A polite but chilly nod was her only response so Charlotte half turned away then spun back on her heel as she overheard Mrs Montgomery resume the conversation she had broken off to greet her tardy guest.
‘Oh yes, Mrs Attwell,’ she said, with a much warmer note to her voice. ‘That is a most interesting little writing desk. It was a gift to my late grandmother from her younger brother and if you open up the lid you will observe a large blot of ink. To an uninitiated observer that might appear to be a disfigurement but it is not so. In my family history it is a mark of great significance, commemorating as it does the moment when my grandmother heard of her brother’s unfortunate demise at Waterloo. She was in the very act of writing to him, you see, and the grievous shock at hearing the news caused her to upturn her ink bottle.’ Mrs Montgomery smiled with manifest satisfaction at this touching tale. ‘That makes it, as you will readily comprehend, a most sacred relic to me.’
Concealing a grimace at this flowery tribute Charlotte thought she had better join the little throng around the holy relic. Fortunately there was a buzz of admiration, particularly from an eager, heavy-breathing Mr Chettle, manifestly excited at the mention of a sudden death, that masked her own intake of breath as she gazed down at the very same little writing desk she had admired only that afternoon in the curio shop. There could be no mistake, the ink blot that so memorably recalled Mrs Montgomery’s grandmother’s distress was identical to the ink blot that had disfigured the box in the shop.
What a mercy I have been schooled to keep a straight face, Charlotte thought. I must not show Mrs Montgomery by any sign that I have seen that box before. But what audacity! Charlotte assumed an expression of mild interest and gazed around the room, noting once again the vases that must not be moved because of their associations; the chair that must remain empty; the cushion that summoned up the wraith of yet another long lost loved one. Were they all without provenance after all?
And if so, what could be the story behind Mrs Montgomery’s affectation of family and friends?
As she mulled over this new and astonishing revelation Charlotte missed the murmur of greeting that welcomed the last comer to the drawing-room, even as their hostess had begun to look anxiously at the handsome grandfather clock near the door. ‘A relic of my early childhood,’ she had sighed a day or so ago when questioned about it. As the guests collected at the door to the dining room Charlotte heard a startled gasp and looked round to find the usually cool and collected Lady Buckwell staring, unmistakably, straight at her, green eyes dilated and her face perfectly white with shock.
CHAPTER 10
All through the meal that followed Charlotte was aware that Lady Buckwell was making a determined effort not to look in her direction; picking at her food and making determined small talk in a bright voice and sprightly manner with The Reverend Decimus Attwell who looked more than a little surprised. His mother, Charlotte had observed, had seemed taken aback also, but her habitual bridling should any female make the mistake of engaging Mr Attwell in conversation, subsided before the onslaught of Lady Buckwell’s camouflage and her years. But why, mused Charlotte, taking care not to stare overtly down the table, why should the lady need to mask her emotions? And what had given rise to such a punishing shock? For two pins, Charlotte frowned, I almost thought she was going to faint when she saw me. But why? I thought she had rather taken a liking to me.
It was very puzzling and to distract herself she turned to Captain Penbury beside her. ‘I have not had an opportunity of telling you this, Captain,’ she addressed him, ‘but I have heard from my sister-in-law in Hampshire that there is a relic of the ship most near to your heart – I refer of course to the Chesapeake.’
He was all eager attention as she told him the little she knew and when, rather reluctantly, she passed on the suggestion that Barnard might invite the captain to visit, his face lit up and he cast a very significant glance towards his left where Melicent Dunwoody was engaged in a laboured discussion on Breton customs with the younger Comte de Kersac.
‘That is a most gratifying attention,’ exclaimed Captain Penbury, his large red face deepening to a darker mahogany. ‘Most gratifying indeed. And I must tell you, dear lady …’ He leaned closer and spoke in a confidential whisper. ‘I shall very much welcome such an invitation as Miss Dunwoody has consented to make me the happiest of men. It has been a whirlwind romance.’ He haw-hawed with hearty laughter at his own audacity in such an undertaking. ‘A veritable whirlwind, has it not, hey? So if your brother-in-law will indeed invite me to Finchbourne, I can combine celebrating my nuptials along with a visit to that very mill.’
Good God! So it was true after all. As a result of her discussion with Elaine, Charlotte had been expecting some such announcement for Melicent had been lately showing unmistakable signs of complacency. A pity her smugness doesn’t go as far as to splash out on a new dress, Charlotte grumbled inwardly, but was instantly contrite as her conscience nudged her yet again. I shouldn’t be so horrid, the poor creature probably has no savings and cannot afford anything new. It’s not so long ago, she reflected with a rueful frown, that I was reduced to stealing garments from unsuspecting ladies all across the subcontinent of India, so I should display more charity; maybe I should buy her a new dress as a betrothal gift?
It was another beautiful evening so after dinner the guests dispersed either, like Elaine, to their rooms, or like Captain Penbury and Melicent, and Mr Chettle and Dora, out for a stroll or else over the road to the gardens opposite the house.
Charlotte helped to settle Elaine and then wondered what to do; it was far too early to go to bed herself. Play gooseberry with the two attached couples? I think not, she decided firmly, but what shall I do instead. The air was so still and warm and her room so hot and stuffy that the decision was made for her and she made her way down the hall towards the front entrance. As she approached Mrs Montgomery’s tiny private sitting-room she realized that the door was slightly ajar and that she could hear her hostess quite clearly. Mrs Montgomery was speaking quietly but there was a carrying quality about her tone, along with an almost imperceptible flattening of her vowels that Elaine had explained was a sign that the lady was originally from the north of England and spoke with a trace of a Yorkshire accent.
‘You see, M. Armel’ – the words were soft – ‘I had occasion to be in the uppermost attic on the day of Mr Tibbins’s death and I saw – something.’
‘Well?’ Armel de Kersac’s reply was indifferent, Charlotte thought. Or was there a touch of wary attention there? ‘I cannot imagine, madame, what it is that you think you saw or indeed why you should be so gracious as to inform me of such a circumstance.’
Yes, the listener decided, the younger count had an excellent grasp of English and spoke the language fluently, yet that reply was stilted and his accent much more pronounced than usual. He doesn’t like her questioning him, but why? Please God, don’t let him be the murderer.
At this point Charlotte realized that she was eavesdropping on a most intriguing conversation. Of course, she told herself, no lady would ever dream of listening to someone else’s secrets. If I had the instincts of a gentlewoman, her face twisted in a wry grin, I would either march straight past this door or I would cough, shuffle my feet to alert them to my presence and walk into the room. But then, I’m hardly a real lady and besides, she shrugged, I have it on the authority of a real lady, that eavesdropping can be providential.
‘Never be constrained by bourgeois notions of gentility, Char,’ had been the advice of her godmother, Lady Margaret Fenton. ‘Listening at doors is the action of a sensible woman and you should never forget that other people’s secrets can be extremely useful.’ Meg had laughed and wagged her finger at the long-legged, suntanned urchin perched on a boulder along a southern shore. ‘Why, if I had not overheard my papa when he was engaged in rather too close a conversation with my mother’s dearest friend, I should have been married off in disgrace to a man nearly fifty years my senior. As it was,
my papa was persuaded to pack me off to Australia with a generous allowance and my faithful and heartfelt promise never to darken his door again.’ Meg had sobered for a moment then she brightened. ‘And even at our lowest point – and we’ve had some pretty low points, have we not, dearest Char? Even then I never regretted that poor old husband; he had a fortunate escape!’
No; Charlotte stiffened her resolve and bent her head closer to the narrow aperture. This was no time to worry about behaving like a lady.
‘I saw Mr Tibbins enter the mews,’ came the startling announcement. There was a pause but Armel de Kersac made no response. ‘I looked away for a moment but when I returned to the window I observed that another person had approached him. Unfortunately, from my upstairs viewpoint, I was looking straight down and could only see the newcomer’s shoulders. I had only the briefest of glimpses and I could not discern whether this was a man or a woman, but I was able to take note that this person wore a dark-blue coat or cloak along with something dark on his or her head.’ Charlotte heard a tut-tut and pictured Mrs Montgomery’s puckered brow. ‘At that moment I was distracted by a noise from downstairs and when I returned to the window I could see nothing.’
‘If you truly believe that you saw something appertaining to the death of your late guest, madame,’ Armel de Kersac addressed his hostess in a stern voice, ‘You should at once inform the policeman, Inspector Nicholson. I advise you to do so immediately.’ There was a pause and he continued, ‘And if it is you, madame, who has posted anonymous notes under my door, I request that you refrain henceforth from doing so. I am not to be swayed by hints and scandals.’
‘I cannot agree,’ was Mrs Montgomery’s reply, completely ignoring his latter words. ‘I am unable to say with any certainty who it was that I saw, but I am quite sure that it was one of the guests here at Waterloo House. If any stranger had been in the vicinity he or she would have been remarked upon. Besides, it is undeniably the case that Mrs Richmond and your own father stumbled upon Mr Tibbins’s body shortly afterwards.’
There was a pause and Charlotte felt a sudden unease.
Mrs Montgomery coughed slightly then resumed her quietly conversational manner. ‘You yourself were wearing a dark blue coat that afternoon, were you not, M. Armel?’
‘What? But that is nonsense.’ To the listener Armel de Kersac’s protest had a ring of truth but then, she bit her lip, just so had Will Glover been wont to protest his innocence and time and again he had been telling an untruth. ‘I was in the gardens across the road from the front of the house. I was watching my daughter playing with another child.’
‘Indeed you were, monsieur,’ came the response still in that quiet voice, but this time surely there was something else? A hint of triumph? ‘But I should have explained: before I saw Mr Tibbins from the upper window at the back of the house I had occasion to look out from the front landing window on the floor below. I observed your daughter, M. Armel, but I also observed you in the act of crossing the road, whereupon you entered the side gate. Only residents at Waterloo House have a key to the area gate so pray do not try to tell me that I was mistaken. I saw you quite clearly as you entered the gate and from there the passageway leads only down the side of this house and into the back yard, and thence to the mews.’
‘Mrs Montgomery.’ Charlotte heard movement within the sitting-room and hastily turned on her heel so that she would appear to be walking in the opposite direction if she were apprehended. ‘I do not understand your purpose in telling me all of this. As you say, I left Marianne in the square and entered the side passage. If you had continued your observations you would have noticed that I emerged from that same gateway a very few moments later. I had undertaken to search for the doll’s coat that Marianne was certain she had dropped somewhere along the side path. She was correct. I retrieved the garment and returned, without delay, to the square.’
Discretion being by far the better part of valour, Charlotte hastened to make herself scarce but Mrs Montgomery’s final thrust was audible.
‘So you say, monsieur. So you say.’
There was a sound of movement within the room and Charlotte whisked round the corner and headed blindly for the safety of the drawing room as she tried to make sense of what she had just overheard. Never mind what you heard, her inner voice told her; what about Mrs Montgomery? She wrote the notes? If she wasn’t trying to blackmail Armel de Kersac I’ll eat my best Sunday bonnet. But Armel isn’t a murderer, Charlotte was quite sure of that. Wasn’t she? Perhaps he did own a dark-blue coat, he was certainly not alone in that; in fact, now she came to review the guests and their wardrobes, practically everyone currently residing at Waterloo House seemed to be in possession of such a garment. Dark blue, she reflected, covered a multitude of social situations as her sister-in-law, Lily Richmond, had pronounced only the previous month when she forced Barnard, her sartorially careless husband, into the reluctant purchase of a smart new coat.
Mrs Attwell, for example, had an imposing dark blue shawl made in a heavy silk, which she liked to swirl rather theatrically around her shoulders when waddling out and about in the town. Her son, too, was not invariably faithful to his clerical black and Charlotte had certainly seen him looking spruce in blue and with a hat concealing his domed pate.
Who else? Charlotte paused outside the drawing room door and ran down the mental list. Captain Penbury, as befitted a naval gentleman, rarely wore anything but blue and even Mr Chettle sported a dark grey-blue coat on occasion. In fact dark blue was apparently the colour of choice of most of her fellow guests. And, yes, Armel’s broad shoulders were clad either in dark blue or a dark grey, to denote his half-mourning. As were his father’s.
An unwelcome thought struck her as she opened the door, but before she could develop her idea further she discovered that the large golden room was not empty. Seated in the bay window was Lady Buckwell who, on Charlotte’s entrance, raised her head and, after a moment’s silent staring, addressed the newcomer.
‘Where had you that shawl?’ she demanded, with no polite greeting or preamble, and in a harsh voice strangely unlike her own clear, confident tones. ‘That shawl; yes, the one you are wearing now. How did you come by it?’
‘It was Molly’s. My mother’s,’ Charlotte answered, so shocked that she entertained no thought of how peculiar was such an interrogation; instead she let out a sigh that she recognized, hours later, as relief. She had known, somehow, within her heart, that this moment would come. With the Chinese shawl of black silk draped over her shoulders, displaying to advantage the embroidered pink roses, she walked slowly across the thick, golden carpet that absorbed sound and had on occasion caused the room to seem suffocating. Her answer was as bald as the lady’s question but then she elaborated, ‘It was the only thing that was left with her when she was sent to an orphanage as a baby.’
All colour drained from the older lady’s face leaving patches of carefully applied rouge only too visible. Her eyes never left Charlotte’s face as she clutched a hand to her breast and tried to speak.
‘When?’
‘My mother was born in Bath on the 10 November, 1819,’ Charlotte told her, gripping her hands so tightly together that her nails left dents in the flesh though she scarcely realized it at the time. ‘Since I have been in Bath I have met the nurse who was present at her birth and who, much later, looked after her in the orphanage.’
The other woman gave a great, gasping sigh and leaned back in her chair, her eyes closed. It seemed to Charlotte that Lady Buckwell had aged ten years in as many seconds. She herself could feel nothing; her thoughts were stilled and she felt numb both in body and mind as she stared in silence at the other occupant of the drawing-room.
‘Mary Amelia.’ It was a thread of a voice and Charlotte had to move closer to catch the words. ‘That’s what she was baptized. And Wellesley, well, that was a joke. The duke was a friend, nothing more. I have always been fond of a good joke.…’ As her voice faltered her eyes snapped open and she looked
straight at Charlotte.
‘I came back,’ she said loudly. ‘I did. I came back for her, just as I promised, but she was nowhere to be found.’ She bent her head and looked at the small elegant hands in her lap, their fingers – heavy with rings – interlaced. ‘The woman had died and they said the baby, Mary, had been fostered out but nobody knew where.’ Her voice was still ragged with an excess of emotion Charlotte thought must be alien to a woman of such control, and tears began to slide down the rose-painted cheeks. ‘I think I went mad. I know I went mad.’
Charlotte felt that all-encompassing numbness begin to thaw and, shaking all over, she knelt beside the window seat and held out a tentative hand to the other woman. Ma, she breathed to herself, think of Ma and how she would have reacted to this; don’t think of yourself. She needed no reminder. Molly had been a loving creature whose ready compassion would have been stirred by this harsh, difficult grief.
‘The nurse, Mrs Liddiard, she told me what happened.’ Charlotte swallowed her own tears and told the sad little story in as calm and collected a manner as she could manage. ‘She said that Ma’s mother – you, ma’am – had asked the lady in charge to find good, respectable foster parents to look after the baby and that you would certainly return before Easter. And she told me you left a great deal of money and said no expense was to be spared. It wasn’t your fault that the lady died the day after you left, or that Mrs Liddiard had already been sent for to her ailing mother.’
She squeezed the hand that lay passively in hers and said: ‘Ma never blamed you, not ever. And if she could have known all this, she would have understood.’
‘She’s … dead? Mary?’ Lady Buckwell gave a shudder and she reached into her tiny reticule for a handkerchief. ‘Oh God, I came to Bath in the hope of finding some trace of her, some clue as to her whereabouts. I hadn’t been back here since that time when I came back for her. I hated the place when I was at school here and that’s why I chose it for my confinement. I knew nobody would dream that I would come back to Bath. And now it’s too late; it was always going to be too late.’
Death Is the Cure Page 18
