Murder Most Austen (3 page)

Grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser, she patted her face dry. “I’m fine, thanks. I guess I’m not the best flyer,” she said quietly.

Suddenly feeling guilty at my giggly reaction, I said, “I’m sorry if we were rude last night. I…” There, unfortunately, I stopped. I couldn’t think of anything else to say, other than, “But really, the idea that Jane Austen died of syphilis is the most absurd thing I’ve heard in a long time.” And as that hardly seemed apologetic or helpful, I closed my mouth.

Lindsay shook her head. “It’s all right. Ric … Professor Baines is used to people dismissing him and his ideas. But he is making a name for himself through his discoveries.”

Of that, I was quite sure. However, I suspected the name that immediately sprang to my mind—wanker—was far different from the one imagined by Lindsay. I hoped I managed to keep my face neutral, although it wasn’t a particularly high hope. Facial neutrality is not a trait that I’m known for, especially first thing in the morning. Fortunately, Lindsay wasn’t watching me. She rested her hands on the edge of the sink and closed her eyes.

“Can I get you anything?” I asked.

She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and shook her head. Staring at her ashy reflection in the mirror, she said, “No, I’ll be fine. Too much champagne, I guess. I just need to eat something, that’s all.” She moved away from the sink toward the exit. At the doorway, however, she turned back to me and said, “But you and your aunt should really reconsider Professor Baines’s discoveries. They’re all backed up in the books. You just have to know how to look for them.”

I had been rude enough already, so I merely nodded and said, “Okay. I hope you feel better.”

After I brushed my teeth, I found Aunt Winnie, and we grabbed a much needed cup of coffee and headed for customs. I knew it would be more fitting to get a cup of tea, but I needed the jolt of caffeine that only coffee can promise. Once through customs, we ran into Lindsay and Professor Baines again as they headed for the exit. While she acknowledged my presence with a slight nod, Professor Baines did not. In fact, he practically pushed past me in his haste to move away from us. I was surprised at his rudeness until I saw the unlit cigarette in his hand and the steely determination in his eyes as he closed the gap to the outside smoking area.

By the time Aunt Winnie and I stepped out into the cold morning air in search of a taxi, Professor Baines was greedily sucking on the end of his cigarette, each breath seeming to calm him a little more. Lindsay stood next to him, her pale face etched in misery as she tried without success to avoid the smoky gray tendrils. When the cigarette was halfway gone, his equanimity was restored to such an extent that he was able to bestow a small smile in our direction.

Aunt Winnie and I waved back with equal affability, and then hailed a taxi—one of those iconic black beauties—and headed to London proper. Although our final destination was Bath, Aunt Winnie had insisted that we spend our first night in London. And she said that if we were to spend a night in London, then we simply had to stay at Claridge’s.

Before I knew it, our taxi was in Mayfair and pulling up to the famed hotel on Brook Street. Described by many as “the last word in London’s luxury hotels” and “Mayfair’s Art Deco Jewel” and by me simply as “awesome,” it was by any description stunning. From its relatively humble beginnings in a conventional London terraced house, it has grown both in size and reputation to its current status, that of an extension of Buckingham Palace. I was practically giddy. Pulling out the camera that my boyfriend, Peter, had given me before the trip, I snapped several pictures.

We were helped out of the taxi by a uniformed doorman complete with top hat and led into the Front Hall, a magnificently airy room of yellow walls, intricate white moldings, and gleaming floors of black-and-white marble. I snapped several more pictures.

As we moved to the reception desk, Aunt Winnie said, “I booked us for high tea this afternoon. It’s such a treat and I know you’ll love it.”

“I can think of no better way to end a day after exploring London,” I said.

“I didn’t think I’d have to twist your arm, but I didn’t know how jet-lagged you’d be. But the best thing to do is just keep going and get on local time. I thought we could check in, change our clothes, and then do a little sightseeing and shopping. After all, Bond Street is just a few feet away. Tea is at four, which should allow us plenty of time to explore the city. What do you say?”

“I say that I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed,” I replied with a grin.

Although it was my first time to London, it wasn’t Aunt Winnie’s. In fact, she’s been around the world several times. When she was younger, she landed a job as an investor—a vocation for which she apparently has quite a talent. The result was that she made a lot of people, including herself, very wealthy. Several years ago, she retired from all that and bought a house on Cape Cod. She turned it into a B and B—despite having absolutely no experience in hotel management. But just like most things she did, she did it well. The Inn at Longbourn was a huge success, though it did have a rocky start when one of the guests was murdered. But once that was cleared up, with some assistance from yours truly, business picked up. In fact, business was so good that she and her current boyfriend, Randy, recently purchased another property. This one was on Nantucket, and it too was to be converted into a B and B. Like its predecessor, it was to have an Austen theme. Each room is going to be decorated in a manner consistent with one of Austen’s novels. Aunt Winnie plans on calling it Aust-Inn-Tatious.

Now that we were finally in London, we immediately made our way to one of the city’s most treasured sites: Jane Austen’s portrait in the National Portrait Gallery. The unfinished pencil and watercolor sketch was undertaken in 1810 by her sister Cassandra, and it is the only known authenticated likeness of her.

The painting is roughly the size of a playing card, and to set your eyes upon it is simultaneously exciting and disappointing. As a Janeite, to behold an image of her is, of course, wonderful, but sadly, it’s not how most fans picture their beloved author. While Cassandra was considered an accomplished artist, the picture is not a flattering one. Jane, who would have been about thirty-five in the sketch, appears dowdy and has an almost pinched, unanimated expression. It’s hard to find the woman whom her nephew, James-Edward, recalled as being “very attractive; a clear brunette with a rich colour; round cheeks, with … well-formed bright hazel eyes, and brown hair forming natural curls close round her face.” Although her niece, Anna Lefroy, claimed it was an unrealistic depiction, going so far as to call it “hideously unlike” her aunt, most scholars agree that the picture is accurate.

We stared reverently at it for several minutes and then rushed through the rest of the museum catching various highlights. We visited the portrait of King Richard III, the villainous ruler who supposedly imprisoned and killed his nephews in the dreaded Tower of London but whom Aunt Winnie and I think was actually framed by Henry VII. After that we headed over to see Holbein’s portrait of Henry VIII, Chandos’s portrait of William Shakespeare, and Patrick Brontë’s painting of his sisters Charlotte, Emily, and Anne. As for that last one, you didn’t need to be a student of the Brontës’ work to know they weren’t a cheerful bunch. That portrait alone makes it quite clear that a generous dose of antidepressants would have done that family wonders.

After the gallery, we walked through Trafalgar Square, taking pictures of ourselves by Nelson’s Column and the four lion statues that guard its base. Then we headed to Buckingham Palace to fight against three thousand other tourists to catch a glimpse of the famous guards. From there, we headed to Big Ben and Parliament, fought the crowds again to catch a glimpse of 10 Downing Street, and then took a taxi to Tower Bridge. Our last stop was Gracechurch Street, the home to Elizabeth Bennet’s Aunt and Uncle Gardiner.

I was close to being overcome with Anglophile fever, not to mention developing some new form of carpal tunnel syndrome from repeatedly snapping pictures.

However, it was getting late and we were both starting to fade, so we headed back to the hotel for tea. We had just crossed the lobby when a voice with a distinctive Midwestern twang called out, “Winnie! Winnie Reynolds! Is that you?”

I turned toward the voice and saw a tall, slim woman who appeared to be in her early sixties. She had frizzy brown hair, cut into an odd triangular bob, and a round smiling face. Aunt Winnie peered at her for a moment and then said, “Cora? Is that really you?”

Cora eagerly nodded and hurried over to us, her sensible shoes making nary a sound on the marble floor. “My goodness, you haven’t changed a bit!” Cora gushed to Aunt Winnie, once she was standing next to us.

“Nor have you,” Aunt Winnie replied with a smile. Indicating me, she added, “Cora, this is my great-niece, Elizabeth Parker. Elizabeth, this is Cora Beadle. I used to work with her late husband, Harold.”

I extended my hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Beadle.”

“And you as well, my dear,” she said, giving my hand a firm shake. “You know, I believe you’re about my daughter’s age! Her name is Elizabeth, as well, although everyone calls her Izzy.” Indicating a young woman now striding our way, her black kitten heels making rhythmic taps as she strode across the marble floor, Cora smiled brightly. “Why, here she is now!”

I turned and saw a woman who did appear to be in her late twenties. However, she was a good two inches taller than my five foot seven and a good ten pounds thinner than my weight of 125. Her hair was flaxen and cut in one of those super-short cuts that look good on only one percent of the population. She was a member of that one percent. The one time I cut my hair that short, people assumed I’d fallen ill. I now wear it shoulder length. Half the time it looks like I’ve just been caught in an unexpected windstorm, but it’s better than having your coworkers take up a collection for you.

“She’s a lovely girl, if I do say so myself,” Cora gushed to me in one of those artificial whispers that can be heard clear across a room. “Of course, she doesn’t look a thing like me, so it’s not like I’m bragging. I’m sure you two will get along wonderfully!”

Several male heads turned in admiration as the fair Izzy not so much walked but glided to where we stood. I had a twinge of doubt about the accuracy of that statement. Women like Izzy always made me feel like Mary Bennet must have felt as the only plain sister among so many pretty ones.

“Hello, Mama,” said Izzy when she finally got to us. “Are you ready for tea?”

“Yes, dear,” replied Cora, “but first I’d like to introduce you to an old friend of mine, Winifred Reynolds, and her great-niece, Elizabeth Parker.”

Izzy turned and smiled at us both. Even her teeth were perfect. “It’s very nice to meet you both. Are you joining us for tea?” she asked politely.

Cora turned to us, her expression hopeful. “Oh, yes!” she exclaimed. “That’s a wonderful idea. Can you join us?”

Aunt Winnie paused only a split second before saying, “Absolutely. We actually have reservations ourselves. We’ll just push together.”

We headed to the area just off the foyer, which was set up for afternoon tea. The staff immediately accommodated our request to be seated together. While I glanced in happy contentment at the elegant green-and-white–striped plates, each topped with such goodies as scones with clotted cream and cucumber sandwiches, Cora said, “Well, what brings you to London, Winifred? Holiday or business?”

“Holiday. We’re going to the Jane Austen Festival in Bath.”

Cora’s round face lit up with joy upon hearing this. “Really? Why, what a coincidence! That’s where we are heading!”

“Really?” replied Aunt Winnie. “I didn’t know you were a Jane Austen fan.”

Cora scoffed. “Fan! My dear Winifred, I am the president of our local chapter! And Izzy here is the secretary!” she added proudly.

Izzy turned to me, equally eager. “Are you a Janeite, as well?” she asked.

“I am—” I had just got out, when Izzy clutched my hand in excitement.

“Oh, I just knew when I saw you that you and I would be the best of friends,” she gushed. “Tell me, which of the novels is your favorite?”

“I guess I’d have to say
Pride and Prejudice,
” I said, “but—” Izzy’s loud squeal of happiness stopped me. It also caused several heads to turn our way. This time minus the male admiration.

“But that’s
my
favorite, too!” she announced with a small gasp, as if finding someone who professed that
Pride and Prejudice
was her favorite Jane Austen book was somehow an anomaly. “Oh, I just love Mr. Darcy. I broke up with so many men over the years because they just couldn’t compete with Mr. Darcy.”

I smiled. “He did raise the bar rather high,” I admitted.

“But now you finally have your own Mr. Darcy,” Cora said to Izzy. Turning to me with obvious satisfaction, she said, “Izzy recently got engaged to the most wonderful man. Allen Tucker. He is a real-life Darcy. He’s on his way to becoming a top realtor in New York. They make the perfect pair; they both go after what they want.”

Refusing to dwell on the rather incongruous image of Darcy as a hustling New York realtor, I offered my congratulations as Izzy stuck out her left hand for us to admire her ring.

“So tell me more about you,” Izzy said to me after we finished oohing and ahhing over the large diamond. “What do you do for a living?”

“Well, you might say I’m unaffiliated right now.” I explained that until recently I was an editor for a small newspaper, but when my boss decided to blame the failure of his pet project on the untimely death of my relative and hold me accountable, I’d quit. “I guess you could say that I realized that I could no longer be intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable,” I added with a laugh.

Izzy regarded me wide-eyed. “So you just quit? Wow. What are you going to do now?”

Before I could answer, Aunt Winnie chimed in. “I’m trying to convince her to open up a detective agency, as she seems to have a knack for catching criminals.”