There Must Be Murder
Margaret C. Sullivan
Cassandra Chouinard (Illustrator)
Henry and Catherine Tilney are content with their married life: a comfortable parsonage, their dogs, and one another. The idea of returning to Bath a year after they first met there seems like it can only add to their happiness; but Catherine finds that Bath still carries social dangers that she must learn to navigate. What is the nature of Henry's past relationship with a beautiful young woman? Why is a rakish baronet paying Catherine such particular attention? Is General Tilney going to marry the woman known in Bath as The Merry Widow — and what did she have to do with her husband's death? And will Henry ever be able to keep his Newfoundland out of the river? Revisit the winter pleasures of Georgian Bath with your favorite characters from Jane Austen's hilarious Northanger Abbey, and prepare for a bit of romance, a bit of mystery, and a very nice story indeed!
Margaret C Sullivan
There Must Be Murder
Dedicated to the members of Team
(Henry and Catherine) Tilney everywhere.
"Government," said Henry, endeavouring not to smile, "neither desires nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and government cares not how much."
— Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen, Volume I, Chapter XIV
Chapter One
Winter Pleasures
The Reverend Henry Tilney, the rector of Woodston parish in Gloucestershire, looked up from his book and addressed his wife. “Catherine, do you know what day this is?”
Catherine Tilney smiled at her husband. “It is Saturday, beloved.”
“Yes, it is, but this is no ordinary Saturday. This is Saturday, the ninth day of February.”
Though they had been married but a short time, Catherine knew that Henry was not in the habit of stating the obvious without a particular reason; thus, she looked at him expectantly, her needle suspended above the fabric.
“My sweet, I am surprised at you. Do not you remember? We met exactly one year ago tonight, in the Lower Rooms at Bath.”
“Did we?” Catherine was delighted with this intelligence.
“We did. I presumed that you were already aware of this anniversary, as you have recourse to your journal to remind you of it. I dare say you were certain to record such an important event as meeting your future husband.”
“Henry, you know perfectly well that I keep no journal. Besides, I did not know then that you were my future husband.”
“Some husbands would be injured at such an admission, but not I; after all, I did not know that you were my future wife. I remember that I was wandering about the rooms like a lost soul, having no acquaintance there. The master of ceremonies, Mr. King, took pity upon me and asked if I would like an introduction to a clergyman’s daughter who was in need of a partner. In Christian charity, I could not decline; though from my past experience of ladies described as ‘clergymen’s daughters,’ I expected to be presented to an elderly spinster with a squint. You may imagine my relief when Miss Morland turned out to be rather a pretty girl, and I considered myself fortunate that no other gentleman had already claimed the honor of dancing with her.”
Catherine’s eyes were shining. “You thought me pretty?”
“Indeed.” Henry reached for her hand and kissed it. “Emily and Valancourt await us, my sweet. Shall we retire?”
“I am ready.” Catherine neatly folded her sewing.
“I beg your pardon, MacGuffin,” Henry addressed the Newfoundland curled up at the foot of his chair. “It is time for bed, lad. I cannot rise while you are sleeping on my feet.”
MacGuffin raised his shaggy head and gazed up at his master adoringly, his tail thumping the floor. A string of saliva glistened at the corner of the dog’s mouth, trailing down to the old blanket placed on the floor expressly to absorb the excess. Henry gently lifted his foot in an encouraging nudge, and the dog uttered a weary moan and heaved his massive bulk to a standing position.
“Shall you let the dogs out?” Catherine asked her husband. The house terriers, lying in a tangled heap by the fire, looked round at her utterance of that favored word, “out.”
“Matthew will attend to that.”
As they passed out of the drawing room, followed by the clicking of canine claws on the wooden floor, a figure loomed from the shadows of the passage. Catherine started and gave a strangled cry.
“Beg pardon, Mrs. Tilney,” said Matthew. Matthew was the rector’s groom, clerk, and factotum; an accomplished huntsman, he glided about the parsonage as silently as he moved through the woods, frequently (and quite inadvertently) startling his mistress. However, Catherine liked Matthew, and it was not in her nature to bear a grudge, so she smiled her forgiveness.
Matthew snapped his fingers at the dogs, and they followed him down the passage toward the rear of the house as the Tilneys climbed the stairs to their bedchamber.
***
Henry had a genius for piling the pillows so that he could sit up in bed and read comfortably, even with one arm round Catherine’s waist and her head resting upon his shoulder. The fire burned brightly, and the Tilneys curled up warmly together under the quilts as Henry read aloud from Mrs. Radcliffe’s novel, The Mysteries of Udolpho.
“Valancourt,” Henry read, “between these emotions of love and pity, lost the power, and almost the wish, of repressing his agitation; and, in the intervals of convulsive sobs, he, at one moment, kissed away her tears — ”
Henry stopped reading and scattered several quick kisses across Catherine’s face. She giggled and prodded him in the chest. “There are no tears here, sir. Pray continue.”
“I would much rather kiss you.”
“Read!”
“I hear and obey, madam.” Henry returned to Udolpho. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes — kissed away her tears, then told her cruelly, that possibly she might never again weep for him, and then tried to speak more calmly, but only exclaimed, ‘O Emily — my heart will break! — I cannot — cannot leave you! Now — I gaze upon that countenance, now I hold you in my arms! A little while, and all this will appear a dream. I shall look, and cannot see you; shall try to recollect your features — and the impression will be fled from my imagination; — to hear the tones of your voice, and even memory will be silent! — I cannot, cannot leave you!’”
The first time Catherine read Udolpho, she had wept over this passage; but when Henry read Valancourt’s dialogue, he used such a simpering, affected voice that she found herself laughing at the poor Chevalier’s distress.
“‘Why should we confide the happiness of our whole lives to the will of people, who have no right to interrupt, and, except in giving you to me, have no power to promote it? O Emily! Venture to trust your own heart, venture to be mine for ever!’ His voice trembled, and he was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was silent also, when Valancourt proceeded to propose an immediate marriage, and that, at an early hour on the following morning, she should quit Madame Montoni’s house, and be conducted by him to the church of the Augustines, where a friar should await to unite them.”
Henry stopped reading and pondered for a moment. “The banns were not published? No license obtained? A curious business; I dare say that the brave Valancourt might have found the Augustine friar less receptive to his scheme than he anticipated.”
“It is only a story, Henry,” said Catherine in the patient tone used to educate the slow-witted.
“Forgive me, my sweet. It was a matter of professional interest. To continue: The silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated by love and despair, and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely possible for her to oppos
e it; — when her heart was softened by the sorrows of a separation, that might be eternal, and her reason obscured by the illusions of love and terror, encouraged him to hope, that it would not be rejected. ‘Speak, my Emily!’ said Valancourt eagerly, ‘let me hear your voice, let me hear you confirm my fate.’ She spoke not; her cheek was cold, and her senses seemed to fail her, but she did not faint. To Valancourt’s terrified imagination she appeared to be dying; he called upon her name, rose to go to the chateau for assistance, and then, recollecting her situation, feared to go, or to leave her for a moment.”
Henry paused and glanced down at his wife’s rapt face. “I am glad that you are not of a swooning disposition, Cat. It must be terribly uncomfortable to have a girl forever falling insensible at inconvenient times, when she is most in need of all her faculties. It is well that you did not swoon when I offered you marriage. It might have put me off my mission.”
Catherine sighed in delight. “I assure you, I felt no inclination to swoon. That was the happiest moment of my life. I should not have liked to miss it because I was insensible.”
Henry smiled and gently touched her chin. “Then I am glad that you did not miss it.”
“It all seems so long ago, and yet we met for the first time just one year ago tonight! Henry, we should go back to Bath someday, present ourselves to Mr. King, and tell him what a successful introduction he made that night.”
“You would like to return to Bath?”
“Oh, yes! I think it would be very pleasant to return to Bath as a married woman. I should not have to worry about sitting out at the balls for lack of a partner.”
“Very well. I will write to my curate and enquire whether his schedule will allow me a fortnight in Bath, which we naturally shall extend to six weeks.”
Catherine’s delight with the scheme could not be expressed in words; fortunately, she needed no words to express that delight as admirably as her husband could desire.
Chapter Two
An Unexpected Meeting
The morning post contained a letter of great import; Henry paused only to issue a particular order to Matthew, and then went to share the news with Catherine.
He found her in the parsonage drawing-room, a very different apartment from that which she had seen on her first visit to Woodston. Fitted up with wallpaper and draperies in various shades of green and elegant new furniture, the room now indeed deserved the encomium of “the prettiest room in the world,” bestowed upon it by its then-future mistress.
Catherine did not immediately notice Henry’s entrance. She lay upon the sofa in an attitude that even the most generous observer might consider unladylike: her chin rested upon her hands, which were crossed over the arm of the sofa, and a slippered foot extended carelessly from a froth of petticoats as she gazed out of one of the big windows towards the little cottage beyond the orchard. She had been reading, but the forgotten book had dropped to the floor, where Ruby Begonia, the terrier most attached to Catherine, slept in a patch of sunlight. Henry wondered what made her smile so; his vanity did not extend to imagining that she was thinking of him.
He said her name; she started, and then laughed. “You have caught me daydreaming!” Ruby Begonia yawned, stretched, and jumped up to run to her master to have her ears scratched.
Catherine made as if to sit up, but he said, “Nay, my sweet, stay as you are. I should hate to lose sight of such a pretty ankle.”
“Henry!” she exclaimed in austere tones as she sat up and arranged her skirts demurely. She was accustomed to his teasing, but not yet to the liberties that a husband might take.
“Well, it is a very pretty ankle; but I suppose your scruples are as they should be. But that is not why I looked for you. The post has just arrived, including a letter from Naughton.” Mr. Naughton was Henry’s curate. They had been fellows together at Oxford until Henry took over the Woodston living. Mr. Naughton was content with the academic life, and had no thought of marriage; however, he had a widowed mother and unmarried sister to help support, and was happy to receive a yearly stipend in return for riding to Woodston on Sundays when the rector could not be present. “He is happy to take Sunday services for as long as necessary, so we are free to pursue our scheme for Bath.”
“Delightful! How soon can we leave?”
“As soon as you can pack your trunks. Matthew is readying the curricle, but I shall procure a chaise to carry us and our luggage.”
Catherine bent to scoop the little terrier into her lap. “May I bring Ruby Begonia?”
“She will be happier here in the country, I think, where there are squirrels and rabbits to chase, but MacGuffin would enjoy a visit to Bath. The waters might do him good; he is looking a trifle gouty lately, do not you think?”
“By all means let us bring MacGuffin. Dove says that he pines when you go away without him. Have my trunks sent up to my dressing-room, and I shall begin packing directly.” With the assistance of Mrs. Dove, the housekeeper, Catherine’s new wedding-clothes were wrapped in tissue and folded into the trunks, and the chaise, loaded with their luggage and a sleepy Newfoundland dog, was ready to carry them to Bath the following morning. Matthew had left at dawn, driving Henry’s curricle, and would be in Bath to receive them.
A pair of pistols, primed and loaded, hung inside the chaise where Henry could easily reach them. The presence of these firearms did not unsettle Catherine in the least; indeed, she experienced a private shiver of delight over the idea of being waylaid by highwaymen. Fortunately for Henry, who had no share in that particular species of delight, the journey was uneventful, and they entered Bath early in the afternoon.
Catherine found the sights, sounds, and smells of the city as overwhelming and delightful as they had been the first time she had entered Bath, and she looked about her with an eager smile, trying to take it all in. Henry watched her with a smile of his own, finding new delights in Bath as seen through his beloved’s eyes. Even MacGuffin caught their excitement and heaved himself to his feet, from which height he could see through the side glasses of the chaise as easily as his master and mistress.
Matthew awaited them at a coaching-inn near the Abbey courtyard, and they were quickly established in a private room. After refreshing himself with hot tea and sandwiches, Henry set out to secure lodgings, and by nightfall the Tilneys were in possession of first-floor lodgings in one of the stately houses of Pulteney-street. The large sitting-room looked down over the street and the wide pavements; there was another room comfortably fitted out as a dining parlor, and a bedchamber with a view over Bathwick. There was a dressing room for each of them, and the maidservant was already unpacking Catherine’s trunk and looking askance at the Newfoundland, who took a quietly polite interest in the proceedings.
“Come away from there, Mac,” said Catherine. “Do not drool on my gowns. Come and lie here on your blanket, there’s a good lad.” She managed to coax him away from the trunks with the help of a good fire in the sitting-room, before which the Newfoundland settled himself peacefully.
“There is a ball at the Lower Rooms tomorrow,” said Henry, who was reading the paper. “I suppose you must visit all the shops before we make our appearance.”
“Oh, no, not all the shops; Papa was so generous with my wedding-clothes that I have plenty to wear.”
Despite such sartorial riches, Catherine did find herself in need of a few indispensible items the next day; and Henry, all good nature, escorted her to Bond-street and Milsom-street, where the best shops in Bath were located.
Catherine noticed Henry look up at the windows of the lodgings he had engaged for his family the previous winter. His expression was inscrutable; he was not a man to brood, but Catherine sensed that Henry’s relationship with General Tilney had none of the easy affection of hers with Mr. Morland.
“Would you have preferred to take lodgings here on Milsom-street?” she asked him.
“No, my sweet; my taste runs to the newer parts of Bath. I would have preferred to take lodgings on P
ulteney-street last year, but General Tilney particularly wanted Milsom-street. Have you everything you need? The time for your public debut of the season approaches.”
They arrived at the Lower Rooms as the minuets were ending. The season was full, and the crowd ringing the dance floor numerous; the last couple retired, and the throng pushed onto the dance floor, forming sets for the country dances to follow. As Henry guided Catherine expertly through the mob, the ebb and flow of humanity brought them suddenly face-to-face with the master of the ceremonies.
“Mr. Tilney!” he cried. “I am delighted that you have returned to Bath, sir. And. . . Miss Morland, is it?”
“You see before you the success of your endeavors, Mr. King,” said Henry. “This is Mrs. Tilney, who was Miss Morland when you introduced me to her last year. I dare say you have made a few matches in your time, and here is one more to add to your list.”
“Indeed I have made a fair few matches,” said Mr. King, “though my exertions are not entirely directed toward such permanent arrangements. I felicitate you, Mr. Tilney; and give you joy, madam. Pray forgive me, but I must give directions to the musicians. The country dances will begin momentarily.”
Henry took Catherine’s hand and led her to one of the sets that were forming. Mr. King announced that the dance would be “Haste to the Wedding,” and the dancers swept into motion as the music began.
“A fitting choice,” said Henry. “This is our first dance as a married couple, Cat. We are proof of the parallel between marriage and a country dance. From the vantage point of being an old married man of nearly two months, I flatter myself that the metaphor holds up admirably. Here we are, at the Lower Rooms, surrounded by other ladies and gentlemen but with no other thought than to dance together — at least for the first two dances.”
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