Death Is the Cure

by Slade, Nicola

  Just as she knew that all was lost, something or someone grabbed sharply at her arm and she was pulled back to the kerb, where she collapsed in a trembling heap, her modest crinoline billowing around her. Panting and gasping, she raised her head to see Lady Buckwell unhooking the handle of her parasol from where she had caught at Charlotte’s arm and tugged with all her strength.

  As she collapsed on to the safety of the pavement a series of terrible screams rent the air, the more dreadful because the sound was suddenly cut off. When she raised her eyes she saw that both Mr Attwell and Mrs Montgomery were no longer on the pavement and that the wheels of the carriage were splashed and stained with blood, with something fearful lying beneath.

  The noise was intolerable. Passers-by were screaming, horses neighed in terror, the coachman was letting fly with terrible oaths and Lady Buckwell knelt beside Charlotte, holding her tightly in her arms and begging her to speak. The occupant of the britzka had her venerable head out of the carriage window and was demanding to be told what was going on, falling into a dead faint when she beheld what lay below her own wheels; bystanders were converging upon the entrance to the house from all corners of the square.

  Suddenly, above the racket, came another dreadful echoing scream and, as Charlotte dragged herself up on to her knees, she saw that Mrs Attwell was hastening down the steps of Waterloo House in a gasping, ungainly frenzy as she staggered towards the appalling carnage. A ragged cry rose from her own lips as she watched the woman collapse to her knees, a thin wail of desolation escaping her as she held out her hands towards her only son.

  Several stout young men rushed to offer their assistance, but it was too late. One young man bravely crawled under the britzka now that others were helping the afflicted coachman and holding still his trembling horses, but his voice was soon heard announcing that ‘the poor lady was certainly dead, and the gentleman too.’ A great groan of dismay went up and one or two women in the crowd began to wail again, aghast at the speed of events and their dreadful conclusion. One of the men, recovering from his shock more quickly than the rest, urged the women gathered on the pavement to remove to the shelter of the trees in the square, while another ran for medical assistance, fruitless as it might prove.

  Charlotte scrambled to her feet, ignoring the nagging ache in her arm where the parasol had wrenched her to safety; nothing else mattered now but she was filled with a deep and painful longing that could not be denied. She helped her rescuer up and stood in front of her, shuddering from head to toe. Her grandmother took her into a fiercely possessive embrace.

  ‘There, there, my pet, you’re safe now, it’s all over.’ Lady Buckwell’s voice was shaking as she patted Charlotte’s heaving shoulders and if the endearment sounded unpractised Charlotte cared nothing for that. For just a moment, when she had most need of it, she could feel herself held in the safety and comfort of loving arms, no matter that she and the lady were barely acquainted.

  All around them the noise and excitement continued unabated until Armel de Kersac pushed his way through the throng.

  ‘Charlotte, Mrs Richmond …’ The words spilled out of him in his anxiety for her well-being. ‘You are unhurt? Allow me to escort you into the house, and you too, my lady, if you will be so kind. It is not fitting that you should stay out here.’

  ‘Can you walk, child?’ That was Lady Buckwell who was already looking on the way to recovery, her colour improved and her breathing back to normal.

  They were interrupted by Mr Chettle and the captain, both vying for the right to assume command of the situation. The captain won by virtue of a lifetime of bellowing orders against wind and weather.

  ‘Silence!’ He looked gratified when he was obeyed and hastened to take advantage of the lull. ‘Has a doctor been called for?’ He elbowed past the young man who had announced the fatal outcome of the accident and was now recovering and ready to tell his tale. Ignoring his efforts to speak, the captain peered under the carriage; what he saw clearly made him pause for thought and he nodded slowly, the colour draining from his weatherbeaten face. ‘Dear God, what a dreadful thing. Yes, well, nevertheless a doctor must still be summoned. Already sent for? Then someone must help this poor lady to her room. Good. Now, can anyone tell us what happened here? Mrs Richmond?’

  As Charlotte shuddered but made an effort to pull herself together, she was forestalled by Lady Buckwell who pushed forward and addressed Captain Penbury, holding his attention with a steely expression.

  ‘I saw it all,’ she proclaimed and, as Charlotte tried to speak, directed a severe frown in her direction. ‘No, my dear, you are too shaken, pray allow me to explain what happened.’ She turned back to the captain. ‘It was very sudden and most tragic. Mrs Richmond here had just reached the entrance to Waterloo House when Mrs Montgomery, our hostess, stepped out to speak to her, no doubt in welcome, at the same time as both ladies were greeted by poor Mr Attwell. I believe Mrs Montgomery tripped, possibly on that uneven flagstone there…’ The crowd turned as one man and stared accusingly at the offending stone. ‘In trying to regain her balance, the unfortunate lady lurched forward and took poor Mrs Richmond by surprise. By some unknown means Mr Attwell stumbled too and they all staggered into the street, straight into the path of this carriage.’

  She closed her eyes for a moment’s dramatic effect and the audience gasped and sighed in sympathy, then her green eyes snapped open as she continued. ‘Indeed, but for one merciful circumstance, I believe Mrs Richmond must have perished also. The moment of good fortune was when I myself bethought me of my parasol and, by some instinct, reached out and pulled the young lady back from the jaws of death.’

  Enthralling as this narrative was proving Charlotte felt impelled to make some kind of protest, but was halted as her mouth opened, by a sharp pinch on the back of her hand as the orator turned to her.

  ‘Hush,’ Lady Buckwell’s whisper was urgent and not to be denied. ‘We’ll discuss this later.’

  To the immense gratification of the onlookers the lady then raised a handkerchief to her face evidently quite overcome with emotion. So much so, in fact, that the crowd made no demur when Lady Buckwell braced herself and took control by taking Charlotte by the arm and with a nod to Captain Penbury made her way up the front steps and into Waterloo House.

  ‘Quickly,’ she hissed. ‘Into the drawing room and let’s both have a very large brandy before the rest of them come in and drive us to distraction.’

  There was nobody in the large, golden reception room so she gave Charlotte a gentle push into a commodious and comfortable chair and after a few moments busy work with the decanter both ladies were sitting close together partaking of a medicinal cognac.

  ‘Are you certain you are quite recovered, Charlotte?’ she asked urgently, scanning the pale face. ‘Yes? Sit quietly then while I go and see after Mrs Attwell, poor creature.’

  She left the room while Charlotte slumped into her chair feeling she must be in a nightmare.

  Ten minutes later Lady Buckwell returned looking pale and strained. She refilled their glasses without a word and sat down heavily while she took a long sip of brandy.

  ‘That poor woman,’ she sighed. ‘What a dreadful thing to happen. Did you know he was her tenth child, hence his name, and the only one to live beyond infancy? The doctor is with her and her maid seems competent so I felt I could come away; I am not good at offering condolences in any case. They have sent for a clergyman too, to bring her comfort though I doubt she’ll find any.’

  She set her glass down on a small table and looked at her granddaughter. ‘Are you feeling stronger, child? Then let us take this moment to ascertain what really happened and after that I propose, very strongly, that we never mention this event again.’

  Charlotte, shrugged, dumb with shock and exhaustion so Lady Buckwell continued.

  ‘I had just come up the stairs from the side path and was a couple of paces behind Mrs Montgomery when she encountered you, my dear Charlotte, so I could not see her
face but yours was clearly visible to me. I observed that when she accosted you, your expression altered to one of considerable dismay, which shortly turned to some distress. I was about to interrupt what, to you, was clearly an unwelcome conversation, when I realized that Mr Attwell had entered the fray and was bellowing at the woman. To my astonishment he then turned upon her with upraised fists and the force of his attack sent her stumbling into you and thence into the road, into the way of a carriage which was approaching rapidly.

  ‘For a moment I confess I was rooted to the spot in surprise; after all, it is hardly every day that one witnesses an attempt at murder, for Mr Attwell certainly looked murderous, in broad daylight! Fortunately I collected my senses and thought of my parasol which has, as you no doubt felt very painfully, a handle shaped like a shepherd’s crook. I could think of no other course of action than to lunge forward and hook the parasol around your arm and pull you back with all my strength. That action mercifully broke Mrs Montgomery’s frantic hold on you and I was able to reach out and seize you with both hands, which made it possible to drag you back.’

  Charlotte felt the shrewd green eyes upon her and roused herself to make some response, but they were distracted by the sound of voices and heavy footsteps in the hall that made them raise their heads and look at each other.

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Lady Buckwell, picking up her brandy and taking another sip. ‘Here they come, the vultures. My dear, it has been delightful that we have had this quiet time together and I think you are looking a little restored. Leave all the talking to me; I will explain that I witnessed poor Mrs Montgomery and Mr Attwell meet their sad end in the distressing manner I described earlier, having fortunately been in a position to observe the entire catastrophe.’

  She stood up and addressed Mr Chettle who had elbowed his way to the front of the clutch of guests who now entered.

  ‘I suggest that the butler be questioned as to the name and whereabouts of Mrs Montgomery’s lawyer,’ she said, before turning to Charlotte and, to that young lady’s relief, brushing aside the attempted ministrations of the two governesses. ‘In the meantime, I think Mrs Richmond should retire to her room to compose herself and I suggest further that someone should see about tea for us all. Immediately. Followed,’ she threw over her shoulder as she left the room, ‘followed by arrangements for dinner tonight. We will all be in need of sustenance by then.’

  She insisted upon escorting Charlotte to her bedroom door.

  ‘Do as I said, Charlotte, and compose yourself. Wash your face and lie down upon your bed. I will see that someone brings you a cup of tea and you need have no anxiety.’ Her smile was tired. ‘I will also make sure that Mrs Knightley is not alarmed by disturbing rumours.’

  When Charlotte’s eyelids fluttered open again she became aware that Elaine Knightley was sitting beside the bed placidly reading.

  ‘Oh good, you are awake, dearest Char.’ Elaine smiled and rang a small bell, replacing it on the bedside table along with her book. ‘Jackson will bring you some tea directly, I’m sure you must be ready for it.’ Then, as Charlotte struggled to sit up, Elaine reached out to take her hand. ‘Pray be calm, my dear. Lady Buckwell has told me everything that happened and I can’t tell you how sorry I am that you were embroiled in such a dreadful accident, or how thankful I am that you seem to be unharmed.’

  Accident? Charlotte shook her muzzy head and tried to recall the dreadful accident but at first all she could hear and see and feel was the frantic neighing of the horses, the creak of harness as the britzka bore down on her, and the terrible feeling of falling.

  ‘Oh God!’ She put a hand to her head. ‘I remember now. The parasol.’ She rubbed her arm as a dull ache reminded her of that dramatic rescue. ‘She saved me, Lady Buckwell; did I thank her properly? And then … Oh!’ She turned anxiously to Elaine. ‘Mrs Montgomery. She fell, did she not? And Mr Attwell said … he said … Did he…? Are they…?’

  ‘Mrs Montgomery must have died instantly, Char,’ Elaine told her gently, squeezing her hand in sympathy. ‘She can have felt very little pain, the doctor assured us of that. Mr Attwell also.’

  ‘Us?’ Charlotte still felt some confusion, but the clouds were gradually clearing.

  ‘Lady Buckwell has taken charge of the household for the moment and has most kindly included me in the discussions, as your representative, I imagine. The doctor spoke to both of us an hour ago when they … when Mrs Attwell was taken away to stay with the local vicar who thought it best she should not stay here with such dreadful associations.’

  Jackson entered at that moment bearing a tray of tea and bread and butter and helped Charlotte sit up before passing the cup to her. She appraised the patient and gave a nod of satisfaction. ‘You’ll do, Miss Char,’ she said before turning her attentions to her mistress. ‘And you too, my dear.’ She sounded surprised. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to go in to dinner tonight to catch all the latest gossip, for gossip there’ll be, no matter how grim the day.’

  ‘Dinner?’ Charlotte drained her cup and returned it to Jackson with a faint smile. ‘How long is it till dinner? I am quite rested and I – I would rather not stay on my own.’

  ‘You have about three-quarters of an hour, Char,’ Elaine told her, waving aside the maid’s protest. ‘Nonsense, Jackson. It will do Charlotte good to see other people, and better as she says that she should not dwell on events. You said yourself that we are both quite able and this will be our last appearance at the Waterloo House dining-table, for I have telegraphed to Kit that we will be leaving Bath tomorrow and that he is to meet us at Salisbury a day earlier than planned.’

  Charlotte opened her mouth and then shut it again. Elaine was right; it was time to go home.

  CHAPTER 12

  Half an hour later Charlotte was up, dressed and feeling hungry; she was also bruised from head to toe with a particularly painful ache to her upper arm and shoulder. As this was caused by Lady Buckwell’s parasol she felt almost thankful for the discomfort, reminding her as it did how miraculous had been her rescue. She had brushed aside Jackson’s determination to assist in her dressing, sending the maid back flying to her mistress upon Charlotte’s frowning suggestion that Elaine was probably putting a brave face on things and that she must have been considerably disturbed by all the drama.

  As she tied tapes and fastened buttons Charlotte forced herself to consider recent events. Mrs Montgomery had been out of her senses with rage and Mr Attwell had attacked the landlady with what had certainly appeared to be murderous intent. I saw her face, Charlotte told herself, staring in the looking glass as she pinned up her plaits and tucked them tidily into a netted snood. She was crazed with anger at me, but why? All I did was ask a few questions, all of them innocuous. And yes, I was eavesdropping at her door, but she can’t have known for certain that I heard anything incriminating; the most she can possibly have seen was my back view retreating along the hall to the drawing room. It was a mystery and she could only conclude that the other woman had been living with the fear of discovery and danger for so many years that Charlotte’s questions coming so pat upon Mr Tibbins’s unsettling hints had tipped her over the edge of sanity.

  It would be a long time, Charlotte gave a shuddering sigh, before she could forget the woman’s breath on her face as they fell together towards the kerb. As for Mr Attwell’s part in the horror, she had only an impression of violence and anger and noise and no recollection of what had become of him. The only thing that remained with her was his ferocious voice bellowing out the words she could not forget: ‘You’ll pay for that, as did that other … I silenced him.’ There could be no other interpretation put upon it. The conclusion she had formed in the park was in fact the true one: The Revd Decimus Attwell had killed Jonas Tibbins. Charlotte suffered a moment’s faintness and recovered to shudder with horror, thrusting the intelligence away from her, but then her attention was arrested by a different thought.

  Had Mr Tibbins after all maintained some kind of record of
the intelligence received from his agents, in a notebook perhaps? And had Mrs Montgomery discovered this record? It would explain so much. Excitement sparked in her tired thoughts as she considered the idea. Mrs Montgomery must have found something in the detective’s room when she had turned it out after his death. It was surely the only means by which she was able to implement her blackmailing attempts. I wonder what.…

  Mrs Montgomery had caused Mr Tibbins’s body to be carried into the scullery and there she must have run through his pockets; initially, no doubt, to look for information of his next of kin. If there had been such a notebook, taking it must have been a mere impulse, but what a treasure for such a woman to lay her hands upon. And if there had indeed been such a record, where was it now and what intelligence could it have contained about her fellow guests?

  Useless to speculate, she sighed, but speculated all the same. Captain Penbury for instance; there had been some mention of a naval battle and he had been upset for some reason and surely … she knitted her brow as she strove to recollect. Mr Tibbins had made some comment to the effect that even if the captain had not been engaged in that battle, perhaps a relative had been there. Some scandal perhaps but lost now, she thought.

  Her neighbour from Hampshire had been discomposed by a hint about Egyptian relics, but why? Again, she racked her brains; some mention of artefacts, she thought, that had set Mr Chettle frowning.

  Mr Tibbins himself had told her that he had a client who sought someone staying at Waterloo House. Yes, and he was pleased, wasn’t he, she remembered, because it was all going according to plan, and he had said something about another case involving a different guest and another client.

  She shuddered at the thought of Mrs Attwell and her maudlin rambling on the evening of the concert. Could that be one of Mr Tibbins’s cases, she wondered? Mr Attwell’s ungovernable temper would have been only too familiar to his parishioners and if he entertained real hope of a bishopric, might someone in the diocese have doubts regarding his suitability? A wealthy citizen or fellow churchman could have heard rumours of those little indiscretions, and might well consider the detective’s fee money well spent if it eliminated a potentially embarrassing appointment. Another shudder shook her as she recalled the air of barely suppressed violence about the man. It took little imagination to picture him turning on the detective in a fury and landing a lucky punch, and it was sadly only too easy to think of him seizing the fallen sword-stick and using it in a frenzy of rage.