, so better that she should never know.
A summons sent her hurrying to the sewing-room where Mrs Richmond’s dressmaker was ensconced with patterns and bolts of cloth, while Agnes and Lily hovered, both clearly determined to interfere as much as possible.
‘Half-mourning, Mrs Richmond says, I understand?’ the seamstress intoned in a suitably subdued voice as she measured Charlotte with an expert eye and held up samples of muslin and silk to Charlotte’s cheek. ‘Oh dear, what a brown complexion you have. To be sure, madam, I don’t see how we can put you in white or lavender!�
��
‘Nor I,’ Charlotte agreed. ‘I’d look a fright.’ She reached across the table to a soft tawny silk. ‘What about this? It might look better.’
The tawny silk was deemed acceptable, if trimmed with dark ribbon, as was a cream muslin with black trimmings and a greyish poplin that shaded almost to brown. The dressmaker sighed and raised her eyes to heaven when Charlotte refused to consider a wide crinoline or other modish accessories.
‘I’m living a retired life in a country village,’ she protested. ‘Only make me neat and respectable and I shall be quite content. Do what you like, as long as you satisfy Mrs Richmond’s requirements, but the only thing I can think of that I really need is a new straw hat. Oh yes, and some stout boots for walking on the hills.’
The rest of the morning was taken up with domestic tasks, which included sewing for yet more needy infants, Agnes having widened the scope of her charitable activities to include the poorhouse in town, now that the Finchbourne bazaar was safely over for twelve months and each baby in the village had been provided with enough small garments to clothe a set of triplets. When this palled there was always Uncle Henry to attend, though the waves of rage that emanated from his room made for uncomfortable visiting.
In the afternoon Charlotte noticed that Agnes was moping by the window in the drawing-room. It was not difficult to diagnose her ailment so Charlotte took pity on her.
‘When can we go out, Agnes?’ she enquired. ‘I know we were not supposed to be seen in public before Frampton’s funeral, and that we were not, on any account, to be present at the funeral itself, but may we not go into the village now? I am running out of sewing thread and would welcome a visit to the drapers.’
‘Oh!’ Agnes gave a guilty start. ‘Should you really? Then of course we must go, and while we are out, perhaps we might look in at the vicarage to collect some more of Uncle Henry’s belongings.’
Murder Most Welcome Page 20
