A Christmas Guest (6 page)

Bedelia's face softened in concern. “I can scarcely imagine it. I have always been so fortunate. This room is a little chill. Would you care to come through to the withdrawing room where it is far warmer? We shall all take tea and consider what must be done. Of course if you prefer to return to St. Mary in the Marsh as soon as possible, we shall understand.”

“Thank you,” Grandmama said weakly. “I should be most grateful for as long a rest as I may take, without imposing upon you. And certainly tea would be very welcome.” She also rose to her feet, as unsteadily as she could without risking actually falling over, which would be ridiculous, and only to be resorted to if all else failed.

Bedelia led the way back across the hall to the withdrawing room, and Grandmama followed, refusing to offer her arm to the younger woman. She must be consistent about her own exhaustion or she might be disbelieved.

The withdrawing room was spacious also and the warmth from the enormous fire engulfed them both as soon as they entered. There was too much furniture for more modern tastes; carved sideboards, heavily stuffed sofas and chairs with antimacassars on all of them. There were also hard-backed chairs by the walls with fat leather-upholstered seats and slightly bowed legs, and several footstools with tassels around the edges. A brightly colored Turkish rug was worn duller where possibly generations of feet had passed. On the walls were embroidered samplers, paintings of every variety large and small, and several stuffed animals in glass cases, even a case full of butterflies as dry as silk. The colors were mostly hot: golds, browns, and ocher reds. Caroline would have thought it oppressive. Grandmama was annoyed to find it very agreeable, indeed almost familiar.

The people in it were entirely another matter. She was introduced to them, and Bedelia was obliged to explain her presence to them.

“My dears.” Everyone turned to her. “This is Mrs. Ellison, who has most graciously come in person rather than send a message to tell us some terrible news.” She turned to Grandmama. “I am certain you would prefer to sit down, perhaps by the fire? May I introduce you to my sister, Mrs. Agnes Sullivan.” She indicated a woman whose superficial resemblance to her was explained by the relationship. They appeared of a similar height, although Mrs. Sullivan did not rise as the three men had done. Her coloring had probably been similar to Bedelia's in youth, but now it was scattered with more gray and the dark areas were duller. Her features were less finely chiseled, and her expression, apart from a certain sadness, was much gentler. Her clothes, although well cut, managed to look commonplace.

“How do you do, Mrs. Sullivan,” Grandmama said formally.

“And her husband, Mr. Zachary Sullivan,” Bedelia continued.

Zachary bowed very slightly. He was a slender man with brown hair, now graying at the temples. His face also was pleasant, but marked by a certain sense of loss, as if he had failed to achieve something that mattered to him too much to forget.

“My daughter-in-law, Clara, and my son, Randolph,” Bedelia continued, indicating in one sweep a young man whose coloring resembled hers, although his features did not, being considerably stronger and blunter. The woman beside him was handsome enough in a powerful way, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and with brows rather too heavy.

Bedelia smiled, in spite of the occasion. “And my husband Arthur,” she finished, turning to a remarkably handsome man whose dark hair was now iron gray. His eyes held a wit and life that captured attention instantly, and his smile at Grandmama showed perfect teeth.

“Welcome to Snave, Mrs. Ellison,” he said warmly. “I am sorry it is distressing news that brings you. May I offer you tea, or would you prefer something more robust, such as a glass of sherry? I know it is early, but the wind is miserable and you have to be chilled, and perhaps tired also.”

“That is most generous of you, and understanding.” Grandmama made her way over to the fire, and the seat Zachary had left vacant for her. Whoever was guilty of having killed Maude, if indeed someone had, she hoped it was not Arthur Harcourt.

“What is it you have to tell us, Mrs. Ellison?” Agnes Sullivan asked with a tremor in her voice.

“I am afraid Miss Barrington passed away in her sleep last night,” Grandmama replied solemnly. “I believe it must have been peaceful, and she seemed to be in excellent health and spirits right until the last moment. She made no remark as to feeling unwell. I am so sorry.” She glanced rapidly from one to the other of them, trying to judge their reactions. Not that she was sure she could tell guilt from shock anyway, or from grief for that matter.

Zachary looked least surprised, rather more puzzled, as if he had not fully understood the meaning of her words.

Agnes gave a gasp and her hand flew to her mouth in a gesture of stopping herself from crying out, oddly like Bedelia's five minutes before. She was very pale.

“Poor Aunt Maude,” Randolph murmured. “I'm so sorry, Mama.” He looked at Bedelia with concern.

Clara Harcourt said nothing. Perhaps as one who had barely known Maude she felt it more appropriate not to speak.

Arthur Harcourt's olive complexion was a muddy color, neither white nor gray, and his eyes seemed to have lost focus. What was he feeling? Was that the horror of guilt now that the act was real and not merely dreamed?

“I am sorry to bring you such news.” Grandmama felt compelled to fill in the silence that seemed to choke the room. The mere flickering of the fire sounded like a sheet torn in the wind.

“It … it was good of you,” Agnes stammered. “Such a terrible thing for you … a guest in your house … a virtual stranger.”

Suddenly a quite brilliant idea lit in Grandmama's mind. It went up like a flare of light. She could almost feel the heat of it in her face. “Oh, not at all!” she said with feeling. “We talked for hours, Maude and I.” She was stunned at her own audacity. “She told me so much about … oh, of any number of things. Her feelings, her experiences, where she had been and the people she had met.” She waved her hands for emphasis. “Believe me, there are those I have been acquainted with for years about whom I know far less. I have never made such excellent friends with anyone so rapidly, or with such a natural affection.” That was a monstrous lie—wasn't it? “I must admit her trust in me was most heartwarming, and that was a great deal the reason why I could not possibly allow anyone else to come to you now,” she hurried on. “I shall never forget Maude, or the confidence she placed in me regarding her life and its meaning.” It was an extraordinary feeling to have made such statements as if they were true, as if she and Maude had become instant and total friends.

She realized with a flutter of absurdity, even of sweetness, that it was not completely a lie. Maude had told her more of meaning in a couple of days than most of her acquaintances had in years, although not the personal details she implied to her wretched family!

And grudgingly, like the lancing of a boil, she admitted that she had actually liked Maude, at least more than she had expected to, considering the gross imposition of having her in Caroline's home for Christmas—uninvited!

Bedelia stared at her incredulously. “Really? But you knew her for barely a day … or two!”

“But we had little to do but talk to each other. She was fascinating at the luncheon and dinner table, but even more so when we were out walking, just the two of us. I was very flattered that she should tell me so much. I found myself speaking equally frankly to her, and finding her most gentle and free from critical judgment. It was a quite … quite wonderful experience,” she added too quickly. She said it purely to frighten them into believing she knew something of whoever it was who had murdered Maude, if indeed they had. This was a deviousness added to her new grief. She intended them to think her too desolate to consider the long carriage ride in the dark to go home again!

She also found, to her dismay, that she wished quite painfully that it were all true. She had not been anything like such friends with Maude. Nor had she confided in her the agonies of her own life, the shame she had carried for years that she had not had the courage to leave her abusive husband and flee abroad as his first wife had done!

But it was startlingly sweet to think that Maude might have sympathized rather than despising her for a coward, as she despised herself. There would have been nothing in the world more precious than a friend who understood. But that was idiotic! Maude would never have submitted herself to such treatment.

“Then you grieve with us,” Arthur said gently, intruding across her thoughts. “Please feel welcome here, and do not consider the journey back to St. Mary tonight. It will be dark quite soon, and you must be both tired and distressed. I am certain we can supply anything you might need, such as a nightgown and toiletries. And of course we have plenty of room.”

“Since Lord Woollard has left, the guest room is perfectly available,” Clara put in quickly.

“Oh yes, the guest who was staying with you before, when poor Maude arrived,” Grandmama noted. “How very kind of you. I really should be most grateful. May I inform my coachman of your generosity, so he can return to St. Mary? It is possible Mr. and Mrs. Fielding may require the coach tomorrow. And of course if they do not hear, they may worry that something has happened to me.”

“Naturally,” Arthur agreed. “Would you care to tell him yourself, or shall I have the butler inform him?”

“That would be very kind of you,” she accepted. “And ask him to tell Mrs. Fielding of your graciousness, and that I am perfectly well … just … just so grieved.”

“Of course.” Now the die was cast. What on earth was she thinking of? Her stomach lurched and her mouth was dry.

She sipped the excellent sherry she had been given and allowed herself to bask for a moment in its delicious warmth. She had embarked upon an adventure. That is the way she must look at it. She was still angry that Maude had been treated so appallingly, whether it included murder or not, although she really thought it might! And she was tired and grieved, quite truly grieved. Maude had been too full of life to die, too joyous in tasting every good experience to give it up so soon. And no one should be unwanted by their own, whatever the reason.

What was the reason? Who in this comfortable room with its roaring fire, its silver tea tray and overstuffed sofas, had wanted Maude out of the house? And why had the rest of them allowed it? Were they all guilty of something? Secrets so terrible they would kill to hide them? They looked so perfectly innocuous, even ordinary. Good heavens, what wickedness can lie beneath a smiling exterior as commonplace as a slice of bread!

Later a maid showed her to the spare bedroom. It was warm and agreeably furnished with a four-poster bed, heavy curtains of wine brocade, another red Turkish carpet, and plenty of carved oak furniture. A very fine ewer with painted flowers on it held fresh water. There was a matching bowl for washing in and on the stand beside them plenty of thick towels with which to dry oneself. There was no way of telling whether Lord Woollard, or anyone else, had occupied it recently. But she would take the opportunity to see how many guest rooms there were so she would know whether Maude could have been accommodated had they wished to. She tiptoed along the corridor, feeling like a sneak thief, and cautiously tried the handles and opened the doors of the two other rooms. They were both bedrooms, and both presently unoccupied. So much for that lie.

She returned to her own room, her hands trembling a little and her knees weak. She sat down. Then another idea struck her. She opened the small cupboard beside the bed, and found lavender water, a vial with a couple of doses of laudanum, and a full bottle of peppermint water! The cork was jammed in tightly, but more telling than that, there was a film of dust over it. It had not been purchased in the last couple of days since Maude had left! So much for being out of it! That put a new complexion on Maude's single dose! Had there been something else in it, disguised by the pungent taste? And the macadamia nuts to make her require it? She closed the cupboard door and sat down heavily on the bed. So far everything had gone quite marvelously. But there was a great deal to do. She must ascertain if Maude had indeed been murdered, if so by whom, precisely how—and it would hardly be complete if she did not also know why! How could she possibly do all that before they politely sent her home? Pitt had no challenge of mere hours in which to solve his cases! He went on for days! Sometimes even weeks! And he had the authority to ask questions and demand answers—not necessarily true ones, of course. She was going to have to be much cleverer than he was! It might not be quite so easy as she had assumed.

Still, so far, so good. And she was much too angry to give up.

However, later on, when in ordinary circumstances she would have been changing for dinner, she was overwhelmed by the strangeness of her surroundings and all the events that had occurred in the last few days. This time last week she had been in London with Emily and Jack, as usual. Then she had been upheaved and sent to St. Mary in the Marsh. She had barely settled to accepting that when Maude Barrington had arrived. That was almost accommodated, and Maude died, without the slightest warning of any sort!