Murder Most Welcome Page 21

  ‘And we could take a proprietorial look over the vicarage, could we not?’ asked Charlotte cynically, as they walked decorously across the village green. ‘Perhaps with a view to seeing it as a home for you and Mr Percy Benson?’

  ‘Really, Charlotte.’ Agnes managed an outraged pout that was almost worthy of her mother. ‘The very idea!’

  Following the rapturous Agnes round the vicarage Charlotte felt depressed. The house was exactly the kind of gloomy mausoleum that she would have expected Henry Heavitree to inhabit and his housekeeper just the downtrodden slavey to suit his little ways.

  ‘What a lot of bedrooms,’ she said in commiseration to Agnes, thinking of the vast acreage of linen it would take to provide sheets for so many beds.

  ‘Oh yes,’ sighed Agnes, blissfully, her face mottled with an unbecoming purple blush.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. Charlotte did not speak the words aloud, however. It would be cruel to wipe that smile off the other woman’s face as she stood, obviously contemplating each bedroom crammed to the picture rail with little Percy Bensons.

  Charlotte dragged Agnes away after they had inspected the house from attic to cellar and parcelled up some of Uncle Henry’s best nightshirts to be sent over to the Manor.

  ‘Let’s go to the church,’ she suggested. ‘Is that allowed? Is a widow allowed to visit her husband’s grave or is that forbidden?’

  ‘Oh, Charlotte,’ mooed Agnes, clasping her in a damply emotional embrace which jarred Charlotte’s injured shoulder so painfully that she had to clamp her teeth together over her tongue to stop herself from crying out. ‘Oh, my poor dear, I had almost forgotten your dreadful sorrow, in my own selfish happiness. Of course you may see his dear grave.’

  The sexton’s cottage nestled beside the church and they had to run the gauntlet of the old man himself as they passed his wicket gate.

  ‘Y’ere, Miss Agnes, Miss Char.’ He gave them a toothless grin and touched his forelock. ‘Be ye goin’ up to see Mr Framp’s grave, then?’

  ‘Yes, we be, I mean – yes, we are,’ Charlotte hastily corrected herself, deciding it was pointless to correct him – the whole village happily called her Miss Char. ‘Did you dig it? I hope it was deep. I mean, that was very good of you. Here …’ She delved in her pocket and dropped a coin into the outstretched hand, which had mysteriously appeared under her nose. As she turned towards the lych gate, she noticed a splash of colour by the sexton’s front path.

  ‘Those flowers are very fine,’ she commented. ‘What are they? I keep finding new flowers that I’ve never seen before.’

  ‘They’m my early pinks, Miss Char,’ he told her proudly. ‘Y’ere, you take a little bunch, and you, Miss Agnes. All the ladies like ’em. Why, only a few days ago that poor Lady Walbury, she stopped and noticed ’em and I give her a bunch too. Well, poor creature, she don’t get much pleasure, do she, always a-mopping and a-mowing about the place, and cursing Mr Frampton uphill and down dale, as she do.’

  In the churchyard, Charlotte waved the hovering Agnes away.

  ‘Go and find Percy,’ she said abruptly. ‘I’m here as chaperone so nobody can object. Only, please leave me alone, Agnes, I need to think.’

  It was a fatal thing to say and it took much patient diplomacy to disentangle Agnes from about her shoulders and to despatch her towards the church. At last Charlotte was left in peace beside her husband’s grave.

  ‘Well, Frampton,’ she addressed its occupant aloud. ‘I confess I shall not rest until there is a very large, very heavy tombstone laid on top of you, to ensure that you stay where you belong.’

  She glanced at the small bunch of flowers that the sexton had pressed upon her and stared dispassionately at the grave again.

  ‘I wish you could tell me,’ she said. ‘But if you could, you wouldn’t be six feet underground, so I shall have to find out for myself, in spite of Mrs Richmond’s strictures.’

  Careless of her old black merino, she knelt down at the graveside and curled herself into a sitting position.

  ‘There, that’s more comfortable,’ she said, and looked at her flowers once again.

  Pinks, yes, that was the name of the flower apparently, and pinks were what poor, mad Lady Walbury had been carrying on Sunday. Pinks, too, were what Charlotte had found on the floor of Frampton’s room, after his death.

  She recalled her deliberations at the breakfast table. Why did not Frampton wake up and struggle when someone smothered him? She had already determined that it would not take much strength to press her shawl down over his nose and mouth, his physical condition being so enfeebled. But surely he would have called out?

  Perhaps he did, the thought came to her suddenly. Would anyone have heard it with all the fuss and commotion about Henry’s collapse? Mrs Richmond was in her room and Old Nurse, however hale and hearty, was nearly eighty years old, after all, and just a trifle deaf. But if he did not cry out, why did he not? Apossible reason flashed into her mind: he might have been drugged.

  An irresistible picture followed the thought, a picture of Lady Frampton’s dressing table, littered with nostrums and lotions, and potions all of which were apparently invaluable for her rheumatism and the other ailments she bore so gallantly. Rapidly following upon this image came the sight of Mrs Richmond’s bedside table, with those pathetic little marble hands, accompanied by enough medicines to stock an apothecary’s shop. On the heels of that notion there rose a vision of Agnes in the still room incompetently ministering to a young maidservant with a scalded finger.

  Oh dear, she thought, there must be enough drugs in the house to do away with an army and there must certainly be something like morphia or laudanum amongst them. Then why not simply dose him so soundly that he would never wake up? Because they – whoever they might be – could not trust me not to notice and raise the alarm and revive him. Any drug that was administered must be sufficient to send Frampton into a deep sleep, deep enough so that he would not wake and struggle when the shawl was pressed down on him.

  But why the shawl? And why had the shawl been the instrument intended to bring about Charlotte’s own downfall?

  CHAPTER 10

  I should be quite able to tolerate the discovery that Frampton was murdered by Colonel Fitzgibbon, she realized, but for what? Bringing, or threatening to bring, disgrace upon the regiment? If it turns out that poor mad Lady Walbury somehow managed to put an end to him, that too would cause me no crisis of conscience, nor would the appearance in the case of the mysterious Indian gentleman whom Gran observed so surprisingly on the landing on Sunday. But not one of those people had an opportunity, at least so far as she knew, of drugging Frampton, if indeed he was drugged. And not one of them could possibly have padded up her shawl, hidden it in the corner of the staircase and opened the landing window in order to cause her candle to flicker, so that the landing was even darker than usual.

  And if those outside people could not have killed Frampton, it means that someone in the house had. Someone who belonged to the family, someone, perhaps, whom she loved. Someone who was trying to kill her too.

  ‘Charlotte?’It was Kit Knightley. He halted in his stride up the path towards the west door and stared at her in undisguised astonishment. ‘Is there something wrong? My dear girl, what on earth are you doing?’

  She scrambled to her feet, colouring vividly, as he sprang across the turf, shorn close by the sheep that Henry Heavitree had allowed to roam.

  ‘What is it, Char?’ He stopped his headlong rush as he scanned her face. ‘You’re not unwell?’ He suddenly noticed that she was standing beside Frampton Richmond’s grave and raised frowning eyes to her. ‘You cannot expect me to believe that you are grieving for that – that unspeakable …’ He struggled for words and eventually came out with ‘… creature!’

  ‘Of course I’m not grieving for him,’ she protested hotly. ‘I came here to make sure he was safely underground and I’m trying to make sense of everything that has happened.’

  They stood
facing each other across the new grave, each with heightened colour and angry heat in their eyes. For an instant Charlotte had a feeling of standing at the edge of a precipice. Kit Knightley was the first to recollect himself. He stepped backwards a pace or two and spoke in a quieter tone.

  ‘I beg your pardon, I should not have spoken so.’ She acknowledged his apology with a slight nod as he cast a keen glance at her. ‘What do you mean, you are trying to make sense of everything? What sort of thing? What is wrong, Char? Please let me help. Surely, if I may speak bluntly, surely Frampton’s death solves all your problems at a stroke?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong!’ Her outburst shocked her as much as it evidently surprised Kit Knightley. ‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know – and what I think would sound nonsensical if I spoke it aloud. You will have to contain yourself in patience until I can do as I said, make sense of it.’

  She raised her hands in that odd, half-supplicating gesture of hers and shot him a smile of apology that illuminated the angular planes of her face with an elfin charm.

  ‘Please, Mr Knightley – Kit! I need to gather my thoughts together and when I have assembled them into some sort of sense, I promise that I will come to you. Then you can laugh at me for my foolish fancies.’

  He frowned and gave a little shake of his head but she led the way towards the church porch.

  ‘How is your wife? I had hoped to be free to call upon her today but the house is still in such an upset that it has not proved possible. I trust she is keeping well?’

  He returned a polite answer, still frowning slightly, and they entered the church to find Agnes and the new vicar-designate engaged in serious discussion.

  ‘M-Mr Knightley, sir!’ Percy Benson approached them, ducking his head in bashful diffidence. ‘M-Mrs Frampton. Might I crave a moment of your time? I should like some advice.’ On being assured of their attention, he fidgeted and writhed with embarrassment for several moments then rushed into his request. ‘It’s about Agnes – Miss Richmond,’ he gasped and Agnes coloured violently and simpered. ‘I should like to apply to Mrs Richmond for permission to marry Agnes but I do not want to upset her so close upon her bereavement. What would you advise?’

  What a muff he is, Charlotte thought as the happy pair waited with baited breath upon Kit’s answer.

  ‘Is Barnard in favour of the match?’ enquired Kit, endeavouring to remain solemn. Upon being assured that was the case, he shrugged slightly. ‘Well, there you are, Benson, you should apply formally to Barnard for his sister’s hand, and let him announce the fact to his mother. His shoulders are broad so he can weather the storm, if storm there be, though I doubt it. After the drama and emotional draining of Frampton’s return and second death, Mrs Richmond seems disposed to let Barnard order things, so perhaps there is hope.’

  Charlotte concealed a smile as she watched Kit Knightley suffer the gratitude of the happy pair until he could bear it no longer and rolled mutely imploring eyes at her.

  ‘Come now, Agnes,’ she spoke briskly, calling Agnes to attention. ‘Naturally you and Percy are grateful to Mr Knightley but that’s no reason for you to weep over him, nor should you, Percy, delay in speaking to Barnard. I believe he is in his library at this moment. You should apply to him this very afternoon and let him be the judge of when it will be politic to approach Mrs Richmond. You go too, Agnes. I will be home shortly.’

  As she and Mr Knightley followed the almost betrothed pair as they stumbled shyly to the door, Charlotte nodded gaily to her companion.

  ‘Thank you for infusing some common sense into them. I think you have solved their problem.’

  He stared down at her, his face devoid of all trace of its usual irreverent good humour. ‘I wish to God I could solve my own problem as easily,’ he said and, with a curt nod, he stalked out of the church.

  A slight chill struck her but soon she was deep in contemplation of the mystery which exercised her every waking moment. A few discreet questions of the servants brought no enlightenment and her preoccupation went unnoticed until dinner when Lily kindly informed her that Mrs Richmond had addressed her twice without success.

  ‘What is the matter, Charlotte? Is anything amiss?’

  ‘No, of course not, thank you, ma’am. I’m so sorry, I was lost in thought.’

  ‘I am sure it is very understandable,’ her mother-in-law said, though her tone belied her words so that Charlotte sat up and forced herself to join in the conversation. A few moments later she was glad that she had done so.

  ‘Mama.’ Barnard spoke up in his ponderous tones. ‘I am glad that we are all here as I have something to tell you all. I have had an application from our new vicar-elect, the Reverend Percy Benson, who assures me that he loves Agnes and wishes her to be his wife.’ Above the hubbub, his announcement occasioned Barnard raised his voice, probably to pre-empt a comment that was rising only too noticeably upon his mother’s lips at this fait accompli. ‘I am happy to say that I gave him my blessing, so Agnes – congratulations, my dear!’

  In the stunned silence that followed, Charlotte saw Mrs Richmond compress her lips into a tight, straight line until Agnes flung herself in a weeping heap upon her mother, then the lips relaxed enough to utter – albeit through gritted teeth – suitable platitudes.

  Everyone else was vocal in their pleasure, Lady Frampton from genuine delight in her granddaughter’s happiness, Charlotte from the same, Lily from relief as she suddenly pictured herself one step closer to being sole mistress of the manor.

  ‘When is the wedding to be?’ Lily asked brightly. ‘As you have decreed half-mourning, dear Mrs Richmond, perhaps Agnes could be married quite soon.’

  ‘Whenever you please,’ came the ungracious response. ‘You are quite correct, half-mourning need be no bar. It will naturally be a most private affair. Arrange it as you wish, Agnes. I wash my hands of the affair and trust you will not live to regret it. Now I am retiring for the night and I suggest that you do too, Agnes. You are quite overwrought. Charlotte, you also have a drained look. I recommend that you go to bed too.’

  Far from retiring to her room, Agnes hung about Charlotte, trying to fix upon the wedding date, planning her trousseau and wondering if she might make any alteration in the vicarage.

  ‘Of course you can, you goose,’ Charlotte laughed at her. ‘It will be your home and you may do whatever you wish. I suppose that as Mrs Richmond has given her consent she will settle some money on you so you may spend it on new paint and papers or pots and pans. The living is a good one, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ the bovine eyes were moist. ‘Only fancy, it is worth seven hundred a year! It is wonderful and I can scarcely take it in.’

  A tap at the door announced the little maid who attended on Mrs Richmond when Old Nurse was absent.

  ‘If you please, Miss Agnes, Miss – Mrs Frampton, the mistress says will you come to her room for a few minutes.’

  Mystified, the pair hurried to the panelled bedchamber and found Mrs Richmond ensconced in the vastness of her carved oak bed, Barnard and Lily, also looking bemused, at her side.

  ‘Ah, Agnes, Charlotte …’ She waved a genial hand towards a tray set out on a heavily carved coffer at the foot of the bed. ‘I have caused champagne to be brought upstairs, so that we may drink good health to Agnes on her betrothal. There, Agnes, you take the old silver goblet from Queen Bess’s time. I have a fancy to have your health drunk so, and Charlotte, you take that pewter loving cup, that’s it, the one with two handles, that has been in the family since it was given to Eglantine Richmond in 1700. Barn, Lily, you have your goblets also? Now, here is a wish for happiness, health and prosperity to you, Agnes, in your new life.’

  Astonished but pleased her audience drank from their antique vessels and after a few minutes’ desultory talk, when it was decided that the wedding should take place on Agnes’s birthday in July, Mrs Richmond appeared to tire and waved them away.

  ‘Off to bed now,’ she told them. ‘We can dis
cuss this in the morning.’

  Agnes appeared to accept without question her mother’s astonishing volte-face but Charlotte considered it with astonishment. What on earth had caused Mrs Richmond to alter her views so abruptly? One moment grudging resignation, the next champagne and congratulations? It made no sense.

  That night Charlotte’s sleep was disturbed by a series of extraordinary dreams, sometimes nightmares, at other times a series of lyrical, floating episodes like nothing she had encountered in sleep before.

  Disorientated and confused, she struggled to free herself of the unearthly visions that had possessed her and started awake, slumping back on her pillows with a great gasp of relief.

  ‘Heavens! How – how singular!’

  After a few moments, during which she struggled for composure, Charlotte began to feel calmer, the vivid colours and images of her dream, or rather series of dreams, receding as reason and sense took their place.

  What, in heaven’s name, had caused her to dream so? A rapid review of the previous evening’s dinner brought no inspiration: soup, cutlets and a queen’s pudding, nothing to disturb sleep. A glass of wine, besides tea, after the meal. Again, that would not have precipitated the strange landscapes she had visited in her dreams. Rags of memory recalled the natives she had known in Australia, whose babies she had herself tumbled with as a child. They had spoken of other worlds, other times, visited when they chewed or smoked their secret leaves. Could I have been drugged? she wondered. Here, on a summer’s morning it sounded ridiculous. She dragged herself out of bed, splashed cold water on her face and wandered across to the window where the dawn chorus was already ringing round the garden as the sun rose behind the hills.

  The cool morning air was refreshing and Charlotte’s innate common sense resurrected itself until she recalled the surprising gathering later last night, in Mrs Richmond’s room. At the time she had merely thought that her mother-in-law had repented of her grudging acknowledgement of Agnes’s engagement but now she began to wonder.