A Very Vexing Murder, page 15
‘What’s the signal?’ Robert asks reluctantly.
I whistle a short melody, twice over, and wait for him to repeat it. His response doesn’t faintly resemble the tune I’ve attempted to teach him. ‘No. Low-low-high-low-high.’
He tries again. Low-low-high-high-low.
‘Close enough,’ I say, gesturing towards his muddy boots, strewn across the floor. ‘Off to the Vicarage with you.’
‘What, now?’
‘Yes. Mrs Bates was due at Mrs Goddard’s at eleven and Jane and her aunt left half an hour ago. They’ll be settled with their tea and crumpets with Mrs E and her caro sposo by now.’
He sighs and reaches for his notebook.
‘What are you doing?’ I demand.
‘If I’m going to lurk outside the Vicarage for hours on end, I’m taking something to occupy myself with.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I say, snatching up the notebook. ‘I will not have you being distracted by Sir Reginald’s missing ear. This is serious, Robert. You must be on the alert.’
‘Fine,’ he says sulkily. ‘I will do nothing except peer through the Eltons’ drawing-room curtains at Jane like some sinister peeping Tom.’
‘Good,’ I say, keeping hold of his notebook, just in case.
I only glance over my shoulder about five hundred times on my way to the Bateses’ apartment. There’s no sign of my father, but that doesn’t mean he’s not there. Once, he pursued me all the way from Covent Garden to the Bath Assembly Rooms and I would never have detected his presence if he hadn’t been so impatient to introduce himself to a recently widowed duchess that he pushed right past me en route.
The street is mercifully quiet as I prop my father’s cane against the wall, slide a hairpin from the sleeve of my spencer and insert it into the lock of the Bateses’ front door. The lock is stiffer than I had anticipated and I fear the hairpin will snap, but finally the door swings open with a loud creak. Cane under my arm, I slink into the dark passage, shutting the door softly behind me and ascending the stairs. I have no need for stealth now I’m inside. I make quick work of the second lock and creep into the apartment.
I slip into Jane’s room, pulling on a pair of kid leather gloves to protect myself from scorpion stings and other such dangers. I open her dressing-table drawer and examine its contents before I touch anything. If Durand has set up a trap for Jane, my plan is to disable it, not fall prey to it myself. I poke at the contents of the drawer with my father’s cane – the only thing of his I took with me when I abandoned him – until I’m certain there’s nothing more dangerous inside than a bundle of letters secured with a crimson silk ribbon.
Well, now I’m here, I may as well take a look at her correspondence, too.
I untie the ribbon, sifting through the lavender-scented letters from Mrs Dixon and Mrs Campbell and Miss Bates. There’s nothing from Frank. If Jane has kept Frank’s letters, she’s much too cautious to leave them where curious fingers might reach them. There’s nothing from Mr Dixon, either.
I examine Jane’s jewellery box again, but there’s nothing new in there. The only other possessions I find in the dressing-table drawer are a pair of lilac gloves and an ivory fan. I move to her chest of drawers, poking at her muslin chemise dresses, petticoats and cotton stockings with my cane. There’s a green velvet pelisse, which I rather fancy. An Indian shawl. A mauve silk parasol in the bottom drawer. There’s a flash of movement as I prod it with the cane.
Please don’t be another scorpion.
I kneel beside the drawer, picking up the parasol between my thumb and forefinger and shaking it gently. The creature scuttles to the other side of the drawer. It’s bigger than a scorpion. I leap to my feet and raise my cane, ready to strike the dark, furry body of a—
Mouse. It’s just a mouse.
I exhale loudly, bending down to scoop up the little creature. It wriggles out of my hand and disappears behind the chest of drawers. I shift the chest enough to see that there’s a hole in the skirting board which bears investigating. I doubt there are any instruments of death concealed behind it but, if she still has them, this might be where I will find Jane’s letters from Frank. The chest is too heavy to move further, so I have to lie on the floor and slide my arm behind it to reach into the hole. I ignore the dull ache in my shoulder as my fingers brush across cool leather. I pull it out slowly, shuffling inch by inch across the floor until I can see the pocketbook in my hand. I carry the pocketbook over to Jane’s dressing table, sit down and untie the cord bound tightly around the book. A letter falls out as I open it.
Jane,
I returned to Weymouth to speak with the boatman. He says
he was struck down with a mysterious illness the night before we were due out. He claims it must have been something he
ate – he was sick to his stomach for two full days and did not leave his bed in all that time. I questioned him about the man who took out the boat, described him as thoroughly as I could, but he was none the wiser. He denies asking the man to take out the boat in his stead and is as anxious as we are to find him because of damage done to the boat, as well as his reputation, as a result of your so-called accident. I asked around and one man mentioned a fisherman called Parker who matched the description, but he had not seen him for some time. My findings support my supposition that you are in danger. I will continue to make enquiries. In the meantime, you must be on your guard.
Your friend always,
William Dixon
I flick through Jane’s pocketbook. There’s a sketch of a middle-aged man with shrewd eyes, light, curly hair and the hint of a cleft lip that gives the impression of a permanent sneer. The mysterious boatman, I suppose. There’s something oddly familiar about him, as if we’ve crossed paths before, but although I’m usually good with faces, I can’t place his.
There’s a ring tied to the pocketbook with a lilac ribbon – tarnished silver with a Roman onyx intaglio at its centre. A scorpion.
Interesting.
‘Yes, Jane, dear, you would adore the rose gardens at Maple Grove, I assure you. My friends say there are none so fine as the roses at Maple Grove.’
Mrs Elton’s strident voice leaves me paralysed. For one wild moment, I contemplate climbing under the bed but, thankfully, my brain thinks better of it before my body can comply. I stuff the letter back into the pocketbook and wrap the cord around it as quickly as possible. I don’t have time to put it back behind the chest of drawers without being caught, so I slip the pocketbook into Jane’s pile of Ann Radcliffe novels, nearly toppling them in the process.
‘You do look fatigued, my dear,’ Mrs Elton says loudly. ‘Must be all that late-night reading. I insist that you sit down on the sofa. I will fetch you some tea. Here, let me take that.’
Mrs Elton bustles into the bedroom, Jane’s pelisse draped over her arm. I freeze, cane held against my body as if it will somehow render me invisible.
She raises an eyebrow, her gaze sweeping across the room and settling on the chest of drawers, which is jutting out at an angle, as if she knows exactly what I’ve been doing. I wait for her to say something but, instead, she folds Jane’s pelisse and lays it on the bed. Her gaze flits to the pile of books on Jane’s dressing table and then to the chest of drawers. She retreats with an almost imperceptible nod.
I don’t know why Mrs Elton is helping me and, while I’m grateful for it in the moment, I don’t like owing people.
I dash over to the chest of drawers, sliding the pocketbook back into its hiding place, but I’m well and truly stuck. Even if Mrs Elton doesn’t reveal my presence to Jane, I can’t leave through the front door. Jane’s bedroom opens directly into the parlour and, tired as Jane is, there’s no hope of creeping out without her noticing. And, if I want to preserve the thin veneer of trust I’ve built up between us, she cannot find me here. There’s only one way out if I want to avoid detection.
I tiptoe over to the window and lean out. The street is still quiet, but it’s a long way down. I unscrew the top of my father’s cane and pull out a length of silk rope. Opening the sash window as quietly as I can, I tie the rope around the middle of the cane, screw the cap back on and brace the cane against the window frame. Checking again that the street is clear, I step over the sill and tug on the rope, testing the cane’s stability before I lower myself slowly out of the window. I let the rope go slack as my feet touch the ground and, with a flick of the wrist that took me months to perfect, I jerk the cane upright and pull on the rope. I reach out a hand as the cane sails through the window and hurtles towards me, plucking it from the air and tucking it under my arm in one smooth movement.
I haven’t found any death traps in Jane’s room, but the same theme keeps coming up. Mr Dixon. The boating ‘accident’ in Weymouth. I was right about it not being an accident, although I’m no closer to finding out whether Frank or Durand was responsible for it. But, as Jane has gone to so much trouble to catalogue and conceal the evidence, she clearly has her suspicions. If I’ve learned anything from sneaking around Jane’s room for a second time, it’s that the boating ‘accident’ is at the centre of this case. One thing’s for certain: if I’m going to catch the killer, I need to find out what happened in Weymouth.
CHAPTER 16
Rule number sixteen: Don’t flirt with the enemy.
Today is my eighteenth birthday and I can’t say I’m enjoying it so far. I’ve spent most of the morning prowling the corridors at Mrs Goddard’s, waiting for another warning from my father. There’s been nothing as yet and, since he hasn’t given me a birthday gift for ten years, I don’t know why I should expect him to start marking the occasion again now.
That’s not to say I’m unaccustomed to receiving birthday gifts. For my ninth birthday, my father’s lover, Lady Cockcroft, gave me a piebald Shetland pony. I named him Puck and, for two months, I barely left his saddle as we terrorised Lady Cockcroft’s gardener by tramping our way through the pansies and peonies and, on one memorable occasion, the tiger lilies in the hothouses. I liked Lady Cockcroft. She had kind eyes and a wicked sense of humour and she smelled of nutmeg and roses. It was tucked away in her library, pining for my mother, that I first discovered the delights of Ann Radcliffe. Mrs Radcliffe took me to other worlds – of castles and ghosts and bandits; wicked uncles, secret marriages, forbidden loves. She made me gasp and shriek and shiver. For the first time since I lost my mother, I felt something other than sadness. So you see, these Gothic heroines of mine are not so ignoble as Robert suggests. They transported me to a place where I could feel and breathe and live. They gave me something to love again.
I was convinced my father would marry Lady Cockcroft but, instead, he dragged me from my bed in the middle of the night, loading handfuls of rubies and diamonds into Puck’s saddlebags. The jewels were soon sold, and Puck along with them, and I didn’t speak a word to my father for three months. I only relented when he threatened to send me away to a convent school in France. Father told me I could have another pony when we settled down somewhere, but I didn’t want another pony and we never settled down again.
In the years that followed, I acquired an impressive collection of birthday gifts from my father’s female companions and, later, my own suitors. Well, I would have done if I’d been allowed to keep any of them. A diamond tiara for my tenth birthday, a harp for my eleventh. A string of pearls, a gold brooch, a rosewood jewellery box, a forget-me-not ring, a gold locket. All sold to the highest bidder. Except for last year’s gift. A turquoise and gold filigree cross. From him. It was his mother’s and I knew what it signified when he fastened it around my neck. I knew what I was promising by accepting it. And I would have kept that promise, if it wasn’t for my father. I should have left the pendant behind, but I couldn’t bear to part with it. I shouldn’t be wearing it now. There’s no sense in it.
There’s no use in being sentimental, Hattie, my father told me as he handed over Puck to an unscrupulous horse dealer all those years ago. And I’ve tried not to be. I’m not. My heart hardened with every birthday gift I was forced to surrender. But, once in a while, someone comes along to pierce my armour. I rub my thumb against the cross and let out a deep sigh.
I’m not completely empty-handed this year. Mrs Goddard has given me a new sewing kit. Miss Bickerton presented me with some lilac silk ribbon for my bonnet. Emma has bought me a pair of elegant amethyst earrings – more her taste than mine.
The best present is from Robert – a first edition of The Romance of the Forest with a dedication from Mrs Radcliffe herself. I don’t know how he managed but, if this is the result of his guilt at abandoning me to a potential poisoner while he dreamed up dastardly deeds for his novel, perhaps I can cope with Robert’s inattention now and again. In fairness to him, he’s done some spectacular grovelling and he’s been more useful to me in the past five days than he was during the entire length of my stay in Highbury before this. As penance for losing track of Jane on her way home from the Eltons, I have made him trail her around Highbury on every dull outing to her neighbours to ensure that no harm comes to her.
While Robert has been following Jane, I’ve had my eyes on Frank. Not like that. Well, perhaps a little like that. I have to admit, there have been a few choice moments when I’ve forgotten what I’m meant to be doing – namely, ensuring that he doesn’t try to kill my client or provoke Monsieur Durand into doing it. The good news is there haven’t been any further attempts on Mrs Churchill’s life. The bad news is this probably means that one is imminent.
‘Really, Jane. I cannot understand why you are not more excited by the prospect. Mrs Smallridge is on excellent terms with my brother and sister. You will not find a better offer elsewhere, I assure you.’
Smallridge.
small ridge plan in action.
Hmmm. It looks like there was another name in Mrs Elton’s coded letter, after all. But why is Mrs Elton so intent on getting Jane out of the way? And who else is in on the plan?
‘I am much obliged to you, Mrs Elton, but, as I have told you before, I wish to spend some time with the Campbells before I seek a position. Indeed, I have promised them so.’
Having managed to avoid Mrs Elton for an entire week, I’m now suffering the misfortune of sitting in Mr Knightley’s gardens at Donwell Abbey within earshot of her, although at least it means I get to keep an eye on Jane. (I couldn’t exactly ask Robert to stalk her round the Abbey, could I? People would talk.) Mrs Elton is trying to convince Jane to take up a governess position she has found for her – one Jane never asked her to seek out – and Jane is standing her ground. Although, in truth, she looks about ready to keel over. Her skin is so pale it’s almost translucent, there are dark rings under her eyes and she’s slumped in her chair, as if she doesn’t have the energy to hold up her head.
As for Augusta Elton, or Augusta Hawkins, or whoever she might be, I haven’t been able to discover anything new. There have been no more exchanges with bear boy. No more coded letters. I keep waiting for her to approach me, to reveal what she wants, but she has resolutely ignored me so far. Perhaps she just can’t see me over the brim of her enormous bonnet.
I was tempted to decline the invitation to Mr Knightley’s strawberry party at Donwell Abbey, in an attempt to avoid any awkward conversations with Mrs Elton. But I couldn’t leave Jane without a bodyguard and, if I can catch Frank on his own, I might be able to get him talking about Weymouth and the mysterious Parker.
If Frank ever arrives, that is.
‘Mr Knightley, would you be so kind as to show us the gardens?’ Jane asks, rising from her seat as Mrs Elton becomes increasingly insistent about the Smallridges. ‘I would very much like to see all of the gardens.’
As the party trails after Mr Knightley, I find myself walking alongside the Eltons, the midday sun prickling my bare arms.
‘Most shocking, Mr E, that Jane will not accept the offer at once. They won’t wait around for long. I shall have to send her answer for her if she doesn’t set her mind to it soon.’
‘Quite right, my dear,’ Mr Elton responds in a tone that suggests he’s no longer listening to his wife, if ever he was.
‘Perhaps Miss Fairfax doesn’t want to take the job,’ I say, before I can stop myself. I know I’m supposed to be laying low, but it is my birthday and, if I’m forced to spend it with the Eltons, I think I deserve a measure of self-indulgence.
‘And what reason could she possibly have to refuse?’ Mrs Elton says, glaring at me from beneath the brim of her ridiculous bonnet.
‘Perhaps she prefers to stay in Highbury.’
Mrs Elton shakes her head and lowers her voice. ‘I would have thought you of all people would recognise the benefit of Miss Fairfax’s new position.’ She gives me a cryptic smile.
And what exactly does she mean by that? Before I have a chance to ask her, she has taken her husband’s arm and turned in the opposite direction. I walk on, relieved to have some time to myself although, after a few minutes, I’m brooding over the mysterious Mrs Elton and the absent Frank Churchill. He should be here by now.
We retreat indoors for luncheon, enjoying the cool shade of the Abbey after a few hours in the blazing sun. Frank has still not come. Mrs Weston fears her stepson has been thrown from his black mare. Mr Weston laughs off his wife’s concerns, but I catch a glimpse of him pacing up and down by the window, fingers running absently through his thinning grey hair, as I help myself to the cold meats in the dining room. He’s muttering something about Mrs Churchill as I walk past him studiously chewing on a mouthful of sliced ham. His nervous energy drives me out into the gardens.
What if something has happened to Mrs Churchill?
As I’m contemplating how quickly I can get to her house in Richmond and how long it will be before I am missed, I’m roused by the thunder of horse’s hoofbeats. I look up, expecting to see Frank’s black mare, but it’s a messenger who throws himself from the saddle of his bay mount and presses a letter into Miss Fairfax’s hands. He doesn’t wait for a reply. Jane reads the message with a frown and turns towards the house, where she trades a few terse words with Emma and then flees towards Highbury.
