Anne Perry's Christmas Mysteries: Two Holiday Novels (7 page)

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.

H
owever, 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!

Grandmama had been the only one to perceive that it might well not be natural, but a crime, the most appalling of all crimes, and there was no one else but herself to find justice for it. And here she was sitting quite alone in a house full of strangers, at least one of whom she was now convinced was a murderer. Added to that she had not even fresh underclothes or a nightgown to sleep in. They had offered to lend her something, but all the women in the family were at least three or four inches taller than she was, and thinner as well, by more inches than that! She must have taken leave of her wits. Certainly she could never admit any of this to Caroline! Or anybody else. They’d have her locked up.

There was a knock on the door and she started so violently she gulped and gave herself hiccups.

“Come in!” she said, hiccuping again.

It was the housekeeper, to judge from her black dress, lace cap, and the cluster of keys hanging from her waist. She was short and rather stout, exactly Grandmama’s own build.

“Good evening, ma’am,” she said very agreeably. “I’m Mrs. Ward, the housekeeper. It was very good of you to come personally with the sad news. It must have inconvenienced you very much.”

“Her death grieved me,” Grandmama answered frankly, relieved that it was a servant, not one of the family. “To come and tell you personally seemed no more than the obvious thing to do. She died among strangers, even if they were people who liked her immediately, and very much.”

Mrs. Ward’s face colored as if with considerable emotion she felt obliged to hide. “I’m very glad you did,” she said with a tremble in her voice. She blinked rapidly.

“You knew her,” Grandmama deduced. She made herself smile. “You must be grieving as well.”

“Yes, ma’am. I was a maid here when I was a girl. Miss Maude would have been sixteen then.”

“And Mrs. Harcourt?” Grandmama asked shamelessly. She must detect! Time would not wait upon niceties.

“Oh, eighteen she was. And such a beauty as you’ve never seen.”

Grandmama looked at the housekeeper’s face. There was no light in it. She might respect Bedelia Harcourt, even be loyal to her, but she did not like her as she had Maude. That was something to remember. Servants said little, good ones seldom said anything at all, but they saw just about everything.

“And Mrs. Sullivan?”

“Oh, she was only thirteen, just a schoolgirl, all ink and books and clumsiness, but full of enthusiasm, poor girl. The governess was always trying to get her to walk with the dictionary on her head, but she kept losing it.”

“Dictionary?”

“Only for the weight of it! Miss Agnes was perfectly accurate with her spelling. But that’s all in the past. Long ago.” She blinked rapidly again. “I just came to say that if there is anything I can get for you, I should be happy to.” She had an air of sincerity as if her words were far more than mere politeness, or even obedience to Bedelia’s request.

“Thank you,” Grandmama replied. “I…I’m afraid I have none of the usual necessities with me.” Dare she ask for a clean petticoat or chemise?

Mrs. Ward looked embarrassed. “There is no difficulty in the least finding you toiletries, Mrs. Ellison. I was thinking of…of more personal things. If you’ll forgive my saying so, it seems to me that you and I are much the same height. If you would not be offended, ma’am, you might borrow one or two of my…my clothes. It would give us the chance to…care for yours and return them to you?” She was very pink; as if afraid already that she had presumed.

Grandmama was suddenly touched by the woman’s kindness. It seemed perfectly genuine, and perhaps added to because she had cared for Maude. “That is extremely generous of you to offer,” she said warmly. “I would be most grateful. I have nothing but what I stand up in. It was the last thing on my mind as I left this morning.”

Mrs. Ward colored even more, but most obviously with relief. “Then I shall see that they are brought. Thank you, ma’am.”

“It is I who thank you,” Grandmama said, startled by her own courtesy, and rather liking it. It flashed into her mind that in a way Maude’s death had given her the opportunity to begin a new life herself, even if only for a day or two. No one here in Snave knew her. She could be anything she wanted to be. It was a dizzying sort of freedom, as if the past did not exist. She suddenly smiled at the housekeeper again. “You have extraordinary courtesy,” she added.

Mrs. Ward blushed again, then she retreated. Fifteen minutes later she returned carrying two black dresses, an assortment of undergarments, and a nightgown.

With the assistance of one of the maids assigned to help her, a most agreeable girl, Grandmama was able to dress for dinner in very respectable black bombazine, well cut and modest in fashion, as suited an elderly lady or a housekeeper. She put on her own jet and pearl jewelry, serving the double purpose of lifting the otherwise somberness of the attire, and also being classic mourning jewelry. She had a lot of such things, from the period when she had made a great show of being a widow.

Added to which they were really very pretty. The seed pearls made them dainty.

She went down the stairs and across the hall to the withdrawing room. She could hear lively conversation from inside, amazingly so, but she did not know the voices well enough to tell who they belonged to.

She opened the door, and they all ceased instantly, faces turned toward her. The gentlemen rose to their feet and welcomed her. The ladies looked at her, made polite noises, observed the change of gown but did not remark on it.

Conversation resumed, but stiffly, with a solemnity completely different from that before she had come in.

“I hope you are comfortable, Mrs. Ellison?” Bedelia inquired.

“Very, thank you,” Grandmama replied, sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs. “You are most generous.” Again she smiled.

“It is fortunate Lord Woollard left when he did,” Clara observed.

Grandmama wondered whether that remark was made to convince her that they had not had sufficient accommodation for more than one further guest at a time, hence the need to turn Maude away. If so, it was ridiculous. She knew there were at least two more rooms unoccupied. And family should be first, most particularly when they were returning from a long time away.

“Indeed,” she said, as if she were agreeing. “Is he a close friend? He will be very sad to hear of Maude’s demise.”

“He never met her,” Bedelia said hastily. “I do not think we need to cloud his Christmas by telling him bad news that can scarcely be of concern to him.”