Death at Bishop's Keep (39 page)

Thinking of Beryl Bardwell, Kate murmured, “But the relationship between life and art is very complex. A fiction can become quite real.”

“ ‘And thereby hangs a tale.' ” A smile ghosted across Mrs. Farnsworth's mouth. “You are quite perceptive, Miss Ardleigh. This transformation of art into life might not have happened, however, had it not been for MacGregor Mathers, to whom Dr. Westcott confided his innocent little diversion. It was Mathers who convinced him that the Order should be introduced to the public at large. It was Mathers who insisted on using the letters to lend authenticity to the effort.”

“And in time Dr. Westcott began to believe in the truth of his magical fiction.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Farnsworth said. Her voice was colored by a regretful contempt, as if she were deriding an actor who had been taken in by his part.

“And Mathers now intends to reveal the fraud in order to discredit the doctor?”

Mrs. Farnsworth's mouth hardened. “Mathers is a man full of his own glory, greedy for power. From the beginning, he aimed to destroy Dr. Westcott and substitute his own project. I could not permit such a thing to happen. Quite apart from my ... friendly feelings for the doctor, I have my own interests to protect. As you have quite rightly guessed, the Order is a substantial part of my livelihood and will remain so, even when I have successfully returned to the stage. At the present time, I am quite vulnerable. I do not intend to let Mathers destroy me.”

“But to keep that from happening,” Kate said thoughtfully, “you will have to destroy Mathers, in the same way you destroyed my aunt.”

Mrs. Farnsworth raised both brows. “I commend your insight, Miss Ardleigh. I am glad to say that little business is well under way. A poison has already been sent in a certain candy in which Mr. Mathers is known to indulge immoderately: Fairley's chocolates.”

Kate almost gave way to an hysterical giggle. It was a small and ironically fateful world indeed. But Mrs. Farnsworth would not be telling her these things unless she were meant to be the next victim. She tried to think ahead to what the woman's next move might be.

Mrs. Farnsworth's eyes were frankly defiant. “There, my dear, you have it. I stand guilty of everything of which you have accused me. ‘But call me not a fool, for heaven hath sent me fortune.' And with respect to your wish to hold the office your aunt has so recently vacated ...” She pulled down her mouth with a somber look. “The position must be earned through a long study of the magical arts. Regrettably, you will not have sufficient time to prepare yourself.”

She pulled her hand out of her pocket. Fitted neatly into the palm was a small nickel-plated derringer.

Kate raised her eyes to Mrs. Farnsworth's face. Her brown eyes were intent, her mouth determined, her chin firm. A remarkable woman, with the will to use whatever weapon best ensured the success of her scheme. A person whom Beryl Bardwell could not help but admire. But admiration was quickly chilled by the reality of the situation. This was no time to be doing research!

Mrs. Farnsworth gestured with the gun toward the door. “Come now,” she said. “We will go down to the cellar. Our business will be much more conveniently concluded there.”

Kate glanced at the door, feeling apprehensive. This interview had not gone exactly as she had anticipated. What would happen when they went into the hall? Would it be best to—

“That is quite a small gun,” Kate said conversationally, but loudly. “Is it real?”

Mrs. Farnsworth's voice was grim. “It may look like a stage property, but I assure you that it is quite powerful for its size. It does, however, make rather a lot of noise, which is one of the reasons for our trip to the cellar. Since you seem to be an imaginative person, I leave you to imagine the others.” She stepped behind Kate and planted the gun in the small of her back. “Shall we, Miss Ardleigh? Out the door and to your right.”

Kate bit her lip. Her hands were clammy. Having no choice, she walked ahead of Mrs. Farnsworth. When they reached the hallway door, she stopped once more, her hand on the knob.

“Can we not discuss this?” she asked urgently. “Perhaps we could accommodate....”

“No,” Mrs. Farnsworth said again. Her voice was thin and flat, with a brittle edge. “No more discussion. Open the door.”

Kate opened the door and stepped into the hallway. What happened next occurred with such a rapidity that afterward she was not sure she could reconstruct the sequence accurately. There was a sudden scuffle behind her, a strangled cry, and the gun discharged, the bullet shattering a mirror on the opposite wall. As Kate turned, she saw that Mrs. Farnsworth, helpless, was gripped in the powerful embrace of a resolute Mudd.

Before Kate could speak, an impatient banging sounded at the entrance door. “What's that shooting?” demanded a loud voice. “In the name of the Crown, open this door!”

Kate stepped to the door and opened it. On the stoop, hand raised, mouth open to shout once more, stood a uniformed policeman. Behind him stood yet another policeman. And behind him stood Sir Charles Sheridan. When he saw her, Sir Charles's mouth dropped open. Kate bowed her head slightly.

“Gentlemen,” she said, stepping aside so that they could enter. “How good of you to arrive so speedily.”

“And thereby hangs a tale.”

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE As You Like It, II, vii

 

 

 

“O
oh, an' how did it feel when th' gun went off, please, Mr. Mudd?” Harriet begged. She was sitting on the sofa, her eyes dancing with excitement.

Sarah Pratt leaned back in her chair, her slippered feet elevated to the warmth of the fire on a stool cushioned with a small pillow. She looked around, replete with satisfaction. All the comforts had been restored to the servants' hall, including tea and jam. Things were as they should be, although it was a sad day. Just this morning, they had buried Miss Ardleigh and her sister. The service had been read by the vicar and attended by almost every resident of the village and surrounding countryside. Sarah felt that everything had been quite in order, although the morning might have been a bit less wet.

It was teatime now, and the autumn rain was driving against the window. Pocket had brought in a bucket of chestnuts to roast in the fire. And as he had every meal since the event, Mudd was retelling with enormous relish the tale of his grand adventure with the young miss.

“We can't have th' gun afore we have th' cart,” Nettie objected, playing with the terrier's ears. On Jaggers's death, she had befriended the sad dog. “How did yer get to Colchester, Mr. Mudd?”

Mudd obligingly shifted the focus of his story. “As yer know, I drove th' young miss in th' pony cart,” he said with an understanding glance at Pocket, who always got sulky at this point in the narrative. When Pocket first learned what happened, he protested that Mudd had unfairly usurped his prerogative, for it was his job to drive. But he objected far less after he discovered that Mudd's assignment had involved not just driving the cart, but (upon instructions from the young miss) forcing open Mrs. Farnsworth's kitchen door, stealing surreptitiously up the back stairs, and waiting outside the parlor with an ear to the door, until finally it opened and the lady with the derringer came out. Sarah noticed that Pocket always turned away when Mudd described the silvery gun with the walnut handle, so small it fitted into a lady's hand, yet so powerful the bullet blasted through a mirror and buried itself in the wall.

“I don't care t' 'ear about th' pony cart.” Amelia pouted. She gave Mudd a flirtatious sideways glance. “That's too ordin'ry. I want t' 'ear about th' gun, Mr. Mudd.
That's
th' dang'rous part.”

Pocket's ears reddened and he became busy with the chestnuts.

“Well, then,” Mudd said, basking in Amelia's glance, “th' young miss comes out o' th' parlor with th' lady, 'oo had th' gun.”

Nettie pushed the terrier out of her lap. “How c'n she be a lady,” she asked tartly, “ 'f she had a gun?”

“Let that be, Nettie,” Sarah said, pouring herself another cup of tea. “A lady c'n have anythin' she wants.”

“She ‘ad th' gun,” Mudd repeated patiently. “Which I already knew, for I ‘eard th' young miss say, quite loud an' pert, ‘It is a rather small gun. Is it real?' ”

“So brave, th' young miss,” Amelia sighed.

Sarah savored the image of her mistress fearlessly holding her ground in the face of a lady with a gun. Any ordinary woman would have fainted dead away, and the villain would have escaped.

“Brave,” Sarah confirmed, adding sugar to her tea, “an' gen'rous, too.” Miss Ardleigh had planned to allow them tea, but she had said nothing about sugar. It was the young miss who had instructed her to see liberally, but not wastefully, to the comforts of the servants—had instructed
her,
because Sarah was no longer simply Cook but Cook-Housekeeper, and a much enlarged ring of keys jangled at the waist of her apron.

In point of fact, Sarah had more to think about than the comforts of the fire and tea and jam, delightful as those things were, especially on a day like today. The young miss, who was very businesslike and efficient when it came to running the household, had set her to counting everything straightaway: all the kitchen stores, the linen, the silver, china, and crystal, even the furniture. Making an inventory, she called it. It was a demanding task that required all of Sarah's skills of observation, organization, and writing, and as she moved from room to room, noting each item in a book, along with its precise function, condition, and location, she began to think well of herself. Her estimation of her abilities rose farther when she consulted with Miss Ardleigh and Mudd, as now required, on the household accounts. If she could do these things, she could manage three subordinate house servants—yes, even four or five or six—with no difficulty at all.

“So I'm waitin' by th' door,” Mudd continued, “primed, yer might say, fer action. An' when they come out I grab th' lady right round th' waist.” At this point, he always leaned suggestively toward Amelia and offered to demonstrate, which, of course, Sarah could not allow. She frowned to remind both Mudd and Amelia that such playacting was not necessary to the authenticity of the tale.

“So then th' gun goes off, BANG!” Harriet said happily.

“An' th' bullet breaks th' mirror into th' tiniest pieces,” Nettie added, “like lit'le diamonds.”

“An' then th' policemen come,” Amelia put in.

“Yes, an' Sir Charles too,” Mudd said, pretending not to notice that his arm was slipping along the top of the sofa, in the direction of Amelia's shoulder. “Th' one 'oo took th' photograph of this selfsame lady sellin' poisonous mushrooms t' Mrs. P—”

“Dressed up like a gypsy!” Harriet crowed, clapping her hands. “An' that's why Cook went t' jail! Because o' th' gypsy's mushrooms, what got in th' puddin'!”

Nettie looked respectfully at Cook. ‘C'n ye tell agin ‘bout ridin' t' jail in th' carriage, Mrs. Pratt?”

Sarah smiled, benignly (for the moment) ignoring the fact that Amelia was leaning ever so slightly toward Mudd. Riding in the carriage—to
and
from the jail—was a subject she loved to talk about; indeed, she dwelled on it in her waking hours and dreamed about it in her sleep. And not just the breathtaking speed and smoothness of the ride or the feel of the fine leather seats, but the astonishment on the faces of her friends as she rattled along High Street, going in glory. Since Miss Kate had given her such a generous gift, Sarah had felt quite differently about herself. She had even begun to believe it possible, as Rachel Elam's dairyman brother claimed in his letters home, that a person might actually rise above the station of her birth. Might even aspire to something like (she thought with a catch of her breath) a shop of her own.

She shook the thought out of her head and smiled again at Nettie. “Later, child,” she said in a kindly tone. “There's somethin' I need t' hear from Mr. Mudd.” She bowed to Mudd with some deference. One had to feel a certain regard for a man who had so bravely stepped in to save the young miss from being taken to the cellar and done away with—although Sarah suggested that, given the necessity, the young miss could have taken perfect care of herself.

“Yer've no doubt told it, Mudd,” she said, “but I've never quite got th' straight. How was it th' constable come so prompt-like, just as th' gun went off?”

“I didn't get th' straight o' it meself till this mornin‘,” Mudd replied, “when I read it in th' newspaper. It ‘pears that th' lady had already murdered somebody else.”

“No!” Amelia squealed, her hands going to her mouth.

“Yes,” Mudd said, lowering his voice and making it dreadful. “A Frenchie with a gold ring. She made ‘im tipsy an' drove 'im in 'is 'ired rig out to th' excavation. Then she stuck a dagger in 'is 'eart an' shoved him into a pit.”

Harriet's eyes grew large and she gave a faint moan.

“She cud‘na bin no lady,” Nettie said firmly. She began to count on her fingers. “I make it three she murdered, an' she would've murdered th' young miss, which is four, if she 'adn't been stopped. No lady wud've murdered so many, not even fer sport.”

Cook looked at Mudd. “How did th' police know t' come?”

“Accordin' t' the newspaper,” Mudd said, “Sir Charles deduced 'oo killed th' Frenchie, or near 'nough. 'E was bringin' th' police t' talk t' th' lady. They were on th' stoop at th' very selfsame instant th' gun went off.”