A Very Vexing Murder, page 19
Mrs Churchill frowns, setting down her own teacup. She tosses the letters aside and goes straight for the package, fingers working at the knot of the twine that holds it together. I catch a flash of bright white beneath the brown paper as she opens it. A thought niggles at the back of my mind, but I can’t quite reach it.
Something is wrong.
Mrs Churchill leans in to examine the parcel’s contents as a sweet, floral scent emanates from it.
‘No, don’t—’ I slur, trying to pull her away from the parcel as my head pounds and my limbs become leaden. Everything is slowing down, and yet the world is slipping away from me far too quickly.
Mrs Churchill slumps over the parcel, eyes open but unseeing. My fingers twitch towards her, knocking her teacup from the table, and I can’t—
CHAPTER 20
Rule number twenty: Your witnesses know more than they think they do. They just need a little encouragement.
Iwake to the sweet scent of roses and the certain dread that I’ve missed something important.
Where the hell am I?
I raise my head to get a better look at my surroundings and I’m struck by a bout of nausea. I roll over just in time to observe the well-placed chamber pot on the floor beside the chaise longue and do my best to aim in that direction. I heave until I’m sure there’s not a drop of liquid left in my body and my throat is so sore I feel as if someone has attempted to choke me to death.
There’s something I’m supposed to be doing. Something I need to remember.
‘Shhh. Go back to sleep.’ There’s a cool hand on my brow, a glass of water pressed to my lips.
Robert?
It might be, but before my voice can form the question, I’m slipping back into the fog.
The chamber pot is empty now, but I can taste the acid at the back of my throat and my limbs are so stiff, I feel as if I’ve been trampled by a herd of Welsh cows. The room is dark and cool, curtains drawn, but my vision clears as I raise my throbbing head. I know where I am now. But how did I get here?
The garden. Something happened in the garden.
‘Oh, thank goodness. You’re awake. No, don’t try to get up.’ Matilda eases me back down onto the chaise longue. ‘You must rest.’
I flinch as I settle back against the cushions and my fingers find a lump the size of a new potato at the base of my skull.
‘You must have hit your head when you fainted,’ Matilda says as she moves to open the curtains.
‘Fainted?’
‘The doctor says it was the shock of what happened to Mrs Churchill.’
That’s not right. I didn’t faint. I don’t faint. I’m made of stronger stuff than that. I didn’t faint when I was thrown from Captain Lacey’s wild mustang at the tender age of thirteen and broke my leg so badly, I could see the bone poking through the skin. The groom fainted. So did Captain Lacey. But all I could think about was how furious Father would be that I’d put myself out of action. And then there was the time that poor coachman was trampled to death by his own carriage horses, right in front of me, innards splattered across the pavement. Everyone was losing their heads and their lunches over it. I was the only one who thought to pursue the horses to prevent another such accident. And it’s a good thing I did, or else Lady Marchant would have lost more than one of her beloved King Charles spaniels.
I didn’t faint at what happened to Mrs Churchill. Whatever it was that did happen to her.
‘Mrs Churchill. Is she. . . gone?’ I don’t really need to ask that question. I know that she is.
Matilda is deathly pale and shivering, as if she’s the one who is laid out on the chaise longue. She lowers her red-rimmed eyes to the floor and clutches a handkerchief to her breast, fingers twitching. ‘I knew she was still unwell. I should never have let her get up this morning.’
‘No. She was better,’ I say, gripping her arm. ‘It wasn’t that. The parcel. There was something in the parcel.’
That’s when it happened. She opened it, and she was gone. I was too. Some kind of drug that had done for Mrs Churchill and knocked me unconscious. There’s something else about that parcel. Something important. It slips from my mind as I reach for it. But it was the parcel that killed her. I’m certain of it.
‘Matilda.’ My vision swims as I haul myself to my feet much too quickly. ‘Who sent the parcel?’
‘I don’t know. There was no message with it.’
‘When did it arrive?’
Matilda shakes her head. ‘Yesterday. The day before, perhaps. But Mrs Churchill was not well enough to get up until this morning and she didn’t ask for her post before then.’
‘Well, which day was it?’ I reach for the glass of water on the table with shaking hands.
‘I don’t—’
‘Who delivered it?’
‘No one. I found it on the hall table.’
‘When did you first see it?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Think, Matilda.’
She shrugs. ‘It was after Mrs Churchill returned from Highbury.’
We’re getting somewhere, but not as fast as I would like. I take Matilda’s hands in mine. They’re slick with sweat, and she tries to pull away, but I hold them firm. ‘Close your eyes,’ I command.
‘What? Why?’
‘Just close them.’
Matilda sighs, but assents.
‘Take a deep breath.’
She inhales slowly.
‘Let it out.’ I grip her arm and guide her out into the hallway.
‘Where are we—’
‘Keep your eyes closed. You’re walking through the hallway. You glance over and see the parcel for the first time. What do you do?’
Matilda’s eyelids flutter as she presses her lips together in concentration. ‘I walk over to the table to see who the parcel is for.’
‘The lantern in the hallway. Is it lit?’
‘Yes. I— I think so.’
‘Do you recognise the writing on the parcel?’
‘No. That is— It is block printed.’
As if someone is trying to disguise their handwriting.
Perhaps that was what had bothered me about the parcel. Why I had tried to warn Mrs Churchill.
‘Had Frank returned from Highbury? Was he here?’
Matilda’s eyes fly open. ‘Yes.’
I put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Keep your eyes closed.’
She nods, biting her lip.
‘What was he doing?’
‘Arguing. With Wakefield.’
‘About what?’
‘He wanted to see his aunt. But Wakefield said it was too late and she was not to be disturbed.’
‘And then what did he do?’
‘He came out into the hallway and asked me what I was still doing up. As if I would leave Mrs Churchill alone at such a time and with him in the house.’
Matilda has forgotten herself again. Though she was reluctant to admit it earlier today, it’s clear she believes that Frank is a danger to his aunt.
‘Did he see the parcel?’
‘I don’t know. If he did, he didn’t comment on it.’ Her eyelids flutter again.
I’m losing her.
Her eyes are open now and she’s looking at me with the strangest expression. ‘I did this. It’s my fault.’
‘What do you mean?’
Is she about to confess to murdering her mistress?
Matilda stifles a sob. ‘If I hadn’t brought the parcel to her, she’d still be here.’
Perhaps not.
‘You couldn’t have known. You can’t blame yourself. I was sitting right next to her and I didn’t do a thing to stop it.’
I take my hand from her shoulder and hurry down the corridor, slipping out into the garden.
‘I will not stay in this house,’ Matilda says as she follows me outside. ‘Not now two women have been murdered. It will be me next. I’m not safe here.’
‘Mmmm,’ I say, tuning out Matilda’s hysterics as my eyes adjust to the afternoon sunlight. I must have been out for longer than I’d thought.
It’s not like the last murder scene I surveyed at Richmond. There’s no corpse sprawled across the floor, no bodily fluids, no murder weapon in plain sight. In fact, you wouldn’t know that anything out of the ordinary had happened here. The tea things have been cleared away, the chairs tucked neatly under the table. The parcel is gone.
‘Where is Mrs Churchill?’ I ask.
‘I moved her,’ says a cold voice behind me. Wakefield looks as unruffled as if he were talking about a piece of furniture rather than his dead mistress.
‘What about the parcel?’ I demand. ‘The tea things?’
Matilda shakes her head. ‘I cleared away the tea while we were waiting for the doctor. But the parcel, I don’t know.’
‘It was not there when I arrived home,’ Wakefield says, an edge to his voice.
‘Could someone else have moved it? The cook, perhaps?’
Matilda shakes her head. ‘She’s not arrived yet. Only the stable-boy was here, but I sent him to fetch Frank home. He’s been such a long time. I do hope nothing is wrong.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘As soon as I found you both and recovered from the shock of it. I can’t understand why they haven’t returned.’
‘If you’ll excuse me, Miss Smith. There is much for me to attend to.’ Wakefield retreats indoors.
Matilda steps towards me. ‘Miss Smith?’
‘Harriet, please. I think witnessing two murders together allows us a measure of intimacy.’
‘Harriet. I don’t wish to rush you off when you’ve had such a shock, but I must pack up my things before Frank returns, or else I’m sure I shall not have the courage to leave.’
‘I cannot think you’ll be in danger now Mrs Churchill is dead. Whoever killed her, it’s clear she was the intended target. They have no reason to come after you.’
‘Unless they think I know too much. Besides, with Mrs Churchill gone, there doesn’t seem much point to me staying on.’
‘Frank will still need a housemaid, I imagine.’
‘Well, it won’t be me,’ Matilda says, glancing at Mrs Churchill’s garden chair. ‘I won’t stay here. Nor at Enscombe. There’s evil lurking within this family.’
Matilda says this in the doom-laden tone that only the servant class can really do justice to, but with two murders in the space of three weeks at Richmond, I can’t really argue with her. Leaving so soon after Mrs Churchill’s murder isn’t really a good look, but if she fears that Frank is the murderer I suppose it’s only natural. Besides, if Matilda is the mastermind behind the whole thing, she hasn’t done herself any favours by being the only other person known to be in the house at the time of the murder and the one who handed the poisoned parcel to Mrs Churchill.
‘You must let me pack up my things, Miss Smith. Harriet. Before Frank’s arrival. You mustn’t be here either.’
‘Of course. You’re quite right.’
There’s no chance I’m leaving before Frank returns. I stumble against the garden table, clutching my head.
‘Harriet!’ Matilda rushes to my side.
‘I just need a minute,’ I say, sinking down into a chair. ‘Go. Finish your packing.’ I wave her off.
‘If you’re sure?’
I nod, closing my eyes. I don’t open them again until I’m certain Matilda has withdrawn. I’m sitting where I was this morning, when Mrs Churchill, with her unbuttered toast and her steaming tea, informed me that she didn’t remember anything about her fall down the stairs at the Bateses’ apartment and that she was quite sure Monsieur Durand, of whom she had never heard, posed no threat to her or her family.
Perhaps if she’d been a little bit more forthcoming about the threats to her life, she might still be here.
But whoever heard of anyone using a parcel as a murder weapon? I wish I could remember more about the parcel, but I was too busy with my tea to pay it much attention. At that last moment, I knew that something was wrong, but I don’t know how or why. And, by then, she was already gone.
There’s something else that’s bothering me. Why did Wakefield send me the summons from Mrs Churchill, and why wasn’t he here when I arrived? It seems an odd time to be off running errands, given Mrs Churchill’s fragile state. And why did Mrs Churchill summon me in the first place? She never did get round to telling me and I can’t imagine what she could have wanted with me after everything that happened at Donwell Abbey and the Bateses’ apartment. Whatever it was, it must have been important for Mrs Churchill to overlook the fact that I’d wished her dead and, worse still in her eyes, nearly kissed her nephew, a couple of days earlier.
‘Harriet.’ Matilda is hovering by the garden door. ‘It’s getting late.’ She’s clutching a small trunk which must contain all her worldly possessions.
‘Surely you will not go without informing Frank?’
‘I dare not stay.’
It would be better for me if Matilda did stay. It would give me eyes and ears where I most need them. I could talk her into it. It’s exactly the sort of thing my father would do. Sweet-talk a vulnerable young girl into staying in a dangerous situation for his own ends, without a second thought for her welfare. It’s the sort of thing I would have done a few months ago.
I will not do it now.
‘Where will you go?’ I ask, rising from my seat.
She shrugs, staring down at her feet. ‘To my uncle in Dorset, if he will have me back. He owns a coaching inn. It will be hard work and long hours, but it’s safer than staying here.’
‘You must send me your address when you’re settled, in case I need to speak with you again.’
Matilda’s face falls. ‘I just want this to be over.’
‘It will be,’ I assure her. ‘As soon as I find Mrs Churchill’s murderer.’
Matilda’s mouth hardens and she nods sharply. ‘I don’t think you will have to look far.’
A warm breeze rustles through the rosebushes and a scrap of silver paper flutters down the path towards the garden gate. I reach down to retrieve it, holding it between my thumb and forefinger. It could account for that flash of white I had seen when Mrs Churchill opened the parcel. I sniff it experimentally, but all I can detect is the faint scent of lavender. I try the latch on the garden gate. It slides open without any resistance. I remember Wakefield’s earlier assertion that it is left unlocked during the day. Which means that anyone could have slipped into the garden to retrieve the package, including Wakefield himself, Frank, Durand, or even the mysterious figure from the Bateses’ apartment.
I move back to the table. The letters are still there, unopened, but Mrs Churchill’s gold locket has gone. I snatch up the letters and turn to Matilda. ‘The locket that was on the table. Did you move it when you cleared the tea things?’
Matilda shakes her head. ‘I didn’t see a locket.’
Which means one of two things. Either Matilda is lying or someone stole it along with the parcel.
‘Has the back door been unlocked all this time?’
Matilda hangs her head. ‘I didn’t think to lock it, what with the body, and the doctor and—’ She breaks off with a sob.
I pat her arm. ‘Nobody would expect you to think of it, in the circumstances. But could you do something for me before you go? Could you check to see that nothing is missing from Mrs Churchill’s jewellery box?’
‘You think someone has robbed her?’ There’s a strange look in Matilda’s eyes, a challenge, almost, that makes me decide not to mention Durand. Perhaps Matilda has been helping herself to Mrs Churchill’s jewellery. Perhaps she thinks I’m testing her.
‘Probably not,’ I say, not wishing to provoke her further. ‘But it doesn’t hurt to be thorough.’
The garden gate rattles. I clap my hand over Matilda’s mouth as she lets out a little shriek. I pull her along the path and duck behind the buddleia, dragging her down with me. As I peer out from my hiding place, the garden gate inches open with a dull creak.
CHAPTER 21
Rule number twenty-one: If the murderer returns to the scene of the crime, don’t let them find you there.
Why is it I never have my pistol to hand when I’m about to be confronted by a cold-blooded killer? It could be the cook, I suppose, but it’s more likely to be the murderer returning to the scene of the crime, seeking a piece of incriminating evidence they left behind. That’s how Robert would write it, in any case. And here I am: Harriet Smith, intrepid investigator, ready to pounce.
This is the moment where I catch them in the act.
The gate swings open and his feet crunch on the gravel. He dips his head to avoid colliding with a willow tree, cursing as a stray branch scrapes against his neck. I know exactly who I’m dealing with.
‘Robert!’ I clamber out from behind the buddleia, fingers raking through my hair to expel a few stray leaves.
‘Harriet.’ He half-shakes, half-embraces me. ‘What on earth— You steal Mr Knightley’s favourite horse, almost mowing me down in the process, and disappear with absolutely no thought for the consequences—’
Ah. So that’s who I nearly killed on the way here. It could have been worse. It could have been Mr Knightley himself.
‘Was he very angry?’ I ask, twirling a strand of hair around my finger.
Robert sighs. ‘With me, perhaps. He doesn’t know you’ve stolen his horse. I told him I let you take it.’
‘Oh. Well, that was decent of you.’
‘I’ve been out looking for you all day. Where have you been?’ There’s an accusing note in his voice, as if he thinks I’ve deliberately set out to witness a murder and get myself knocked out in the process, just to inconvenience him.
‘What do you mean, where have I been? I’ve been here. All day.’
Robert rubs the back of his neck with his thumb. ‘I can assure you, it was the first place I thought to look, but the house was shut up, and no one came to the door when I knocked. The curtains were drawn and, oh—’ Robert glances at Matilda’s grim expression and then back at mine. ‘Mrs Churchill. She’s not—’
