There Must Be Murder

by Margaret C. Sullivan

  Such an unremarkable young man — and yet so completely capable of gaining access to Lady Beauclerk’s house and the confidence of her servant! Mr. Shaw, for instance, could not have done such a thing. His first concern was himself, his own wishes and concerns, and he was not able to put those aside for duty. No wonder he worked for a vulgar apothecary, while Matthew had a comfortable, if not prominent, place at Woodston parsonage, where his singular skills were valued.

  Such skills were not commonplace; yet how had someone like Matthew acquired them? Immediately a romantic past for Matthew sprung up in her imagination: perhaps he was a younger son from a great family, now fallen on hard times, or perhaps his mother had died and his father remarried to a cruel woman who would not allow him to assist his own children. Young Matthew, forced from his far-flung, retired home, had learned woodcraft for survival; thus his general reserve and silent movement. During a snowstorm, he was forced to ask for shelter at a country parsonage (a comfortable yet unpretending place, rather like Woodston), and the kind rector had taken in the orphan and given him the final polish on his education. Catherine smiled over her sewing, lost in dreams of romance and adventure.

  Her solitude was broken by the little maidservant coming in with a note. Catherine did not recognize the handwriting; she broke open the wafer and read.

  You have not been asking the right questions. If you wish to know all about the murder of Sir Arthur Beauclerk, go outside now. All will be explained.

  The note was unsigned.

  What had Henry just said about a mysterious, unsigned note? “Beware getting too close to the truth. Next you will receive a mysterious unsigned note warning you off, and any heroine worth her smelling salts cannot resist such a challenge.” Her mind swirled with possibilities: Lady Beauclerk, weary at a lifetime of harsh treatment; Miss Beauclerk, resisting overbearing parental authority with the help of a besotted apothecary; Sir Philip, desperate to keep his uncle from changing his will; Mrs. Findlay herself, attempting to set into action a cunningly planned series of events. It was just like a book! Though Catherine’s disposition was mostly quite unheroic, when presented with such a delicious adventure, what heroine could resist?

  She went to the window and peered down onto Pulteney-street, looking for lurking figures; the darkness was almost full, and a fog swirled off the river, making it impossible to see anything. Catherine hesitated, then decided; someone was trying to tell her something, and she must know what happened. She threw a shawl about her shoulders and went downstairs.

  She opened the door and peered outside; she saw no one. She took one step, then another, down the short path that crossed over the vaults below; as she drew close to the iron archway that marked the edge of the pavement, a hand reached out of the fog and seized her wrist. “You come with me now,” said a voice, and bore her inexorably away before she could breathe a word.

  Chapter Ten

  The Shades of Udolpho

  The ruthless grip on her arm propelled Catherine down the pavement. In the swirling fog, she could not see where she was being taken or even identify her captor. One of Mrs. Radcliffe’s heroines might have swooned at such a moment, but Catherine had no idea of doing so.

  “Who are you?” she demanded. “Let me go! Where are you taking me?”

  Her abductor stopped and turned. A face came leering at her out of the mist; instinctively she raised her hand and prepared to cry out. . .

  ***

  MacGuffin’s coat gleamed; all traces of mud and the Avon had been removed, and he was once again a pampered house pet rather than the wild-looking creature of nature he had been only a little while earlier. MacGuffin had no vanity, but he enjoyed the sensation of being brushed and the attention he received from his master, and wagged his tail gratefully.

  Henry attempted to brush away some of the hair that had traveled from the dog to his own coat, but it soon proved a hopeless business.

  “Matthew,” he said, “another time, remind me to take off my coat before brushing Mac.”

  “Yes, Mr. Tilney,” said Matthew, who had done precisely that on the present occasion, but had not been heeded.

  “Come along, Mac,” said Henry.

  MacGuffin followed him very willingly upstairs, where, he knew, there would be scraps from his family’s evening meal and a warm fire to lie beside. He trotted ahead of his master in the entrance hallway and stopped to sniff at the door, which stood ajar.

  Henry looked outside, and saw nothing but swirling fog; he wondered for a moment, and then shut the door. He went up the stairs to the drawing room, MacGuffin close behind.

  “I think we must speak with the landlady, Cat,” said Henry as he entered the drawing room. “One of the servants left the door ajar — ” He stopped as he realized that Catherine was not in the room. “Cat?” he called out, thinking she must have stepped into their bedchamber. There was no answer. “Catherine?” he called, not alarmed, but curious as to where she might be.

  He noticed an unfolded letter abandoned on the table with Catherine’s sewing, which showed signs of hasty abandonment. He was not the sort of man who read his wife’s correspondence without permission; but it was lying open on the table where anyone might see it; and combined with Catherine’s absence and the state of the shirt she was making for him, he thought the note might contain news of a distressing nature that would require some sort of husbandly comfort, so he picked it up and read it.

  “Cat?” he called again when he had finished. “My sweet?” Now there was a note of alarm in his voice. “Catherine!” He strode from room to room, searching for her. There were not many rooms to search. He ran down the stairs, MacGuffin at his heels.

  He knocked on the door of the ground floor apartment that the landlady occupied. “Ma’am,” he said as soon as the door opened, “is Mrs. Tilney here, by any chance?”

  “No, sir,” said the landlady. “I have not seen her since you returned from your walk.”

  MacGuffin went to the door, pawed it gently, and let out a little groan.

  “Hush, lad,” said Henry. MacGuffin sat down, his nose pressed against the crack between the door and the jamb.

  Matthew came through the door that led to the stairs from the kitchens at that moment. Henry handed him the letter. “Do you know what this could be about?”

  Matthew read the note quickly and shook his head. “No, sir; I do not recognize the handwriting.”

  MacGuffin pawed at the door again, whimpering. Matthew snapped his fingers, and the dog looked around alertly, but did not move away from the door.

  “When I came upstairs, the front door stood ajar,” said Henry quietly. “I believe Mrs. Tilney has gone out to meet whomever wrote this note. She has such faith in the essential goodness of man — perhaps too much. I want you to — ”

  His words were cut off by MacGuffin, who stood and barked at the door repeatedly. When they looked at him, he wagged his tail and whined, pushing his nose against the door.

  Matthew and Henry exchanged a look.

  “Get his lead,” said Henry, and Matthew returned with not only the lead but also a lantern and two loaded pistols. He handed one of the pistols to Henry, who raised his eyebrows.

  “I hope we will not find them needful, sir,” said Matthew, “but in my experience it is best to be prepared for all eventualities.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Henry. He thrust the pistol in his pocket, slipped the lead over MacGuffin’s head, opened the door, and said in an urgent voice, “Find her, Mac. Find Catherine.” MacGuffin pulled him out into the fog, with Matthew following close behind.

  ***

  The cry died in Catherine’s throat; she dropped her hand and peered at the face before her. “You — I know you,” she said.

  The man grinned, revealing several missing front teeth, and nodded vigorously. “How d’ye do, miss,” he said. “Mistress is wishful to talk with ye. Bring miss, she said, so I be bringin’ ye, see?”

  “You are Mrs. Findlay’s man,”
said Catherine.

  “Aye, aye,” he said, grinning and nodding.

  “She wants to talk to me? Why did she not simply send up her card? I would have been happy to see her.”

  The elderly servant placed a finger over his lips. “Shh,” he said, looking around and then leaning close to her. “’Tis a secret, miss. You come with Barney now, miss.” He turned and pulled her behind him, around a corner to one of the little streets that extended off Pulteney-street. Catherine let him; he seemed harmless enough, though quite odd.

  Barney brought her to a chaise stopped by the pavement. He rapped on the door, which opened. “You go in, miss,” he said.

  Catherine was a great deal too well-read to climb into an unknown carriage so trustingly. “Mrs. Findlay?” she called. “Are you in there, ma’am?”

  “Hush, you silly girl,” said Mrs. Findlay, leaning out of the chaise. “All of Bath can hear you. I know things that in the wrong hands could — well, get in.”

  Reassured, Catherine climbed into the chaise, and Barney shut the door behind her.

  The little moonlight that penetrated the fog cast harsh shadows across Mrs. Findlay’s face, giving her a mysterious appearance. Catherine swallowed. “You — you said in your note that you had news of — of — ”

  “My brother’s murderer. Yes.” She leaned forward. “I have a warning for you.”

  Catherine held her breath.

  “I saw you with my nephew at the theatre,” she said. “He is like his father, a wastrel and a libertine. I know we live in a degenerate age, when young women no longer cleave to their husbands — ”

  “Oh, no, ma’am,” cried Catherine eagerly, “you are mistaken! Sir Philip and I are not — that is — Henry is my husband.”

  “Oh, yes, I know how it is with young people these days.” She wagged a finger accusingly. “But it is none of my concern. You just should know that when Philip wants to be rid of you, he might do the same thing he did to my poor brother.”

  “Ma’am, are you suggesting that Sir Philip killed Sir Arthur?”

  “Suggesting? I know it, ma’am.”

  “But why would he do such a thing?”

  “My brother was about to disinherit him.”

  “Sir Arthur told you so?”

  “My brother did not need to tell me! He knew that I knew what must be done to preserve the good name of the Beauclerks.” She leaned forward and spoke in a confidential tone. “You know the provisions of my brother’s will; your husband’s man got it from that silly maidservant.” Catherine’s face must have registered her surprise, for she said with smug satisfaction, “I have my spies in that house, too. Very clever of your husband to introduce the young man; I knew then that you would be the very person with whom I should share my theory, should — ” she held her handkerchief to her mouth for a moment — “should anything happen to me.”

  “But, ma’am, with respect — is it not possible that Sir Arthur had no intention of disinheriting his nephew? Especially since the provisions of his will ensured that his money would stay in his immediate family.”

  “My brother was a good man, a moral man, Mrs. Tilney, but he had one weakness: his wife. He countenanced her extravangances, and let her teach her worldly ways to his daughter. The right thing would have been to disinherit Philip after he disgraced the family at Brighton, but instead Arthur provided for his daughter so she should no longer be a spinster on the shelf, an embarrassment to her family. And a good thing too, for what might she have got up to with that apothecary of hers?”

  “I do not think that Miss Beauclerk has any intention of marrying Mr. Shaw.”

  “Marry him? Oh, no! But where do you think Philip got the poison that he used to murder my brother?”

  “Sir Philip poisoned his uncle?”

  “Yes, ma’am; with the connivance of my sister and my niece.” Her face took on a dreamy expression. “A slow poison was administered, and he fell a victim to the jealousy and subtlety of — of a woman.”

  Mrs. Findlay’s words struck a chord with Catherine. Where had she heard them before? But she had no time to think of it. Confused and doubtful, she tried to imagine the vivacious, fluttering Miss Beauclerk convincing her lover to give her sufficient poison to murder her own father; certainly, Mr. Shaw had provided her with arsenic; but then, gleaming like the light thrown from a welcoming doorway on a moonless night, she found a flaw in Mrs. Findlay’s theory. “But ma’am, Miss Beauclerk has received poison from the apothecary quite recently. He brought it to the theatre last night. I overheard them speaking.”

  Mrs. Findlay’s eyes gleamed. “I knew it! My sister-in-law will soon learn the wages of sin when her own daughter turns on her! She will be next to die, and then my niece and nephew will be free to take my brother’s money and do what they like!”

  “Ma’am, you go too far!”

  “Do I, Mrs. Tilney?” She grew dreamy again. “The moment of Lady Beauclerk’s triumph, the moment to which she looked forward for the completion of all her wishes, will prove only the commencement of suffering, that never will leave her to her dying hour.”

  “Laurentini!” cried Catherine. “‘The moment of Laurentini’s triumph’! I remember now where I have heard this before — Mrs. Findlay, you read Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels!”

  “Novels? I never read novels, ma’am.”

  “You must — you do! That is from Udolpho! ‘A slow poison was administered, and she fell a victim to the jealousy and subtlety of Laurentini.’ Ma’am, you have been reading horrid novels, and imagining plots where there are none!” Catherine’s face grew warm even in the dark cold of the chaise, remembering a time when she had done the same thing.

  “I, imagine? I imagine nothing.”

  Suddenly, there was a scratching noise at the door of the chaise, and they both jumped a little. Raised voices could be heard outside. “It is they!” cried Mrs. Findlay. “They have sent brigands to apprehend me! Oh, where is that wretched Barney?” She raised the blind; something like a masked face was pressed hazily against the glass, and a loud knocking sounded. Mrs. Findlay screamed and swooned, very much like one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s heroines, a comparison that no doubt would have given her great pleasure.

  “Mac!” cried Catherine joyously, recognizing the countenance of her Newfoundland pressed against the glass and smearing it with his saliva. “Ma’am, it is my dog — please rouse yourself!” She opened the chaise door. “Henry, is that you? I need assistance — where is Barney?”

  Henry’s face appeared in the doorway. “Is that you, Cat? Are you well?”

  “I am very well, but Mrs. Findlay has fainted, and I have not my reticule or salts.”

  Mrs. Findlay uttered a little moan.

  “Well, she seems to be coming round,” said Henry, “and I would take you home — you’ve no coat, and it’s quite cold and damp. Come along, and let — Barney, is it? — take care of his mistress.”

  “Aye, miss,” said Barney, “I take care of the mistress now. Ye go home, miss.”

  Catherine climbed down eagerly and let Barney climb in. She hesitated at the open chaise door. “Can you look after her, Barney?”

  “Aye, miss, I will rouse her, and then take her home. Go and have your tea, miss.”

  Henry put up the steps and shut the chaise door, and they set out along the pavement, MacGuffin and Matthew leading the way with the lantern and Henry and Catherine further back.

  “Are you warm enough?” said Henry.

  “Yes, I have my shawl. Where are we?”

  “Just around the corner from our lodgings. You did not get far on your little adventure, and Mac took us right to you. An unsigned note, Cat! I can see why you were tempted to meet with the sender, but I wish another time you would tell me first.”

  “I did not intend to meet anyone. I only wanted to see who had sent the note, and Barney pulled me down the pavement to his mistress’ carriage before I knew what I was about. He is a very odd sort of servant. I am sorry if I worried you,
Henry.”

  His arm around her tightened. “Only for a few moments. I take it Mrs. Findlay wanted a private audience? Would she not send up her card?”

  “She wanted to be secret. She thinks they are plotting against her — oh, Henry! She thinks that Lady Beauclerk, Miss Beauclerk, and Sir Philip conspired to poison Sir Arthur!”

  “Indeed?”

  “But it is all from horrid novels. She reads Mrs. Radcliffe, and imposed Signora Laurentini’s plot against the Marchioness of Villeroi onto her brother’s situation.” Henry made a noise like a cough, and Catherine looked at him suspiciously. “You should not laugh. It is very wicked to make such accusations upon no evidence. And to think I almost believed her!” She was silent for a moment. “My own imaginings last year were just as wicked.”

  “It was not quite the same thing, Cat. As you said, you made no public accusations, and you never truly believed Mrs. Findlay.”

  “My thoughts were bad enough.”

  They had reached the lodgings, and Matthew opened the door. “I will have your dinner sent right up, sir, ma’am,” he said, and disappeared into the back of the house with MacGuffin.

  Henry and Catherine ascended the stairs to their rooms, and Catherine immediately went shivering to the fire.

  “You were cold,” said Henry. He brought her shawl and wrapped her in it warmly, then put his arms around her and kissed her on the top of the head. “Better, my sweet?”

  “Yes.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “What is this?” Her hands found the pistol in his coat pocket.

  Henry removed the pistol and placed it on the table. “Matthew is a cautious sort of fellow. He gave me this before we set out to look for you.”

  Catherine bowed her head and huddled into her shawl. “It was very stupid of me to go looking for the person who wrote that note; it could have been anyone! When will I learn to think things through? Mamma is right; I am a sad, shatterbrained simpleton.”