Anne Perry's Christmas Mysteries: Two Holiday Novels (9 page)

“We were hoping to go out far more, later, when she returned…” Agnes glanced at Bedelia. “In the New Year…or…or whenever we were certain…,” she trailed off, knowing that somehow she had put her foot in it.

Grandmama stared at her, willing her to explain.

Bedelia sighed impatiently. “Agnes, dear, you really do let your tongue run away with you!” She turned to Grandmama in exasperation. “You had better know the truth, Mrs. Ellison, or you will feel that we are a cruel family. And it is not so at all. Maude is our middle sister, and she was always unruly, the one who had to draw attention to herself by being different. It happens in families at times. The eldest have attention because they are first, the youngest because they are the babies, the middle ones feel left out, and they show off, to use a common term.”

“Maude was not a show-off,” Arthur corrected her. “She was an enthusiast. Whatever she did, it was with a whole heart. There was nothing affected or contrived in her.”

Bedelia did not look away from Grandmama. “My husband is a man of extraordinarily generous spirit. It is his work for the less fortunate for which Her Majesty is offering him a peerage. I am immensely proud of him, because it is for the noblest of reasons, nothing tawdry like finance, or political support.” She smiled patiently. “But occasionally his judgment is rather more kind than accurate. It was apparent as soon as she arrived that Maude had traveled in places where manners and customs are quite different from ours. I’m afraid that even her language was not such that we could subject our other guests to her…her more colorful behavior. We knew that Joshua, being on the stage, might be more tolerant of eccentricity. Of course we could not know that you also would be staying with him, and if Maude has shocked you or made you uncomfortable, then we are guilty of having caused that, and on behalf of all of us, I apologize. Our inconsideration in that regard is what has been disturbing Agnes.”

Agnes smiled, but there were tears in her eyes.

“I see.” Grandmama tried to imagine Maude as an embarrassment so severe as to be intolerable. She did not know Lord Woollard. Perhaps he was insufferably pompous. There certainly were people so consumed by their own emotional inadequacy and imagined virtue as to take offense at the slightest thing. And the Maude she had met would find a certain delight in puncturing the absurd, the self-important, and above all the false. It would be a scene to be avoided. If Arthur Harcourt had done as much for others as Bedelia said, then he was deserving of recognition, and more importantly the added power to do more good that such an accolade would offer him.

“I’m sure you do,” Bedelia said gently.

“All families seem to have their difficult members,” Zachary added ruefully.

Grandmama had an unpleasant feeling that in her family it was she herself. Although Caroline was now giving her some competition, marrying an actor so much younger than herself! And there was Charlotte, of course, and her policeman!

A short while later the ladies retired to the withdrawing room and she learned little more of interest. She considered inquiring after people’s health, but could think of no way of approaching the subject without being catastrophically obvious. She was extremely tired. It had been one of the longest days of her life, beginning with tragedy and horror, and ending with mystery, and the growing certainty in her mind that someone in this house had altered Maude’s medicine. Exactly how it had been achieved, and with what, she had yet to ascertain. Even more important to her was why. Maude had been successfully sent to stay with Joshua. Lord Woollard had been and gone. What was the element so precious, or so terrible, that it was worth murder?

She excused herself, thanked them again for their hospitality, and went up to her room. Please heaven it would snow tonight, or in some other way make it impossible for her to leave. There was so much she had to learn. This detection matter was more difficult than she had supposed, and against her will she was being drawn into other people’s lives. She cared about Maude, there was no use denying that anymore. She disliked Bedelia and had felt the strength of her power. She was sorry for Agnes without knowing why. Arthur intrigued her. In spite of all that was said about him, his success and his goodness to others, she felt an unnamed emotion that disturbed her. It did not fit in.

Randolph and Clara were still too undefined, except that Clara had great social ambitions! Could that possibly be enough to inspire murder?

It was all swirling around in her head as she put on the housekeeper’s nightgown and climbed into the bed, intending to weigh it all more carefully, and instead fell asleep almost immediately.

T
he following morning she slept in, and was embarrassed to waken with the chambermaid standing at the foot of the bed with tea on a tray, and an inquiry as to what she would care for, for breakfast.

Would two lightly boiled eggs and some toast be possible?

Indeed it would, with the greatest pleasure.

After enjoying it, in spite of the circumstances and the thoughts that occupied her mind, she rose and washed. She dressed in the housekeeper’s other black gown, again with the chambermaid’s assistance, and found she rather enjoyed talking to her. Then she made her way downstairs.

She met Agnes in the hall. She was wearing outdoor clothes and apparently about to leave.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ellison,” she said hastily. “I do hope you slept well? Such a distressing time for you. I hope you were comfortable? And warm enough?”

“I have never been more comfortable,” Grandmama replied with honesty. “You are most generous. I do not believe I stirred all night. Are you about to go out?”

“Yes. I have a few jars of jams and chutneys to take to various friends. Nearby villages, you know? I am afraid the weather does not look promising.”

Grandmama had another burst of illumination, of double worth. She could catch Agnes alone, unguarded by Bedelia, and if the weather did not oblige by snowing them in, she could affect to have caught a slight chill to prevent her returning to St. Mary in the Marsh tomorrow, or worse, this afternoon.

“May I come with you?” she asked eagerly. “I am not here beyond this brief Christmas period, and I would so love to see a little of the outside. It is quite unlike London. So much wider…and cleaner. The city always seems grubby when the snow has been trodden, and everything is stained with smoke from so many chimney fires.”

“But of course!” Agnes said with pleasure. “It would be most agreeable to have your company. But it will be cold. You must wear your cape, and I will have another traveling rug brought for you.”

Grandmama thanked her sincerely, and ten minutes later they were sitting side by side in the pony trap, with Agnes holding the reins. It was, as Agnes had warned, extremely cold. The wind had the kiss of ice on it. Clouds streamed in from the seaward side and the marsh grasses bent and rippled as if passed over by an unseen hand.

The trap was well sprung and the pony inexplicably enthusiastic, but it was still not the most comfortable ride. They left the village of Snave and moved quite quickly in what Grandmama presumed to be a westerly direction, and slightly south. It was all a matter of judging the wind and the smell of the sea. Agnes began by companionably telling her something about the village of Snargate and its inhabitants, and then explaining that from Snargate they would continue to Appledore. Then if there were time, to the Isle of Oxney as well, which of course was not an island at all, simply a rise from the flat land of the coast. However, if there were floods, then it would live up to its name.

Grandmama thought that possibly the history of these ancient villages might be quite interesting, but at present it was the history of the Barrington sisters that demanded her entire attention. She must direct Agnes to it, and not waste precious time, of which there was far too little as it was.

“You speak of the land so knowledgeably,” she began with flattery. It always worked. “Your family has its roots here? You belong here?” People always wanted to belong. No one wished to be a stranger, as Maude must have been all her adult life.

“Oh, yes,” Agnes said warmly. “My great-great-grandfather inherited the house and added to it a hundred and fifty years ago. It is Bedelia’s of course. We had no brothers, unfortunately. And then it will be Randolph’s. But then it would have been his anyway, because I have no sons either.” She turned her face forward so Grandmama could see no more than a fleeting moment of her expression, and the moisture in her eyes could have been from the east wind. It was certainly cold enough.

“You are fortunate to have sisters,” Grandmama told her. “I grew up with only brothers, and they were a great deal older than I. Too much so to be my friends.”

“I’m sorry.” There was no expression in Agnes’s face, no lift of memory that made her smile.

Grandmama lied again. “You must have Christmas memories, and traditions in the family?” She looked at the baskets of jars covered with dainty cloth and tied with ribbons. “You do those so very well.” More flattery, even if true.

“We always have,” Agnes answered, still no lift in her voice.

Grandmama continued to probe, and finally drew a few more specific answers. In heaven’s name, it was hard work! Did Pitt always have such a struggle? It was worse than pulling out teeth. But she was determined. Justice might depend upon this.

“I imagine you all did this together, when you were girls,” she said with what she knew was tactlessness. “Or perhaps you were courting? I can think of nothing more romantic.” Had she gone too far?

“Zachary did, with Bedelia,” Agnes replied. “It was this season, and terribly cold. Several of the streams froze that year. I remember it.” She remained looking forward, her expression bleak as the wind pulled strands of her hair loose and whipped them across her face.

Grandmama was momentarily lost. Zachary was Agnes’s husband. She would dearly like to let this go. She heard pain in Agnes’s voice, and old griefs were none of her affair. But Maude was dead. She could not feel the sting of salt in the air or see the wild flight of seabirds skittering down the wind and whirling back up again, high and wide, wheeling far out over the land.

“Mrs. Harcourt is very beautiful, even now,” she tested the verbal knife. “She must have been quite breathtaking then. I have a distant relative who was like that.”

“Yes.” Agnes’s hands were tight on the reins, the leather of her gloves strained. “Half the young men in the county were in love with her.”

“And she chose Mr. Harcourt?” It was a stupid question, and probably entirely irrelevant to Maude’s death, but she had nothing better to pursue.

“Yes.” For a moment it seemed as if Agnes was going to say no more. Then she drew in her breath, wanting to speak after all. “Although it was not so simple as that.”

“Really? I suppose things seldom are,” Grandmama said sympathetically. “And even less often are they what they seem to be on the surface. People make very hasty judgments, sometimes.”

“They are the easiest,” Agnes agreed. She negotiated a sharp turn in the lane and Grandmama saw the village of Snargate ahead. This was proving very difficult indeed. They were almost at the village green. The inn, the church with ancient yew trees and graveyard, and the lych-gate covered with the bare vines of honeysuckle lay beyond.

They made their first delivery of Christmas fare, and the second, and then left Snargate and continued the short distance to Appledore.

“I suppose there is always speculation where there are sisters, and one is as beautiful as Bedelia,” Grandmama said as soon as they were on their way again, blankets carefully tucked around shivering knees. The sky cleared a little and banners of blue appeared bright between the clouds.

As if deliberately hurting herself, Agnes told the story. “Maude didn’t know about it, not really. She was away that Christmas. Aunt Josephine was ill and alone, and Maude went to look after her. Zachary was courting Bedelia. He was so in love with her. They went everywhere together, to the balls and the dinners and the theater in Dover, even through the snow. That was when the Queen was young and happy, and Prince Albert was so dashing. We saw drawings of them in the newspapers. It was before the Crimean War. I expect you remember?”

“I do.” It had been a nightmare time. Her own husband had been alive, charming, persuasive, privately brutal, demanding things no decent woman ever imagined. She could still taste the wool of the carpet in her mouth and remember his weight on top of her, forcing her down. In public it had been all contentment, the glamour of endless crinoline skirts on a figure unrecognizable now in her too ample waist and hips. And at home a hell she could not think of without a hot shame making her feel sick. How could she, of all people, criticize anyone’s cowardice? It stirred in her rage and pity, and a hunger to avenge it so sharp she could feel it. The bitter wind was almost a comfort.

But Agnes was lost in her own passions and did not even glance to see if her companion was with her mentally. “Then Arthur Harcourt arrived,” she went on. “I think it was early March. The beginning of spring. The days were getting longer and everything was coming into bud. Arthur was not only handsome but charming and funny and kind. He could make us all laugh so hard we were embarrassed to be caught at it. One did not enjoy things so openly then. It was thought to be unladylike. He didn’t care. And he could dance like an angel. Everything seemed worth doing when he was with us.”