The Dead Queen's Garden (16 page)

‘Why, Bessie,’ she cried, hurrying towards her old friend. ‘What a pleasant surprise, I’m so glad to see you, I hoped we might meet. Do come inside somewhere and get warm.’

The Three Pigeons boasted a small back parlour and Charlotte ushered her old friend in there, noting with relief that a fire had been kindled in the grate. The landlady brought in hot coffee and when Charlotte was satisfied that Bessie was comfortably settled, she began to ask eager questions.

‘That’s right, Miss Char,’ was the response to a query about the blacksmith’s brother. ‘He’s a nice enough man, to be sure, and I did think he might do for me.’ Charlotte hid a smile, remembering Will’s amusement at this phrase of Bessie’s.
‘I’ve lost count,’
he had whispered to his wife after one of Bessie’s romances, ‘
of the number of men who were going to
“do”
for Bessie. Let’s hope none of them ever does so, but she does take some foolish risks.’

The trouble was, Charlotte recalled now, that even at a tender age she had recognised her nurse’s fatal weakness. Bessie Railton fell in love at the drop of a hat and the objects of her affections were always utterly unsuitable. Having heard rumours in the village, Charlotte was sure that the blacksmith’s brother was yet another.

‘Yes, indeed,’ Bessie nodded sagely. ‘He’s been making up to me for a week or two and he even brought me over to stay with his brother last night. I thought for sure he’d be down on one knee by today.’ She sighed gustily and Charlotte patted her hand in sympathy. ‘Aye, I even went to chapel with him yesterday, and a tedious affair that was, to be sure.’

‘But, Bessie,’ Charlotte frowned. ‘The blacksmith attends the village church, so why does his brother go to chapel?’

‘That’s the rub,’ Bessie sighed once more. ’T’was his late wife as was chapel and he took to it like a natural, jumping up and down praying out loud, he was, all through the service. And that went on for an age too, just when I was hoping for my dinner and my stomach grumbling as it was.’ She shook her head. ‘He won’t do,’ she announced. ‘I’d rather have his brother any day. He’s a real man, he is, the blacksmith.’

‘And so is his wife,’ Charlotte interposed hurriedly. ‘Her arms are even brawnier than his, so give up that idea, for she has a temper to match. But tell me, did you by any chance see anything of that incident at the church gate yesterday? You saw our old pony shy and try to take the chaise with him?’

‘Lord above,’ Bessie looked aghast. ‘If I didn’t go and forget all about that. I should say I did see something and I was just going to run over to help when some young lady – I didn’t see her plain, her bonnet hid her face – caught the pony and saved the day.’

‘Well?’ Charlotte was in a sudden agony of curiosity. ‘What was it that you saw? One of the ladies said there was a dog that went under the traces and startled the pony, but I didn’t see it.’

‘A dog? No, that there wasn’t, but besides the lady that caught the pony, there were two people standing close to it and I reckon one of them must have jabbed a pin into the poor creature’s flesh the way it reared up and squealed. I couldn’t see precisely but what I do know is that one of them patted the rump and the other the neck, both at the same time though I doubt that was by design.’

‘But, but that’s hardly conclusive,’ Charlotte was disappointed. She had built so much on Bessie having seen the whole thing. ‘You say you saw two people? Could you describe them?’

‘You may not think it’s likely, Miss Char,’ Bessie folded her lips in a determined pout. ‘But I say there was nothing else that could have upset that fat old pony. No dog, no sudden noise, nobody running about silly-like, just those two people touching it.’

‘Very well,’ Charlotte was reluctant to suggest her mother’s former maid might be romancing, so she asked again, ‘What did the two people look like, were they in conversation?’

‘There was a man, a gentleman, for I could see his clothes. Trouble is, Miss Char, I didn’t see his face clear for he was blocked from my view most of the time by the gentry that stood nearby. No dear, they didn’t speak; he was by the pony’s rump and ignoring the lady. I doubt he’d have been happy at being left to the mercies of some plump spinster, for that’s what she was and no mistake about it. She was dumpy and dowdy, dressed in black and fussing about all the time with her hat and her hair and her handkerchief. And her showing off, a-patting that pony as if she liked him, whenever she saw anyone glance her way.’ She hesitated and looked puzzled. ‘I’ve seen that one before somewhere,’ she frowned. ‘But for the life of me I can’t remember where it was. And not long ago either.’

Charlotte and her visitor stared at each other as Bessie repeated, ‘I know it doesn’t seem possible, Miss Char dearie, but I’m certain sure that one of those two did something to make that poor pony try to gallop off with his carriage dragging along behind him.’

R
EFRESHED
BY
HER
coffee, Bessie heaved herself out of her chair and announced that she must be getting back to the baker.

‘For,’ she admitted with a rueful grin, ‘whatever my feelings about my gentleman friend, I can’t deny that the ride he’s promised me back to Winchester will be very welcome. After that, well, we’ll see, but don’t you worry, Miss Char,’ with a nod and another smile. ‘I’ll stay well away from the blacksmith. You’re right about his missus and it won’t do to go looking for trouble.’

Suddenly Charlotte was startled by a loud outcry from her old friend. ‘If I won’t go and forget my own head,’ Bessie exclaimed. ‘There, Miss Char, sit you down again for another minute, if you please, while I tell you what it was that struck me when that poor young lady was ill.’

Her former nursling stared with equal dismay. Charlotte had also forgotten until this moment Bessie’s murmured words at the door of the guest-house in Winchester a few day’s previously. ‘Goodness,’ she agreed. ‘Yes, of course; you said, did you not, that there was something odd about Mrs Chant’s sudden illness? But I understood that it was put down to a sudden, unforeseeable consequence of her situation?’

‘Situation indeed,’ the older woman gave a snort of indignation. ‘I’ve looked after ladies and children off and on for more than thirty years, Miss Char, and I think I can claim some knowledge as to whether a lady is in a promising way or not.’

‘Not?’ Charlotte put the question in some surprise.

‘Not,’ agreed Bessie, warming to her topic. ‘The young lady certainly looked poorly when they arrived at their rooms, at one moment flushed, and then pale as a ghost and feeling faint. So I
stepped in and offered to look after her, tucked her into a bed with a couple of hot bricks to warm her, and made her drink a nice hot cup of tea, nothing more, but tea is a great comfort.’ She shook her head. ‘The illness came on fairly rapid after that and a sad night we had of it, what with bouts of terrible sickness and cramps. Poor lass she certainly suffered, but just a few hours after midnight, it was all over.’ She sighed and dashed a hand across her brow. ‘That wasn’t what I wanted to say though, Miss Char. It’s this idea that it was all to do with her being in the family way, for that’s the reason that has been put about.’ She shook her head, ‘And my mistress is more than thankful to lay the blame well away from her own house. Well, I could not discuss this with anyone else, you understand, my dear, but you being a married lady, I can say quite plain, that was not the case. If you’ll excuse my speaking about such matters, that young lady had her courses that day. I was sponging the sweat off her in an attempt to cool her down and make her comfortable, so before you say anything, I’m certain sure what it was, and that there was no question of her miscarrying that night.’

‘But, Bessie…’ Charlotte was frowning and wondering how she could frame her question delicately, when she was interrupted.

‘Now, Miss Char,’ Bessie spoke decidedly. ‘As I just told you, I’ve seen enough young women to recognise any sign you care to mention; besides, I know she wasn’t in the family way because I asked her straight out, and she told me there was no question of it. And no need for you to look at me like that, for I’m sure she spoke the truth and no reason to lie, for she was too frightened and I could tell she trusted me. I was wondering if we should try ipecacuana in case she’d eaten what she ought not. It’s a powerful emetic, as you know, but violent retching would have done her no good if she was that way. She managed to gasp that she was not, but by then it was too late to try it in any case.

‘So, my dear, there it is. I wasn’t easy in my mind when they told me word was going round that the lady’s death was a consequence of being in a delicate situation. That she wasn’t, poor girl.’

‘Her husband was there when I came to fetch Miss Armstrong, had you seen him about the place before that?’ Charlotte wondered
what Bessie thought of the bereaved husband, aware that she had so far encountered nobody who could be said to like him.

‘Never saw him then, and never seen him since, not to my knowledge, dearie.’ Bessie was quite definite. ‘He wasn’t staying there, you know, and he hadn’t been to call upon his wife, or at any rate not when I was about the place, for it was a doctor from Winchester that attended her, a well-respected local man, they told me. I didn’t see him then and I wouldn’t know him if I saw him now, for I was up half the night with the poor young lady and only went to my own bed a couple of hours before dawn.

‘Most days my duties keep me up on the bedroom floors and I always use the back stairs anyway. It was only by chance that I was downstairs when you arrived, Miss Char,’ she explained. ‘The house was upside down with the poor young lady’s illness and death, so when I’d snatched a few hours’ sleep, I got up and helped my mistress out as best I could.’

Conscious that Lily would heartily disapprove gossiping with a servant, however long their acquaintance, Charlotte saw her visitor to the inn door and along to the smithy, a slight frown marring her forehead as she struggled to assimilate Bessie’s revelations. As she hugged the old woman and sent her on her way, Bessie hesitated and looked back. ‘There, if I didn’t remember something after all. The gentleman had a beard,’ she said. ‘I remember now. The one I saw standing by the pony yesterday. The one that could have prodded the poor beast.’

A beard? Charlotte waved farewell and decided to go back to the manor. There was no sign of the stable boy, her appointed protector, but the road to the manor hid no secluded nooks where the murderer might lurk. She left a message for Lily with the coachman and set off, walking at a brisk pace, taking a childish delight in jumping in frozen puddles to see the ice crack. The wind had risen again and although there had been no further snow after the heavy overnight fall, the sun had gone in and there was a biting chill in the air. It was not the day to be standing around in idle conversation, even had the village not been still rife with the fear that a murderer lurked behind every bush bent upon rape, slaughter and pillage.

A beard? Thawing out as she huddled over the fire in the deserted morning-room, Charlotte made a mental review of all the gentlemen who had been anywhere near the lych-gate on Christmas morning, starting with Barnard, who sported a pair of dashing curly black side whiskers that gave him something of a military air, and of which he was secretly inordinately proud. No, not Barnard, she was quite decided on that; he was too much of a horse lover in any case and would never have made the pony bolt. Besides, if he had been close enough when it happened, he would have seized the reins himself. No, certainly not Barnard.

Who else? Percy Benson had been hovering in the vicinity, greeting the members of his flock but the thought died in an instant. Percy did have a regrettably unbecoming straggle of a beard; he had started it on his honeymoon in the summer,
apparently
in an attempt to make himself look more impressive. Agnes had confided to Charlotte that she admired her husband’s new whiskered look and that the vicar intended to allow his beard to grow to biblical proportions. Charlotte maintained a diplomatic silence regarding her views as to whether the beard was a becoming adornment. It was her considered opinion that Percy looked less like an Old Testament prophet than a man being attacked by a singularly moth-eaten ferret.

Who else had been there? Lord Granville went straight into the church and in any case, was another who favoured the military style, though his flourishing silver side-whiskers were rather more in the mutton-chop style. Captain Penbury, who sported a mahogany tonsure surrounded by a halo of grey curls, was clean shaven apart from two curious tufts of grey hair high on each weather-beaten cheekbone. ‘Slovenly things, beards, y’know, dear lady, they catch crumbs. Admiral Lord Nelson,’ he had boomed at her once, ‘his lordship, of blessed memory, never wore a beard, and what was good enough for Horatio Nelson, is surely good enough for Horatio Penbury, hey?’

Charlotte frowned again. Kit Knightley had not been at church and besides, Kit was clean-shaven too and Dr Perry, although he wore a tidily trimmed grey beard and moustache, had been nowhere near the lych-gate at the time. Nobody else, male or
female, known or unknown, bearded or not, had moved away from the vicinity of the pony chaise towards the gate, so that meant…. She stared blankly at the glowing coals. The only candidate she could think of was Dr Chant, with his smooth pink cheeks adorned by a neat grey beard. He must have been the man Bessie had observed, and of course Miss Cole was the plump and fussy
spinsterish
woman.

At first it seemed highly unlikely that Bessie could have seen what she claimed, but Charlotte remembered her mother’s words,
‘Bessie may have the world’s worst taste in men, Will, but you must agree that she is as honest as the day is long. I doubt if she could tell a convincing lie, anyway, she would turn red as a beetroot and get in a terrible fluster.’

Just then, she was interrupted by the entrance of Dr Chant himself. Seeing her seated beside the fire he came forward, all geniality, and rubbing his hands together at the blaze.

‘Good morning, good morning,’ he cried heartily. ‘And how is Mrs Richmond today?’

Startled, Charlotte replied politely that Mrs Richmond was very well, while common courtesy demanded that she invite him to take a chair. ‘You also found it too chilly at the meet, did you, Dr Chant?’ He looked startled so she explained, ‘I was shivering so much that I slipped away and came home before the others. I confess I was surprised that the day’s hunting was not cancelled, but I suppose the going was softer than it first appeared.

‘I’ll ring for some refreshment,’ she told the doctor, wishing he would go away but sadly aware that he was settling himself comfortably in Barnard’s favourite chair. ‘That will ease the chill. I believe you know that I’ve lived all my life in warmer climes than this, so the degree of cold has come as a shock, beautiful as the snow undoubtedly is.’

‘Indeed, indeed.’ The doctor seemed bent on being charming as he embarked on a description of London life, with particular reference to his own place in society, along with mention of his own rising popularity. ‘His Royal Highness, the Prince Consort has been gracious enough to call, more than once, upon my skills,’ he told her and looked satisfied as she expressed her admiration. ‘You
walked back from the village?’ he asked and, at her nod, went on, ‘I have noticed that you have a long, elastic stride, my dear young lady, and your glowing health confirms a theory of my own, that walking is of benefit to the fairer sex.’

Charlotte could only bow her thanks, but inwardly she giggled. A long, elastic stride? Honed, no doubt, by a lifetime of running away from the equally long arm of the law after the pickles her stepfather had landed them all in.

But what on earth is going on here, she wondered. Has Dr Chant settled upon a prosperous young – and clearly very healthy – widow as the next Mrs Doctor? She recalled her first conversation with him, at the lodging house in Winchester when she had suspected him of viewing her with admiration. And his poor wife not even in her grave yet!

She shot a covert glance at her unwelcome companion. No, she mused, with a decided shudder, I cannot like him. He has a pompous little tilt to his head so that he seems to be looking down at people all the time, in spite of being of slightly under the average height. And his little neighing laugh grates on me.

Before she could interrupt the flow of placid self-congratulation, Charlotte was startled when he suddenly enquired, ‘Are you
well-acquainted
with Miss Nightingale? I must say I was considerably impressed to learn that she has singled you out in such a manner; she is notoriously fastidious in bestowing her friendship and patronage. Perhaps I might call upon you when you have moved to the capital?’

‘I have no plans to move to the capital,’ Charlotte protested with rising indignation. ‘I do not intend to accept Miss Nightingale’s offer, flattering as it may be. In fact I have another…’ she stopped herself from announcing that Sibella Armstrong would be a better candidate for the position. Time enough for that when she had sounded out the forlorn governess and gauged her reaction to the plan. ‘I am not in the least acquainted with Miss Nightingale, though she
is
a friend of the family.’

This conversation was beginning to irritate her, but how to turn it to phrase the question that was burning in her brain. I suppose I cannot simply ask him straight out if he jabbed something at the
pony to make it panic, she sighed, but then she brightened. I can at least try to turn his thoughts in a more suitable direction.

‘I regret so much that I did not have the opportunity to become acquainted with your late wife,’ she said, with a grave sympathy. ‘It is tragic indeed, to think of such a lovely young woman so suddenly lost to all who loved her.’

‘Ah, yes, yes of course.’ Dr Chant blinked for a moment then accepted his cue and assumed a solemn expression. ‘Verena was a lovely creature, there can be no doubt of that. But I fear we were not hap– she was not….’ At Charlotte’s raised eyebrows, the doctor shook his head and made play with his silk handkerchief. ‘Excuse me, my dear young lady,’ he harrumphed then, finding no further expressions of sympathy or admiration forthcoming, he gave up the attempt and finally took refuge in a series of heavy, heartfelt sighs, accompanied by meaningful and mournful glances.

Now what did he mean by that, Charlotte mused. ‘…she was not…’ Not what? And ‘we were not hap–’ Again, what had he meant to say? They were not happy? And that Verena was to blame?

At that moment, relief, in the shape of Hoxton the butler, arrived.

‘Miss Char,’ he said, respectfully. ‘Her ladyship’s dog has unfortunately managed to fall in the duck pond.’ At her cry of dismay, the butler held up his hand. ‘No, miss, madam I mean, the dog is quite safe. I believe he was chasing a rat when the ice gave, but one of the grooms hauled him out and he’s safe and sound in the barn. I merely felt you would wish to be informed, her ladyship being so fond of the animal.’