There Must Be Murder (11 page)

He knocked on the door of the ground floor
apartment that the landlady occupied. “Ma’am,” he said as soon as
the door opened, “is Mrs. Tilney here, by any chance?”

“No, sir,” said the landlady. “I have not seen
her since you returned from your walk.”

MacGuffin went to the door, pawed it gently, and
let out a little groan.

“Hush, lad,” said Henry. MacGuffin sat down, his
nose pressed against the crack between the door and the jamb.

Matthew came through the door that led to the
stairs from the kitchens at that moment. Henry handed him the
letter. “Do you know what this could be about?”

Matthew read the note quickly and shook his
head. “No, sir; I do not recognize the handwriting.”

MacGuffin pawed at the door again, whimpering.
Matthew snapped his fingers, and the dog looked around alertly, but
did not move away from the door.

“When I came upstairs, the front door stood
ajar,” said Henry quietly. “I believe Mrs. Tilney has gone out to
meet whomever wrote this note. She has such faith in the essential
goodness of man—perhaps too much. I want you to—”

His words were cut off by MacGuffin, who stood
and barked at the door repeatedly. When they looked at him, he
wagged his tail and whined, pushing his nose against the door.

Matthew and Henry exchanged a look.

“Get his lead,” said Henry, and Matthew returned
with not only the lead but also a lantern and two loaded pistols.
He handed one of the pistols to Henry, who raised his eyebrows.

“I hope we will not find them needful, sir,”
said Matthew, “but in my experience it is best to be prepared for
all eventualities.”

“Yes, of course,” said Henry. He thrust the
pistol in his pocket, slipped the lead over MacGuffin’s head,
opened the door, and said in an urgent voice, “Find her, Mac. Find
Catherine.” MacGuffin pulled him out into the fog, with Matthew
following close behind.

***

The cry died in Catherine’s throat; she dropped
her hand and peered at the face before her. “You—I know you,” she
said.

The man grinned, revealing several missing front
teeth, and nodded vigorously. “How d’ye do, miss,” he said.
“Mistress is wishful to talk with ye. Bring miss, she said, so I be
bringin’ ye, see?”

“You are Mrs. Findlay’s man,” said
Catherine.

“Aye, aye,” he said, grinning and nodding.

“She wants to talk to me? Why did she not simply
send up her card? I would have been happy to see her.”

The elderly servant placed a finger over his
lips. “Shh,” he said, looking around and then leaning close to her.
“’Tis a secret, miss. You come with Barney now, miss.” He turned
and pulled her behind him, around a corner to one of the little
streets that extended off Pulteney-street. Catherine let him; he
seemed harmless enough, though quite odd.

Barney brought her to a chaise stopped by the
pavement. He rapped on the door, which opened. “You go in, miss,”
he said.

Catherine was a great deal too well-read to
climb into an unknown carriage so trustingly. “Mrs. Findlay?” she
called. “Are you in there, ma’am?”

“Hush, you silly girl,” said Mrs. Findlay,
leaning out of the chaise. “All of Bath can hear you. I know things
that in the wrong hands could—well, get in.”

Reassured, Catherine climbed into the chaise,
and Barney shut the door behind her.

The little moonlight that penetrated the fog
cast harsh shadows across Mrs. Findlay’s face, giving her a
mysterious appearance. Catherine swallowed. “You—you said in your
note that you had news of—of—”

“My brother’s murderer. Yes.” She leaned
forward. “I have a warning for you.”

Catherine held her breath.

“I saw you with my nephew at the theatre,” she
said. “He is like his father, a wastrel and a libertine. I know we
live in a degenerate age, when young women no longer cleave to
their husbands—”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” cried Catherine eagerly, “you
are mistaken! Sir Philip and I are not—that is—Henry is my
husband
.”

“Oh, yes, I know how it is with young people
these days.” She wagged a finger accusingly. “But it is none of my
concern. You just should know that when Philip wants to be rid of
you, he might do the same thing he did to my poor brother.”

“Ma’am, are you suggesting that Sir Philip
killed Sir Arthur?”

“Suggesting? I know it, ma’am.”

“But why would he do such a thing?”

“My brother was about to disinherit him.”

“Sir Arthur told you so?”

“My brother did not need to tell me! He knew
that I knew what must be done to preserve the good name of the
Beauclerks.” She leaned forward and spoke in a confidential tone.
“You know the provisions of my brother’s will; your husband’s man
got it from that silly maidservant.” Catherine’s face must have
registered her surprise, for she said with smug satisfaction, “I
have my spies in that house, too. Very clever of your husband to
introduce the young man; I knew then that you would be the very
person with whom I should share my theory, should—” she held her
handkerchief to her mouth for a moment— “should anything happen to
me.”

“But, ma’am, with respect—is it not possible
that Sir Arthur had no intention of disinheriting his nephew?
Especially since the provisions of his will ensured that his money
would stay in his immediate family.”

“My brother was a good man, a moral man, Mrs.
Tilney, but he had one weakness: his wife. He countenanced her
extravangances, and let her teach her worldly ways to his daughter.
The right thing would have been to disinherit Philip after he
disgraced the family at Brighton, but instead Arthur provided for
his daughter so she should no longer be a spinster on the shelf, an
embarrassment to her family. And a good thing too, for what might
she have got up to with that apothecary of hers?”

“I do not think that Miss Beauclerk has any
intention of marrying Mr. Shaw.”

“Marry him? Oh, no! But where do you think
Philip got the poison that he used to murder my brother?”

“Sir Philip poisoned his uncle?”

“Yes, ma’am; with the connivance of my sister
and my niece.” Her face took on a dreamy expression. “A slow poison
was administered, and he fell a victim to the jealousy and subtlety
of—of a woman.”

Mrs. Findlay’s words struck a chord with
Catherine. Where had she heard them before? But she had no time to
think of it. Confused and doubtful, she tried to imagine the
vivacious, fluttering Miss Beauclerk convincing her lover to give
her sufficient poison to murder her own father; certainly, Mr. Shaw
had provided her with arsenic; but then, gleaming like the light
thrown from a welcoming doorway on a moonless night, she found a
flaw in Mrs. Findlay’s theory. “But ma’am, Miss Beauclerk has
received poison from the apothecary quite recently. He brought it
to the theatre last night. I overheard them speaking.”

Mrs. Findlay’s eyes gleamed. “I knew it! My
sister-in-law will soon learn the wages of sin when her own
daughter turns on her! She will be next to die, and then my niece
and nephew will be free to take my brother’s money and do what they
like!”

“Ma’am, you go too far!”

“Do I, Mrs. Tilney?” She grew dreamy again. “The
moment of Lady Beauclerk’s triumph, the moment to which she looked
forward for the completion of all her wishes, will prove only the
commencement of suffering, that never will leave her to her dying
hour.”

“Laurentini!” cried Catherine. “‘The moment of
Laurentini’s triumph’! I remember now where I have heard this
before—Mrs. Findlay, you read Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels!”

“Novels? I never read novels, ma’am.”

“You must—you do! That is from
Udolpho
!
‘A slow poison was administered, and she fell a victim to the
jealousy and subtlety of Laurentini.
’ Ma’am, you have been
reading horrid novels, and imagining plots where there are none!”
Catherine’s face grew warm even in the dark cold of the chaise,
remembering a time when she had done the same thing.

“I, imagine? I imagine nothing.”

Suddenly, there was a scratching noise at the
door of the chaise, and they both jumped a little. Raised voices
could be heard outside. “It is they!” cried Mrs. Findlay. “They
have sent brigands to apprehend me! Oh, where is that wretched
Barney?” She raised the blind; something like a masked face was
pressed hazily against the glass, and a loud knocking sounded. Mrs.
Findlay screamed and swooned, very much like one of Mrs.
Radcliffe’s heroines, a comparison that no doubt would have given
her great pleasure.

“Mac!” cried Catherine joyously, recognizing the
countenance of her Newfoundland pressed against the glass and
smearing it with his saliva. “Ma’am, it is my dog—please rouse
yourself!” She opened the chaise door. “Henry, is that you? I need
assistance—where is Barney?”

Henry’s face appeared in the doorway. “Is that
you, Cat? Are you well?”

“I am very well, but Mrs. Findlay has fainted,
and I have not my reticule or salts.”

Mrs. Findlay uttered a little moan.

“Well, she seems to be coming round,” said
Henry, “and I would take you home—you’ve no coat, and it’s quite
cold and damp. Come along, and let—Barney, is it?—take care of his
mistress.”

“Aye, miss,” said Barney, “I take care of the
mistress now. Ye go home, miss.”

Catherine climbed down eagerly and let Barney
climb in. She hesitated at the open chaise door. “Can you look
after her, Barney?”

“Aye, miss, I will rouse her, and then take her
home. Go and have your tea, miss.”

Henry put up the steps and shut the chaise door,
and they set out along the pavement, MacGuffin and Matthew leading
the way with the lantern and Henry and Catherine further back.

“Are you warm enough?” said Henry.

“Yes, I have my shawl. Where are we?”

“Just around the corner from our lodgings. You
did not get far on your little adventure, and Mac took us right to
you. An unsigned note, Cat! I can see why you were tempted to meet
with the sender, but I wish another time you would tell me
first.”

“I did not intend to meet anyone. I only wanted
to see who had sent the note, and Barney pulled me down the
pavement to his mistress’ carriage before I knew what I was about.
He is a very odd sort of servant. I am sorry if I worried you,
Henry.”

His arm around her tightened. “Only for a few
moments. I take it Mrs. Findlay wanted a private audience? Would
she not send up her card?”

“She wanted to be secret. She thinks they are
plotting against her—oh, Henry! She thinks that Lady Beauclerk,
Miss Beauclerk, and Sir Philip conspired to poison Sir Arthur!”

“Indeed?”

“But it is all from horrid novels. She reads
Mrs. Radcliffe, and imposed Signora Laurentini’s plot against the
Marchioness of Villeroi onto her brother’s situation.” Henry made a
noise like a cough, and Catherine looked at him suspiciously. “You
should not laugh. It is very wicked to make such accusations upon
no evidence. And to think I almost believed her!” She was silent
for a moment. “My own imaginings last year were just as
wicked.”

“It was not quite the same thing, Cat. As you
said, you made no public accusations, and you never truly believed
Mrs. Findlay.”

“My thoughts were bad enough.”

They had reached the lodgings, and Matthew
opened the door. “I will have your dinner sent right up, sir,
ma’am,” he said, and disappeared into the back of the house with
MacGuffin.

Henry and Catherine ascended the stairs to their
rooms, and Catherine immediately went shivering to the fire.

“You
were
cold,” said Henry. He brought
her shawl and wrapped her in it warmly, then put his arms around
her and kissed her on the top of the head. “Better, my sweet?”

“Yes.” She leaned her head against his shoulder.
“What is this?” Her hands found the pistol in his coat pocket.

Henry removed the pistol and placed it on the
table. “Matthew is a cautious sort of fellow. He gave me this
before we set out to look for you.”

Catherine bowed her head and huddled into her
shawl. “It was very stupid of me to go looking for the person who
wrote that note; it could have been anyone! When will I learn to
think things through? Mamma is right; I am a sad, shatterbrained
simpleton.”

He went to her and again took her in his arms.
“I do not believe Mrs. Morland ever called you a simpleton. You
have good sense, Cat, and a good heart. You would not think anyone
would try to harm you, because you would not harm another person
with malice aforethought. You think the best of everyone, and I
would not have you lose that quality. It was the first thing I
truly loved about you.” He lifted her chin and kissed her.

Catherine was quiet for a moment, wrapped in
warmth and happiness. Finally she said, “Although the accusations
of murder have been proven wrong, Henry, I think I should not like
to have much more to do with the Beauclerks.”