Death at Bishop's Keep (26 page)

Aunt Sabrina turned around again. “Now please allow me to be alone,” she said. “I have a great deal to consider.” Her shoulders slumped and her voice dropped, so that Kate almost did not hear her next words. “I fear that my future has been greatly altered—and not just mine, but that of persons for whom I care.”

The distance between them was only a few steps. Kate ached to cross it and put her arms around her aunt. But she could not. Whatever was troubling Aunt Sabrina was something she had decided to bear alone. With a murmured “Sleep well” she left. She had the disquieting sense that she was closing the door on a tragedy.

Back in her room, Kate considered whether she should go to bed. But if she did, she would only lie restlessly awake. So she gathered up her papers and went downstairs to the library, where she lighted the oil lamp beside the shrouded Remington. It was after eight o'clock and the old house was silent, the servants in their quarters, Aunt Jaggers in her west wing suite, Aunt Sabrina in her room. It was a good time to type the chapter she had just completed, and to revise and expand it as she went.

Caught up in her work, Kate spent far more time than she had expected. According to the loudly ticking grandfather clock in the corner, it was close to eleven when she finished the last page to her satisfaction. She poked up the dying fire, added coal, and sat beside it in the tall wing chair to read what she had written. Then, seeing that the lamp was about to run out of oil, she turned it out and sat for a few minutes longer in the dark, watching the last flickers of the fire, letting her mind go to the questions that seemed most central to her life at Bishop's Keep.

What was the source of the enmity between Aunt Sabrina and Aunt Jaggers? But, of course, that was an unanswerable question, for it was impossible to know what secrets were buried in the intimacies of sisters. The complex tapestry of the present was woven out of threads of the past, of old loves, old hates, old sins, even old slights. The thing that seemed most trivial, most innocent in intention, was often most deeply felt and long remembered.

But the question still remained, as tantalizing as a book in some foreign tongue. What ancient silence did Aunt Jaggers threaten to break? What secret did she know that Aunt Sabrina feared to have revealed—so greatly feared that she allowed Aunt Jaggers to violate moral principles that she held dear? How did this matter concern the vicar, who seemed like an entirely pleasant and harmless old man? And how did Aunt Sabrina intend—if that was her intention—to break her sister's hold over her? Kate shifted in the wing chair, drawing her stockinged feet up under her. And what had happened during the afternoon and evening to bring Aunt Sabrina home looking like death warmed over?

Kate pondered the question for a long time, while the fire burned down and the room grew colder. They were questions like those she often created in her story-making, but they had a real-life urgency that she never experienced in her writing. And they were unanswerable precisely because she did not have control over what real people did or thought or believed, as she did over the characters in her novels. It was easy enough for her hero to solve the crime that she put before him, complete with clues that invited his deduction. Not so easy for her to understand the intricacies of a plot she had not contrived, or the hearts of people whose secrets were hidden from her, and perhaps even from themselves.

Kate stirred. She was just concluding that there was nothing to be gained from sitting in the dark, mulling over questions that had no answers, when she heard the noise. It was only a tiny click, and she might not have heard it at all if her ears had not been attuned to utter silence. She twisted around in the chair, startled. Behind her, in the dimness, she saw one of the French doors begin to swing open. Someone was entering the library!

Quick as thought, Kate reached for the poker. With a wild yell, she leaped out of the chair, brandishing the poker, and dashed for the door. On the dark terrace outside, she heard the scramble of feet, a clatter, and a muffled oath as the intruder knocked over a flowerpot, and the sound of running footsteps on gravel. A moment later, there was the thud of a horse's hooves galloping down the lane. The intruder had made good his escape.

“Wha's happ‘nin'?” came a sleepy voice from the direction of the servants' wing. A casement window flew open and Mudd, in his nightshirt, put out his head. “What's goin' on out there?” he demanded. “What's all th' noise?”

Kate stood in the doorway, shoeless, the poker still in her hand. Now that the danger was over, she could feel herself shaking. “A thief tried to break in, Mr. Mudd,” she replied, trying to steady her voice. Mudd's head disappeared.

Kate went back into the library and, with shaking hands, lighted a candle at a dying coal on the hearth. She stepped out onto the terrace again, sheltering its flame with her hand. There was nothing, of course. The intruder had gotten completely away.

Then her eye fell on something lying on the clipped grass, beside the tumbled flowerpot. She picked it up and turned it in her hands.

The intruder might have escaped, but he had left his brown felt hat behind.

“Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie.”

—RUDYARD KIPLING “A Smugglers's Song”

 

 

 

K
ate was outside early the next morning. The rain had stopped well before dawn and the morning was a cheerful one, mild and bright, promising a fine day. With Aunt Sabrina and Mudd, Kate made a tour of the shrubbery, trying to identify the intruder's route of escape. But if he had left footprints or his horse any hoofprints, they had been obscured by the heavy rain that fell shortly after midnight. Mudd sent Pocket to notify the constable about the attempted break-in, and Kate and Aunt Sabrina returned to the library.

“So the only clue to the intruder's identity is the brown felt hat,” Kate said, turning it over in her hands.

“Hardly a clue, I should think,” Aunt Sabrina said. “It looks as if it came out of a dustbin.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Kate said slowly. She would have to tell Aunt Sabrina about the man who had visited the kitchen the day before. Jenny Blyly's young man, Tom Potter. He must have been the intruder, and he was clearly up to no good. And there was the matter of the altercation between Aunt Jaggers and Mrs. Pratt. Aunt Sabrina would have to know about that, as well.

But perhaps not at this very moment. Aunt Sabrina did not look well. Her eyes were smudged, her voice strained. Her costume this morning was a navy blue dress fitted far more conservatively than her usual loose gowns, and she wore a gold watch clipped to a brooch on her lapel. Her gray hair was arranged in a tidy knot at the back of her neck. Her appearance was more severe than it had been since Kate's arrival, and her mouth was set, as if she had come to some conclusion that she did not relish.

“Tramping about the shrubbery so early has made me rather hungry,” Aunt Sabrina said. “Shall we have some breakfast?” She paused a moment, and then added, as if in afterthought, “We shall not be working this morning, Kathryn.”

Kate looked at her aunt in surprise. “No?”

“No.” Aunt Sabrina's tone was flat. “I have determined to set the history aside for the moment. When I am ready to resume work, I shall tell you.”

“But I have already begun to translate Fräulein Sprengel's letters,” Kate objected gently. She frowned, remembering the questions and reservations about the letters that had arisen in her mind the afternoon before. But that seemed so long ago, and of much less consequence than the events that had occurred since. There was really no point in mentioning her concerns, especially if they were not going forward with the history.

Aunt Sabrina's face had darkened. “Ah, yes, the letters. Please collect them for me, and the cipher document and its transcription, and any copies you may have made of either.” Aunt Sabrina's voice was firm and authoritative, and her manner invited neither remark nor rebuttal.

“Yes, Aunt,” Kate said obediently, and began to gather the documents into a neat stack. She handed it to Aunt Sabrina.

“Is this all?”

“Yes, Aunt.”

Aunt Sabrina took them. “Thank you,” she said. “Please follow me.” Without a word, she went from the room, with Kate a half step behind, wondering at the determined set of the other woman's shoulders. What had happened during Aunt Sabrina's absence yesterday to change her so decidedly? Where had she gone? Whom had she seen? What had she learned?

In her bedroom, Aunt Sabrina took a framed oil from the wall. Where the painting had hung was a small safe, which Aunt Sabrina opened with a key she took from the top drawer of a delicate Queen Anne desk.

“The documents are to remain here until they are asked for by the vicar,” Aunt Sabrina said. She put them into the safe, and secured it with the key. She looked directly at Kate. “Were I to answer your questions about the letters, my dear, I would have to lie.” She turned away with a firmness that absolutely concluded the matter.

But there was something else Kate needed to say, and she could not delay any longer. She cleared her throat. “Aunt Sabrina,” she said, “something happened in the kitchen yesterday evening that I feel you should know about.”

Aunt Sabrina replaced the painting on the wall. “Do not tell me,” she said gravely, “that my sister has been at the servants again.”

“I am afraid so,” Kate said.

Aunt Sabrina was resigned. “What happened?”

“Aunt Jaggers struck Harriet. Mrs. Pratt came to her defense and dumped a half bucket of water on Aunt Jaggers.” Kate hesitated, and then added, “Aunt Jaggers fired her.”

Aunt Sabrina's mouth tightened. “Bernice discharged Cook!” she exclaimed in surprise. “What
can
she have been thinking of!”

Kate smiled a little. “I don't believe she was thinking at all. Perhaps by now she has cooled. At any rate, Mrs. Pratt stood her ground. She is awaiting your decision about her future employment.”

“I will speak to Cook,” Aunt Sabrina said with taut anger. There were spots of color high on her cheeks, and her nostrils were flared. “And then to Bernice. If I had not already decided to put an end to her threats and petty cruelties, this would be the last straw.”

Kate stared, surprised at her aunt's anger. If she were reacting to her sister's treatment of Harriet and Cook, surely her response was exaggerated. But Kate already suspected that there was something else between them, some bitter secret Aunt Jaggers had been holding over Aunt Sabrina like a dagger. It looked as if Aunt Sabrina had decided to take matters into her own hands. What was she going to do? Was she willing to risk the disclosure of the secret information that Aunt Jaggers seemed to hold?

Aunt Sabrina turned. “I find I have lost my appetite for breakfast,” she said, “but I wish to speak with the servants. Would you mind, Kathryn, accompanying me belowstairs?”

“Of course not,” Kate said. “There is something else, though.” She hesitated, wondering whether she should tell Aunt Sabrina about Tom Potter. But perhaps it would be well to speak with Mrs. Pratt first. She made up her mind. “There is something else, though,” she repeated. “It's a small thing, but I'm afraid it must be dealt with this morning. During my visit to Marsden Manor on the day before yesterday, I invited the Marsdens—Eleanor, Patsy, and Bradford—and Sir Charles to luncheon here today. I meant to speak to you about it yesterday, but an occasion did not present itself. Today does not seem the best time for a social call. When Pocket returns from the village, may I send him with a note, postponing the luncheon?”

“No.” Aunt Sabrina's voice was firm. “I am glad that you have invited your friends. Come. We will do our business with the servants, and then speak to Cook about the luncheon. She is a competent cook, but a plain cook, and she will need our assistance with the menu.”

“We never knows wot's hidden in each other's hearts; and if we had glass winders there, we'd need keep the shutters up, some on us, I do assure you!”

—CHARLES DICKENS Martin Chuzzlewit

 

 

 

M
rs. Pratt was presiding over the last moments of the staff breakfast when Miss Ardleigh and the young miss came into the servants' hall. Seeing them, she stood up. The rest of the servants hastily followed suit, pushing back their chairs, their faces carefully bland, only their eyes registering surprise. Miss Ardleigh had never appeared in the servants' hall in their time there, and even Mrs. Pratt had difficulty recalling when she had last been belowstairs. Certainly not since the advent of Jaggers.

Mudd spoke. “If ye've come about the constable, mum, Pocket's already bin and back agin.”

“I have not, but thank you, Mudd,” Miss Ardleigh said. Mrs. Pratt saw her glance at the plates of toast and egg and bit of boiled, streaky bacon. Harriet and Nettie were particularly partial to the bacon, which they did not often have. It was Mrs. Pratt's effort to make poor amends for Jagger's ill-treatment. “Have we interrupted your meal?”

“No, mum,” Mrs. Pratt lied. She held her face emotionless, but inside she was angrily resentful. Couldn't they even sit down to a meal—plain and parsimonious as it was—without being intruded upon? A lengthy interruption would mean cold food and poor spirits for the rest of the morning. The work was hard enough without that. “D'ye wish to speak to—”

“To all of you, actually,” Miss Ardleigh replied evenly. “I have come to apologize, both on my own behalf and that of my sister.”

Apologize?
Mrs. Pratt stared. Mudd was stunned into speechlessness. Amelia and Pocket were gaping like codfish and Harriet made a small sound, almost a whimper. Nettie wrung her hands. Clearly, it was up to Mrs. Pratt to reply.