A Jane Austen Encounter (4 page)

Richard smiled as he held her chair for her to sit. “Hmm. Producing a manuscript in Jane’s own hand would certainly qualify as a worthwhile sabbatical project.”

Elizabeth leaned across the table to continue their conversation, aware of how close the tables were to each other and not wanting to disturb the diner sitting with his back only a few inches from her. “Richard, tell me more about that rare book of
The Watsons
you discovered today.”

“Hardly ‘discovered.’ More like ‘noticed’—or to tell the truth—‘bumped into.’ But it did look like an interesting read.” They talked about the project Jane abandoned in Bath, and then began speculating on what Claire’s box of assorted papers might contain until a waiter set their orders before them. Elizabeth savored her own choice, and then traded bites of Richard’s breast of chicken stuffed with leek and bacon in a mushroom-and-Madeira sauce.

Later, their appetites pleasantly sated, they strolled back in front of the Abbey. Music floated to them on the soft evening air as buskers performed for small groups of tourists clustered around the churchyard. Elizabeth slipped her arm through Richard’s and matched her step to his. Nearest to them, a violinist was playing a Mozart air. Across the way, a young man in a redcoat uniform, such as the officers Kitty and Lydia Bennet chased after might have worn, played a lively tune on a pipe.

They stood for a while, drinking it all in, letting the others mill around them. “And to think—this is real. Not some stage set.” Elizabeth leaned her head against Richard’s shoulder, neither expecting nor requiring a reply.

Wordlessly, but completely in tune with the gentleness of the evening, they strolled on past the Roman Baths and the Pump Room and on up Milsom Street. Elizabeth reveled in the beauty of the architecture and the abundant hanging baskets and window boxes filled to overflowing with purple and gold flowers. Equally, she delighted in viewing the shops with charming bow windows displaying books, sweets, gloves, and art prints just as they did when Anne Elliot had shopped there with friends. Perhaps Anne had been in one of these very shops when Captain Wentworth entered on that rainy afternoon.

Elizabeth smiled softly, her mind filled with images of Anne and Captain Wentworth’s encounter when she noticed a young man coming toward them carrying a parcel. “Arthur,” she called and waved.

Apparently their friend’s mind was firmly on something else because he didn’t seem to hear her or to recognize them. Before she could call out again, he turned sharply down a narrow passage between two buildings and was lost to sight.

“How odd,” she said. “That was Arthur, wasn’t it?” She wouldn’t have called out if she hadn’t been certain, but the evening shadows could be playing tricks.

“Looked like him,” Richard agreed. “But perhaps longer hair. Could have been taller, too. Hard to tell.”

Elizabeth gave a little shiver and Richard put his arm around her. “Are you getting cold? Shall we go back to the hotel?” He drew a small map from his pocket and consulted it. “Yes, George Street up here runs to Gay. That will take us back to Queen Square.”

The route also took them past the Jane Austen Centre. “Look, there’s still a light on in Claire’s office.” Elizabeth pointed to a small window above the door. “Goodness, she’s working late. No wonder she was so pleased to have your help.”

Richard stopped and regarded the bright blue door and shiny brass fittings with a frown. “Wait here.” Elizabeth startled at the sharpness of his words.

Richard bounded up the steps and pushed at the wooden door with one finger. It swung open. Behind it, the interior glass-paned door stood ajar, with one of its panes broken out. “Richard, wait!” If something was wrong, they should call for help. Elizabeth started to reach for her cell phone, then remembered it didn’t work in England. They planned to buy an English mobile, but hadn’t done it yet. She followed Richard, stepping over the broken glass on the entry floor.

He paused at the foot of the stairs. “Claire? Are you there? Is everything all right?” He called as he went upward.

There was no reply. “Claire!” Elizabeth added her voice to her husband’s on the theory that if a miscreant were lurking at the top of the stairs this would give him time to conceal himself so he wouldn’t have to hit Richard over the head. She knew she had always had an overactive imagination, but clearly, something was wrong.

“Claire!” Elizabeth heard the anxiety in Richard’s voice as he crossed the landing to the director’s office. “Oh, no.” He dropped to his knees with a soft groan.

“Elizabeth, find a phone. Call the police. I think it’s 999 here.”

Surely the nearest phone would be in the office. She sprang forward, but stopped at the sight of Claire sprawled on the floor, a trickle of blood staining her pale hair.

Chapter 4

“THE ROYAL UNITED HOSPITAL,” Muriel Greystone ordered the taxi driver the next morning after collecting Elizabeth and Richard at their lodgings. They had barely had time to eat the sumptuous cooked breakfast included with their room and Elizabeth would have loved to linger over another cup of tea and slice of toast slathered with marmalade, but that was not to be.

Dr. Greystone began quizzing Richard on the events of the previous evening, causing Elizabeth to relive it all in her mind—the arrival of the efficient emergency services and their questioning by the polite young police officer—when the fierce academic declared, “Silly girl. I can’t imagine what she thought she was doing, letting herself get hit over the head. Good thing you found her, though, I must say.”

It was fortunate Muriel’s rapid-fire questions were aimed at Richard because Elizabeth was left speechless. Richard did his best to answer the inquisition, although he knew virtually nothing of what had happened. His patient answers, though, filled the time as their taxi drove the route which, to Elizabeth’s surprise, was several miles west of Bath. She had imagined the hospital would be just on the outskirts of the city.

Past a busy roundabout, which the driver executed with greater ease than Richard seemed to be having navigating Muriel’s grilling, Elizabeth caught her breath as the taxi made a sharp turn around a nasty bend on a steep hill, then dashed past a race course on a narrow, downhill road into a village signposted “Weston.” On through the village, they finally arrived at the hospital. Elizabeth was glad they could be dropped at the main entrance and avoid the busy parking lot.

At the reception desk, Muriel demanded that they be taken to Claire Cholmley. The blue-uniformed nursing sister, however, was impervious to Muriel’s sharp tones and made them wait several minutes before leading them down a long corridor to a room lined with beds. Claire sat propped against pillows in the one nearest the door, a few blond locks straggling below the white bandage wrapped around her head. She gave a wobbly smile of welcome to her visitors.

“Don’t stay long. She’s still weak.” The nurse gave clipped orders and departed.

Claire turned her blue eyes on Richard. “I understand I owe you my life.”

“Nothing so dramatic, I’m sure.” He almost blushed. “You certainly needed medical attention, but I don’t think you were in danger of bleeding to death.”

“Do you have any idea who hit you?” Muriel could have been an investigating police officer.

“No idea. Arthur came back to help me sort some of the papers in that box— just to get them organized for your work.” She looked at Richard, then turned back to Dr. Greystone. “Arthur left when he got your text on his mobile, and I stayed to finish up.”

Muriel snorted. “Nonsense. I didn’t send any text. Do I look like someone who would indulge in anything so odious as texting?”

Elizabeth struggled to hide her smile. Certainly not—far too impersonal. If Dr. Muriel Greystone required someone’s presence, she would command them with a telephone call at the very least.

“But I don’t understand. He said . . .” Claire halted in confusion when Arthur entered the room bearing a handful of long-stemmed pink roses wrapped in cellophane.

“Claire, I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth had the impression he could barely restrain himself from rushing to the bed and kissing her. “This is all my fault. If only I hadn’t left you there alone. What was I thinking?” Claire started to reassure him, but he continued, “How are you? How is your head?” His hand hovered above the white bandage. “Oh, this is terrible. Do you have a dreadful headache?”

When she could get a word in edgewise, Claire assured him that she would probably be dismissed tomorrow, that she had no headache, but that the pain medication did make her rather woozy. “The flowers are lovely, Arthur. Thank you. Would you please ask one of the sisters if they can find a vase?”

Arthur dashed out to do her bidding.

Elizabeth tried to sort through Claire’s words to get a picture of what had happened just before she and Richard arrived on the scene the evening before. Claire and Arthur had been working in her office. Arthur received a text from someone purporting to be Dr. Greystone. Arthur had left in a hurry. Elizabeth had seen Arthur, if it had been him, in the street only minutes before they discovered Claire. How many minutes?

In her mind, she walked back through the Bath streets, up Milsom, past perhaps fifteen or twenty shops, to George, maybe the length of two or three American blocks, then down Gay— perhaps the length of another American block. They weren’t walking fast, but still, it couldn’t have taken much more than five minutes, and certainly not more than ten.

So in that very brief span, someone had seen Arthur leave, picked the lock to the outside door of the Centre—unless Arthur had failed to lock it—had hit Claire over the head, perhaps stolen something, and then disappeared before Elizabeth and Richard arrived. Was that possible? Maybe. Just. If they were waiting very near.

“You didn’t hear anything at all?” Elizabeth asked. Approaching stealthily would require slower movements.

Claire shook her head.

“Not even the breaking glass?” Elizabeth pressed.

“I don’t think so. I was moving around the office, concentrating on my work . . .”

“What about the wooden door? How hard would it have been to pick that lock?”

“It wasn’t locked. It can only be done with a key. I told Arthur just to be sure the inside glass door was latched.”

Elizabeth had an unpleasant thought. Arthur seemed so genuine, still . . . “Did you hear Arthur leave?”

“I told you, I didn’t hear anything. I was concentrating on my work.”

Then a new thought struck Elizabeth. “The box of papers—you said it was a donation. Who gave it to you?”

Claire furrowed her brow, what was visible of it below her bandage. “I haven’t any idea.” She paused. “That’s strange, really. People usually want a receipt for giving something like that so they can get credit for a charitable contribution. I just found the box on my desk. I meant to ask Robert about it, but we’ve been so busy.”

Arthur returned with the roses in a vase and set them on the table next to Claire’s bed. “I stopped back by the Centre this morning. That’s where I heard . . .” His voice was a verbal equivalent of wringing his hands. “The police were there. They asked me if anything was missing. I told them I didn’t know. The safe apparently hadn’t been tampered with. Your handbag was still there, but I don’t know what else should have been there. We didn’t know what was in the box, so how could we know if anything had gone missing?”

He turned to Dr. Greystone. “I got your text, but the library was closed. I did hurry.” His voice was full of apology.

“Ridiculous.” Muriel Greystone snorted. “Have you ever known me to communicate in that ludicrous fashion?”

Arthur covered his confusion by turning back to Claire. “Robert said to tell you not to worry. He’ll handle everything until you get back.”

That was the second time Elizabeth had heard that name. “Robert?” she asked.

“Robert Sheldrake, my assistant,” Claire said. “Thank goodness he’s very efficient. At the height of tourist season, we really couldn’t afford not to carry on.”

The nurse returned to shoo the visitors out so her patient could get some rest, and Elizabeth noted that Claire looked paler than when they arrived. They turned to go, but Claire stopped them. “Wait. Richard, er—Dr. Spenser, would you be able to carry on with sorting those papers today? If there was anything valuable there, the intruder may have taken it, but if not . . .”

Richard nodded. “Yes, I was thinking the same. If we interrupted him, whatever he wanted might still be there. If it even was anything in that box, of course.”

“I’ll help you.” Arthur spoke to Richard, but he was looking at Dr. Greystone as if daring her to forbid him. To Elizabeth’s amazement, there was no protest from Arthur’s sometime employer.

Muriel seemed to catch her breath, then gave a curt nod. “I’ll drop you at the Centre before Elizabeth and I go to the Fashion Museum.” She turned to Elizabeth. “I see no reason why we shouldn’t carry on with our plan.”

* * *

A SHORT TIME LATER, the taxi let them out near the wide, stone-flagged courtyard in front of the elegant, colonnaded Georgian façade of the Assembly Rooms on Bennet Street. Muriel purchased tickets for both of them and led the way into the magnificent ballroom. “Built in 1770 by John Wood the Younger—his father built the Circus, you know.”

Elizabeth, who didn’t know, just smiled and nodded. She was still puzzled that the aggressively unfashionable Muriel Greystone should be so insistent on taking her to a fashion museum, but as hers was only to obey, she followed meekly. Then she caught her breath as they turned from the central vestibule into the ballroom. This was undoubtedly one of the most elegant rooms Elizabeth had ever seen in her life.

She looked around the pale aqua-blue walls decorated with Corinthian columns. Ornate plaster swags and scrollwork looped between the windows surrounding the upper level of the walls leading on to the coved ceiling arching high above. But the sight that really took Elizabeth’s breath away—the glory of the decoration—was the row of crystal chandeliers dancing down the center of the room. They gleamed like flaming ice as the diamond prisms twinkled and flashed with reflected light. Elizabeth tried to count the candles in each one. Twenty? Twenty-four, perhaps? She gave up and surrendered herself to imagining the room filled with genteel Regency ladies and gentlemen dancing a stately minuet to the sound of hautboys, bass, and fiddles.