A Very Vexing Murder, page 18
‘Frank Churchill was complaining of the heat when he arrived,’ I say. ‘I expect he left early too?’ He could have easily reached Highbury before me on horseback, even if his mount was tired from the ride to Donwell Abbey.
‘On the contrary,’ Emma says with a smirk, ‘Frank was one of the last to leave. He was there to the very death. The Westons had trouble dragging him away once he’d settled in, though I dare say Miss Bates didn’t help matters there.’ A blush rises to Emma’s cheeks as she mentions Miss Bates. ‘But the Westons got away eventually and Mr Knightley sent Miss Bates home in his carriage.’
Well, there goes my theory. Jane cannot have been covering for Frank. Or her aunt. They were still at the Abbey when Mrs Churchill took her tumble.
So who could it have been?
I sit on the picnic blanket, nibbling at a strawberry tart, and praying for this interminable day to end. Finally, the walking party rove back into view and Mr Weston rises to greet the approaching carriages. Frank turns back to Emma.
‘Miss Woodhouse, in truth, I’m glad we have a moment to ourselves. It was getting awfully crowded, and I only crave your company – and that of your charming friend, Miss Smith, of course,’ he adds, with a stiff nod in my direction.
I arch my eyebrow at him, lips pursed, as I rise to follow Mr Weston towards the carriages. Mrs Elton is pacing back and forth, complaining about the heat again. Jane and Miss Bates amble towards us, arm in arm. Jane has her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, staring at her feet and Miss Bates is strangely silent, her gaze darting across to Emma every now and again. Mr Knightley trots up on his black Friesian stallion, its coat glistening in the sunlight. He dismounts and strides over to Emma. She hangs her head and blushes as he speaks to her in a low voice. As Mr Weston hands Miss Bates into the Eltons’ carriage, Jane pulls me aside.
‘Is she all right? Mrs Churchill?’ she whispers, watching her aunt settle into the carriage next to Mrs Elton.
‘I think so. She has a hard head that one.’
Jane nods, lips pursed. Clearly she’s not finished. ‘Did she say anything to you? In the carriage?’
‘Like what?’ I ask.
Like who really pushed her?
Jane shrugs. ‘I just wondered, that’s all.’ She glances up at the carriages and grasps my arm, steering me away from them. ‘How did you know about all that? Mrs Churchill? Frank?’
I shake my head as her grip tightens. ‘Not here. You need to trust me until this blows over. Then I’ll explain it all. I promise.’
It’s a promise I’m not sure I’ll keep, but it should do the trick for now.
Jane drops my arm. ‘You cannot keep your secrets for ever,’ she says and steps towards the carriages.
I stand and watch the Eltons’ carriage as it trundles away towards Highbury, my eyes fixed on Jane. ‘You cannot keep yours either.’
CHAPTER 19
Rule number nineteen: Take pains to conceal your early-morning visitors from your nosy neighbours. (Particularly when they are uninvited visitors.)
Stones at the window. I wouldn’t mind except it’s seven in the morning and I’ve been tossing and turning all night, waiting for the message from Wakefield that Mrs Churchill is no more, which could mean that Jane Fairfax is a murderer and I have helped her to conceal the crime. Eventually, I drifted off to visions of the gallows, a heavy rope round my neck as I looked down upon the bloodthirsty crowd, with Denny, Frank and Mr Knightley elbowing their way to the front, vying for the best vantage-point.
Stones at the window again. Quite a handful, by the sound of it. I draw back the curtain and throw open the window as the person responsible for the disturbance scoops up another handful of stones. Bear boy.
‘What do you want?’ I hiss, conscious that Miss Bickerton is sleeping right next door. If she wakes up, the news of my early-morning visitor will sweep around Mrs Goddard’s in a matter of minutes.
‘A message for you, miss,’ bear boy shouts, not bothered by any such qualms.
‘Wait there,’ I say, ‘and, for goodness’ sake, don’t make any more noise.’ I grab some coins from my purse – I have a feeling I’m going to need them – and tiptoe down the stairs and slip out into the yard. ‘Well?’ I demand, interrupting bear boy’s tuneless whistling, which, in my book, constitutes making noise.
He grins, fixing his mismatched eyes upon me as he hands me the note. ‘Some lad came over from Richmond with it, but was too scared to knock on the door so early. Didn’t want to disturb folk.’
‘Thank heavens you’re not troubled by such niceties.’
‘I’m not troubled by much, miss,’ he says, his grin widening.
It’s hard not to find him a little bit endearing, even if he is helping my father to terrorise me.
‘And you just happened to be lurking outside my window when the messenger arrived, did you?’
Bear boy shrugs. ‘Just on my usual early-morning walk.’
If that’s meant to reassure me, it doesn’t work. I glance down at the note.
Mrs Churchill requires your immediate attendance at Richmond. Time is of the essence.
Wakefield
My first thought is that Mrs Churchill is dead and Wakefield thinks it too delicate to put down on paper. My second thought is that he wouldn’t have phrased it like this if she was dead. Perhaps she’s too weak to write herself. Or too self-important. Whatever her reasoning, something has happened and, the sooner I leave, the sooner I’ll know what it is.
‘Any reply, miss?’ bear boy asks.
‘No,’ I say, handing him a coin for his troubles. He salutes me and gives me a wink for good measure as he withdraws.
‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘I wanted to ask you about the last message you gave me.’
‘I deliver a lot of messages,’ he says, shrugging his enormous shoulders.
‘Trust me. You’ll remember this one. You mobbed me with a gang of your friends and I pulled a pistol on you.’
‘It’s starting to come back to me.’
I smile at him. ‘I thought it might. Now, if you could just let me know who gave you the message.’
Bear boy frowns. ‘Well, miss, it’s hard to recall all of my clients.’
‘This might help jog your memory,’ I say, handing him another coin.
He slips it into his pocket with a nod of acknowledgement. ‘Toff, he was. Well dressed. Nice horse. Seen him around.’
‘Recently?’
‘Fairly recently, I’d say.’
‘His name?’ I ask, handing him another coin as he pretends to think about it.
‘He didn’t give it, miss,’ he says, grinning maniacally. ‘But I can assure you, you know him.’
‘Anything else?’ I press.
Bear boy shrugs. ‘Like what, miss?’
‘Distinguishing features?’
‘Can’t say he had any.’
Hmmm. Can’t say because he’s been paid not to, I suspect. Bear boy scuttles away before I can wheedle anything else out of him. That settles it. A toff. Someone I know. Someone willing to pay well to keep his identity a secret. It certainly sounds like my father. And he’s clearly still hanging around. But I don’t have time to worry about him right now. I need to get to Richmond and, for that, I need a horse. A fast one.
I have to knock four times before the front door swings open at Abbey-Mill Farm.
‘Oh God, it’s you,’ Denny mumbles, leaning against the doorframe, bleary-eyed.
‘Delightful to see you too,’ I say, peering past him into the farmhouse. ‘Is Robert in?’
Denny huffs. ‘No. He got up at the crack of dawn to do something or other to the cows and I haven’t seen him since. Mainly because I’ve been unconscious. And I’d quite like to get back to it, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course. Wouldn’t want to deny you your beauty sleep. You certainly look as if you need it.’
‘So do you,’ he snaps, slamming the door in my face.
I spend a few minutes scouring the barns for Robert, narrowly avoiding a nip from Toby the pony as he searches my pockets for the carrots I don’t have. There’s no sign of Robert. Wherever he is, he’s not out on the farm, which is mildly inconvenient. It would have been easier to procure one of Mr Knightley’s horses with Robert’s assistance, but I’ll just have to improvise.
The stables at Donwell Abbey are quiet when I reach them. It’s easy enough to slip past the solitary groom in the yard to seek out a suitable mount. A chestnut Arabian mare whinnies a greeting and tosses her head as I pass her stall. She might do nicely. There’s a Hackney horse in the next stall who flicks his ears back and paws the ground. He’s a beautiful horse, but too highly strung. Mr Knightley’s Friesian stallion raises his head and huffs gently as I approach him. He really is the most stunning creature. His coat glistens in the sunlight and his lustrous mane cascades down his neck. And he’s already tacked up. Mr Knightley is probably planning to take him out for a ride this morning, but it feels like fate that I’m here and he’s ready and waiting.
But first to get rid of the groom. I return to the Hackney horse and slide open the bolt of his stall door. He charges at the door, cantering through the yard and into the fields beyond. The groom tears after him, pitchfork still in hand. I return to the Friesian, swing myself up into the saddle and trot out into the yard. It’s been a while since I’ve sat fully astride a horse rather than going through the ridiculous ordeal of riding side-saddle. It’s good to be back here, even with my gown hiked up to my thighs and my legs prickled with goosebumps. I lean forward, whispering words of encouragement into the stallion’s ear. We soar down the driveway, swerving to avoid a blurred figure who dives aside and squawks with indignation as we fly by. We’re galloping so fast that we’ve left them far behind before I can worry about who it might be. Besides, they’ll never catch up with us now. This is what freedom feels like. Pounding hooves, thumping hearts, the wind howling in your ears. It won’t last, but if I close my eyes and give the horse his head, perhaps I can hold on to it that little bit longer.
There’s a boy at the door of Richmond Terrace – bright-eyed and neatly groomed. He’s eager to take the reins as I dismount. I slip a coin into his hand as he leads away Mr Knightley’s horse with a sense of reverence that only a seasoned stable-boy can exhibit.
‘Miss Smith?’ Matilda steps out into the street, watching me carefully. Her hair is spilling out of her haphazard bun and she looks as if she has slept even less than I have. Her expression is so grave I fear Mrs Churchill has met her maker.
‘Mrs Churchill?’ I ask as Matilda moves back to the doorway.
Matilda shakes her head and folds her arms, blocking my path. ‘I saw you the other day, when you brought her home. People don’t notice me, but I notice them. She was in a terrible state,’ she adds reproachfully as if, like Wakefield, she thinks I’m responsible for Mrs Churchill’s near-death experience. She glances over her shoulder and lowers her voice. ‘She claims it was an accident, but I know better. I know it was him. She says she’s better this morning, but I think she’s putting a brave face on it. Still, she convinced Frank. He was happy enough to abandon her to visit some friends in town. Off he went at some ungodly hour this morning as if he didn’t have a care in the world.’
‘When you say you know it was him, do you mean Frank Churchill?’
Matilda shakes her head frantically, gripping my arm. ‘I shouldn’t have said. It isn’t my place. It’s just the shock of it all. I didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘Matilda, if you think Frank is a danger to Mrs Churchill, you must tell me,’ I say gently.
‘No!’ Matilda snaps and looks as if she instantly regrets it. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Smith. I have been working all hours since Sophia died and there is so much to do. And now with Mrs Churchill’s illness. . .’
‘Are you on your own? Is Wakefield not around?’
Matilda shakes her head. ‘He’s running an errand for Mrs Churchill. The footman has gone with Frank. I’m the only one here, except for the stable-boy. And Mrs Churchill, of course.’
Matilda hasn’t asked me what I’m doing here, which is odd, considering that, as far as she knows, the only connection I have to Mrs Churchill is an unhealthy obsession with her nephew.
‘I expect you’re here about Frank and Jane,’ she says as she finally moves aside to let me into the hallway.
‘Excuse me?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘There’s no use trying to deny it. I hear things. I listen. I know that Mrs Churchill hired you to break up Frank and Jane.’
But not the rest, it seems.
‘Mrs Churchill asked to see me,’ I say, hoping she won’t press me further.
She nods sagely. ‘I thought so. This way.’ Matilda leads me through the corridor and out into the garden at the back of the Churchills’ townhouse. She grips my arm as I step onto the patio. ‘You’ll convince her, won’t you, of the danger she’s in? She won’t listen to anyone else.’
Considering our recent exchange at Donwell Abbey, I doubt Mrs Churchill will listen to me either, but Matilda is gazing at me with the expectation of a stray kitten who has turned up on my doorstep looking for a saucer of milk and I find that I can’t say no. ‘I’ll do my best,’ I assure her.
It’s pleasantly warm in the sun, bees are buzzing around the yellow rosebushes and red admirals congregate on the buddleia. Mrs Churchill is sitting at a cast-iron garden table with a pot of tea, crunching on a slice of unbuttered toast. She looks surprisingly healthy for a woman who was pushed down a flight of stairs two days ago.
‘Good,’ she says, when she catches sight of me. ‘You are here.’ She gestures for me to pull up a chair.
I wince as it scrapes across the patio. ‘Mrs Churchill. You are looking better.’
‘Well, of course I am,’ she snaps.
I wait for her to mention our disagreement, or the five thousand pounds she threw at me, or the moment when Jane pushed her down the stairs, but she just carries on with her breakfast as if it’s perfectly normal for me to be sitting opposite her in silence. The problem is, I’ve never been good at holding my tongue.
‘What do you remember about your accident?’ I’m going to refer to it as such until Mrs Churchill tells me otherwise.
She sniffs and stirs a spoonful of sugar into her tea. ‘I remember waking up at the bottom of the Bateses’ staircase with you looming over me. I remember you bringing me back here. Not much more than that.’
‘What about before your fall? Did you see Jane? Did you speak to her?’
‘I must have done, I suppose.’
‘But you don’t remember?’
‘I am a very busy woman, Miss Smith. I do not have time to rake over the past.’
It’s strange. By her terror in the carriage, her reference to the face full of hatred, it’s clear someone pushed her. I would have expected Mrs Churchill to jump at the chance to accuse Jane of trying to kill her. Again. But, if she remembers being pushed by Jane, she has some reason for concealing it.
‘Why did you summon me, Mrs Churchill? Do you want your money back? Is that it?’
I’m not giving it back. It’s here in my reticule, but she can’t have it. I’m past the point of consulting my conscience about it.
‘You can keep the money,’ she says with a wave of her hand, ‘even though you failed to fulfil your duties.’
I pull the gold locket from my reticule and toss it onto the table. ‘Well, here’s another piece of your missing jewellery. I haven’t failed at that. Turns out your dear nephew lost it in a gambling den and I’d wager that’s where your other pearl necklace has gone too. But you know about Frank’s gambling debts, of course. You’ve already had a visit from Monsieur Durand.’
‘I do not know what you are talking about.’ Mrs Churchill takes a long swig of tea.
As far as protestations of ignorance go, it isn’t very convincing. A more natural reaction would have been to ask, ‘Who?’ But Mrs Churchill doesn’t need to, because she knows exactly who Monsieur Durand is.
‘That’s why you checked your jewellery box after Sophia died. You thought it might have been Durand trying to collect on Frank’s debt and leaving Frank a little warning.’
Mrs Churchill lifts her chin and looks me right in the eyes. ‘Preposterous! Frank would not be caught up in something like that. He has everything he needs right here.’
‘Except for the freedom to marry as he pleases.’ I’ve given up being polite to Mrs Churchill now I have her money.
Her fingers tap against her teacup as she considers her response. ‘Whoever this Durand fellow is, I can assure you he poses no threat to me or my family. The Churchills do not get mixed up with moneylenders and gambling dens or anything of that nature.’
‘I never said that Durand was a moneylender.’
‘You implied it. And, if that is the case, he certainly would not be acquainted with my nephew.’
‘I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss Monsieur Durand if I were you,’ I say softly. ‘From what I’ve heard, he’s a very dangerous man.’
But Mrs Churchill won’t be told. Despite the threats she’s endured in the past few months, the arrogance of the rich persists. She is a Churchill, if only by marriage, and Churchills are indestructible.
‘Matilda!’ Mrs Churchill barks. The maid comes scurrying across the patio. ‘Bring me my post. And fetch Miss Smith a cup of tea. She looks as if she needs it.’
My instinct is to decline, just to spite Mrs Churchill, but I am rather thirsty after my long ride.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Matilda says and scampers back into the house.
I sit in silence, watching a robin hopping along the garden fence. He swoops down onto the lawn and starts pecking at a wriggling worm with great enthusiasm.
Matilda tiptoes across the garden with a teacup in one hand and a parcel and two letters in the other. She hands Mrs Churchill her post, pours me a cup of tea and withdraws as quickly as she arrived. I take a grateful swig of tea. It’s lukewarm and I drain the cup in three gulps.
