Murder Most Welcome Page 19
When the doctor had been called yet again to the stricken household and Charlotte was the last person remaining in Henry’s room, she bent over him curiously.
‘What were you doing out of bed, Uncle Henry?’
His eyes flickered at her and for a moment she thought she saw something like fear, then he turned his head with difficulty and stared with angry concentration at his wardrobe.
‘Is there something in there that you would like?’ She thought he made an attempt to nod so she went to investigate and found a brandy bottle hidden in a hat box.
‘Is this what you were looking for, sir?’
He gobbled again so she poured him a drink and held it to his lips. He managed to down several copious draughts and she mopped his face with brisk kindness. However, the gobbling began again, accompanied by that same urgent turning towards the vast mahogany cavern of a wardrobe. Charlotte investigated further and in the deepest recess of the gloomy depths she found what Henry Heavitree had been seeking.
His gun.
CHAPTER 9
On the morning of Frampton Richmond’s funeral, his mother emerged from her bedchamber to preside over the breakfast table, a proceeding so unusual as to send Agnes into a frenzy of agitation.
‘Oh, Mama!’ she mooed, knocking Mrs Richmond’s black lace cap askew as she pounced on her mother and embraced her moistly. ‘How brave you are. What an example to us all. But should you not be laid upon your bed? After all, you do not usually descend until after breakfast. What if you should exhaust yourself? Where should we all be?’
Never had Charlotte heard Mrs Richmond’s ‘Oh hush, Agnes, do!’ with more sympathy. Little as she found herself able to warm to her mother-in-law, Charlotte was nonetheless grateful to Mrs Richmond for providing her with a home and it must be unbearable to be so mauled and sobbed over. Quietly, she removed Agnes and steered her back towards her own chair, then reached over, with a smile of apology, and straightened the offending cap, before drawing Agnes’s attention to the empty cup in front of Lily.
Her efforts won her a faint, bleak smile of gratitude from Mrs Richmond, who then accepted a plate of ham and eggs from Hoxton and set to with a will. Nobody spoke for ten minutes, Charlotte because she preferred silence in the morning and the rest of the herd because eating was too important an activity to sully with words. At last there was a slight easing of waistbands and a general air of relaxing, though not too pronounced in view of the day’s programme.
‘We will wear mourning today,’ Mrs Richmond announced suddenly in a harsh voice. ‘That is only proper, but afterwards, from tomorrow onward, I do not wish to see you in black; colours are, of course, not appropriate, but half-mourning will satisfy the conventions and purples and lavenders will do very well. You may inform the neighbourhood as you wish, but we have mourned my son already. Now we must look forward to the birth of the heir!’ She set down her cup and prepared to wheel herself from the table.
‘Mama? Are you sure about this?’
‘You are Richmond of Finchbourne, Barnard, it is for you to set the standard. That is my final word on the subject,’ she warned, and left the room.
‘Well!’ Lily’s eyes sparkled. She opened her mouth for further discussion but was interrupted by Lady Frampton.
‘Fanny may say all she wishes,’ the old lady said stoutly, ‘but I ’ave worn black nigh on forty years since my ’usband died and black is what I shall go on wearing.’
‘I’m sure my mother didn’t mean you, Grandmama,’ Barnard said with an affectionate smile. ‘She is thinking of Lily and the baby. You recall what she said not long ago, before Frampton … Well, she wanted us to look forward, not back, and I think she is very courageous. I applaud her.’
Agnes having dissolved yet again in tears, it was left to Charlotte to smile at him and say, ‘As do we all, dear Barnard, though I must agree with Gran as I simply have nothing else to wear but black, apart from the dress Mrs Knightley so kindly sent me. I never did manage to see about some new clothes.’
Frampton’s coffin, mercifully closed, had been lying in state in the hall at Finchbourne since the night before and Charlotte could not suppress a shudder of relief as she watched from an upstairs window as the cortege wound its way down the short drive, along the dusty village street and up the church path to the porch. As the last of the gentlemen disappeared into the cool darkness of the church, Charlotte’s shoulders sagged with relief as she shed the intolerable burden that had weighed her down for the past weeks. Whatever the future brings, she reassured herself, it cannot be as dreadful as the time since Frampton’s return. And what of the future? That ever-present inner voice became insistent. Are you going to stay here for ever?
No immediate answer sprang to mind; for the moment she knew her assistance was invaluable. She cheered Lady Frampton up and walked her dog, coaxed Lily out of her sulks, had begun to discuss the farm, in a very tentative fashion, with Barnard, who had quietly resumed his old duties without let or hindrance from his mother, reinstating his under-bailiff and setting out the improvements he hoped to make. Mrs Richmond, although she might not be aware of the circumstance, was also indebted to Charlotte, if only because she kept Agnes from buzzing like a bluebottle around her mother and driving her to distraction. And lastly, Charlotte knew that nobody else was so successful in managing Uncle Henry’s angry bouts of caged malevolence.
When she had refused to hand him his gun on the morning when Frampton’s death became public knowledge, she had stood by unmoved as he surpassed himself with invective and blasphemy, all mercifully incomprehensible.
‘Why do you want the gun, Uncle Henry?’ she had asked him calmly. ‘Do you want to shoot someone?’ From the answering ‘gaarhs’ and ‘blaarghs’ she deduced that the response was in the negative. ‘Well then, are you afraid of someone?’
This question brought about a cacophony of mangled speech, apparently of denial, and she eyed him with frowning intensity as she wiped the spittle from his chins.
‘I don’t believe you. Now why should you be afraid?’ she said slowly and gave him a thoughtful stare. ‘Did you – do something to Frampton? Or did you, perhaps, see someone else do something, someone who should not have been there?’
Henry’s eyes met hers for a moment, intelligence clearly present, then with obvious deliberation he closed his eyelids and held them tightly shut.
It was all exceedingly puzzling.
After the funeral, during which the Richmond ladies reposed in mournful attitudes in the drawing-room reading their Bibles, Barnard returned to the house accompanied by a very few gentlemen, mostly elderly friends of his mother. Mrs Richmond graciously consented to see them and a subdued but genteel wake took place with Agnes awkwardly dispensing tea from her seat at the ancient oak gate-leg table while she tried not to eavesdrop on Percy Benson, who was deep in conversation with Barnard and Kit Knightley. Her patience was rewarded eventually when the rest of the company had departed.
‘Forgive me for staying so long.’ Kit bowed over his hostess’s hand. ‘We have just been deciding that in view of the vicar’s serious indisposition and subject to the Bishop’s approval, the living here at Finchbourne should be offered to Benson. He has served faithfully as curate and has acquitted himself well in these last difficult days.’
‘The living is in your gift, Mr Knightley.’ The bereaved mother applied a scrap of black-bordered lace to her eyes and shuddered. Somewhat daunted by this performance he said his farewells and turned back to Barnard, who was talking to Charlotte, while Percy Benson and Agnes hung round them looking bashful.
‘But …’ Charlotte was speaking urgently to Barnard, and including Agnes and Percy in the discussion. ‘If the living is in Mr Knightley’s gift, why were you so afraid of Frampton? From what I understand now he would have had no jurisdiction over the running of the church, the order of service or anything. Surely you must have known that?’
Agnes and Percy Benson hung meek heads as Barnard weighed in.
‘How – how should I, Barnard, dear? There has never been a new vicar in our lifetime and dear Frampton was so very vehement on the subject.’
‘Uncle Henry was worried though, Barnard,’ Charlotte put in.
‘Ah, yes.’ Barnard’s bluff, ruddy face puckered in some embarrassment. ‘I should not mention this to you girls but, well, we know what Uncle Henry was. The ladies, you know …’
His voice tailed away in a sheepish mumble but Charlotte thought she understood.
‘You mean that Frampton might well have forced Henry to retire?’ She pressed him, to no avail. ‘By blackmailing him? But Frampton had only been back in the country for five minutes. It must have been an old scandal, surely?’
‘Ah …’ Barnard harrumphed and rolled his prominent brown eyes in an agony of embarrassment but Charlotte stood her ground, so her bovine brother-in-law followed the habit of a lifetime and capitulated to the will of a strong-minded woman. ‘The husband in that particular case is, I understand, both prominent and belligerent, besides being high up in the church. There are stories about him of horse-whippings for no reason other than an implied slight and in this instance I believe there to be ample reason for conjugal suspicion. I suppose a word dropped in his ear might have …’
Barnard was plainly relieved, at this juncture, to be summoned to his mother’s side while Agnes and her sheepish admirer retreated to the bay window under the benevolent supervision of Lady Frampton. It was left to Charlotte to speed Kit Knightley upon his way which she did by walking out to the stables with him.
‘I hope that Mrs Knightley is not too unwell?’ she enquired politely at the garden gate. ‘I hope to call upon her as soon as I am able. At the moment it is all a little difficult.’
‘Char,’ he broke in upon her polite chatter. ‘What is it? What is wrong? No, don’t shake your head and look so prim. I know you better. Was Frampton’s death so distressing? Did he suffer badly?’
‘No,’ she told him quietly. ‘He … died in his sleep.’
‘Then what is it?’ he insisted. ‘They have you dancing in attendance upon that old reprobate, Henry Heavitree? But that cannot account for your manner.’
She raised her hands, palm upwards, in a graceful gesture of compliance and looked at him with her frank gaze. ‘No, it’s something else. I – I can’t talk about it just at the moment but I promise I will call for your help if it becomes necessary. I cannot say more than that at present, so please don’t press me.’
He was far from satisfied but the firmness of her closed lips clearly told him that further insistence would serve no useful purpose so he shook hands again and she could feel his eyes on her as she walked back to the house.
What could I have told him? Charlotte hugged her secret to herself. That I believe Frampton was murdered? For what? Seven hundred pounds, a scattering of jewels and a wonderful ruby that nobody else knew about? And by whom? If he was not smothered for the ruby – and if that was the motive the murderer proved singularly unlucky – then why? Because he threatened the vicar with an old scandal? Because the curate wanted to marry Frampton’s sister and knew how implacably Frampton opposed the match? Or was it the brother whom he would cut off from the place most dear to his heart?
This is nonsense, she told herself, not for the first time. I might as well add to that list an elderly grandmother afraid for the safety of her dog, or a distraught widowed neighbour bent on revenge for a perceived offence, or even a young wife intent upon outwitting her blackmailing spouse! No, I cannot set this rigmarole in front of Kit Knightley and say, ‘Here is my problem, what should I do?’
When the family assembled for tea in the drawing-room, there was a distinct lightening of the funereal gloom in spite of a sudden downpour outside. Lady Frampton sat in the bay window, a small table at her side, laden with cakes and scones, the fat spaniel, Prince Albert, all unaware of his eleventh-hour reprieve, sprawled snoring at her feet.
Agnes trailed around the room blundering into other small tables all littered with bibelots, her plain face wreathed in smiles which she hastily masked when she thought her mother might be looking. Barnard sat at his ease by the fire, which had been lit to alleviate the delights of an English afternoon in early summer, every inch the contented squire, Lily prattling at his side, while Charlotte simply sat drinking her tea and revelling in the peace of mind which her renewed widowhood had brought her.
‘Did Colonel Fitzgibbon retrieve his gloves?’ Lily enquired suddenly.
‘When?’ Barnard asked, not unnaturally.
‘Oh, on Sunday evening,’ she replied, staring thoughtfully at the curtains half drawn against the murk of the afternoon. ‘I met him,’ she announced brightly as they stared at her. ‘It was just before Uncle Henry had his attack. I was in the hall on my way to this room to have tea with Agnes when I saw the colonel running down the stairs. He seemed a trifle startled to see me but, of course, when he explained that he thought he must have left his gloves behind, I quite understood. He said he did not wish to discompose Mrs Richmond any further, which I thought most considerate of him.’
‘But Lily,’ Charlotte urged. ‘Just think, why should the colonel look for his gloves upstairs? Surely he had spent the period of his visit down here?’
Lily pouted and Mrs Richmond opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by the loud, cheerful voice of her own mother-in-law.
‘I declare I don’t know what this ’ouse is coming to,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘Did I not tell you, Charlotte, that I saw with my own eyes that Indian fellow on the stair? Large as life, too.’
‘That’s not all.’ Lily hastened to impart further intelligence. ‘My maid tells me that she saw poor Lady Walbury on Sunday evening, in our very garden. It makes my blood run cold. The poor soul is mad, I know, but who is to say we shall not all wake up murdered in our own beds?’
Charlotte shuddered but pressed Lily for further details, trying to obtain a clear idea of when the gaunt scarecrow figure of Lady Walbury had been at large in the garden of Finchbourne Manor and also at what time Lily had encountered the surprising Colonel Fitzgibbon.
‘That is enough.’ Mrs Richmond spoke in that new, harsh tone. ‘There is to be no further discussion of such things. My son Frampton is dead and a chapter of our glorious family history is closed. The time has come to turn to a new page. Barnard, it is your sacred duty, and Lily’s,’ this last accompanied by a disdainful sniff. ‘Yours will be the awesome task of bringing ever more plaudits and honour upon the Richmonds of Finchbourne.’
She ended her peroration with a flourish of trumpets and wheeled herself smartly away, pausing only to throw a final comment over her shoulder.
‘Do not forget,’ she added. ‘I will have no more mourning. Lady Frampton, I naturally except you, but you, Charlotte, will need some new clothes. My dressmaker will attend upon you tomorrow morning for a fitting. It is all in hand. When you have some new dresses,’ she suggested in a sudden change of mood, ‘you will cease to concern yourself with this nonsense. You and Lily, and Agnes too, are not young girls to give way to the vapours about strangers in the house.’
The injustice of this accusation stung Charlotte but Mrs Richmond was gone before she could remonstrate. And what would be the use, she thought, as she busied herself in her room and in checking on the vicar. Mrs Richmond was quite right: it was better left alone.
Late that night something happened which reinforced this sentiment. It had become Charlotte’s custom, before retiring, to pay one last visit to Henry Heavitree’s bedroom in case there was any change in his condition. She had finally persuaded him to accept the ministrations of Old Nurse who was now, full of self-importance, installed in Henry’s dressing-room, making occasional forays to check up on the young maid who was her temporary substitute in attendance upon Mrs Richmond, but Cha
rlotte preferred to make a final check for herself. Tonight she found nothing to alarm her. The room resounded with a duet for snorers, Henry’s basso profondo almost overtopped by Old Nurse’s baritone offerings.
With a slight smile, Charlotte closed the door quietly behind her, shielded the candle which was unaccountably flickering, and set her foot on the top stair of the half-flight which led to the main stair, dividing the Tudor part of the house from the Queen Anne wing and her own sanctuary. To her horror her foot slipped on encountering something soft on the polished oak. She had barely time to realize what was happening when she found herself falling and it was only by an enormous effort that she wrenched herself round to grab at the newel post of the main staircase. Her headlong flight was halted and she clung, panting and sweating, to the carved wooden post.
When at last the shaking ceased, Charlotte dragged herself up to the top stair again and sat there, her breath coming in sobbing gusts, a burning pain in her shoulder. For what seemed like an hour she did not move, then, when she thought she could manage to rise she pulled herself up on to her feet and made a quick inspection of her injuries. Her shoulder was inordinately painful but not, she thought, dislocated, while her ankle, though sore and swelling rapidly, did not feel broken. The candlestick with its extinguished candle lay near her feet and as she bent to pick it up, and to probe the swelling ankle, she caught sight of something on the half-landing.
It was her mother’s black silk shawl, the one Charlotte believed had been employed to smother Frampton. The blackness of the silk was near invisible in the shadows of the upper hall but there was just enough light to make out the rose colour of the embroidery.