A Very Vexing Murder, page 16
Well, I’m not having that. Not when there’s a murderer on the loose who may have their sights set on Jane. I set off after her, panting hard, my gown streaked with sweat.
I wish she would slow down.
My wish is granted a few moments later as Frank canters towards the Abbey on his black mare, pulling up as he spots Jane. I’m not close enough to hear their conversation, but I can perceive from Jane’s stiff posture and Frank’s animated hand gestures that it’s a hostile exchange. As Jane tries to carry on walking, Frank steers his horse across her path and raises his voice. ‘You’re playing right into her hands.’
Jane’s response is too low for me to catch as I creep closer under the shelter of the Abbey’s sycamore trees.
Frank leans over his horse and reaches for Jane’s hand. She flinches away from him and hurries off towards Highbury.
‘This has to stop!’ Frank shouts after her. His mare paws the ground as Frank stares at Jane’s retreating form.
I have to make a quick decision. I can either follow Jane to ensure she doesn’t get herself into any trouble or stick with Frank and try to get some information from him about what happened in Weymouth.
As Frank turns and catches sight of me, a flare of panic in his eyes, my decision is made for me.
Frank it is.
He attempts to conceal his discomfort as he dismounts and leads the black mare over to me, cheeks flushed. I stroke her muzzle as she snorts into the palm of my hand.
‘You are not leaving too, Miss Smith?’
‘Not now you are here,’ I say smoothly as I turn and walk with him back towards the Abbey.
‘I’m afraid you will not see me at my best today,’ he says, ignoring my compliment. ‘It’s this damned heat. I don’t know why I came at all.’
‘I will not have you out of temper today, Mr Churchill, for it is my birthday and I am determined nothing and nobody will spoil it.’
‘Well, now you shame me, for I do not have a present for you.’
‘Your company will be gift enough,’ I say, ‘as long as you can throw off your ill humour.’
Frank sighs as he takes my arm. His shirt is damp and there’s a faint tang of sweat mixed with his usual citrus scent. ‘I fear, Miss Smith, though I always endeavour to please beautiful young ladies, I cannot satisfy you in this. As long as my infernal aunt insists on watching my every move, I’m not sure I know how to be anything other than ill-tempered.’
‘She cannot be that bad,’ I say, shifting subtly to feel the warmth of his shoulder against mine.
Although I’m quite hot enough as it is.
‘She is insufferable. She doesn’t want me to go anywhere unless she has approved it.’
‘She allowed you to go to Weymouth,’ I reason. ‘And you were there some time, from what I’ve heard.’
‘Well, yes. On that occasion she did allow me some freedom—’
‘And Weymouth is such a lovely part of the world.’
‘You have been to Weymouth, Miss Smith?’
‘I have an acquaintance there by the name of Parker,’ I say, ignoring his question. ‘I wonder if you came across him during your visit?’
Frank shrugs. ‘Weymouth is a busy place.’
He shows no hint of recognition at the name. No involuntary twitch. Nothing that suggests he is acquainted with this Parker. But I already know what a good actor Frank Churchill is.
‘He has a pleasure boat. Takes out tourists. You went out on the water, I think.’ If Parker is the boatman from Weymouth and Frank hired him to orchestrate Jane’s accident, I’m sure I’ll be able to tell from his response.
‘Yes,’ Frank says, swatting away a passing fly with surprising vehemence. ‘But not for long. You’ve no doubt heard about Miss Fairfax’s accident?’
There’s nothing in the way he says it that suggests it was anything but an accident, or that he was in any way responsible. If Frank staged the accident himself to win over Jane, or if Durand meant it as a warning to Frank to encourage him to pay off his debts, Frank is giving nothing away.
‘Yes, I did hear something of the sort from Miss Bates—’
‘But, you see, everything is at my aunt’s whim,’ Frank continues, tugging on his horse’s mouth in indignation. He will not be drawn on what happened in Weymouth. He is too fixated on his gripe with Mrs Churchill to pay heed to anything else. ‘Take today, for instance; she knew very well of my invitation to Mr Knightley’s strawberry party and so she chose to have one of her nervous seizures just as I was leaving. We would all be better off if she’d hurry up and die.’
He talks like a man who has already done the deed.
‘You think me cruel,’ he says as he turns to examine my face. ‘I can see it in your eyes. I shock you with my candour.’
There’s not much point in denying it and I’m not sure I could speak even if I wanted to.
Frank sighs again and drops the mare’s reins. She wanders off to graze. ‘It would be much easier if we could choose our family.’
I can’t disagree with the sentiment. ‘Isn’t that what marriage is for?’ I ask, finding my voice.
Frank lets out a bitter laugh. ‘I forget your youth, Miss Smith. You are yet innocent in the ways of the world. If only I could settle down with a girl like you,’ he says, sweeping a stray curl behind my ear, his fingers brushing against my cheek, ‘then I’m sure I should be happy.’
I feel the tension leave his body as he tilts his head. My eyelids flutter shut as he leans in towards me. He’s going to kiss me, and I’m going to let him, even though I know I shouldn’t. I promised myself I wouldn’t let it happen again, but for one blissful moment, I would like to forget about the rules and the job, and the fact that the man I’m contemplating kissing has just expressed murderous intent towards his own aunt. My client. It is my birthday, after all, and I don’t want to be alone today. Besides, the longer I keep Frank occupied, the less chance he has of carrying out the threatened violence against Mrs Churchill.
He’s so close, I can feel his breath against my lips.
Don’t do it, Harriet.
It’s too late now. I couldn’t stop, even if I wanted to.
And I don’t want to.
‘Mr Churchill! You are here, at last. We had given up on you.’
My eyes fly open and I take two hasty steps backwards, trip over my gown and fall flat on my bottom, fingers digging into the dry soil. Frank makes no move to help me up. He is already pulling his horse towards Mrs Elton, as if desperate to flee the scene of the crime. He’s careful not to look back at me.
‘Ah, Mrs Elton!’ he exclaims, recovering his composure as he takes her arm. ‘Did you think I could stay away from a gathering which numbers you among its guests?’
Mrs Elton swats at him playfully. ‘Really, Mr Churchill, if my caro sposo were to hear you talk so!’
I remain where I landed, wrestling with a mixture of relief and disappointment as I brush the dirt from my gown. It’s the relief that wins out as Mrs Elton glances over her shoulder at me with a sly smile. Because, as frustrated as I am by her interruption, I can’t help but feel I’ve had a lucky escape.
CHAPTER 17
Rule number seventeen: Behave as if somebody is watching your every move. Because somebody probably is.
Iam a complete and utter idiot. What was I thinking? I almost kissed Frank Churchill, who, most likely, is obsessed with another woman to the extent that he will kill for her, or is in debt to a man who is so dangerous that he’s willing to kill Frank’s loved ones in order to get him to pay it back. Either way, it’s not a good move. Particularly not in public, in front of the woman who already has enough blackmail material on me to fill one of Robert’s notebooks.
And, as for Frank, how am I ever going to face him now? Or Mrs Churchill? It’s like Derbyshire all over again. Except I’m not in love with Frank. I’m not. Yes, he’s well dressed and charming and has amazing hair (thanks to a certain French barber/potentially murderous moneylender). And he smells divine. He’s the only person I’ve felt I can show a remnant of myself to without fearing his disapproval. He’s hardly one to judge. He’s an accomplished liar – I appreciate most women wouldn’t look for this in a lover, but just think how good a con man he would be. He already is. And being my partner in crime would be a far better prospect for him than murdering his aunt. The two of us together would be unstoppable. I can’t drag Robert along for the ride for ever. I do appreciate his help, but there’s only so long I can have him tugging at my conscience before his righteousness starts to rub off on me. I need to think beyond this job. Look to the future.
Keep your head in the present, Hattie, and the future will take care of itself, my father always said. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? He didn’t want me to look to the future, for fear that I might discover one without him in it. And, now that I have, he’s doing his best to sabotage that future. Who knows the depths to which he will sink to ensure that I’m as miserable and destitute as he is? The uncertainty is the worst part: waiting for the axe to fall; not knowing when, or where, or how it will.
But there’s one thing I am certain of right now. I can’t return to the Abbey. Not while Frank is there. I’ve had enough of the Churchill charm for one day. As for Mrs Elton, if I never see her again, I will not mourn the loss. Which doesn’t leave me many options other than to walk through the woods in the shade of the horse chestnut trees, trying to ignore the scratching at the back of my throat and wishing I had a drink to hand. This isn’t how I’d hoped to spend my birthday.
I walk down to the river and sit on the bank, losing track of time as I close my eyes against the sun, enjoying the scent of damp earth and oak leaves. It’s quiet here, other than the chatter of sparrows and the shrill whistle of a solitary blackbird and—
Voices.
Raised in anger. Although the cadence carries, the words are obscured by distance and dense foliage. I rise reluctantly and tiptoe towards the commotion, seemingly snapping every twig in the wood on my way. I come to a break in the trees and, squinting against the sun, I can just make out two figures in the middle distance. One of them is Mrs Elton.
So much for avoiding her.
She’s waving her arms around erratically at a tall, ominous figure who stands ramrod straight, arms folded across her chest. I catch a glimpse of her face as she turns away from Mrs Elton in disgust and, as her blazing eyes meet mine, I wish I had stayed by the riverbank. Mrs Elton storms off towards the Abbey, muttering under her breath. Mrs Churchill strides straight towards me.
Well, at least she’s not dead.
Given the way she’s glaring at me, it might have been better for me if she was.
‘Miss Smith,’ she says in that devastating tone of hers as she reaches the clearing.
‘Mrs Churchill,’ I say, with a nod. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I tried to keep Frank away from Highbury today but, when that failed, it was clear to me that he had not given up on Jane Fairfax, as you informed me. And so I decided to deal with the matter myself. I had hoped to find Miss Fairfax at home – I had already put my coachman to great inconvenience, driving from Richmond to Highbury at such short notice. I did not expect to have him chasing round the countryside after Jane Fairfax. But it seems that Miss Fairfax cannot keep away from my nephew.’
I can’t imagine Mrs Churchill or her coachman will be too pleased to discover that Jane has evaded them yet again. ‘I do not see your carriage, Mrs Churchill.’
She raises her chin. ‘I am hardly going to ride right up to the Abbey and demand to see Jane Fairfax in front of half of Highbury. My coachman is lurking about in the woods to keep out of sight, which is greatly beneath his dignity. I will have to give him a raise.’
Perish the thought.
‘I didn’t know you were acquainted with Mrs Elton,’ I say, glancing towards Donwell Abbey.
‘I am not,’ Mrs Churchill snaps, sounding thoroughly offended at the prospect. ‘I was simply asking her for directions to the Abbey when the insufferable woman started droning on about Mabel Grove and did I know a Mr Suckling who, it turns out – I did not ask, you understand – is her brother-in-law and a man who has recently purchased his own barouche landau. Why on earth should I be acquainted with a man who thinks the purchase of a barouche is something to shout about, I should like to know, and from Bristol of all places? I don’t care how big his house is, I would not endure his company for all the world.’
Mrs Churchill’s face is flushed, there’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead and her breathing is laboured from the exercise and the heat of the summer sun. ‘What are you doing skulking about in the woods?’ she demands, the Sucklings already forgotten.
‘I was. . . well, that is—’
‘I do not pay you to lie around in the sun enjoying yourself.’
You do not pay me at all, I want to say, because all I’ve had from her so far is money for my expenses and nothing of my fee. No doubt she would say I hadn’t earned it yet, and I suppose she would have a point.
‘Jane is not here. Frank is at the Abbey. What else do you expect me to do?’
‘Ensure Frank’s affections are engaged elsewhere,’ Mrs Churchill replies and I nearly have a heart attack. Surely she can’t mean—
‘Miss Woodhouse,’ Mrs Churchill adds, looking at me as if I’ve just declared myself a French revolutionary.
Frank Churchill and Emma Woodhouse. It’s a good idea. And one I’m sure won’t happen now. Emma might have been in his power when he first arrived in Highbury, but she has long since vanquished Frank.
Perhaps I should ask her for some pointers.
‘Which is why I was surprised, Miss Smith, to witness your own interaction with my nephew a short time ago. You need not play coy with me, girl. I saw what you were up to.’
‘You were spying on me?’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘I arrived at the opportune moment,’ she says in a tone that suggests spying is beneath her station. ‘Besides, I have a right to know how my money is being spent.’
‘Mrs Churchill, whatever you thought you saw, I can assure you—’
‘Do not think me so old that I fail to recognise the art of seduction when I see it,’ she says with a knowing smile. ‘I was skilled at it myself in my youth, believe it or not.’
Mrs Churchill has about as much charm as a fox in a henhouse, but I can well believe she was capable of bullying men into submission as a younger woman.
‘I do not want you falling back into your old ways,’ she says. ‘I did not hire you to get rid of Miss Fairfax so that you could seduce Frank yourself. At least Jane Fairfax has some good breeding in her – and some suitable connections. Heaven knows where you came from, Miss Smith, but I tell you where you will not be going from now on: anywhere near Frank. Emma Woodhouse? That is a match. But Harriet Smith? I would sooner let him throw himself away on the Fairfax girl.’ Mrs Churchill stops for breath, closing her eyes as she steadies herself against a nearby oak tree.
I’m shaking with anger, fists clenched. For a woman of her background – a nobody, who married far above her station – to declare that I’m not good enough for her precious nephew.
‘I should have realised you were too young for this kind of work. A green girl who lets her emotions run away with her. You will stay away from Frank. In fact,’ she reaches into her reticule and draws out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and fastened with thick twine, throwing it at my feet, ‘you are to leave my employ altogether. There is your fee.’ She nods towards the parcel, expecting me to scrabble around in the dirt for it like the peasant I am, I suppose.
I hold her gaze, arms folded to indicate I’m not going to touch her money. I don’t need it. (I do need it, of course, but I’m trying to prove a point here.)
‘If you are not satisfied with my work, Mrs Churchill, I will be only too happy to part ways with you.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘You are an insolent girl, Miss Smith. I do not wish to accuse my friend of poor judgement, but I fear that she has been greatly deceived in you.’
‘I’m sorry I don’t live up to your friend’s recommendation. Although perhaps if you were really her confidante in all things, you would not have hired me in the first place.’
‘How dare you. Do you honestly think—’ Mrs Churchill breaks off for an ill-timed coughing fit. She slumps against the oak tree, taking large gulps of air. ‘I do not. . . I cannot—’ She shivers so violently that even I think she’s overdoing it.
I roll my eyes, hands on my hips. ‘What’s the matter, Mrs Churchill? Are you having one of your seizures?’ I say with mock concern.
‘The. . . girl.’
‘What’s that, Mrs Churchill? I can’t comprehend you over all the bad acting.’
She pulls herself upright, eyes blazing.
‘Yes, you don’t have me fooled,’ I jeer. ‘Nor Frank, neither. He wasn’t too impressed that you’d faked a seizure to keep him away from the Abbey. Well, it didn’t work, did it?’
‘You know nothing about it.’
‘I know a lot more than you think,’ I say, lowering my voice. ‘Jane Fairfax has had a lucky escape from you.’
Mrs Churchill stumbles backwards, her eyes flashing with something that looks a lot like terror.
Perhaps she’s a better actress than I had given her credit for.
‘In fact,’ I add, looming over her, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d faked the whole thing. Not that I’d blame Frank for trying to do away with you. Would that he had succeeded!’
Mrs Churchill draws herself up to her full height, nostrils flaring. She looks as if she’s about to deliver some scathing putdown, but then she spins on her heel and strides off into the woods. I would like to have followed suit, exiting in an equally dramatic fashion. However, Mrs Churchill’s parcel is still lying where she discarded it and, while I might have been too proud to reach for it in her presence, I snatch it up eagerly in her absence. The twine is secured with a sailor’s knot, which eludes my impatient fingers. There’s a waft of lavender as I rip open the package to find a bundle of hundred-pound notes inside, wrapped in silver paper. There’s a lot of money here. Far more than we’d agreed on. I count the notes twice, just to be sure. Five thousand pounds. Five. Thousand. Pounds. I’m good, but I’m not sure I’m that good. I know of a very rich gentleman in Derbyshire for whom that would be half a year’s income. Many other eligible bachelors who would think themselves fortunate with half the amount. I had settled on two thousand pounds with Mrs Churchill and I was surprised she agreed to that. As much as I would appreciate the additional funds, I don’t like to accept more than my due. For the money means something and I’m certain it’s nothing good. I know I would be foolish to accept it. For whatever reason, Mrs Churchill is trying to buy me off. But she’ll soon find out that Harriet Smith is not for sale.
