The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries)

by Smart, Harriet

  It had been an exceptional marriage, in the sense that it was rare for English officers in Canada to be married there. Any wives remained at home, and most of his fellow officers were not married. Laura was an Englishwoman stranded in Ontario by an accident of family circumstance. She was the niece of the Colonel of another regiment who was pleased to get her settled and off his hands. He had no inclination to live respectably and the girl was something of an inconvenience. He committed himself only to finding her a good marriage in as short a possible time as possible. Giles was an unblemished prospect – letters went back and forth across the Atlantic, all parties were mutually approved and Miss Romney and Captain Vernon were allowed the uncustomary indulgence of making a match of it.

  The local girls were annoyed to see that one of the red-coated gentlemen who formed a necessary part of their assemblies had been allowed to marry after all. They wondered in vain if any other exceptions might be made but then learnt the hard truth – Englishmen only married in their own circles. They flirted a great deal but it was never to be taken seriously.

  As a result the new Mrs Vernon was not popular with the local girls and ladies, especially as the other officers made such a pet of her. They had no Colonel’s lady, but they had Mrs Vernon, and gave her her due and much more, as the senior woman connected with the regiment, and the doyenne of an already constricted society.

  For a high-spirited girl of twenty, not entirely sensible, with only a patchy education, this was not the best of situations. But she was sharp as a needle – that was what had drawn Giles in from the start and he thought that her intelligence would grow with her years and that marriage and his protection would settle her. Colonel Romney was more explicit. He told Giles that he would not have trusted her to a lesser man – he would correct that slight giddiness she exhibited from time to time. There was nothing to fear. They were well matched in temperament, fortune and position. It augured well.

  For the first six months they were happy. The novelty of their situation was enough to keep them cheerful. Giles liked the comforts that a domestic establishment brought him – her cat, his well-cared for linen, the posies of flowers about the house. He liked the intimacy – having conversations in bed, sleeping with her locked in his arms, his face buried in her hair. He liked the unrestrained pleasures of marital love and discovered, once beyond her innocence, that she was saucy and as eager as he was.

  He knew that these pleasures would soon be interrupted, imagining in the normal way that there would be children. He had anticipated this to the extent that he gave up one of his horses, and made a few what he hoped were prudent investments back in Northumberland. He acquired a couple of small farms near his brother’s estate, to which he hoped to add in future years, much as he hoped to add to the stock of Vernons on the earth. Indeed all his family wished them well in this endeavour. His siblings professed to love Laura without ever having seen her, in their typically generous way. Johnny, his elder brother and the squire, was a settled old bachelor and had put a substantial amount of money down on the table on the occasion of Giles’ match, rather expecting him to take the trouble and the risk of getting an heir for his property.

  The trouble and the risk proved great enough. As he ploughed through the fraught months of Laura’s pregnancy and then all the disasters that followed, Giles began to see why Johnny had never married. Edward’s death and Laura’s subsequent descent into that miserable, impossible state of living death which now afflicted her, made him think that an obsession with perpetuating a family name was folly. The world existed balanced on a knife edge. One could fall either way – into happiness and prosperity or into unimaginable tragedy. Giles, who had never had much of a stock of self-love or any taste for amateur dramatics, had never fancied he might become a tragic hero. He had tried to live a practical, cheerful, energetic life and had married in hope, not of a great love affair, but for a contented family life, such as that he had known from his own boyhood. His own parents had married in obedience to their parents’ wishes and had made a good bargain of it. He had hoped for nothing more, and had been prepared to work to achieve it.

  But with Laura, he soon found that her illness was not one that could be dealt with easily. He found he was in possession of a broken-down house, through the empty rooms of which starlings flapped their inky wings and fouled the floors. Good landlords kept their properties in repair but the more he tried, the less viable the structure became. It had crumbled in his hands, leaving nothing to repair.

  But that, he told himself as he walked briskly along, was no reason not to try again.

  Chapter Nine

  After dinner, Felix found himself standing next to Miss Kate Pritchard at the piano, as she searched through her music, at his request, looking for the aria he had heard Mrs Morgan singing.

  “I think it is an air from Theodora,” she said. “With rosy steps,” and she picked out the melody.

  “That is it,” he said.

  “I can’t sing it for you, I am afraid. For one, it is too hard for me,” she said, “and I have no wish to spoil your memory of hearing Mrs Morgan sing it. You were lucky.”

  “It was remarkable,” he said, looking over the music.

  “And I don’t think my father wishes us to have any music tonight,” she said, glancing across the room to where the Dean sat talking to another of the dinner guests, “in the circumstances.”

  “Yes, yes of course,” said Felix.

  “A ridiculous idea,” she said. “Not at all what Mr Barnes would have liked.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “I knew his voice well,” she said. “And his playing. And we shared a teacher of course.”

  “Oh, who?”

  “Mr Watkins,” she said.

  “Is he a good teacher?”

  “Yes. I was getting on very well with him until my father –” She broke off with a sigh. “He has notions, you see.”

  “Your father?” Felix said.

  “I am sure your father has notions too. He is a clergyman, is he not?”

  “Yes. Plenty of notions.”

  “It seems to be a feature of the profession,” Miss Pritchard said.

  “Not just the clergy,” said Felix thinking of Lord Rothborough and his little lecture in the Minster. He would not like to see him standing there in the corner of the drawing room with Miss Pritchard, having what a casual, conventional observer might label a vaguely flirtatious conversation.

  “Papa’s idea was that I was taking it all too seriously. That composition was not an appropriate study for a young woman. And of course since that terrible business with my sister and Mr Rhodes, well, he is apt to be –”

  “I understand. Then perhaps I ought not monopolise you. I wouldn’t like to cause any difficulty, pleasant though this is,” he added.

  “I can’t keep you against your will,” she said. “And we ought to see to the proprieties, but –”

  “But?”

  “I would rather you stayed. I know everyone else so well. They have nothing new to say. You heard the conversation at dinner, how thrilling it was not?” He nodded. “And although my father might be disquieted, my mother will not be.”

  “Oh,” said Felix, thinking that he really ought to move away. “I see.”

  “Please, Mr Carswell, do not be afraid. I am not my mother. I am not looking for a husband. Just for a little interesting talk – talk that does not involve the Christianisation of the savages or the impudence of dissenters.”

  Felix burst out laughing and found that everyone else in the room was looking at them.

  “Now we have given them something to talk about,” he said.

  “Good,” said Miss Pritchard, meeting his eyes with a warm, disarming smile. She really was a charming girl, he thought, and in other circumstances he felt he would have been in all the danger that Lord Rothborough had predicted. But pleasant though it might be to stand and talk like this, it was nothing to the feelings that Mrs Morgan had produced in
him. He had never felt anything like that for a woman before, not even for Isabella. That was something new to him.

  “You are a mischief maker,” he said.

  “No, no, I am not,” she said. “It is a distraction for them. To see us talking like this and draw all their conclusions – well, we do good by our actions. We are entertaining them.”

  “No, I think it was pure mischief on your part,” he said, grinning. “And you know I find that far more amusing.” It occurred to him that if he were seen to flirt with Miss Pritchard, a report of it would inevitably find its way to Lord Rothborough. It would be an excellent way to ruffle his feathers.

  “Oh, do you?” she said, in such a manner that he realised that she perhaps also wished to be seen flirting with him.

  He did not understand why she wished this, but it was clear they had begun to play a game, and one which he found diverting. So he took a half step closer to her and said, “I like to think you are not a paragon.”

  “I should, of course, be insulted.”

  “You should – but you are not. Which proves my point.”

  She smiled and said, “Come and admire these watercolours, Mr Carswell. There is nothing much to admire in them, but we will be able to stand with our backs to everyone.”

  So they moved away from the piano.

  “This is positively scandalous,” he said, as they went and stood in front of a pair of landscapes.

  “Our alliance will be the talk of Northminster. They will be choosing wedding bonnets.”

  “They will have to be disappointed,” said Felix. “I thought we would elope to Gretna. That would upset the apple cart, wouldn’t it?”

  “Oh yes, it would,” she said. “Now, will we be rehabilitated in time, or shall we die in penniless squalor, never having been received in polite society again, exiled from all those we love?”

  “It depends what sort of a novel you are reading,” Felix said, and glanced at her. She suddenly looked rather grave.

  “This is not really anything to joke about,” she said.

  “I think we might be forgiven,” Felix said as lightly as he could. “Almost certainly we would be.”

  “We might be, yes,” she said, with something in her voice that sounded like bitterness. “I think, Mr Carswell, that we had better circulate after all.” And she walked away and went to talk to an old lady about her embroidery.

  Chapter Ten

  The party broke shortly after that and on leaving the Deanery, Felix turned his steps towards Avonside Row. He had decided that he would walk the long way home down Jacob’s ladder, retracing the route they had taken that morning. That this walk took him under Mrs Morgan’s windows was a fact he chose not to dwell on.

  As he came up on Avonside Row he saw Constable Eakins was walking towards him.

  “Anything to report?” he asked when they met.

  “Next door has had a few callers, but no one here, sir.”

  “And Mrs Morgan came home safely with Mr Watkins?” said Felix.

  “Mr Watkins? The gent that conducts the minster choir?”

  “The Master of Music, yes.”

  “Well, he brought her home, but he left her at the front gate. She went in alone. Why do you ask, sir?”

  “No particular reason,” said Felix. “And that back lane – no-one has been along there?”

  “I’ve walked around the property every five minutes, just like Major Vernon told me. So I couldn’t have missed anything.”

  At the sound of a sash being raised, Felix could not help but glance over his shoulder, hoping, he knew, that he might catch a glimpse of her at the window. But there was nothing to be seen but the glow of a lamp within and he turned back to Constable Eakins.

  Then a second later a shriek ripped through the air.

  It came from the open window – a sustained, hysterical high-pitched scream, terrifying in itself, as well as for what it implied. What nameless horror had provoked such an extraordinary reaction?

  Eakins and Felix rushed round to the front door. As he knocked, Felix turned the handle and was surprised to find the door was not locked. He was horrified that the door had been left open in such circumstances. What were her servants thinking?

  He ran in and started to sprint up the stairs, his heart pounding at the thought of what might have happened to Mrs Morgan, only to be forced to stop in his tracks. On the landing above him stood the lady herself.

  She was holding a candle and was dressed in only her nightgown, her hair cascading down over her shoulders. She looked pale, but it was evident she was not the source of the scream.

  “Mr Carswell!” she said. “What are –?”

  “Where? Who?” he said.

  She indicated the room from which the sound had come and Felix ran into it, only find another woman, also dressed in her nightgown. But he scarcely noticed her, for the lamp was on the floor and flames were starting to lick the rug. Felix was obliged to attend to that first, stamping it out, while the woman fell sobbing into Mrs Morgan’s arms. A jug of water from the wash stand put out the rest of the flames and then Felix turned and saw what it was that had caused such a reaction.

  Lying on the bed, in the centre of the quilted white counterpane, was a small dead bird, with a piece of scarlet ribbon about its neck, like a ligature. Felix glanced at Mrs Morgan who was holding the now howling woman against her, comforting her.

  “Get it out of here! Get it out!” the woman shouted.

  “This is your bedroom, Mrs Morgan?” Felix said, taking the bird up and putting it into his pocket.

  “We share it,” said Mrs Morgan, who was already leading the woman out of the room and across the landing. Darkness fell in the room, for she still held the candle, so Felix followed then.

  Mrs Morgan crossed the landing and went into a small bedroom. She sat her companion down on a low chair, wrapping a shawl about her and kneeling in front of her, holding her hands.

  “Now breathe, Paulina, breathe steady and true. Remember how we were taught? In and then out. In and then out, nice and slow... There, that’s better, isn’t it?” After this admirable treatment, the woman’s hysterical fit seemed to subside. Felix felt he could not have done better himself, and found another score of reasons to admire Mrs Morgan. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”

  “I know, I know,” wailed Paulina. “It’s just that... d...d...dead birds... I cannot bear the sight of them, and to turn round and see one!” She buried her face in her hands. “I could have burnt the house down. I could have killed us all!”

  “No, no, it would not have come to that,” said Mrs Morgan. “And our landlord will forgive us a singed rug,” she said. “Do you not think, Mr Carswell?” she added, shooting a gentle smile at Felix as he stood at the door way.

  “Certainly,” he managed to say, stunned for the moment by the beautiful movement of her pale gold hair as she had turned to look at him.

  “Nothing to worry about, then,” said Mrs Morgan, stroking Paulina’s hair. “Nothing at all.”

  Felix was even more impressed by her courage than he had been that morning. For it was evident that the bird had been left there deliberately, presumably by the same person responsible for those vile letters.

  “Mamma?”

  Felix looked round and saw that there was a small child in his night shirt standing by him. He looked sleepy and disorientated. Presumably the commotion had awoken him.

  “Oh, Harry, darling,” said Paulina and put out her arms to him. Mrs Morgan also stretched out her hand and the boy went into the room, and hesitated, as if he did not know which of them to choose. But Mrs Morgan caught his hand and said, “Give your dear Aunt a hug, Harry,” and propelled him gently into Paulina’s arms. Paulina proceeded to give him the most suffocating embrace imaginable, but it clearly soothed her.

  “Why don’t you go and put Harry back to bed?” said Mrs Morgan. “You could sleep there, if you like.” Choking back her tears, Paulina nodded, and stood up, lifting up the
boy in her arms now, the shawl falling from up her. She carried him out of the room. Mrs Morgan followed with her candle and stood at the foot of the stairs as they climbed up. She waved at the boy, then turned back to Felix.

  “Mr Carswell, I can’t thank you enough,” she said.

  “Your servants did not lock your door,” he said. “Which one of them should have done it?”

  “Berthe, I suppose,” said Mrs Morgan. “She must have forgotten.”

  “It seems gross negligence to me, given that... given that...” He was suddenly disturbed by her lack of clothing. Her nightgown seemed the flimsiest lawn item, slipping from her shoulders. He went and fetched the shawl that had fallen to the floor and handed it to her. “You must keep warm. The shock –”

  She smiled, and took it from him, and then proceeded to wrap it about herself with an elegant gesture which seemed to make her lack of dress worse. He felt his mind cloud with inappropriate desire. He had wild thoughts of falling to his knees and kissing her hem, her bare feet. He wanted to say so much and also to do too much. With difficulty he said, “You must bolt it when I have gone. And I will join Constable Eakins on his watch.”

  “No, no, that I cannot permit,” she said. “You must go to bed. You have been working all day. You must rest. You have a murder to attend to.”

  “And you are being tormented. I cannot –”

  “It is just a dead bird. It does not scare me, let alone torment me. It is just unfortunate Paulina saw it first. I should not have been so rattled, I promise you. Now, you must go home.” She wrapped her shawl about her a little more tightly. “Is there no young Mrs Carswell to draw you back to your own fireside?”

  “No,” he said.

  “You should look to it,” she said, gently. “It would be good for you.”

  He managed a smile, though the remark stung him more than he cared to admit.