Murder Most Welcome Read online

  Murder Most Welcome

  Nicola Slade

  For Morley Slade with all my love and for Shirley Thomas: Sounding Board, Grasshopper, Retail Therapist and Friend

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  Copyright

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Murder Most Welcome owes a debt of gratitude to my favourite Victorian novelists, Charlotte M Yonge and Mrs Henry Wood whose work I’ve plundered shamelessly for period details – although they should not be blamed for the liberties I’ve taken with nineteenth century mourning. I’m also grateful to the friends and relatives who read the book in its early form, especially Olivia Barnes, Ruth Beaven and Monica Mitchell. Thanks, too, to the Scribblers, particularly Jo Frith, Linda Gruchy, Sally Sigmund and Jane Smith for their encouragement, and to my family for all their love and support.

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  CHARLOTTE RICHMOND

  A colonial with light fingers and a dark secret, who is only too happy to be the widow of:

  MAJOR FRAMPTON RICHMOND

  A surprisingly lively corpse

  FANNY RICHMOND

  A dear, sweet little mother with a well-oiled wheelchair

  REVD HENRY HEAVITREE

  Half-brother to Fanny. A vicar with a sideline in wholesale slaughter

  BARNARD RICHMOND

  A side of beef on two legs who thinks he is the heir

  LILY RICHMOND

  His wife, a girl with gums, who is determined he will be the heir

  LADY FRAMPTON

  A titled grandmother whose h’aspirants are ’ard to ’ear

  AGNES RICHMOND

  A spinster

  REVD PERCY BENSON

  A curate

  KIT KNIGHTLEY

  A Jane Austen hero, married to:

  ELAINE KNIGHTLEY

  An interesting invalid

  LANCELOT DAWKINS

  A young man who is too friendly by far with a corpse

  LADY WALBURY

  A mother with a mission

  COLONEL FITZGIBBON

  A man who has something nasty to tell

  A MYSTERIOUS INDIAN GENTLEMAN

  An Indian gentleman who is mysterious

  DR PERRY

  A man who knows many secrets and confides only some of them to his wife

  JOB HOXTON

  Did the butler do it?

  OLD NURSE

  A prophet of doom

  PRINCE ALBERT

  No, not that one; a fat spaniel

  Assorted neighbours, villagers, animals, servants and dead people

  LATE SPRING 1858

  in the south of England

  CHAPTER 1

  As she laid out the body, Charlotte Richmond made two surprising discoveries.

  The first of these led her to suspect that the man on the bed had been murdered. By whom, she had not the slightest notion. To whom she was profoundly grateful.

  The second discovery confirmed what she had known all along: the deceased – late and far from lamented – had not possessed the habits of a gentleman.

  As this was the second time in less than a year that he had apparently been murdered, Charlotte felt she might be forgiven for not falling into a paroxysm of grief; indeed, strong hysterics might, she considered, be a more appropriate reaction.

  Hysterics not being in her nature, she merely veiled his face decently with a linen cloth and wondered what to do with the object she had so surprisingly encountered. ‘Well, well, well,’ she murmured. ‘Here you are, dead again, I see. I wonder what is to become of me now?’

  A few short weeks previously, Charlotte, who was waiting with some trepidation in the entrance hall at Finchbourne Manor and trying to overcome her anxiety by observing the ancient, dark oak of the panelling, the extreme chill of the flagstone floor and the picturesquely leaded windows that let in so little light, had overheard her mother-in-law express a similar sentiment.

  ‘Oh, that dreadful Mutiny, what will become of that unfortunate child, poor, dear Charlotte?’ she had enquired, allowing an artistic sob to colour her voice.

  ‘Well, Mama,’ answered a prosaic female voice. ‘I understand that Charlotte is even now on her way home from India to Finchbourne. If you recollect it was your own suggestion, when we heard of dear Frampton’s sad death, that she should make her home here with us. And after all, there is no reason to believe that Charlotte is a child; remember, dearest Frampton was thirty-seven and his letters made no mention that his bride was much younger than he was himself.’

  ‘Oh, do hush, Agnes dear!’

  In spite of the nervous tension that had her sitting ramrod straight on an uncomfortable oak settle, blackened by age, Charlotte listened, with wry amusement, to this conversation. Shifting very slightly in her seat, she felt a twinge of guilt as she recollected how differently Frampton Richmond’s ‘sad’ death had been viewed by her military acquaintances in India. I must say nothing, she thought, shaking her head. I have seen the damage caused by a stray shell fired into the midst of the market place, who am I to lob a shell of my own and destroy their illusions about their lost hero – and for what? Rumour? Speculation? No, not I, my part is to play the grieving widow and ingratiate myself into their home and into their affections, to make a settled home for myself at last. Besides, she reminded herself, I dare not raise any spectres from the past. What if they found out about me?

  At this point the butler broke into her deliberations, ushered Charlotte towards the drawing-room door and coughed loudly.

  ‘Mrs Frampton Richmond, madam.’

  ‘What? Who? Oh my goodness, Charlotte, my poor, dear sister!’ Agnes Richmond broke into the moment of astonished silence and leapt to her feet, arms outstretched, ready tears flowing. ‘Oh, you poor, dear girl, why did you not let us know when to expect you? And on such a nasty wet day. Why, goodness, you’re absolutely soaked. Here, come to the fire and let us get you warm.’

  ‘Thank you, you’re very kind.’ Charlotte Richmond felt the tension in her shoulders relax as she smiled at the large, eager young woman whose embrace, offered with such awkward enthusiasm, had made her stagger back a little. ‘You must, I think … I believe you must be Miss Richmond?’

  ‘Indeed, oh yes, indeed.’ Agnes was overcome by a further cascade of tears. ‘But you must call me Agnes. We are sisters now, after all, and I never had a sister …’

  ‘Oh, do hush, Agnes dear,’ came her mother’s command. ‘Stop being sentimental. Poor dear Charlotte can have no desire to be wept over by you. Are you a little warmer yet, Charlotte? Then come here, my dear and let me greet my poor boy’s heartbroken, widowed bride.’

  Stiffening her shoulders, Charlotte allowed herself to be led past a welter of red hangings and upholstery by the fluttering Agnes to the woman, who, swathed in overpowering mourning – bombazine, braid, beading, bugles alike, all of deepest, darkest black – sat in what looked, at first sight, like a cane bergère chair beside the fire, until one noticed its wheels. While Agnes plumped up the bulging, gold-tasselled cushions of purple brocade the two Mrs Richmonds appraised each other, Mrs Richmond senior with a mournful curiosity, Mrs Richmond junior with a wary reserve.

  Fanny Richmond must be in her late fifties at least, judging by what Frampton had let fall, Charlotte thought, though she looked younger, just a slight frost of silver on h
er dark hair, a plump, pretty woman marooned in her invalid chair. A hunting accident, Frampton had told her.

  ‘Broke her back and damned near broke her heart but Mama’s a game bird. Sent for a wheeled chair as soon as she was able and whizzes around like one of those old Greek fellows in a chariot, propelling herself, don’t y’know. Yes, you always know when Mama’s about, you hear the wheels squeaking long before you see her. Damned handy, sometimes, having advance warning. The dear, sweet little mother.’

  Yes, thought Charlotte, standing meekly to attention while she was scrutinized. I can see where Frampton might have been glad of a warning of her impending arrival, in spite of the hasty but dutiful comment he had tacked on to his description.

  ‘Give me a kiss, my dear,’ came the soft command, and Charlotte bent to comply. ‘Welcome to your new home. Are you quite well? Such a long, sad journey. I trust you kept in good health?’

  ‘Thank you, I am usually in excellent health,’ Charlotte replied, and was surprised to see the delicately arched brows meet in a swift frown as Mrs Richmond examined the tall girl beside her, then gave a gusty sigh of disappointment.

  ‘Ah, well.’ Mrs Richmond lifted her eyes to gaze at a nearby portrait, which Charlotte recognized with a moment’s instinctive recoil as that of her own late husband. After several more heartfelt groans which accompanied a period of reverent contemplation of the portrait’s black silken veiling and the wreath of immortelles set on it at a rakish angle, the bereaved mother applied a wisp of lace handkerchief to her eyes and, addressing Charlotte once more, said, ‘You are very slender, my dear. I had hoped …’

  Shaking her head, Mrs Richmond turned rather briskly to practical matters. ‘My dear, should you be too fatigued to join us for dinner tonight? No? Brave girl, brave girl. Agnes will take you to your room to make your toilette. We have only our neighbours joining us tonight, delightful people, nothing formal, old friends merely, but they will be arriving shortly and I should not like to keep them waiting. If you are quite sure you are not too overcome?’

  Charlotte responded with an obedient nod, trying to suppress the kaleidoscope of impressions that assailed her – of loud aristocratic voices, sombre mourning and crimson furnishings. So far so good, she told herself; at least she hadn’t been shown the door and sent packing. She followed meekly in Agnes’s wake, to be led up the impressive staircase of blackened oak that dominated the hall. At the top, the stairs branched off into a pair of half-flights. According to her guide, one led to the original house and the other, which they now followed, to what was known as the Queen Anne wing.

  ‘What a fortunate circumstance it is that your room is ready and waiting for you, dear Charlotte,’ gushed Miss Richmond. ‘Mama wanted you to be put in poor, dear Frampton’s room but I thought you might find it too distressing a reminder of your great loss so I’ve put you next to me. I hope that will be acceptable. I could easily instruct them to—’

  ‘Thank you, you’re very kind,’ Charlotte interrupted in an attempt to deflect another flurry of tearful twittering. ‘That is just what I should like, to be near you. I never had a sister either. Or a settled home,’ she added.

  ‘Oh, my dear, how delightful. This is your home now and you are my dear, dear sister.’ Agnes was clearly charmed and she tucked her hand into Charlotte’s and drew her new sister into a small bedroom painted in delicate blue tints. ‘We are rather a long way from the main part of the house but I feel sure you won’t find it too fatiguing.’

  ‘No, indeed.’ Charlotte smiled at the notion. ‘I’m used to exercise and plenty of it. I found the sea passage sadly restricting. Nothing to do but pace round and round the deck all the time and back again by way of variety.’

  While Agnes fussed around the room, Charlotte stripped off her bonnet, tidied the glossy brown hair which was arranged in demure plaits and topped it with a plain black silk cap, then she draped her mantle on the bedpost and splashed her face vigorously in the bowl of hot water brought by the maid.

  ‘Should I change?’ she asked, looking doubtfully at her plain black cashmere dress. ‘I do have a black silk though I’m afraid that I have very few clothes; at one place on my journey to the Indian coast I escaped the mutineers with only the muslin dress on my back along with a shawl that belonged to my mother. Luckily I managed to replenish my wardrobe thanks to the kindness of various chance-met acquaintances.’ Indeed, she bit her lip ruefully, some of those ladies were more generous than they knew, but she was sure they would have spared a petticoat here or a camisole there, it was just that she’d never actually asked them. To fend off another moist embrace, engendered by her tale of hardships encountered, she hastily rummaged in her valise. ‘Look, Agnes, perhaps I could just pin on a fresh collar? Would that be acceptable to your mama? I should not like to keep you all waiting for your dinner, especially when you have guests.’

  ‘Oh, it is just our neighbours from the Hall.’ Agnes dismissed her qualms and employed her handkerchief vigorously. ‘A fresh collar will be quite sufficient, dear. They will understand; we do not stand upon ceremony. Do you have one to hand? I could fetch one in a trice.’

  ‘No, please.’ Charlotte put out a restraining hand. Really, Agnes Richmond was too eager to please. It was going to be exhausting if she carried on like this at all times. ‘Here we are, I have one here in my dressing case. I’ll just pin it in place.’

  ‘Oh, what a sweet brooch. Is it a family piece?’

  Charlotte glanced down at the small gold spray of acanthus leaves.

  ‘In a way,’ she replied. ‘It was a gift to my mama from my godmother, Lady Margaret Fenton. She and Mama were close friends for many years and she was very kind to me.’

  True enough, she thought, Lady Meg was nothing if not a kind woman. In fact kindness had often been her undoing, especially when narrow-minded citizens had frowned upon Meg’s particular notion of generosity.

  ‘What a dear girl you are.’ Agnes patted her with bashful affection. ‘Oh, what a wistful expression – do banish it at once, you are at home now. Here, let me take a proper look at you. Why, you look quite delightful: a charming addition to our family here. What a handsome young woman you are, my dear.’

  ‘Hardly.’ Charlotte laughed aloud then made amends as Agnes looked crestfallen. ‘My dear Agnes, you’re too kind to say so, but I know it’s only your fancy. I’m too tall, too gawky and my complexion is so brown as to put me beyond redemption. If you expected a beauty to arrive from India I fear you must be sadly disappointed.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Agnes dashed a tear from her slightly bulging brown eye. ‘What a sentimental old silly I am, to be sure, crying so at the least little thing. What must you be thinking of me! Come downstairs before Mama has occasion to fidget.’

  ‘I think you are a kind and generous woman,’ Charlotte assured her in a burst of confidence, adding mendaciously, ‘No wonder Frampton was so fond of you.’ A fresh storm gathered. ‘Now, now, remember your mama is waiting.’

  Hampered by Agnes who, wallowing in sentiment, was now clinging fondly to her, Charlotte made her way downstairs again. The hall, as she had observed earlier, was unmistakably Tudor, with its dark oak gate-leg tables, carved chests and stiff wooden settles, together with gloomy velvet hangings in a dusty crimson. There were crossed pikes, suits of armour, displays of what looked like mediaeval instruments of torture and ancient banners sprouting from the panelling, their tatters hanging limply. The drawing-room, however, opened out from the newer wing and Charlotte paused on the threshold, stunned by what she saw.

  ‘Ah, there you are, my dear.’ Mrs Richmond held up her face for a further round of kisses as she herself wheeled her chair towards the door to greet them. ‘I see you are admiring my drawing-room. A particularly handsome one, is it not?’

  Charlotte gazed round in some astonishment. On her arrival, nervous tension meant that she had scarcely taken in her surroundings; now, however, she had leisure to inspect the full panoply of Finchbourne Manor’s main rece
ption room. Although generously proportioned the room gave the appearance of being poky because of the clutter filling it to the ceiling. A rosewood étagère supported flowers in bulbous pots and a burrwood what-not was heavy with marble busts. Card tables, sewing tables, occasional tables, draped with chenille, lace, velvet or beribboned muslin, each held its full complement of porcelain figures, stuffed birds, clocks, albums, silver picture frames and waxed flowers under glass domes. A rather strident red wallpaper could be glimpsed in the gaps between the massed ranks of ugly dark oil paintings of ugly dark people, in ugly dark heavy frames, and the tall windows were lavishly draped in suffocating folds of velvet, again in the prevailing crimson, albeit of a slightly different, clashing shade. Still more overpowering reds, in yet other tones, figured again in the upholstery of the gargantuan chesterfield sofas, the chaise longues and the button-backed chairs.

  Charlotte could only wonder at the dexterity with which her mother-in-law whisked about the room in her wheelchair (silently, she noted – the chair must have been oiled since Frampton’s last visit home). Mrs Richmond maintained an impressive turn of speed, managing not to disturb a single ornament or collide with what appeared to be a breeding colony of footstools, but as her hostess shot her a frowning glance of enquiry Charlotte hastily summoned up a murmured, ‘Charming, so many delightful objects,’ which seemed to pass muster.

  ‘Thank you, my dear.’ Mrs Richmond preened then rather pointedly remarked, ‘How prompt you have been, such a refreshing change,’ a comment which Charlotte assumed was directed at the plump girl in lavender who was glowering at her from the other end of the long room.

  ‘Now, let me look at you, dear Charlotte.’ Once more Mrs Richmond directed that same hungry stare at Charlotte and once more shook her head in obvious disappointment as she surveyed the slender figure now free of outer wrappings and shawls. ‘Ah well, you must know, my dear,’ she confided. ‘I had allowed myself to nourish foolish hopes that as it is only six months since that direful day when my poor boy met his Maker in that terrible Mutiny … But, alas, I see it is not to be, heartfelt though my prayers have been.’