Death at Bishop's Keep (34 page)

“No,” Kate admitted. “I could be mistaken, or there could be another explanation for what I have observed. Perhaps they should be shown to some other person who might—”

“There is no need,” the vicar said. His tone had the finality of a judge pronouncing a sentence of death. “Your observations are corroborated by a letter from Mathers, in Paris.”

Kate sat upright. “What did it say?”

“The letter denounced Westcott as a forger and a fraud, and the author of Fräulein Sprengel's putative correspondence. Your aunt brought it to show me. As you might imagine, she was extremely distraught.”

Kate nodded, remembering. “She was indeed. She was still highly disturbed when she returned yesterday evening.”

The vicar's mouth twisted, as if he were tasting something foul. “It seems that the respected Dr. Westcott bestowed upon himself his own forged authorization to establish the Order of the Golden Dawn.”

Kate stared at him. “If the letters are forgeries,” she said slowly, “then the Order founded on their authority is—”

“A sham.” The vicar spoke with a weary distaste, darkened with anger.

“And the cipher document?” She recalled that some of its pages had a watermarked date of 1809, suggesting that it was over eighty years old, while others were unmarked. But the author of the document might have found a cache of old paper, and while the writing looked brown and faded, a sepia ink might have been used to make it appear so.

“If you and Mathers are right in your accusation, one must suspect that the cipher document is also a piece of fakery.” Agitated, the vicar heaved himself out of the chair and began to pace back and forth in front of the fire. “The truth of the matter is that Westcott has made fools of all who trusted him. The Order of the Golden Dawn is a hoax and a fraud.”

“But what could Dr. Westcott gain from such an action? Money?”

“Something worth more to him than money,” the vicar replied. “Repute. Public acclaim. Power over others.” He spoke with increasing passion. “Self-aggrandizement. Self-magnification. These are powerful motives. People kill for far less. A modest deception is nothing to balk at.”

“Who knows about Mathers's accusation?”

“Only you, I, and Mrs. Farnsworth,” the vicar said. “Both your aunt and I felt the matter should be held strictly confidential, and that some sort of committee should be convened to inquire into it.”

“And how does Mrs. Farnsworth view the situation?”

“I do not know, for Sabrina went to see her after she visited me. I would not be surprised if Mrs. Farnsworth discounted Mathers's indictment. She and Westcott are close friends, some even say...” He paused in his pacing and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Excuse me for offending you, my dear. Some say they are lovers. And Mathers has been a pest since the beginning. He has challenged Westcott's authority on several occasions. Worse, he regularly harasses people for money for his work in Paris.”

Kate recalled the conversation she had overheard at Mrs. Farnsworth's. Mathers had been “that miscreant Mathers,” who had made “unprincipled charges.” At the time, she had understood nothing of the exchange, except that the doctor was furious at Mathers and Mrs. Farnsworth anxious to smooth things over. Now, however, the situation was much clearer.

“Do you believe that Mrs. Farnsworth might want to conceal Mathers's accusation?” she asked.

The vicar resumed his pacing. “I would expect her to. She has a great deal at stake in the success of the Order. She has suffered financial reverses, to the point where she has only the house on Keenan Street and one servant. Members of the temple in Colchester contribute heavily to her support, and are also assisting her in her efforts to reestablish her acting career. If the organization is discredited, the members will be disappointed and angry, some even furious. Their support for her will certainly dissolve.”

Kate could easily understand. If members of the Order believed that Mrs. Farnsworth and Dr. Westcott were lovers, they might even believe that she had been a partner to the fraud. That would be the end of the temple, and of the soirees that attracted such well-known people as Oscar Wilde, Willie Yeats, and Conan Doyle. No wonder she rejected Mathers's accusation.

The vicar paused once more in his pacing. “Your discovery of the inconsistencies in the letters is crucial. That proof will no doubt persuade her that it is best to expose the fraud now, whatever the personal consequences, for it is bound to come out eventually. I shall have to speak to her in a day or two.” He turned to Kate. “But there are matters of more immediate consequence that must be tended to, Miss Ardleigh—Kathryn, if I may?”

Kate nodded gravely. “I suppose you are speaking of the funeral arrangements.”

The vicar's expression was infinitely sad. “Yes, of course. But in the meantime, the estate must be managed, decisions must be made. Since you are your aunt's heir—”

Kate gasped.

“You did not know?”

Wordlessly, Kate shook her head.

“Yesterday, she altered her will, removing her former major beneficiary—”

“Her sister?”

“Yes. Sabrina had come to look upon you almost as a daughter, Kathryn. She wanted you to have Bishop's Keep and sufficient means to support it and yourself, even if you should choose to marry.”

Kate bowed her head as the enormity of the realization washed over her, overwhelming her in a torrent of feeling—amazement, incredulity, gratitude. The magnitude of her changed circumstances was utterly beyond belief. Then she remembered something, and raised her head.

“In her last conscious moments, my aunt spoke of a child. She called her Jocelyn. Dr. Randall insisted that she was delirious. You have known Aunt Sabrina for a long time. Do you know anything of a child?”

The vicar stood before her, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes were distressed, but his mouth was gentle. “Kathryn, I cannot discuss this matter with you at the present time. I very much regret that I cannot be more forthcoming.”

“I understand,” Kate said, although she did not. If Aunt Sabrina had a daughter, why had she left the Ardleigh estate to a niece?

Who was Jocelyn Ardleigh?

“Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you lind a trout in the milk.”

—HENRY DAVID THOREAU Journal, November, 1850

 

 

 

S
till thinking about his conversation with Charles, Edward Laken came into the library, one step behind the stiff-backed butler.

“The constable, miss,” the butler said. Laken noticed that he kept his eyes averted, as if the policeman were beneath notice. Or perhaps because he held some sort of guilty knowledge that he did not want the inquisitor to see.

“Thank you, Mudd,” Miss Ardleigh said from her chair by the fire. “You may go.”

When the butler had gone, Laken bowed slightly to Kate and nodded at the vicar, whom he had known for nearly twenty-five years. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon, Edward,” the vicar said somberly. “A most unhappy business.”

“I fear so,” Laken said. He turned to Miss Ardleigh, whose face was shadowed under her heavy mound of mahogany hair. “But I am pleased to tell you, Miss Ardleigh, that we may have discovered the person responsible for your aunts' deaths.”

“Indeed!” she exclaimed. Her surprise was mixed with distress, Laken saw—quite understandably so. She knew that if he had discovered the murderer already, it could only have been one of the servants. Most people did not want to believe—
could
not believe—their servants capable of such a deed.

“Yes,” Laken said. “Sir Charles Sheridan, as you may know, is a mycologist.” He looked at her. It was perhaps a term that required explanation. “That is,” he added, “an expert on mushrooms.”

“I know what the word means,” Miss Ardleigh said, with some asperity.

Laken immediately regretted his assumption. But there was something else about her look that made him wonder. Was the mention of mushrooms entirely a surprise to her? Had she suspected, or perhaps even known—

“And what exactly did Sir Charles find?” Miss Ardleigh was making an obvious effort to speak calmly.

“He found what is most likely the means of murder,” Laken replied. “A Death Cap.”

“A deadly mushroom!” the vicar gasped.

“Quite so, sir,” Laken said gravely. “The symptoms of
Amanita
poisoning are exactly those exhibited by the victims, and Sir Charles located a remaining toadstool in the kitchen storeroom. The scullery maid has told us that she cut up its match for the mushroom pudding—quite unwittingly,” he added. “The circumstantial evidence points to the cook, although—”

“Mrs. Pratt!” Miss Ardleigh exclaimed, her eyes opening wide.

“I understand your consternation, ma'am,” Laken said, bowing his head. “Every effort will be made to get at the truth, I assure you.”

The fact was that the constable had serious reservations about the cook's guilt. As Charlie Sheridan had observed, the evidence clearly pointed in her direction—the circumstantial evidence, that was. But although Laken rarely had such a serious crime as a murder to investigate, he had over the years met his share of criminals, and he had come to respect his intuitive assessment of guilt or innocence. In this case, while he felt it appropriate to take Mrs. Pratt to the village jail for questioning, he did not think it altogether likely that she was the murderer—or at least, the sole instigator. Of course, some crimes were born of passion, rather than greed. But there remained in his mind that fundamental principle of law, cuibono. He would discover as quickly as he could the identity of the heir. At the moment, he reminded himself, it was quite probable—indeed, as far as he knew, a certainty—that Miss Ardleigh herself was the last Ardleigh.
She
was the one most likely to benefit from the deaths of the Ardleigh sisters.

But he did not think it proper to share his thinking with Miss Ardleigh, who was frowning at him. “You are arresting Mrs. Pratt?” she asked.

The vicar went to Miss Ardleigh's chair and put his arm around her shoulders. “I know the idea of the woman's guilt must disturb you, my dear,” he murmured. “But you must admit that we cannot see into the soul. It is possible for a person to appear blameless to the outer view, and yet to harbor an inner nature that is quite the contrary.”

“There is good reason to believe her guilty,” Laken said, watching Miss Ardleigh closely.

“Your evidence is only circumstantial,” she said, rising. “I do not believe that Mrs. Pratt committed murder.”

Laken's eyes narrowed very slightly. The woman spoke with a surprising confidence—surprising, that is, unless she knew that the cook was not guilty because she knew who was. “May I know the reason for your assurance?” he inquired carefully.

She hesitated for a moment. “We are friends,” she said finally.

Laken stared at her. “Friends?” An odd term indeed, coming from—He stopped himself, recalling that Miss Ardleigh had described herself as an employee, her aunt's secretary, which made her a kind of superior servant. In that role, it was quite likely that she had become friendly with the other servants. And she was an American, which perhaps also made her less likely to impose a barrier between herself and them. In his limited experience, Americans were an egalitarian lot.

“I see,” he said mildly. “I must suggest, however, that friendship is no warrant of innocence.”

“It is in this case,” Miss Ardleigh said, her voice sharp-edged. She seemed annoyed by his failure to understand and irritated at her annoyance. “If Mrs. Pratt had determined to kill either of my aunts, she would not have used a weapon that might have killed
me.
She could not know that I would not eat the pudding.”

“I see,” Laken said. He paused, letting the silence linger a second longer than was comfortable. “Why did you not eat the pudding?”

Miss Ardleigh went to stand with her back to the fire. If she was offended by the question, she did not show it. “Because,” she said in a factual tone, “Aunt Jaggers helped herself to my portion as well as hers. What was left to me was what remained from luncheon.”

Laken made a mental note to confirm her report with the butler, while Miss Ardleigh continued, her voice clear and firm. “What is a more compelling argument for Mrs. Pratt's innocence, though, is the absolute certainty of discovery. Once a foodstuff is implicated, the cook is bound to be suspected. Only a foolish person could hope to get away with poisoning the pudding, and Mrs. Pratt is certainly no fool.”

Laken looked at the woman. She spoke with an intelligence and a conviction that he could only respect. But there was at the same time the stirring of doubt in his mind. A few moments before, he had thought that she was not surprised to hear that her aunts had died of mushroom poisoning. Now, she was defending the cook with an intensity that might, to a suspicious mind, suggest that she knew Mrs. Pratt to be innocent. Laken's mind, over the years, had become entirely suspicious, for he had learned that the fairest exterior—and Miss Ardleigh was unquestionably fair—could conceal some very guilty secrets.

But he did not speak of any of this. “I admit your point, Miss Ardleigh,” he said quietly, “but I intend to take Mrs. Pratt to the jail for questioning. I expect to detain her overnight. If I discover her to be the culprit, I shall arrest her forthwith. If I find that there is no reason to charge her, I shall release her and continue my search.”

“I believe you will find her innocent,” Miss Ardleigh said. “I suggest that you look elsewhere for the guilty individual. Do you know, for instance, how the mushrooms came to be in the kitchen?”