Beatrice (10 page)

Ben
studied her for a moment and contemplated whether to continue to
argue with her until she left. However, for every second that they
talked, they were not able to find out who the person was, or if
they still needed help. The thought that he might be injured was
enough to leave Beatrice where she was so he could squat down
beside the body and give it a gentle nudge. He knew immediately
from the way the body rocked stiffly that the person was dead, and
had been quite some time.

“I am
going to roll him over,” Ben warned her and waited for her to nod
before he did just that.

They
both stared in horror at the slack-jawed look of horror on the
man’s face, and the large handle that protruded from the centre of
the man’s chest. Death had claimed him hours ago from the look of
the rigor mortis that had settled into his limbs. Had he been
murdered yesterday during the storm? Or overnight while she had
been asleep in her bed?

“God in
heaven,” Beatrice whispered, fervently glad that she hadn’t had any
breakfast. “He has been murdered.”

“Do you
recognise him?” Ben asked as he studied the ground around the
body.

Beatrice
didn’t want to look at that death-gnarled face, she really didn’t,
but had to. If only so she could assure herself that she didn’t
recognise him. “I don’t think so. No.”

“What’s
that?” Ben asked with a frown as he studied a white piece of
something the man held in his clenched fingers.

“It
looks like a piece of paper,” Beatrice replied cautiously but made
no attempt to reach out to get it. The thought of having to touch
the body made her feel sick. She watched in horror as Ben picked up
a twig from the base of the nearest tree, and slowly prised the
fingers open enough to retrieve a small piece of white
paper.

He
carefully unfolded it and swore. He didn’t want to show her, but
could hardly ignore it now that they had it. Reluctantly, he
glanced up at her and shook his head.

“You are
not going to like it,” he warned and held the paper aloft for her
to read.

Beatrice
tipped her head: Beatrice Northolt, Brantley Manor, Tipton
Hollow.

“Oh my,”
she whispered in horror. “He was here for me.”

“Are you
sure you don’t know him, Beatrice?” he demanded.

When she
continued to stare in stunned disbelief at the body and didn’t
appear to have even heard him, he grabbed her shoulders and gave
her a single shake in an attempt to draw her attention back to him.
The last thing he needed right now was for panic to take hold of
her. It was bad enough that they had a body to content with, the
last thing he wanted as a hysterical female on his hands as
well.

“I want
you to stay calm for me, Beatrice,” he murmured. “Go back inside
while I fetch the constable.”

“Shouldn’t someone stay with him?” she whispered around a
muffled sob.

“He is
beyond help, darling. Right now we need to take care of the living.
You need to see to Maud. I will go and get Fred.” He tipped her
head up and waited until she looked at him. “It will be alright
darling, just go back inside and keep the door locked until I get
back.”

“It’s
him,” Beatrice whispered. When he drew her into his arms, she
didn’t hesitate to slide her arms around him and rest her head on
his shoulder. “It’s the man who was looking through the window
yesterday. God, Ben, what’s going on?”

“I don’t
know darling, but we will get to the bottom of it. I promise.” Ben
could feel the fine tremors that coursed through her and
sighed.

Only a
few minutes ago she had looked happy and carefree as she had
wandered up the garden. Now she was frozen in fear, and clearly
deeply distressed by the grim discovery practically on her
doorstep. God, life could be so cruel sometimes.

“It’s
him,” she repeated and leaned back to look up at him.

“Are you
sure it is the same one?” He felt her nod.

If the
man had needed help, why hadn’t he knocked on the window? If he
wanted Beatrice, why hadn’t he knocked on the door? The fact that
he had a piece of paper in his hand with Beatrice’s name and
address on indicated that the man didn’t know, and wasn’t familiar
with where she lived. But who was he? What was he doing
here?

More
importantly, who in the hell had killed him?

His
thoughts immediately turned to the mysterious black carriage that
had almost run her over - twice - and the strange visitor who had
demanded his package back. Were they connected in some way? He
hated to admit it but he rather thought that they were, only
couldn’t fathom what Beatrice’s involvement was. After all, she
wasn’t a botanist and, unless she was lying about how much work she
had done for her uncle then she had nothing to do with the plant
inside the study.

With
more questions than answers, Ben carefully turned her toward the
house and nudged her into a walk.

“We
can’t just leave him here,” Beatrice whispered and rapidly blinked
away the tears that loomed.

“Well, I
am not moving him into the house,” Ben retorted flatly. When she
threw him a wry look, he softened his stance. “I don’t mean to
sound gruesome, but I think he has been dead for some time. A few
more hours lying where he is aren’t likely to hurt him.”

She knew
that he was right and couldn’t bring herself to argue with him.
Right now, she couldn’t focus on anything other than the knowledge
that while she had slept contentedly in her bed, this man had met a
grizzly end only a few feet away.

“The
poor man,” she whispered. “The poor, poor man.” She turned to him.
“Who would do something like this Ben? Who?”

She
sounded so lost, so confused, that his heart flipped and he drew
her into another quick hug just outside the back door.

“I don’t
know, darling. You go inside and lock the door behind you. Don’t
answer it until I get back.” He all but pushed her into the house
and closed the door behind her. Once the sound of the bolts being
slid home assured him she was safe, he made his way toward his
carriage and climbed aboard. He could only hope that Fred Dinage,
the village constable, wasn’t doing his rounds because he didn’t
want to leave Beatrice alone for a second longer than he absolutely
had to.

Beatrice
was pacing nervously in front of the fire when she heard the crunch
of the stones in the driveway sometime later. She hurried into the
front parlour and peered outside, only to groan at the sight of the
nondescript carriage that blocked the end of the driveway. She had
a horrible suspicion that she knew who the visitor was, and had
absolutely no intention of answering the door to him.

“Hurry
up, Ben,” she whispered and quickly made her way toward the back of
the house, where she drew the kitchen curtains and made sure that
the bolt was still across the door.

Heavy
thumps sounded on the front door but she ignored them. Instead, she
poked her head into Maud’s room only to find her fast asleep. Her
cheeks were flushed with fever, and a bowl sat beside her on the
floor. It was evident that the housekeeper would have to remain in
bed for the day and so, with a sigh, Beatrice set about clearing
out the grates and lighting the fires. With something to do, it was
easy to ignore the repeated thumps on both the front and back doors
as the wretched visitor persisted.

Once the
tidying was done, Beatrice turned her attention to the study. The
shutters were still closed and the curtains drawn, but there was
enough light from the doorway behind her to take another look at
the strange plant. It was difficult to think that something so
beautiful could bring so much trouble with it. If only she knew who
had sent it to her, and why, she would be able to find out if the
death of the man at the end of the garden was linked to the plant
in any way. She coughed uncomfortably and, when the sickening smell
from the source of the mystery became too much to bear, backed out
of the room and closed the door firmly behind her.

The
temptation to take a peek out of the shutters to check the body was
still there was strong, but she daren’t, just in case the visitor
loitered out there. Besides, she had no idea why she expected it to
go missing; he could hardly get up and walk away after
all.

Determined to put the matter to one side until Ben and Fred
arrived, she turned her attention to tidying her bedroom. Then,
once the house was all in order, she could sit down to
wait.

The
crunch of gravel in the driveway sounded again nearly an hour
later. Beatrice put her sewing down and contemplated whether she
should go back into the front parlour to see who it was but then
decided against it. If it was the stranger again, and he happened
to look through the window, he would see her. The last thing she
wanted was for him to know that she was home alone.

The
sudden rattle of the back door drew her quickly into the hallway.
She arrived in the kitchen just in time to see the door knob begin
to slowly turn. Unusually, there was no knock on either the back or
front doors, yet the person was trying to see if the door would
open. Her first thought was that it might be Ben, but she
immediately dismissed that idea because she knew Ben would knock
and call out.

While he
was busy at the other end of the house, she hurried through the
house and took the opportunity to study the black carriage parked
at the end of the driveway. Now that she was able to take a closer
look at it, she strongly suspected that it was the same one that
had nearly run her over yesterday. Was the man who wanted his plant
back really a killer? Had he returned now to claim her as his
second victim?

Don’t be a goose. Get a hold of yourself,
she warned herself.
Why would he
want to kill you for a wretched plant?

Everything went quiet. She stood in the hallway for a moment
and listened carefully, but didn’t hear the crunch of wheels on the
gravel to indicate that the man had left. Instead, the low murmur
of voices broke the silence. Curious, she hurried into the front
parlour to take a look out of the window.

The
sight that greeted her made her slump with relief. Outside, Fred
and Ben were deep in conversation with the stranger. From the wild
gesticulation of the stranger’s hands, he was far from happy about
something. Still, Beatrice didn’t hesitate to slide the bolts
across the front door, and race outside toward help.

“I am
warning you here and now that I shall take you down to the station
if I hear of any more near-misses in these parts with that carriage
of yours. I hear that you nearly ran this lady over yesterday – and
this gentleman not more than an hour after that. What do you have
to say for yourself?” Fred Dinage, the village constable,
demanded.

“It
wasn’t me,” the man growled. Although he had heard what the
constable had said, his eyes flickered between Beatrice and the
open door to the house accusingly.

“A
carriage matching the description of yours was seen in this area
yesterday being driven recklessly. It nearly killed two innocent
people,” Fred accused.

“It
wasn’t me.”

“Are you
denying that you were in here then?” Fred countered.

“No,”
the man shook his head. “I wanted a word with the gentleman here.”
Although his words were quiet, the sharpness in them was
unmistakeable. He was barely in control of his temper, and shifted
his stance to one that almost challenged Fred to do something about
his denials. “I still do,” he growled darkly.

Ben
glared at the smaller man. “Look, you were told yesterday that you
should go and look for your plant somewhere else. We don’t have
your package and never have had it, so stop pestering
us.”

A frown
darkened Fred’s face, and he opened his mouth to speak only to
close it again with a snap when movement at the end of the driveway
drew his attention.

“Morning
all,” Mark drawled as he approached the group. He dropped a quick
kiss on Beatrice’s cheek. “How are you?” he asked as he studied her
carefully.

“I am
alright,” she replied shakily and smiled at Isaac. “Hello, Isaac.
How are you?”

“I am
better than you,” Isaac replied and nodded to the stranger with his
brows lifted. “Trouble?”

“He
thinks we have something of his, but we don’t,” she replied
quietly.

“He
nearly ran Beatrice down in the road yesterday and was responsible
for her hurting her ankle. Then, to cap it all, he nearly ran me
and Beatrice over half an hour later,” Ben explained briskly. While
he spoke he didn’t take his eyes off the smaller man, who glared
back belligerently and didn’t seem to know, or care, that he was
now in the presence of three police officers.

“Where
are you staying?” Mark asked as he studied the man closely for
distinguishing features.

“What?”
The stranger snapped with a frown.

“What’s
your name and address?”

“Why?
Who are you?” The stranger demanded arrogantly as he studied Fred,
whose job was evident from the uniform he wore.