Once Upon a Wallflower

by Wendy Lyn Watson

  He laid out the map for her to study, and, after a few moments, began pointing out salient landmarks for her.

  “Here, of course, is Blackwell Hall, right on the edge of the cliff, with the tower out here on the promontory. Upper Bidwell is due south of the Hall. From what I understand, Bridget Collins was found here, at the stone circle, which is almost due west of Upper Bidwell, west and just a little north, between the village and the coast. Tegen Quick was found, um, about here. I’m not precisely certain where, but I know it was at the foot of the cliff beneath this pathway, so let us say about here.

  “Is it possible,” Mira said slowly, “that both girls were on their way to or from Blackwell?”

  “Only if they were lost,” Nicholas said with a smirk. “Both girls lived in Upper Bidwell, and if they were traveling to or from Blackwell they would have taken the same road you did coming here, traveling due north from the village to the estate. They were both well off that road. I suppose if they were trying to travel without notice, but even so they would have been going far, far out of their way.”

  “So what is there, where they were? What is between Upper Bidwell and the sea?” Her tone was contemplative, giving the words a sing-songy quality like a child’s riddle.

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” he answered. “Look, perhaps it makes sense to consider Tegen Quick’s route first, as she was actually found near an established pathway. That pathway starts in Upper Bidwell and curves across the moor and around this little bit of forest, heading north and west to reach the coast about midway between Blackwell and Upper Bidwell, at a small inlet where a few of the fishing boats put in. But there the path begins following the line of the coast to the southwest, away from Blackwell, all the way down to here,” he rested his finger on a slight indentation on the map, “where there is a somewhat larger inlet where more of the local fishing boats moor themselves. As the daughter of a fisherman, Tegen would know that pathway and those inlets. Perhaps she was going there.”

  “But why? Why would she be going to a place where boats moor in the middle of the night?” Mira shook her head. “What else is along this pathway?”

  “Again, not much.” Nicholas sighed. “The only sheltered spot along that pathway is the cottage at Dowerdu.”

  Mira’s head shot up. “Dowerdu?”

  “Yes, it is a Cornish word meaning—”

  “I know,” Mira cut off his explanation with an impatient wave of her hand. “Wasn’t Bridget found near Dowerdu?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so. Not very near.”

  “Where exactly is the cottage, Nicholas? Show me on the map.”

  Nicholas tensed, but did as she asked, pointing to a spot right on the coast, due west of the village.

  Mira gasped. “Nicholas, if you traced a path as the crow flies between Upper Bidwell and where Bridget was found, and you continue along it, you would reach the coast very near Dowerdu.”

  She began to pace in agitation. “So let us assume that both young women, for whatever reason, were traveling to Dowerdu. Why would they take such different paths?”

  “Because Bridget Collins wasn’t a fisherman’s daughter. She wouldn’t have been as familiar with the path Tegen took.”

  Suddenly Mira plopped down onto an upholstered footstool, her skirts billowing out about her legs as she did so. She raised her hands to her face and nodded her head slightly. Her eyes fluttered closed. Nicholas marveled at the picture she presented, so enrapt in her thoughts, her energy focused so profoundly. She might have forgotten he was even present, she appeared so intent on figuring out this puzzle.

  “All right,” she finally said, having apparently convinced herself that Nicholas’s logic was sound. “So they were both traveling to or from Dowerdu when they were killed. But why?”

  She huffed a small sigh and answered her own question. “To meet a man.”

  “Why a man?” Nicholas countered, more to play devil’s advocate than to really challenge her conclusion. He could not imagine much in the world that would drag two hardworking girls from their beds in the middle of the night other than a tryst. Still, if she was intent on being logical, all possibilities had to be considered. “What if they were going to meet a woman, or a group of people? Or just out for a stroll?”

  Mira shook her head, sending her blazing curls bouncing. “No, they were going to meet a man. Quite possibly the same man.” She looked up at him then, her expression a bit sheepish. “You see, I have already made a few, very discreet, inquiries about the murders. And I know that both Tegen Quick and Bridget Collins were romantically involved with a wealthy man.”

  A stirring of dread moved in Nicholas’s gut, but he forced a demeanor of detached curiosity, cocking an eyebrow and smiling faintly. “And how, pray tell, have you arrived at this conclusion? Unless someone actually knows the identity of the man in question, how can anyone be certain that he was wealthy?”

  Mira frowned. “I do not wish to betray any confidences.” She worried her lower lip with her teeth for a moment, clearly trying to determine how much she could tell him without exposing her source. “Suffice it to say that both Bridget and Tegen were in possession of certain gifts—in Tegen’s case, certain intimate gifts—which bespoke a benefactor with resources.”

  Nicholas sighed, suddenly feeling old and cynical. “So really, Mira, you are looking only for a man with enough money to buy a bauble or two.”

  “Oh, no, sir, Bridget apparently hinted that the gifts she had received were only the beginning, that her, her…lover,” a furious blush stained her cheeks instantly, “her lover was quite wealthy.”

  Nicholas crossed the floor to sit more comfortably in the chair next to Mira’s footstool. He reached out to absently tweak a stray curl and smiled fondly at the earnest young woman before him. “Mira-mine, your naiveté is most endearing. This mysterious man who was courting Bridget and Tegen—assuming there is only one man—he would hardly be the first man in history to misrepresent his means in an effort to woo a lady. Bridget and Tegen may have thought he was wealthy, but that does not make it so.”

  “Oh.”

  She looked so crestfallen, Nicholas had the absurd desire to take back his words, to let her go on believing that Bridget and Tegen must have been right. But he could not do that. The more possibilities he presented to Mira, the more complex he made the problem seem to her, the more likely she was to abandon her pursuit of the killer. And the sooner she did that, the safer they all would be.

  Suddenly, her face brightened, and a smug smile crept across her face. “Aha,” she said, “there is a flaw in your logic, sir. You assume that this gentleman could misrepresent his wealth, that Bridget and Tegen would not have any independent knowledge of the man’s standing. But that is highly unlikely. Assuming the murders were committed by the same person—which seems most probable given the similarities between the crimes—the murderer had to be in or around Upper Bidwell for an entire year. Even if he were a newcomer to Bridget, Tegen Quick would have had to have known the man, Upper Bidwell is simply not that large a town. Could he have maintained the illusion of wealth for a whole year if it were only that, an illusion?”

  Nicholas admired the quickness and soundness of Mira’s reasoning. She was a clever, clever girl, and he was rather enjoying this game of wits.

  “Unless,” he challenged, “the person did not reside in Upper Bidwell all year long, but merely happened to be here around the time of the murders.”

  As soon as the words were out, Nicholas realized the import of them and wished he could snatch them back.

  “Nicholas, are you quite all right? You have suddenly grown terribly pale.”

  Nicholas realized he was holding his breath. He shook himself and braved a glance at Mira. She was staring at him with a look of genuine concern on her face. “Just gathering a bit of wool. I am quite well, I assure you.”

  Yes, he thought, quite well, but quite the fool. He had been right to worry about the clever Miss Fitzhenry. He enjoyed her
company, her quick wit, and he had allowed his guard to slip. He would need to be more careful about what he said to her in the future. After all, his goal in this investigation was to steer her away from danger, to keep her from asking the wrong questions. Or the right questions, depending on one’s perspective. Either way, he certainly did not intend to help her learn the truth. If she came too close to the truth, he would have to send her away, and he was growing increasingly reluctant to do that.

  Nicholas looked down at Mira, who was frowning in earnest concentration. As clever as she was, Mira was naïve. She did not understand that right and wrong were not always so easily distinguished. Nothing would bring Tegen and Bridget back to their families, and so some secrets would have to remain hidden.

  “Nicholas?” Mira’s soft query brought him out of his contemplative funk. “I think we have exhausted all of our lines of inquiry for the moment. Perhaps we should go now to Upper Bidwell, begin asking questions there.”

  “Asking questions about what, pray tell?”

  Both Nicholas and Mira jumped in surprise. Beatrix had entered the library without making a sound. She stood just inside the doorway of the library, a ray of light from one of the large windows cutting across her face and making her eyes shine like faceted stones. As always, her bearing was painfully erect, the slight incline of her head one of studied regality.

  “I beg your pardon, I did not mean to intrude.” Beatrix paused to look pointedly between Mira and Nicholas, her gaze encompassing their proximity to one another, and a sly smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Did I hear correctly that you were going to Upper Bidwell?”

  Mira appeared frozen so Nicholas decided he had best answer for them both.

  “Yes, my lady, Mira and I were planning a short sojourn to the village. Mira thought to inquire about the availability of a very particular type of ink she prefers. It is a small thing, I suppose, but it will make her feel more at home. And we do want Mira to feel at home, do we not?”

  Beatrix’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Of course we do,” she answered. “Whatever little amenities we can provide, we shall most certainly do our best.”

  Nicholas smiled. “I knew you would feel as I do on that subject, my lady.”

  “Mmmm. However, Ashfield, I cannot say that I approve of you and Miss Fitzhenry gadding about the countryside without a proper chaperone. I know the wedding is only a few days away, but the proprieties must still be observed. Your cousin Phoebe was moping about earlier, looking utterly friendless. You should take her along with you. She might like to shop for ribbons or lace or some such nonsense. You know how young girls are about pretty new things. Such magpies they are.”

  Nicholas exchanged a look with Mira. He read her expression as clearly as if she had spoken to him. Phoebe would be a nuisance, but what could they do? They could hardly decline the company of a chaperone, particularly when the need for one had been pointed out so clearly. The same frustrated resignation filled him, though he was less concerned with the blasted investigation than with the opportunity to spend some time alone with Mira.

  “Of course, madam. We would be delighted to escort Lady Phoebe to town.”

  Nicholas rose and held out a hand to help Mira to her feet. Even an extended constitutional in the company of the tepid Lady Phoebe was preferable to prolonging this strained encounter with Beatrix. And perhaps Phoebe’s presence would help to distract Mira from her inquiries.

  As Mira stood, shaking out the folds of her skirt and self-consciously tucking a wayward curl behind her ear, a high-pitched squeal rang out from the hallway. That lone piercing note was soon followed by a shrill arpeggio that Nicholas took for laughter and the clattering of boot heels on the marble floor of the entryway.

  Suddenly, Bella Fitzhenry burst through the library doorway, a flurry of pink and blond and ribbons. Her face was flushed with giddy excitement and her eyes sparkled with mischief as she ducked behind the door.

  Beatrix, Nicholas, and Mira stood by in stunned silence as the steady pounding of footsteps was replaced by the unmistakable squeaking sound of leather soles skidding across marble, and, a heartbeat later, Jeremy popped back down the hallway and stuck his head in the library. His fair hair remained remarkably in place, but a flush of exertion stained his cheeks, suggesting that this game had been progressing for some time now.

  Without paying any attention to his mother or the other occupants of the library, Jeremy sidled along the door Bella hid behind, his eyes crinkled in delight. When Bella next stole a peek from her hiding place, Jeremy let out a great bellow, causing Bella to scream again and fall down in delicious fright.

  Beatrix had been observing this game with a look of narrow-eyed fury. Finally she interrupted Jeremy and Bella’s shameless antics. “Jeremy! Settle yourself!”

  Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Come now, my lady mother,” he said, “we’re just having a bit of sport.”

  “Mmmm,” Beatrix murmured noncommittally, “I can see that.”

  Beatrix turned her attention to Bella, who was still lying in a flushed and giggling heap on the library floor. Beatrix looked the girl up and down with insulting thoroughness, a sneer of sheer contempt marring her patrician features.

  “If you and this…” Beatrix paused, her elegant nose wrinkling as she searched for some word which would adequately describe Bella’s fluff and flirtation. Failing that, she resorted to Bella’s name, but her tone made her disdain clear. “If you and Miss Fitzhenry insist upon running wild, perhaps you should do so in the out of doors. Ashfield and the other Miss Fitzhenry were going to accompany your cousin Phoebe to town. Perhaps you should join them.”

  Jeremy turned his head, then, to look back and forth between Mira and Nicholas. A sly smile, so like his mother’s, spread across his face. “A jaunt to town sounds just the thing,” he said. “What do you say, Bella?”

  Bella struggled to right herself, still breathing heavily from her mad dash and all of the excitement of the game. She gazed with adoration at Jeremy. When she spoke, her words were tinged with just the slightest affected lisp, and were directed at Jeremy alone. “I would enjoy that ever so much.”

  Nicholas heaved a sigh. He knew Jeremy was not the sort to tramp about for pleasure, and he could not imagine Bella truly enjoying—ever so much—a trip into the drab nothingness of Upper Bidwell. But Jeremy saw an opportunity to meddle, and Bella would obviously follow Jeremy to the ends of the earth if he asked.

  And so their little party grew.

  “Bella! Bella Fitzhenry!” Kitty Fitzhenry’s roar echoed through the entryway.

  Nicholas cast a look of utter disbelief at Mira, and saw that her face had fallen into lines of weary misery.

  “Bella!” Kitty trudged into the library, her broad face red and her mighty bosom heaving. “There you are! I have been worried to tears about you. You know how delicate my constitution is.”

  Bella’s expression instantly wilted into a sullen pout. “Yes, Maman.”

  “Well, then, very good.” With a satisfied huff, Kitty turned her attention to the other people in the library. At least those who mattered. “Lady Blackwell,” she gushed. “A pleasant day to you. I hope Bella has not been a bother. And Lord Ashfield, Lord Jeremy.” She inclined her head in greeting.

  “Good day, Mrs. Fitzhenry,” Beatrix said. “I was just suggesting that the younger Miss Fitzhenry and Jeremy accompany Ashfield, the elder Miss Fitzhenry, and Lady Phoebe into Upper Bidwell.”

  “Oh.” Kitty looked from Bella, who was making eyes at Jeremy, to Jeremy, who was making eyes right back. Kitty frowned. She looked at Mira, standing forlornly in the middle of the library floor, Mira who had no experience with the world at all and would never know how to keep Jeremy and Bella adequately supervised. Kitty’s frown deepened. Finally, Kitty looked at Nicholas. The murderer. Kitty’s brows snapped down in a scowl.

  Kitty looked back at Bella, her darling Bella. “Why I believe a walk would be just the thing to strengthen my constitution,” s
he said, her voice ringing with false enthusiasm. “I believe I shall join you.”

  Nicholas took Mira’s arm. Leaning in close, he whispered to her, “We had best be off before Mrs. Murrish and the stable boys decide to join us as well.” She smiled at him, and a warm rush of pleasure filled him at their private jest.

  “Well, then,” Nicholas said, “all those heading for Upper Bidwell, let us make haste before the day is gone.”

  With Mira on his arm and Kitty, Jeremy and Bella vying for position behind him, Nicholas headed down the hallway. He stopped in the entryway and yelled up the stairs for Phoebe in the loudest, most commanding voice he could muster. To his surprise, Phoebe materialized right beside him, standing in the dining room doorway with a half-eaten tea cake clutched in her bloodless hand and a scattering of crumbs festooning her linen tucker.

  “Good God, girl, you startled me out of my wits,” he muttered in consternation. “Do you ever make a sound?”

  Phoebe gazed up at Nicholas with her solemn empty eyes and slowly shook her head.

  Nicholas gave an abrupt bark of laughter. “No, I don’t suppose you do. Well, you are to come with us on a walk to Upper Bidwell. How does that sound?”

  Phoebe raised one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, and took another bite of tea cake.

  As the merry band made its way down the Blackwell drive, all of them squinting against the sunlight reflected off of the crushed shells that paved the way, Nicholas whispered to Mira, “This is absurd. It feels more as if we are marshaling an invasion of town than engaging in a discreet reconnaissance mission.”

  Mira smiled and threw him a saucy salute. “Lead on, General.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The good people of Upper Bidwell did not appear particularly pleased to have the gaggle of guests from Blackwell Hall descend unannounced. As they walked down the road through the small gathering of shops and houses, the party was greeted with carefully blank faces and reluctant nods of greeting. There was not a smile to be seen.