There Must Be Murder

by Margaret C. Sullivan

  Henry obligingly stood and moved behind her to fasten the chain; if he placed a few kisses on the nape of her neck while he performed this service, I hope the generous reader will not find it wonderful.

  Chapter Seven

  Brittle and Beautiful

  The maidservant brought out trays of fruit and sweetmeats and a decanter of sweet wine and slipped away, leaving them to talk freely.

  “Tell Eleanor and Whiting about your adventure today, Cat,” said Henry.

  Catherine related her tale, which entertained his lordship mightily but left Eleanor frowning. “If my father intends to marry Lady Beauclerk,” she said, “it will not do to have such talk about. And you know Mrs. Findlay will not scruple to repeat it to everyone in Bath.”

  “Consider the positive, my love,” said her husband. “Perhaps if the talk gets about, General Tilney will change his mind about marrying the Merry Widow.”

  “Naturally I wish my father to be happy,” said Eleanor, “but I confess I would rather he found happiness elsewhere.”

  “Indeed,” said Henry. “I am glad that Lady Beauclerk has procured her own box tonight at the theatre, and we need not share it with her traveling circus.”

  “Oh dear,” said Catherine, distressed at Henry’s words. “Sir Philip asked if he could visit me in our box, and I did not quite know what to say — I told him he might do so.”

  “Never mind,” said Lord Whiting. “Those awkward moments always put one at a loss. It would have been better for Beauclerk to wait for an invitation rather than putting himself forward so. Tilney and I will send him to the rightabout, Catherine; your reputation will not be compromised.”

  “My reputation?”

  Henry and his lordship exchanged glances.

  “Beauclerk,” said Henry, “likes to — entertain himself with married women.”

  Catherine turned to Henry with a look of alarm. “You do not think that I — ”

  “Of course not,” said Henry with a smile.

  “I wish you had told me,” said Catherine. “I would not have danced with him last night, even if it meant that I would sit out. Perhaps my reputation is already compromised! And he will be looking for me at the theatre tonight!”

  “As far as things have gone, a few dances at a public assembly, there is no harm done,” said Eleanor.

  Catherine remembered liberties taken by a drunken gallant at the rooms, and thought there had been harm done enough.

  “Beauclerk was named in a divorce last summer,” said his lordship. “Apparently a servant overheard an incriminating conversation.”

  “Mrs. Findlay said he was involved in a criminal conversation in Brighton,” said Catherine.

  “A nasty business, and he refused to marry the lady involved after her husband obtained a divorce, so she was obliged to retire to the country.”

  “How dreadful! I shall not accept any invitations from him in future, to dance or anything else. He was so kind to me! How mistaken I have been.”

  “It is never wrong to respond to kindness with gratitude,” said Henry. “But you need feel no lingering obligation, my sweet.”

  “But if General Tilney should marry Lady Beauclerk, I dare say we shall see a great deal of him.”

  “We shall concern ourselves with that when the happy event occurs.”

  “I hate the idea of that woman in my mother’s place,” said Eleanor with unaccustomed warmth.

  “As do I,” said Henry. “But we have no right to interfere.”

  “But do we have the duty? When she will bring such profligacy into our family?”

  “Your notions of duty have always been very nice, Eleanor,” said Henry. “Were you still unmarried, I would protest, or take you to live at Woodston should the general marry Lady Beauclerk, but as we both are no longer living under his roof, I think we must let him make up his own mind. And I remind you, Eleanor: his mind is not yet made up. It is by no means determined that this marriage will happen.”

  “But in the meantime he makes us the subject of unkind gossip,” said Eleanor. “We must speak to him, Henry. We must convince him that he is pursuing an unwise course.”

  “Not yet,” said her brother. “The General has long military experience and is a wily opponent. A well-led army’s first weapon is good intelligence. We need more information before we plan our campaign.”

  Catherine looked at her husband thoughtfully. Henry spoke lightly, but he seemed to have given the matter a great deal of thought; indeed, one might say he already had conceived a scheme.

  ***

  Lord Whiting’s carriage brought them to the theatre in good time, and they were established in their box before the curtain raised on the first act. Catherine was prepared to enjoy herself, and the comings-and-goings and incessant noise made by those who had no interest in the stage did not interfere in her pleasure.

  Midway through the first act, Lady Beauclerk’s party arrived, including General Tilney and several of Lady Beauclerk’s other suitors; as Henry had pointed out, the general was a wily campaigner, and managed to secure the seat directly next to her ladyship’s. Sir Philip attended his cousin; he caught Catherine’s eye, and bowed and smiled.

  She did not dare to look in his direction again until the intermission; when she looked, he was gone, and she prepared herself to receive his visit.

  Several of Lord Whiting’s friends had joined them, and the box was crowded. When Sir Philip made his appearance, Henry stood and blocked him from entering the box.

  “It is very obliging of you to stop by, Beauclerk,” he was saying, “but you see we are a full house at the moment.”

  Sir Philip looked at Catherine, who sat with her head down, blushing, her eyes fixed upon her fan. “Yes; full indeed. Pray convey my compliments to Mrs. Tilney.”

  “I will be sure to do so.”

  Sir Philip left, and Catherine let out a sigh of relief. Henry sat next to her, and she squeezed his hand gratefully.

  Henry whispered, “All well, Cat?”

  “Yes; thank you for sending him away, Henry. I could not bear his compliments after what I learnt of him today.”

  “If he does not take the hint, a few more repetitions ought to do the trick, unless he is a blockhead, or very much in love with you; for which I cannot fault him.”

  “You always know the right thing to say; and you were so dignified, so completely civil!”

  “I thank you for the compliment, my sweet; and I am always at your service to dispose with your persistent suitors.”

  “I hope you will not have to do so another time.”

  “Alas, I fear I will; it is the price paid when a man takes a pretty wife.”

  Catherine blushed and disclaimed, but her eyes were bright with happiness and affection. Henry could ask nothing more.

  ***

  Catherine hung onto Henry’s arm as they exited the theatre in the crush of merry, chattering humanity all attempting to do the same thing.

  Henry looked around. “I fear we have become separated from Eleanor and Whiting, Cat.” He expertly steered them into a gap, past a couple of stately matrons desperately clutching at the nodding feathers in their hair. “There is no need for you to get tossed about in this crowd,” he said. “Wait here by this column; I will find Whiting’s servant and come back for you.”

  Glad to be out of the tumult, Catherine stood close to the column and watched the ladies, inspecting their gowns for details she might copy for her own wardrobe.

  A familiar voice came from the other side of the column. “Judith, I beg you — ”

  “I must go. My mother will be looking for me.”

  “I can take you away from her oppression forever, my love, my heart! I cannot live without you, Judith! Say you will be mine!”

  Catherine peeked around the column; the lovers proved to indeed be Mr. Shaw and Miss Beauclerk. She listened in spite of herself, because she had never before heard a man who talked so exactly like the hero of a novel.

  �
�I am grateful for the services you have performed for me,” said Miss Beauclerk. “But I find your continued declarations most tiresome in the face of my previous professions on the subject.”

  “Services? You can talk of services? When I would do anything for you, my own heart? When I have done for you — ”

  “Do not speak of it,” said Miss Beauclerk in a low, urgent voice. “Not here.”

  Catherine’s eyes widened in spite of herself. What services could Mr. Shaw have performed that must not be discussed in a public place? Could it be — could Mrs. Findlay’s accusations have merit? Henry and Lord Whiting had laughed at the idea, but —

  “Mrs. Tilney,” said a familiar voice, low and familiar, in her ear. She jumped, startled, and whirled about to see Sir Philip.

  “Oh!” she cried. “You startled me!”

  “Indeed? If so, I beg your pardon, madam. I would not make you feel any discomfort for the world; unlike, I think, some others.”

  Catherine had no idea what he meant, and looked her surprise.

  “Do you not understand me? Ah, you are young; but I saw your blush tonight when your husband prevented me from meeting you. I suspect the apple does not fall far from the tree in the Tilney family.”

  She blushed again, remembering what she had learnt of Sir Philip. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I must go; Henry will be looking for me.”

  “Oh, well, then. I should not like to be the agent of unpleasantness for you. Until another time.” He bowed, and Catherine turned away, confused by his words, only to be startled by Mrs. Findlay’s manservant, clutching a lamp and leading his mistress.

  Mrs. Findlay looked from Catherine’s blushing countenance to Sir Philip and back again, and smiled most unpleasantly. “Oho!” she said. “Caught in the act!”

  “You have caught nothing, ma’am. I wish you good night.” Catherine hastily curtsied and proceeded outside the theatre as quickly as she could through the thinning crowd.

  She met Henry by the door. “What is it?” he said upon seeing her expression.

  “Sir Philip and Mrs. Findlay,” she said. “Please take me home, Henry.”

  “With all possible speed, my sweet.” He put his arm around her waist and swept her through the crowds and into Lord Whiting’s carriage, where his lordship and Eleanor waited to receive her and make her comfortable. Catherine leaned against Henry’s sleeve and sighed.

  “Better now, Cat?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “What is it, Catherine dearest?” asked Eleanor gently.

  “Sir Philip would talk to me, and though I put him off, Mrs. Findlay saw us, and I believe she has drawn the wrong conclusion.”

  “Never mind,” said his lordship. “Everyone must know that Mrs. Findlay’s gossip is nonsense. First, accusations of murder, and now adultery! No one family has so much melodrama in these modern times. No one will pay her any mind.”

  “I hope you are right,” said Catherine. “I overheard Miss Beauclerk and Mr. Shaw talking about services that he performed for her. It sounded most sinister; but I am sure he only meant making up her potion.” She shook her head. “Such nonsense! I liked the play very much. Did not you?”

  His lordship looked chagrined, and Eleanor laughed at him. “You paid no attention to it, did you, my love?”

  “Well, no; but that is not why one goes to the theatre.”

  “Catherine likes a play very well,” said Henry.

  His lordship bowed. “Another time I shall be quiet and let you enjoy it.”

  “I could hear perfectly well, sir; I thank you for inviting me.”

  “I am sorry your evening had a sad end,” said Lord Whiting.

  “To make up for tonight,” said Henry, “Tomorrow we will have our walk. Eleanor, Whiting, will you join us? We thought to walk along the river and up to Beechen Cliff, retracing our steps from last year.”

  They agreed to meet at the pump-room at noon, and Catherine’s evening had a happier ending than she would have thought when she first entered the carriage.

  ***

  At this moment, Emily’s dislike of Count Morano rose to abhorrence. That he should, with undaunted assurance, thus pursue her, notwithstanding all she had expressed on the subject of his addresses, and think, as it was evident he did, that her opinion of him was of no consequence, so long as his pretensions were sanctioned by Montoni, added indignation to the disgust which she had felt towards him. She was somewhat relieved by observing that Montoni was to be of the party, who seated himself on one side of her, while Morano placed himself on the other. There was a pause for some moments as the gondolieri prepared their oars, and Emily trembled from apprehension of the discourse that might follow this silence. At length she collected courage to break it herself, in the hope of preventing fine speeches from Morano, and reproof from Montoni. To some trivial remark which she made, the latter returned a short and disobliging reply; but Morano immediately followed with a general observation, which he contrived to end with a particular compliment, and, though Emily passed it without even the notice of a smile, he was not discouraged.

  “I have been impatient,” said he, addressing Emily, “to express my gratitude; to thank you for your goodness; but I must also thank Signor Montoni, who has allowed me this opportunity of doing so.”

  Emily regarded the Count with a look of mingled astonishment and displeasure.

  “Why,” continued he, “should you wish to diminish the delight of this moment by that air of cruel reserve? — Why seek to throw me again into the perplexities of doubt, by teaching your eyes to contradict the kindness of your late declaration? You cannot doubt the sincerity, the ardour of my passion; it is therefore unnecessary, charming Emily! surely unnecessary, any longer to attempt a disguise of your sentiments.”

  “If I ever had disguised them, sir,” said Emily, with recollected spirit, “it would certainly be unnecessary any longer to do so. I had hoped, sir, that you would have spared me any farther necessity of alluding to them; but, since you do not grant this, hear me declare, and for the last time, that your perseverance has deprived you even of the esteem, which I was inclined to believe you merited.”

  Catherine sat up. “Henry, please read that again,” she said.

  “Which part?”

  “Emily’s last part.”

  “Very well,” said Henry, and repeated the last paragraph.

  “That is very good,” said Catherine. “It is just the thing for me to say to Sir Philip when you are not there, do not you think?”

  Henry looked at her, his brow creased. “Did Beauclerk impose upon you?”

  “Oh, no! But I think he has formed a — a wrong idea. I just need to explain it to him. Do not you think that is a good way to say it?”

  “The meaning could not be clearer.”

  “Let me see the book.” She took the volume and read it over several times, repeating it aloud. She handed the book back to Henry. “Will you hear me recite?”

  “With pleasure.”

  “Sir Philip,” said Catherine solemnly, “Hear me declare, and for the last time, that your perseverance has deprived you even of the esteem which I was inclined to believe you merited.”

  “Full marks. You make an excellent pupil, my sweet.”

  Catherine laid her head upon his shoulder with a happy sigh. “Now I shall not be at a loss if he makes me uncomfortable again. I shall say to myself, ‘What would Emily do?’ and I shall have my guide.”

  “You would be better guided by your own good sense, Cat. There is more worth here,” touching her head gently, “and here,” brushing his fingers over her heart, “than in all of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, charming as they are.” He lifted her chin gently with a finger and kissed her.

  “Oh, Henry,” said Catherine with a sigh. “I do not want to think about Sir Philip any more.”

  “I am very glad to hear it.” He reached out to extinguish the candle.

  Chapter Eight

  Most Alarming Adventuresr />
  Catherine prepared for church the next morning with a lingering expectation that the expedition to Beechen Cliff would be put off by some emergency; the general requiring his son’s company, or a summons from the Beauclerks that could not be ignored. Indeed there was almost a delay, as Eleanor wished to call briefly in Laura-place to leave a receipt for rosewater cold cream in which Lady Beauclerk had expressed an interest.

  “Matthew can take the note to her ladyship,” said Henry, and Eleanor, who did not relish that duty, was happy enough to surrender it. Catherine thought she saw a significant look pass between Henry and Matthew as the note was handed over, but it was soon forgotten in a flutter of anticipatory pleasure. The charm of a country walk with Henry had not abated upon her marriage, and Catherine was as happy as she had been during a similar walk a year earlier; it could be argued she was even happier, as she now had the right to take Henry’s arm and walk beside him, talk to him and be the first object of his interest; a state which Henry enjoyed no less than she.

  Most of Bath was promenading upon the Royal Crescent, and they were nearly alone by the river, so Henry let MacGuffin off the leash. In his delight at being outside and unrestrained, the Newfoundland reverted to rather puppyish behavior, cavorting along the edge of the river and chasing some mallards who lounged on the bank.

  The mallards, indignant at their Sunday repose being spoiled, squawked and flapped their wings at MacGuffin; undaunted, he barked and teased them, challenging them to a game they had no desire to play, ending it by the simple expedient of entering the river and swimming away. MacGuffin stood on the riverbank, barking after them; there was a splash, and MacGuffin was in the river, swimming after the ducks.

  “I suspected he would end up in the water,” said Henry, not at all disturbed by his pet’s behavior.

  “Oh! Henry! Get him out!” cried his sister. “Will he not drown?”

  “Newfoundlands are famous swimmers, Eleanor. I have trained Mac to retrieve in the pond at home.”