Midnight in Austenland (17 page)

Charlotte flipped her hips up and dove underwater, swimming with her eyes open. It was deeper than she'd thought, and the water wasn't exactly country club clear. She came up for a breath.

“Doing your mermaid impersonation?” Eddie called from the shore.

“Come on in, the water's fine!” she called.

“So sings the siren before pulling the unsuspecting sailor down to Davy Jones's locker. I am no water nymph. And I do not like … fish.” He shivered.

“What, you're afraid of teeny little pond fishies nibbling on your toes?”

He grimaced.

“Fish!” Charlotte screamed and went underwater as if pulled from below.

“Charlotte!” Eddie shouted, standing.

She popped back up with a wet grin. He glared and threw a chunk of grass at her.

She dodged and went underwater again, swimming toward the middle. Something was there. Something was really there. Her heart beat harder, making it difficult to hold her breath. She came up, breathing in deeply, and floated on her back, looking up at the sky. Once her breath slowed, she dove straight down.

Straight down to the roof of a car. Despite the murkiness, there was no mistaking it. She could see the silver glint of a BMW decal on the hood. Those
had
been tire marks on the edge of the pond after the rainstorm. Someone had driven a BMW into the pond and then stamped over the muddy tracks to try to disguise them. If Mr. Wattlesbrook, drunk and stupid, had driven his own car into the pond, then who had covered his tracks?

She came back up, breathing rapidly.

Don't think too hard yet or you'll freak out. You are like Jacques Cousteau. You are investigating underwater wildlife, like algae and sunfish and Beamers. That's all. Keep breathing.

Down she went again. She kicked hard till she could grab the door handle and peer in the window. Little light filtered through the dirty water and car windows, but if there'd been a body at the wheel, she could have made it out. As near as she could tell, there weren't even keys in the ignition. The windows were rolled down partway, as if welcoming in the water, and the doors were locked. Something was dangling from the ceiling of the car. Her motion caused it to slowly spin. It was a glove, pockets of air in the fingertips suspending it in the water. In natural light, she guessed, it would be yellow.

Charlotte swam around to the trunk and tried to pry it open with cold, awkward fingers. Locked.

There's a body in there, she thought.

Suddenly her lungs did fine imitations of rabid dogs, snarling and snapping at her. MUST HAVE AIR, they said. Her eyeballs hurt, the cold pressure of the water unbearable. She released her held breath in a flurry of bubbles and beat her way to the surface.

Charlotte came up with a shudder and a gasp. She swam lamely to the side and hoisted herself onto the grassy bank.

“You're trembling,” said Eddie, putting his coat around her shoulders.

“Colder than I thought,” she said, even though it was exactly as cold as an English pond in midsummer should be. But she was definitely trembling. There was a BMW sitting on the bottom of the pond. And that's a heavy, expensive piece of scenery to dump underwater. And there was no logical reason Colonel Andrews would have put it there as part of his little Gothic mystery. And that meant someone else had for other reasons. And the only reason she could think of was—

“Let me take you inside,” said Eddie.

“Body,” she said.

“What?”

“I … yes, inside. Please.”

The only reason to dump a car in a pond was to hide it, since the owner wouldn't be driving it home. Because the owner was dead. And stashed in the trunk. Surely the guards at the gate, under Mrs. Wattlesbrook's orders, wouldn't allow any car through to disrupt the Regency ambience—any car besides the master's, that is. His would have been the only car on the premises that night, the only one to leave those tracks in the mud. Mr. Wattlesbrook was in the trunk of his car at the bottom of the pond, and the murderer was likely someone at Pembrook Park. Someone who'd been on-site to kill him, leave his body in the secret room, dump it out the window after the game of Bloody Murder, get it to the car, and drive the car into the pond to conceal the dirty deed.

She was barely aware that she was wearing Eddie's black jacket. His arm went around her as they walked back. Neville was dusting the dinner gong in the front hall. He looked over Charlotte in her chemise drippiness.

“Mrs. Cordial fell off her horse and into the watering trough,” Eddie said. “It can happen, you know.”

“Quite, sir,” said Neville. He eyeballed Charlotte's dry dress hanging over Eddie's arm, perhaps wondering why Charlotte had undressed before falling into a trough.

Eddie winked at him and walked Charlotte to her room.

“Do you require any further assistance?” Eddie asked.

“Thanks, I'm just going to get out of these clothes and bathe off the pond scum.”

“Are you going to ring for your maid?”

“No. I'd rather not have to explain why I'm soaked.”

“I could help with the laces,” he said.

She laughed and wagged her finger. Sly dog, such a womanizer, even though I'm his sister—ew, is that creepy?

But his expression was serious.

“Well …” she said, considering his offer. A corset was hard enough to take off without help, maybe impossible when wet.

He entered the room and shut the door behind him, the click like an alarm bell.

Charlotte backed away, her fingers and toes tingling with adrenaline. Why had he shut the door? He
knew
. About Mr. Wattlesbrook. And the car in the pond. And the only way he would know was if—

“Shy, dear sister? I promise not to look.” He kept coming forward.

“Why did I want to swim in that pond today?” she demanded of him.

“Because you are half mad?” he said with a smile, innocent dimples showing.

“You know why, Eddie, don't you?” She backed into the window, and her fingers searched for the latch. If she screamed, would someone hear?

He raised an eyebrow. “I cannot fathom the complexities of your thoughts. I gave up understanding women long ago. Charlotte, you are the only woman I dare comprehend, and right now even you have left me leagues behind.”

“I have?”

“Speaking of behind, turn yours toward me so I can undo you. I don't like how you are shivering.”

She was shivering, her arms around her chest, her chemise clinging to her skin like a frog's tongue to dinner. But was he here to kill her? She'd shown her hand. Colonel Andrews had said that Eddie hit Mr. Wattlesbrook in the face. That showed an inclination for violence toward the man. Did they have some history? If Eddie had killed him and dumped his car, Eddie now knew that she knew, and that she knew that he knew that she knew too. There was a lot of knowing going on. But then why not just kill her at the pond and bury her there as well?

“No … I'll … I'll do it. You can go.”

Eddie made a noise of exasperation and closed the space between them. Should she call for help? Why was she hesitating? Scream already!

He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around. She squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled sharply, but the scream lodged frozen and useless in her chest. His cold fingers lifted her wet hair from her neck and placed it over her shoulder. She clenched her jaw, anticipating his hands circling her neck, tightening, trapping her breath in with the unscreamed scream till everything turned dark as midnight.

Except his hands left her neck. She felt light tugging on her back, and in moments her corset was loose on her chest, held up by her arms alone. His hands dropped away. She opened her eyes.

“That was fast,” she said, still not turning around. She spoke softly, her heart beating so hard it shook the breath out of her. “You must have practice.”

“One of the many duties of a gentleman. Now I will leave you to your mysterious womanliness.”

And he left.

He hadn't killed her. Just a few moments before she'd been sure he was going to kill her. And she'd submitted her corset lacings to him without a plan of escape or attack. Because he was Eddie. And she was nice. Wow, that's an eye-opener.

Since she was still alive and breathing, she took a bath. There wasn't a lock on her bathroom door either.

She submerged her head under the warm water and saw again the car, sunken like a child's toy in a goldfish bowl. If Mr. Wattlesbrook, inebriated on fine sherry, drove the wrong way in the dark till he found water gushing in the car windows, he would either drown in the car or flee. He certainly wouldn't remove the keys and lock the doors.

She dressed for dinner sans corset—since she only had the one and it was sopping—and hoped no one would notice. Would a drowned BMW be enough evidence to merit calling the police? Perhaps, but she still had no idea who'd done it, and that was the whole point of a whodunit, after all. Besides, she felt compelled to figure this out, exactly in the way she hadn't figured out James. She needed a direction to point her finger, but rifling through everyone's personal belongings to look for a bloodstained dagger might not be exactly Regency appropriate.

She came out of her room just as Miss Gardenside emerged from hers.

“Good evening, Charlotte,” she said without a trace of worry.

Just how could Miss Gardenside immerse herself so completely in a different character? And what had happened to that dreadful consumption?

Charlotte smiled uneasily and hurried ahead, taking the stairs alone. Coming up was Mrs. Wattlesbrook. She barely acknowledged Charlotte. Her eyes were hooded, as if she hadn't slept well for days. Gnawed by guilt? She recalled the glimmer of a smile on the woman's face when Charlotte had claimed her fictional husband had died a painful and tragic death.

Charlotte leapt down the last three steps and entered the dining room. The maids continued preparing for dinner, their glances taking her in. Suspiciously? Charlotte tried not to make eye contact. Neville approached, his thin arms behind his back.

“May I be of service?”

She was too freaked out to attempt a casual inquiry. “Neville, how many servants are employed here?”

“Let me see … kitchen, maids, stables, gardeners—seventeen all told.”

Seventeen!

“They all live on the property? Do any of them come and go?”

“They return home to visit family. However, all seventeen remain here for the duration of our guests' stays.”

She nodded. She didn't know what else to ask except, Hey, are any of your staff potential murderers?

“Forgive me for the observation, Mrs. Cordial, but you are curious. It reminds me of what happened to the cat.”

Charlotte swallowed. Was that a warning from a man so infatuated with his mistress he'd kill for her? Or from a butler who wished her gone from his tidy dining room?

She scurried out, shutting the doors behind her.

The usual six were in the drawing room, and all their faces turned to her as she entered. Her heart stuck to her ribs, too frightened to beat. Someone in here was probably a murderer. Did they suspect what she knew? Or were they staring because they noticed she wasn't wearing a corset?

“I propose a game,” she said. “I've been inspired by the colonel's mystery. Let's say …” She cleared her throat, starting to lose her nerve. “Let's say there's been a murder in the house, and one of us is guilty. The victim could be, oh … Mr. Wattlesbrook,” she said casually, “since he hasn't returned.”

Mrs. Wattlesbrook choked on nothing. Mr. Mallery looked up sharply. Eddie shook his head. Miss Gardenside shifted in her chair. Miss Charming gasped, delighted. Charlotte felt her face go red hot, but she didn't blink.

“Splendid!” said the colonel. “A locked-door mystery.”

Encouraged, Charlotte ventured forward. “We'll go to everyone's room one by one and search for murder weapons, clues for a motive, that sort of thing.”

“Yes, yes!” Miss Charming clapped her hands. “Blood splatter on dress hems and bottoms of shoes, clues in pockets and purses, and I'll write up a list of what everyone has in their room, then, all detective-like, we'll come back here and decide who's the guiltiest.”

“I do not find this appropriate,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said.

“Oh come now, madam,” said Colonel Andrews. “It is just a game.”

“I don't mean to offend you,” Charlotte said. “I just thought we could pretend, you know? Anyway, it would be nice to have everyone involved, including you. All of us in this together.”

Miss Gardenside stood. “I have always said, Charlotte, that you have a very clever mind. Does she not, Mr. Grey? A very clever mind. Would you not agree, Mr. Mallery?”

“Very clever,” Mr. Mallery said.

“Right-o, pip-pip,” said Miss Charming. “Just give us all a tit, or a tat or whatever, to go straighten up first.”

At once, all were on their feet, moving toward the door.

“No, we have to stay together!” said Charlotte. “If one of us is a murderer, we can't separate, remember?”

“Right, right, Mrs. Cordial,” Colonel Andrews said. “But hold that thought for ten, and then we shall begin.”

“It has to be spontaneous or people can hide evidence!” Charlotte pleaded.

“I'll leave out my murder weapons, but no one is seeing my toiletries bag,” said Miss Charming, the first to the drawing room doors. “Ooh, I hope I'm the murderer!”

“Meet back in the drawing room in ten minutes, all!” Colonel Andrews called.

And like that, Charlotte was left standing alone. No noise but the ticking of a clock. It sounded scoldy—
tsk, tsk, tsk
. She reached into its chest and murderously held the pendulum till it stopped. She knew she'd messed up; she didn't need some obnoxious mantel clock going on about it. If the murderer was one of the drawing room denizens, he or she likely guessed that Charlotte knew. Evidence would be hidden. How to catch the murderer now?