Death at Bishop's Keep (38 page)

But it was too late to change her mind. The die was cast. Arrangements had been made, and if she did not do her part—Well, she had to, that was all. She owed it to Aunt Sabrina, if not to Aunt Jaggers. Two lives wasted, and for what? At the thought, her purpose firmed. She went up the steps and rang the bell.

There was silence within. Kate rang again, mentally scrabbling for something to say. Should she be delicate or direct? Should she open the conversation with a forthright challenge, or allow the discussion to take its own course, following its natural meander into the topics she wished to pursue?

But before Kate could devise a plan of action, the bell was answered—not by a servant but by the very person she had come to see.

Kate made herself smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Farns-worth.”

“Why, good morning, Miss Ardleigh,” Mrs. Farnsworth replied. “Please, come in. I am afraid you have caught me answering my own bell, since it is my maid's half day.” Her golden brown hair was bound back loosely and her green gown flowed without a waist from the shoulders, giving her a look of pastoral innocence, yet with a complexly mysterious knowledge behind the eyes, like one of Rossetti's maidens.

“Thank you,” Kate said, masking her relief in formal politeness. She had recalled the vicar saying that Mrs. Farns-worth had only one servant, and had hoped that the woman might be out.

Mrs. Farnsworth's eyes became shadowed. “I was appallingly grieved—and shocked—to hear of your aunt's death. Your note did not elaborate. Please, come into the parlor and tell me what happened. It was a tragic accident, I assume.”

Without answering, Kate followed her. The room was dim and chilly, palely lighted by the gas lamp on the wall beside the fireplace and warmed by a fire so small as to be almost symbolic. Kate noticed that the coal hod on the hearth was nearly empty, and wondered if Mrs. Farnsworth had simply allowed herself to run out, or was effecting a necessary economy.

Mrs. Farnsworth put her hands into the embroidered pockets of her dress. “If you like, I can prepare tea. One learns, you know, not to depend upon one's servants for
all
the necessities of life.”

“Thank you, no tea,” Kate said. She sat on the plum velvet settee facing the fire—on the edge, as decorum demanded—while Mrs. Farnsworth took the chair where she had obviously been sitting, wrapped in a paisley shawl. Between them was a small rosewood table that held a glass dish of shells and several small framed photographs of Mrs. Farnsworth in various costumed poses.

Mrs. Farnsworth pulled the shawl around her shoulders. “Now, please, Miss Ardleigh,” she said, “if it is not too trying, perhaps you will tell me how your aunt died.”

“It is very trying,” Kate said, “but I will tell you.” Lacking a strategy by which to plot a more devious course to the subject, she simply spoke what came first to mind, which was the truth. “She was poisoned.”

Mrs. Farnsworth's hands flew to her mouth. She gasped. “Poisoned!”

Kate kept her back straight, her eyes fixed intently on Mrs. Farnsworth. Since they had already arrived at their subject, she would take the offensive. She could do no worse than fail. And even if she were mistaken about Mrs. Farnsworth's role in her aunts' deaths—now that she was actually here, the possibility of error seemed dreadfully real—she doubted that the woman would make an issue of the matter. There was, after all, the business of the forged letters. Kate screwed her courage to the sticking point and plunged ahead.

“Mrs. Farnsworth, this is not a stage and you and I are not merely players. You know very well that my aunt was poisoned, for you provided the means of her death.
You
killed her.”

Mrs. Farnsworth's brown eyes grew large and she gave a little gasping laugh.
“I!
My dear Miss Ardleigh, what fearful lunacy is this? Have you lost your mind?”

Have I?
Kate wondered to herself. But she had nowhere to go but forward, doggedly following the track of what seemed to be the truth. “I am accusing you,” she said, “of the murders of Sabrina Ardleigh and Bernice Jaggers.”

The open mouth and widened eyes registered incredulity, the simultaneous headshake a sorrowful pity. “I very much fear that you
have
lost your mind, Miss Ardleigh. Perhaps it is the grief of untimely death, for which I hope you will accept my deepest condolences. Sabrina was my friend. But frankly, my dear, I have not an idea in the world who this Jaggers person is whom you say I have ...” The slightest smile, as if of disbelief, lifted her lips, “... poisoned.”

“Bernice Jaggers was the sister of Sabrina Ardleigh,” Kate said, her eyes on the other's face. That little smile had hardened her resolve. “The evening before last, both ate of the mushroom pudding that was prepared from mushrooms you brought to Bishop's Keep. Among them was a Death Cap. My aunts died yesterday.” She felt a deep icy chill, a winter in the bones. “Both were ill for hours. They suffered agonizing deaths.”

Mrs. Farnsworth cast her eyes down. “I am most sorry for your sad bereavement, Miss Ardleigh.” There was a catch in her impassioned voice and when she looked up, the trace of a tear in her eye. She leaned forward, speaking with urgency. “But I assure you that I have never called at Bishop's Keep. And never having been there, I certainly could not have brought such a thing as ... mushrooms.” She made a little grimace, as if the word summoned up images of dirt and leaves. “Or a ... Death Cap, did you say? I regret that I do not know what that is.”

Kate's heart was in her throat, and she was oblivious to the chill room around her, the pale gloom, the dying fire. Had she made a terrible mistake? Had she accused a woman who was guilty of foolishness but innocent of murder? But she had no other course. She could only pursue. She steeled herself.

“You came,” she said, relentless, “twice. The first time, you attempted to break in to the library to steal the forged letters and the cipher document; as you escaped, you left a hat. The second time, you came in the disguise of a gypsy selling mushrooms.”

Mrs. Farnsworth sat quite still. Only her eyes moved, with a quick, darting motion, right to left, and there was a slight mottling high on her cheeks. For the first time, Kate began to think that she might be right. With the thought came both relief and a heightened apprehension. If Mrs. Farnsworth was the killer, how could she wring a confession from her? The woman was as cold and icy hard as a glacier.

When Mrs. Farnsworth spoke, her voice was distant. “I see that you insist on persevering in these scandalous and absurd accusations despite my assurance that I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.” She rose, her bearing imperious, contempt and revulsion in her face. “I must, therefore, decline to speak with you any further. Please leave.”

She was the perfect picture of offended, outraged sensibility. How could the actress be dislodged from the role? Kate reached into the knitting bag beside her on the settee and took out the envelope. “I fear that it will not be as easy as that, Mrs. Farnsworth. There is proof of your visit.”

The other woman's eyes darkened imperceptibly, but her face remained impassive. When she spoke her voice was without inflection. “Proof? What proof could you possibly have?”

“This photograph,” Kate said. She opened the envelope and held it up. “It quite clearly shows you in your gypsy costume at the kitchen door, a basket of mushrooms in your hand.”

Mrs. Farnsworth stood unmoving.

Kate put the photograph on the table. “Perhaps you would care to examine it.”

Quickly, as if she could not help herself, the woman's glance went to the photograph. Then, with the subtlest of facial expressions, perhaps just the smoothing of the skin around the eyes, her self-confidence seemed to return. She lifted her chin. “A cursory examination, I suppose,” she said with cool amusement, “might suggest that the figure in this photograph could be a woman. It might even be concluded—although the conclusion would certainly require an extraordinary feat of the imagination—to bear a slight resemblance to me.”

“And to Rosalind?” Kate asked. “Is the gypsy's costume not your costume from As
You Like It,
in which Rosalind, transformed into Ganymede, dresses as a boy?”

Mrs. Farnsworth's tone was colored by a half-contemptuous disdain. “But the taking of life is not sport for ladies. Why in the world should I wish to kill your aunts, Miss Ardleigh ? The idea is outrageous!”

“It was not my
aunts
you intended to kill,” Kate said, feeling anger, “but my
aunt.
Sabrina Ardleigh, a good and kind lady and a friend to you. And you probably intended to kill me as well. The idea is not at all outrageous when you consider what is at stake. The reputation of Dr. Westcott, your own reputation and livelihood, the continuation of the Order of the Golden Dawn—all of enormous importance to you, I warrant, and worth a few risks.”

Mrs. Farnsworth looked down at Kate. Her eyes betrayed the first slightest hint of fear but her voice was still firm. “Miss Ardleigh, would you be so good as to make your point plain?
If
you have a point, that is. As proof, I fear your photograph falls far short.”

“The letters,” Kate said. She drew a paper-wrapped bundle from the knitting bag. “The letters purportedly written by Fraulein Sprengel authorizing Dr. Westcott to establish the Order of the Golden Dawn. They are not authentic. They are forgeries, as is the cipher document. Aunt Sabrina guessed as much, and Mr. Mathers's letter to you, which she read, confirmed her suspicion—and perhaps her idea that the dead Frenchman found in the Colchester excavation was connected to you. She confronted you with what she knew and told you that she intended to reveal the secret to the Order at large. You had to ensure her silence.”

Mrs. Farnsworth started to speak, then stopped. Her eyes met Kate's. Her look was compounded of acrimony, a kind of pitying scorn, and some sort of deeply interior conflict. For a long moment she seemed to grapple with herself. Then she turned and went slowly to the desk in the corner. A moment later, she turned back again and gestured at the bundle Kate had placed on the table beside the photograph. “Those are the letters?”

“They are the documents you attempted to steal several nights ago from the library at Bishop's Keep,” Kate said.

Her voice was disbelieving. “You believe me to have been an intruder?”

“Yes. You left your hat behind—Rosalind's hat. Of course,” Kate added, “you had to have the letters, for the forgery is not clever. The fraud would be abundantly clear to any objective reader, who could reveal the hoax and show Dr. Westcott to be a sham and a charlatan. And if that happened, the entire Order would collapse—as you well knew.”

“I see,” Mrs. Farnsworth said reflectively, “that you have given this matter considerable thought. I wonder—while you were thinking, did you think perhaps of some ... accommodation we might make?”

“Accommodation?”

Mrs. Farnsworth's smile did not touch her glacial eyes. “My dear Miss Ardleigh, you may think me wicked, but I do not think you naive. You come alone to accuse me of—” She pulled her brows together slightly. “You have come alone, have you not?”

Kate inclined her head.

Mrs. Farnsworth laughed. “There, you see? You come alone to accuse me of murder, bringing your proof. What else am I to conclude but that your evidence—the photograph, the documents—is for sale?”

Kate thought quickly. This was perhaps the opening she needed. When she spoke, her voice held an admiring candor. “You are indeed perceptive, Mrs. Farnsworth; you have found me out. In return, then, I will be frank with you.”

“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Farnsworth said with a dry irony. “Let us
both
be frank.”

Kate allowed herself a small smile. “I am not inclined to seek vengeance for my aunts' murders, for I too have profited. I am to inherit the Ardleigh estate. By the same token, I do not seek to sell the evidence of your guilt for money.” She paused. Mrs. Farnsworth was watching her observantly, still standing, her eyes intent, her hands in the pockets of her gown. “What I do seek is participation in the Order. I find that I enjoy the association, and I wish to continue and expand it. I would like to hold the office my aunt held, that of Cancellarius.” She raised her voice slightly. “I am willing to give you the photograph and the documents, in return for that appointment and for your verbal confirmation to me that everything I have said here is true.”

Mrs. Farnsworth made a condescending gesture. “Confirmation? That part, my dear Kathryn—it is Kathryn, is it not?—is easy. Of course you are quite right. I did darken my face with umber and disguise myself as a gypsy boy, after the manner of Rosalind. I did carry a basket of mushrooms, including two fatal ones, to Bishop's Keep. I knew, you see, that your Aunt Sabrina was exceedingly fond of mushrooms; she said as much the afternoon of the gathering. I did not know that your aunt had a sister, but I was prepared to silence you along with Sabrina, since I could not be sure that she had not spoken of the matter to you.”

“But she was your
friend!”
Kate burst out, half rising. “How could you kill her?”

Mrs. Farnsworth's eyes glinted. “ ‘Most friendship is feigning,' ” she said, “ ‘most loving mere folly.' ”

Kate sank back. “I am sorry,” she said. “Please go on.”

“My motive was as you have deduced. Your aunt was intent on telling the world that Dr. Westcott forged the cipher document and the letters that authorized him to establish the Order. Some might say he was foolish in doing so, although I say in his defense that he did not intend to deceive. He only meant to enjoy for a little—quite to himself, quite in private—the pleasure of creating a fictional world in which he was given the blessing of the most ancient authorities for his magical work. He had no intention of sharing the letters with others.”