Death Is the Cure

by Slade, Nicola

‘To my delight I received notice that yet another person who was sought by a different client would also, as it happened, be visiting Waterloo House, so I have great hopes of killing two birds with one stone, as the saying goes, at the cost of one set of expenses.’ He smiled at her and she realized that she was softening towards him. It was hard not to be disarmed; after all he had, as he had told her, recognized her own good qualities.

  ‘As an example of the way I work,’ he told her. ‘I sent detailed information as well as descriptions, where I possessed such knowledge, of everyone staying at Waterloo House, or expected in the period of my visit, to my office in London and have already received some most intriguing snippets of information about our fellow guests. Yes, my dear Mrs Richmond’ – his tone took on a teasing amusement – ‘even you and your invalid companion have come under our scrutiny when I heard that your arrival was anticipated, and you will, I am sure, be glad to hear that there is “nothing known” against either the beautiful young widow or the equally beautiful invalid lady.’

  Charlotte was grateful that Mr Tibbins did not appear to expect a response to his jocular remarks as her heart was pounding so loudly she knew she could not speak. He turned to her once more.

  ‘Will you not consider my proposition, Mrs Richmond? I believe you would enjoy life working confidentially as one of my sub-agents, financed to travel the world in style, in pursuit of intelligence for clients and reporting to me. For example, in my present concern here in Bath, money is not a consideration and criminal activity is not, thankfully for my own profit, confined to the so-called criminal classes.’

  This most unexpected interview had taken up a scant three-quarters of an hour since the incident with the cart but Charlotte felt as though several hours had passed and she felt overwhelmed by this encounter. She shook her head and he shrugged, but as she was about to bow in farewell, an outrageous idea struck her.

  ‘I am content with the life I have,’ she told him, ‘but I wonder if you would be willing to undertake a very small commission for me while you are in Bath?’

  He looked astonished, but when she explained about her search for the history of her ‘friend’ he cocked his head and surveyed her with bright intelligent little eyes.

  ‘For you, Mrs Richmond,’ he said lightly. ‘I’ll do it. It’s not my usual line of work, but it’ll take me right back to my early days as a Runner.’

  She furnished him with the few details in her possession and after some discussion he shook her hand, adding, ‘I shall live in hope, dear lady, that you will change your mind for I believe that we could do business together. My agents need to be intelligent, observant and discreet and a particular requirement is that they should be fluent in the French language.’

  He broke off and laughed at her, but not unkindly. ‘Au revoir, madame,’ he nodded, smiling broadly at the dismay on her face as she realized that a few minutes earlier he had slipped into speaking French and that she replied, unnoticing, in the same tongue, as a matter of courtesy.

  The guests of Waterloo House gathered as was their custom for a glass of sherry served in Mrs Montgomery’s dainty little crystal glasses. Charlotte was a trifle surprised when she first saw them; surely, she thought, they must have been a bequest from some relative and therefore too precious to use.

  ‘How kind of you to admire them, Mrs Richmond.’ Mrs Montgomery looked gratified. ‘I could never, of course, allow anyone to use the twist stemmed thistle glasses left to me by Mrs Hamish McDonald, my second cousin once removed. Those were the very glasses used by her grandfather shortly before he was hanged, drawn and quartered after the Jacobite rebellion, in an unfortunate mix-up as he should, of course, have been beheaded, being a gentleman. He used to toast ‘The King Across the Water’ with those very glasses. Do take a look at them – through the glass, of course, they are not to be touched – there in my Sheraton cabinet that came to me from dear Lady Cumbernauld.’

  ‘Ah, the prince, the Young Chevalier himself – Bonny Prince Charlie as he was known to his admirers.’ Mr Chettle elbowed his way into the conversation, planting himself firmly between Charlotte and Mrs Montgomery who, however, thwarted his intention by removing herself to the other side of the drawing room and urging more of her guests to take a glass of sherry. ‘Yes, indeed. Why, I visited the memorial to the late Stuart princes only this spring when I was in Rome.’ He pinned Charlotte firmly to the spot by his eager gaze, the better to commence his lecture. ‘The memorial is, as you may not know, dear Mrs Richmond, situated in the Basilica of St Peter, and takes the form of a truncated obelisk, made in marble by the celebrated sculptor, Canova. It is a sad spot; a place of reflection, to make even the most loyal subjects of Her Majesty ponder on the melancholy history of those unfortunate exiled royal gentlemen—’

  ‘Exiled royalty? Spongers one and all,’ broke in a sharply decided voice, startling Charlotte and causing even Mr Chettle to abandon his lecture as they turned to stare at the newcomer.

  ‘I have encountered many exiles,’ pronounced the elderly lady who stood in the doorway to the drawing room. ‘Exiled kings, queens, princes, duchesses, counts, barons and the like and I tell you frankly, not one of them had two ha’pennies to rub together and every one of them was glad to trade his illustrious presence at a party in return for a square meal, a glass or two of champagne, and a bit of bowing and scraping.’

  Charlotte had to bite her lip as she observed the effect of the lady on the assembled guests. Small of stature and, in spite of her immaculate paint and powder, probably not far short of her allotted three score years and ten, the new guest presented a figure of astonishing elegance. Her crinoline of dull gold silk was wide and swaying, though she cast a startled and disdainful glance at the only too similar gold of Mrs Montgomery’s furnishings, and the shawl draped over her arms bore a lustrous gleam that spoke eloquently of money. She wore emeralds in her ears, at her throat and on her fingers and in the beautifully dressed hair, the improbable golden colour of which matched her dress as closely as the emeralds matched her eyes.

  Mrs Montgomery rushed forward to greet her latest guest, Lady Buckwell, and marshalled everyone into a line so that she could present them all. Charlotte was further amused to see that both Captain Penbury and Mr Chettle bowed low over the lady’s hand in due deference to her force of character. When it came to the de Kersacs’ turn to be presented the elder count bowed and smiled as he raised the lady’s hand to his lips.

  ‘I must endorse your remarks, madame.’ He nodded with a slight smile as he met Charlotte’s amused grin. ‘That is a stern but sadly only too accurate description of many exiles I have encountered. But you need have no fear of us, my lady, my son and I are merely visitors to these shores, for the purpose of taking the waters in Bath and will be returning home long before we can have need of trespassing on your goodwill.’

  ‘And yet …’ The interruption came in the voice of the surprising Mr Tibbins and tonight the note that always struck Charlotte as knowing and arch and with its constant hint of secrets known and relished was particularly pronounced as he surveyed the company with a lurking hint of amusement in his small, shrewd eyes. ‘And yet, in many ways it could be said that we are all exiles here, are we not, Count? Even those fortunate enough to have been born upon the shores of this blessed isle, could be termed in exile from past lives, past loves, past hopes and dreams, is that not true? Remember the words of Psalm 137: By the rivers of Babylon … we wept when we remembered Zion. What do we think of, I wonder, when we ourselves remember Zion?’

  The old Breton gentleman stiffened and turned away without comment while Charlotte jerked her head up to stare at the detective. Exiles? That’s certainly true of me, she told herself. Not only am I an exile from my homeland, but I am exiled from my past, from Ma and Will and everything that made me what and who I am. Is that what the psalm is about? Loneliness – and remembering?

  When it came to Charlotte’s turn to make her curtsy she had composed herself and looked with fr
ank interest at the older woman, and with a puzzled impression that they had met before. No recollection sprang immediately to mind and she was about to relinquish her place when Lady Buckwell, who had returned Charlotte’s stare with a puzzled frown of her own, clutched at her arm in sudden distress, a weakness which she hastily masked.

  ‘What is it, ma’am?’ Charlotte asked in a low voice. ‘May I help you to a chair?’

  ‘No, no, it’s nothing,’ came the reply in an irritated tone, then she stared again at the tall, dark-haired young woman in front of her. ‘No.’ She shook her head decisively then continued in an undertone, ‘You – there was a momentary expression – I was reminded of someone, that’s all. Someone from another time, another world.’

  ‘Lady Buckwell kept us all entertained at dinner,’ Charlotte told Elaine next morning before going down to breakfast. ‘I’m sure some of the guests believed her to be romancing when she told tales of scandalous goings-on at foreign courts, but there was a reminiscent gleam in her eye that suggested it could all be true. She’s a splendidly unembarrassed lady and I was amused to watch her reeling in all the gentlemen.’

  ‘What? Surely not your admirer too, Char?’ Elaine lifted a laughing face as Jackson plaited and pinned up her flaxen hair.

  ‘I’m afraid so. Even Count Armel is a little in her thrall.’ Charlotte heaved a mock sigh. ‘The other two ladies present were rather less inclined to take her at face value, though of course Mrs Montgomery is obliged to pin a pleasant smile on her face at all times, however outrageous her guests’ behaviour. I could see she was biting her tongue and as for Mrs Attwell, the parson’s mother, she positively simmered with rage which she suppressed, fortunately. I gather from the few remarks she has addressed in my direction that she and her son are very Low Church and of a puritanical persuasion and they both seem constantly on the brink of an explosion of rage, so bad temper must run in the family. I thought she should explode in horror when her ladyship casually dropped into the conversation a mention of the Prince Regent, an unmentionable undergarment, and an adventure with some gypsies. I was so glad you were not present else I should have disgraced myself and as it was I was obliged to conceal an outbreak of giggles.’

  ‘You are rather taken with this naughty old lady, are you not, Charlotte?’ Elaine was now arranged in a comfortable chair to await her breakfast. ‘I think you like her.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Charlotte confessed. ‘Though within limits. She has a very merry twinkle and a spicy tongue, but I suspect she would be the very last person one would wish to trust, or to turn to for help.’

  There was no sign of Lady Buckwell in the breakfast-room. No, thought Charlotte; I imagine it takes a long time for her to be arrayed in costume, painted and powdered and bewigged and fit to tackle the world. Breakfast was not yet being served, but she took her seat and watched idly as Mr Tibbins engaged Mr Chettle in close conversation. There could be no mistake, she realized: her neighbour from Finchbourne was growing heated and angry although the detective’s urbane expression did not alter. With a farewell she could not hear he turned away, only to waylay Captain Penbury with precisely the same effect. Both gentlemen looked furious yet apprehensive and if looks could kill, she considered, their tormentor would be doubly dead.

  Since their shared adventure and the subsequent surprising and revealing conversation of the day before, Mr Tibbins had, thankfully, let her alone, merely smiling and whispering at teatime that he had already made considerable progress regarding what he archly called his ‘latest case’ on her behalf. She was grateful for his forbearance as she was still shaken, not simply by the physical danger she had endured but by the way he had ensnared her into speaking French. My own fault too, she fretted, but thank the Lord he still seems kindly disposed to me. I wonder what it is that he has discovered about Ma? If indeed he has really found anything at all.

  As the guests assembled at the table Charlotte observed that there were tiny folded notes on the plates in front of Mrs Attwell and of the old Count de Kersac. She was also aware that Mrs Montgomery took her place at the head of the table as if she were later due to climb into a tumbril, whisked something small and white from her plate, and that her eyes swivelled round to cast a frightened glance at the apparently unconscious Mr Tibbins.

  The footman helped Charlotte to a fillet of sole and when she looked up from her plate she saw that Mrs Attwell looked grey with a pinched look about her tightly folded lips. The note had vanished. Aglance at old M. de Kersac showed Charlotte that he had opened his own note and that he seemed almost paralysed as he read it. Anxiously she turned to offer assistance but he shook his head and crumpled the note in his hand, then put it into his coat pocket.

  Sensitive to his distress, Charlotte bent her head to her breakfast and accepted a second slice of bread and butter that she did not really want, so that he need not engage her in conversation, but all the time she was thinking furiously.

  For a brief moment the single word on the old man’s letter had been clearly visible to her. It had read: Monseigneur, a title which, as Charlotte was aware through her godmother’s dictates regarding social matters, could be applied in equal measure to a prince or a prelate.

  She slid a sidelong glance at the elderly man beside her, now drinking a cup of chocolate with apparent unconcern. Prince? There were certainly princes again in France, she supposed, but why travel incognito? The days of the Terror were long gone and the aristocracy fêted nowadays. Besides – a quiet farmer from the far west coast of Brittany? Surely not, but that left the alternative, assuming the note – from Mr Tibbins she was convinced, it smacked of his mischievous style – had addressed him correctly. I had him down at something around eighty, she mused thoughtfully. Could he be older? An ordained priest even before the Revolution? But Monseigneur indicated a high-ranking churchman so had his evidently aristocratic blood perhaps ensured a rapid rise into the Church hierarchy? After Napoleon had taken control, France had settled into a semblance of normality – Charlotte recalled her occasional history lessons delivered when Lady Meg was in tutorial mood. The count could have been ordained and risen in the Church quite easily then. But Monseigneur? Could he have risen to the top? Might he be a renegade Catholic cardinal? A renegade cardinal who was now accompanied by an entirely unsuitable son and granddaughter?

  How ridiculous. She stared unseeing at her plate, a frown of exasperation creasing her brow. It is far more likely that it is some silly joke of Mr Tibbins’s if indeed it was he who left those notes in the first place. Princes and prelates indeed.

  Her speculation was interrupted by the appearance of some letters on a silver tray which was placed in front of Mrs Montgomery.

  ‘Good gracious, Mrs Richmond.’ She fluttered in Charlotte’s direction. ‘Here is a request for rooms for two of your friends, or could they possibly be family members, I wonder? At any rate, Mr Barnard Richmond requests rooms for Miss Benson and Miss Dunwoody who will arrive today. He states that a letter from him is on its way to you, Mrs Richmond.’

  Before she could assimilate the disaster about to befall her, Charlotte’s attention was attracted by the detective from Pinkerton’s Agency who stood up, laying his napkin on his plate and bowing to the ladies, and directed a significant glance in her own direction as he spoke.

  ‘I must beg your pardon, Mrs Montgomery and ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘But time and tide wait for no man, as the saying goes, and I must be about my business. Pray excuse me, I must bid you good morning.’

  Obedient to his casually lifted eyebrow Charlotte made her own excuses and followed him unobtrusively from the room. He met her in the entrance hall where he was yet again admiring his reflection in the looking-glass.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said, with an approving nod. ‘By George, Mrs Richmond, I’ll recruit you yet as one of my agents. I’ve seldom met with a more intelligent pupil.’ He laughed out loud at her confusion and continued in a quieter tone, ‘I have been busy about your business, my dear yo
ung lady. I put out feelers immediately after our conversation of yesterday and by late last evening I had the answer you seek.’

  ‘Already?’ Charlotte was startled and a little apprehensive. ‘Good heavens!’

  ‘Indeed,’ he said with some satisfaction. ‘I work quickly. My enquiries led me to an interview with an invalid lady who resides in the city. Apparently she was employed at the period in question, as an under-nurse in a small charitable institution run privately by a Quaker gentleman and is adamant that she remembers the child you named as Molly Wesley.’

  At her shocked gasp he raised an eyebrow and shot her a shrewd glance, but made no comment, simply continuing his report. ‘Here is the lady’s name and address,’ he said, handing her a piece of paper. ‘If you wish to observe her unaware, I can tell you that every weekday she is wheeled round the city in a bath chair. She takes the same route every day between three and four o’clock in the afternoon and has done so for a year or two. You may be interested to learn that her journey takes her past Waterloo House at precisely a quarter past three o’clock every day.’

  He shook his head as she tried to offer him a fee, laughing frankly at her. ‘Indeed no, Mrs Richmond. Accept this small office as a pourboire, an incentive to changing your mind. And do not hesitate to visit this woman for she is expecting you.’

  As she nodded her thanks she was reminded of something and the question sprang to her lips. ‘Did you leave those little notes at the breakfast table?’ she asked abruptly.

  ‘Again you prove your mettle, dear lady.’ He smiled his approval. ‘That is an old trick, a lesson for you in how to unsettle the opposition. No need for elaborate subterfuges, a mere word, a hint in the right ear or under the right nose can prove most effective in eliciting the outcome that is desired.’ His smile was wry as he went on, ‘I must confess that I have only two cases on hand at Waterloo House, though I believe a third is in the offing. However, I have found it impossible to resist a little teasing; you will recall that I mentioned my habit of checking up on anyone I meet? Sometimes, as in the present instance, my researches bring me hints of indiscretions that are not my concern.’