Henrietta

by M C Beaton

  “You must make sure that you are never alone,” said Miss Mattie firmly. “I will sleep in your room tonight.”

  Henrietta heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you, Mattie. I should be so frightened on my own.”

  A wind had sprung up outside. The shutters gave a sudden rattle, making both women jump, and the lamplight flickered and danced round the room.

  Miss Mattie coughed nervously. “Do you think it might be childish, dear Henrietta, if we were to leave all the lamps burning?”

  “Not at all,” said Henrietta. “But I promise you one thing. Whoever it is, is not going to drive me away from my social life or my London Season, Mattie.” And on that firm note, the ladies crept off to bed.

  The Sunday dawned wet and windy. The only amusement was a visit to church. Lord Reckford shut himself up with his estate books and his steward, leaving his guests to potter about dismally and get on each other’s nerves. By evening, all wondered what on earth they were doing in the country in the middle of the Season and by suppertime had resolved to leave for Town first thing the next morning.

  But Monday brought back the full glory of the summer to the countryside and, after a hearty breakfast, the proposed visit to the fair appeared to one and all to be a delightful project instead of the dreary peasant outing it had seemed the night before.

  The carriages were lined up in the driveway. Henrietta could not help hoping that she would be allowed to partner Lord Reckford but Lady Belding had already made sure that Alice was to have that honor. Lord Reckford had been extremely courteous but very distant to Henrietta at breakfast. Henrietta gave one longing look at his lordship’s well-tailored back and turned to accept Jeremy Holmes’ escort. Jeremy prattled on easily, pointing out various landmarks with his whip as he drove his curricle down the drive at a smart pace. Henrietta was wearing a poke bonnet which concealed her face so that she found she could indulge her misery and only supply her partner with an appropriate “yes” or “no.”

  After several miles, they stopped at a pretty inn for luncheon. Lord Reckford and Alice Belding were on excellent terms, noted Henrietta, with a gloom which was so complete and miserable, it was almost comforting. Lord Reckford had obviously asked for Henrietta’s hand in marriage only because he had felt he had compromised her. Henrietta began to flirt inexpertly with Mr. Holmes and wished she were dead.

  The fair was crowded with sightseers by the time they arrived and Henrietta began to brighten at the sight of the sideshows. The party agreed to keep together for the first part of the fair and there was much arguing about which spectacle they should see first. Jeremy wanted to see the two-headed baby and Alice, the fat lady, but it was Henrietta who decided for them. “A magician,” she breathed, pointing to a nearby tent. “I’ve never seen a magician before.”

  “Then the magician it shall be,” said Lord Reckford, suddenly smiling down at her which turned her limbs to water.

  The elegant party moved into the tent and sat down self-consciously on the front benches. Lady Belding said in a loud carrying voice that she detested yokels and Henry Sandford followed suit by staring round at the peasantry with his protruding eyes. The rest of the crowd stared back at him good humouredly and several suggested that Henry was a sideshow in himself. “Ooh, mum, ain’t he fat,” screamed a child.

  “This is intolerable,” puffed Henry. “That I should be subjected to…” But several voices told him to sit down and shut up. The show was about to begin.

  Two tattered sheets which served as curtains were drawn back to reveal the magician who began rapidly drawing a seemingly endless string of handkerchiefs out of his sleeve to the delight of the crowd. Lord Reckford suddenly grabbed Jeremy’s arm. “It’s the man… the man who tried to speak to me in the coffee house,” he said in a low voice. “Take care of the ladies and when he finishes, I’ll catch him after his performance.”

  The magician was billed on a placard at the side of the stage as “Mr. Marvellous Who Has Performed Before the Crowned Heads of Europe. Agricultural Shows and Market Days a Speciality.”

  Lord Reckford glanced at Henrietta. The magician had just produced an egg from the ear of a shy farm laborer who had volunteered his services as assistant and Henrietta’s hands were clasped and her eyes were like stars.

  “And now,” announced Mr. Marvellous in an awesome voice. “I come to the highlight of the show. I shall produce Satan himself.”

  “Heathen nonsense,” muttered brother Henry, shifting uneasily on the bench. The tent flaps were drawn tightly closed. Mr. Marvellous was helped into a long black robe covered in signs of the zodiac and a large black cauldron was carried on the stage. He raised his arms for silence and then his voice began to rise in a thin high chant. The words he spoke were unintelligible and probably ridiculous but there was something hypnotic about the man, decided Henrietta. Everyone in the audience was very quiet. The voice of the magician rose to a high thin screech and he threw something on the cauldron. Green smoke began to curl heavily into the air and then in the middle of the smoke, the grinning face of Satan began to appear.

  Henrietta sprang to her feet. “The devil!” she cried. “It’s the face I saw in the woods.” No sooner had she shouted than there was a commotion at the back of the tent. A stout farmer’s wife had fainted and everyone suddenly seemed to be running about and calling for light. The tent flaps were jerked open. Lord Reckford saw the magician hurriedly leaving through a curtain at the back of the stage and leapt after him.

  The curtain opened out into a narrow space at the end of which could be seen Mr. Marvellous making a rapid exit into the bustle of the fairground. Lord Reckford gave chase, never losing sight of his quarry among the crowds, aided by his superior height. At last he reached the magician’s side, grabbed his arm, and spun him round. Mr. Marvellous cast a terrified look of appeal up at him. “Now now, my lord,” he stammered. “If I should be seen talking to you, it would mean my death.”

  “What is it you have to tell me? Out with it, man,” snapped the Beau, jerking the magician by his dingy cravat.

  “Not here, my lord,” he repeated. “Oh, dear God. Let me go! Give me an hour and meet me behind the Cherry Tree Inn down the road. Please my lord…meet me there. I’ll be in the little yard at the back.” With that he wrenched himself free and hastened away among the holiday crowd.

  Lord Reckford returned slowly to his guests. Someone had obviously been paying this man to use his tricks on Henrietta. Well, the mystery would soon be over. He decided to take Henrietta with him. She should hear with her own ears the name of her tormenter.

  Accordingly, when he returned to the party, he drew Henrietta aside and told her of his plans. “We shall say that you are feeling faint after your experience and I shall urge the rest to stay here while I escort you back to the Abbey. No, on second thought, we will leave Mr. Holmes to do the explaining. Perhaps your devoted Mr. Ralston will insist on accompanying us.”

  Mr. Ralston had languidly elected to join the outing despite his former protests and was now enjoying all the fun of the fair with the enthusiasm of a schoolboy.

  Their only difficulty was in shaking off Miss Scattersworth who was disconsolate because Sir Edwin had not put in an appearance. Henrietta, feeling very guilty, at last begged Miss Scattersworth to fetch her a glass of water, and as soon as the spinster’s thin back had disappeared into the crowd, she and Lord Reckford made their escape.

  “It is not far to the inn,” said Lord Reckford. “Perhaps—if you are not too fatigued, we could walk….”

  Henrietta nodded dumbly and took his proferred arm. The noise of the fairground gradually sank away behind them as they walked along the chalky country road. Apprehensive as she was about the magician’s news, Henrietta had imagined a leisurely stroll arm in arm with Lord Reckford among the pastoral flowers and grasses of early summer. But the air was heavy with the scent of pig, flies buzzed around piles of horse droppings on the road and the slightest rapid movement stirred the dust up into a ch
oking, wheezing cloud.

  “This was not a good idea,” said the Beau penitently. “We are beginning to look like ghosts.” Both were slowly being covered from head to foot in white dust. “Don’t worry,” he added bracingly. “It’s not far now.”

  At first sight, The Cherry Tree was an unprepossessing hostelry. It seemed by its walls of timber and wattle to have survived from Tudor times. With its low Walls and heavy thatched roof, it had the appearance of crouching beside the road to waylay the traveller rather than to welcome him. No smoke rose from the chimney and no sound came from the taproom.

  Henrietta wondered why, although she felt frightened and apprehensive, she had a nagging feeling of pique. Lord Reckford was friendly and gentlemanly. But not by one flicker of an eyelid did he reveal that anything of an intimate nature had recently passed between them.

  “We unfortunately must go through the tap to get to the yard at the back,” he said. “I will lead the way. Keep close behind me.”

  The taproom was empty and silent. Sunlight filtered faintly through the dirty leaded windows. There was a sour smell of stale beer and wine and old unwashed bedding. They crept quietly, their feet making no sound on the sawdust covered floor. The Beau waved his quizzing glass at a row of blue rosettes over the mantelpiece. “It seems the landlord keeps a prize pig. He’s probably taken it to the fair. ‘The Fair Beauty of Upper Wipplestone.’ Dear me. Poor animal. I wonder what they call it for short.”

  Lord Reckford pushed open the door at the back of the tap. There was a small greasy kitchen. The stink of sour milk was very strong. It came from an open churn in the corner and the air above it was black with heavy swollen flies.

  “Ugh!” said Henrietta, throwing caution to the winds and marching to the kitchen door. “Let us get out of here.” She threw open the door. “Well, there’s The Fair Beauty of Upper Wipplestone…Oh my God…”

  The Fair Beauty, a hugh pink sow, slowly turned its massive head at the sound of their approach. Blood dripped from its mouth and down its chubby legs. Lying nearly under it lay the body of the magician. His throat had been cut from ear to ear, his eyes turned up to the summer sky. Then the horrible face was blotted out as the pig bent its head down again.

  Henrietta was aware of Lord Reckford’s strong arms round her as he dragged her bodily back into the inn. She could feel a scream forming at the back of her throat. She wanted to scream and scream and scream until the very sound of her voice wiped that dreadful bloody picture from her mind.

  Lord Reckford’s icy voice cut like a knife through her hysterical thoughts. “Don’t be so damned missish,” he snapped.

  Henrietta gulped and stared but before she could say anything, he went on, “I am sure you’ve seen plenty bodies hanging from gibbets and people dying all over the streets of London, so what’s another body?”

  His callousness had the desired effect. Henrietta forgot her shock and fright in a healthy outburst of rage. She called him every name she could think of, beating her fists against his jacket and trying to kick him in the shins. Then she collapsed into a chair and burst into tears.

  “That’s my girl,” said his infuriating lordship in a mild voice. “Just what you needed. Now drink this.”

  “What is… is it?” stammered Henrietta.

  “Brandy.”

  “Oh, but I can’t… I…” She stopped talking as the glass was forced against her lips by a firm hand and the fiery liquid poured down her throat.

  After a few minutes, the brandy began to take effect, and Henrietta managed to say, “We must find the magistrate.…”

  “My dear, dear girl,” drawled her companion. “There are magistrates and magistrates. Our local one unfortunately is that bumbling idiot, Sir Edwin. Can’t you imagine it? He will lumber in and start off ‘Sir Edwin wonders why my lord and Miss Sandford should have informed Mr. Holmes and party that they were returning to the Abbey on account of Miss Sandford’s indisposition and yet are found in a common inn with a pig and a dead body.’ Come now, Henrietta. Let us make our escape.”

  Henrietta got to her feet. She felt suddenly exhausted. “Why is it, my lord, that you refuse to call in the authorities to solve this mystery?”

  His lordship flicked the dust from his hessians with his handkerchief and then stood up and faced her. “Miss Sandford. Apart from bringing a lot of scandal and vulgar gossip down about our ears, I fail to see what else the Runners can do. Never fear, I shall catch the culprit.”

  “And I shall be dead first.”

  “No, my dear, whoever it is wants you alive and mad. As long as you accept my help, no harm will come to you. I should really have brought the carriage. It is a long walk to the Abbey.…”, he added doubtfully, looking down at Henrietta’s thin slippers.

  “Oh, I shall survive, no doubt,” said Henrietta sweetly. “Are you sure, my lord, that you would not like to tether me to a stake as bait for the killer the way they use goats to entrap a tiger in India?”

  “I may do that yet,” he said with a laugh, drawing her arm through his.

  They set off down the road at a leisurely pace. Lord Reckford began to talk about the problems of running his large estate, the modern methods of farming he hoped to introduce, and how he intended to leave the London scene after this Season. He then asked her about her past life and whether she ever missed Nethercote. Henrietta began to describe her narrow life of church duties and visits to the poor. A very bleak picture emerged although she tried to make it sound amusing.

  He looked down at her. She was staring unseeingly at the dusty road as she talked, swinging her bonnet in her hand. A curl had escaped from its mooring and lay like a question mark on the back of her neck.

  He had a sudden impulse to bend down and kiss her on the nape of the neck and then was shocked at the intensity of his feelings. It was not because Henrietta was beautiful—and she had certainly changed into a beauty since she had lost weight—it was, he decided, that she seemed to carry with her an aura of heavy sensuality which revealed itself in small ways, in the way she turned her head and the way she moved when she danced.

  She turned and looked up into his eyes, laughing at one of her own anecdotes and he caught his breath. He could not properly analyse his feelings but he felt in some obscure way that he would never think of Henrietta as a comfortable sort of girl again.

  He was suddenly conscious of her hand on his arm and immediately released his own to brush away an imaginary fly. The sun was setting behind the woods as they wearily made their way up the long drive that led to the Abbey. Lights were shining from the windows and there was a smell of woodsmoke in the air. Although she had lived most of her life in the modest vicarage of Nethercote, Henrietta suddenly had the strange feeling of coming home. They paused outside the entrance to the hall and Lord Reckford bent his head and kissed her hand. The kiss seemed to burn through her glove and she could not bring herself to look at him. Lord Reckford stood for a long time looking after her until the rumble of carriages in the drive as the other guests arrived diverted his attention.

  Chapter Nine

  “I SHALL NEVER SURVIVE THIS SEASON.”

  Henrietta looked mournfully down at her swollen ankles, the result of dancing all night and then accepting an engagement to ride in the Row first thing in the morning.

  Her return to Town from the Abbey had been marked with outstanding social success. That arbiter of fashion, Mr. George Brummell, had been warned by Lady Belding to avoid Henrietta. “The girl is quite mad, you know,” she had informed him. “And no person of the ton should be seen in her company.” Mr. Brummell cordially despised Lady Belding and had made a great effort to be seen constantly in Henrietta’s company. He even went so far as to label Miss Scattersworth as “a truly charming English eccentric.” Poor Miss Mattie found that all her most ordinary remarks were treated as brilliant witticisms and all the attention went immediately to the spinster’s head. Henrietta rarely saw her and often had to rely on Lord Reckford’s sister, Lady Ann Courtn
ey, to act as chaperone. Most of her social engagements were blessed with the presence of Lord Reckford but there never seemed a moment to talk to him alone.

  There had been no more attempts on her sanity and all the past episodes leading up to the murder of the magician took on a vague dreamlike sense of unreality.

  Still wearing her ridingdress of pale blue gaberdine, its severe lines flattering to her new slim figure, Henrietta crossed to the looking glass to adjust her curls.

  Lord Reckford was announced and she swung round in surprise, a tell-tale blush creeping up her cheek.

  He bent punctilliously over her hand and then straightened up and looked at her with unwonted severity. “You look tired,” he remarked dryly.

  “Of course I’m tired,” retorted Henrietta. “These past weeks have been exhausting. I have been dancing and partying almost every night. I declare I am worn to a frazzle.”

  “Is that all you have been doing?”

  Henrietta stared at him in surprise. “Is that not enough?”

  He sat down and stretched out his long legs and tapped his boot with his quizzing glass. At last he said very slowly, “You have not… by any chance… been gambling?”

  “Gambling! Well, I suppose… a little faro and silver loo and things like that. Everyone does it.”

  “Everyone does not however frequent the gambling hells of the demi-monde and behave in a raucous, drunken manner.”

  Henrietta looked at him coldly. “Out with it, my lord. Speak plain.”

  “I shall try to put it as simply as possible. Various members of my acquaintance have seen fit to inform me that you have frequently been gambling heavily and drinking heavily. Now, it is all very well for young men to frequent these establishments but any woman who does so is facing social ruin.”

  “I have not been to any of those places,” said Henrietta outraged.

  “I had it on good authority that you were at a certain Mrs. Slattery’s last night.”