Death at Bishop's Keep (6 page)

Mr. Marsden pursed his lips. “But my dear sister, I fear that five is too many, given your monstrous load of parcels.”

Kate disengaged her arm. “I can wait here,” she said hastily. “I can send word to Bishop's Keep to let them know I have arrived, and someone will be sent to fetch me. I shall not mind staying, truly.”

She would not, either. Beryl Bardwell would spend the time writing down everything she had seen on the clanking, steam-belching journey from London to Colchester and as much of Eleanor's chitchat as she could remember, as well as full descriptions of the elegant Bradford Marsden and Sir Charles Sheridan, he of the lumpy pockets. And she would give her thoughts to what adventures and great mysteries lay ahead at Bishop's Keep, which she imagined as an enormous stone pile of arches and towers, shrouded by a mysterious haze and haunted by ghosts of dead Ardleighs. Now that she was almost there, she had to admit to some anxiety. The sense of being alone in a strange place, so distant from the life she had known, the feeling of utter dependence on the goodwill of her unknown aunt—her
two
unknown aunts!—made her feel apprehensive. Apprehension was not an emotion Kate was used to. She didn't particularly like it.

“Actually, I prefer to stay behind,” Sir Charles said. “I shall return to the scene of the murder and see if anything new has been found out—although,” he added, as much to himself as to them, “judging from Sergeant Battle's muddled methods, I rather doubt it.”

Kate swiveled to look at Sir Charles. Eleanor squealed and clapped her hands.

“Murder!” she cried. “How delightfully shocking! Charles, you naughty man, what dreadful scrape have you gotten yourself into now? You must tell us all about it as we ride. There is nothing I love quite as much as a good murder, especially when one of our party is
involved
in it.” She possessed herself of Kate's arm once again. “And it is absolute balderdash to think of anyone's staying behind,” she added firmly. “We will hire a man with a cart to take Garnet and the boxes, whilst we enjoy a leisurely drive through the countryside. You should know, dear Kathryn, that the painter John Constable, who has memorialized our Dedham Vale in his landscapes, was Sir Charles's estimable great-uncle. Come now, everyone.”

Kate smiled. Clearly, problems were readily solved if one had the money to hire the solution. But even though she continued to smile as Eleanor led them toward the carriage, she was at the same time surveying Sir Charles with greater interest, wondering exactly what sort of murder he meant.

The carriage, with Kate's boxes roped at the rear, proceeded through the Essex countryside, resplendent in late-summer glories. Blackbirds sang in the hawthorn hedges, apples ripened in the orchards, and golden stubblefields were studded with standing sheaves of grain. But the sun was a flat silver disk, mist-shrouded, in a pearl-gray sky. As they rode, the air thickened into a damp, cool fog. Bradford Marsden seemed preoccupied, while Eleanor wheedled out of Sir Charles a full account of the dead body in the dig and Beryl Bardwell made careful mental note of every grisly detail that might enrich “Amber's Amulet.”

So far, her story was little more than character sketches of an Egyptian gentleman (greatly resembling the ship's steward in appearance and demeanor) and a mysterious medium named Mrs. Amber Bartlett, who wore an amulet and conducted seances in darkened rooms. It did not presently involve a murder, if only because Kate had not yet thought it all out, but the story would undoubtedly be the better for one. She made a note to herself to look for the newspaper accounts of the Colchester tragedy, and at Sir Charles's mention of the photographs he had taken that morning, she asked to see them.

“But my dear Kathryn,” Eleanor protested in a shocked voice, “they are photographs of a dead man. And not merely dead, but shockingly
murdered!
One presumes that there was a great deal of blood.” She shuddered with an eager delicacy. “The mere thought of it makes one quite faint.” Then she smiled and patted Kate's hand. “But I forget. You are an American and American women are reputed to be amazingly venturesome. You would not be daunted by a bit of blood, perhaps not even by the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud's.” She turned to Bradford. “Perhaps Miss Ardleigh would consent to your escorting us to Madame Tussaud's, dear brother. I understand that Cecil Hambrough's dreadful murderer has been newly installed, holding the very gun from which the fatal shot was fired.”

Having already heard of Madame Tussaud's famous waxworks and feeling that the jaunt would yield excellent story material, Kate instantly agreed to Eleanor's proposal. “It is not that I am particularly adventuresome,” she added. “It is simply that I am fascinated by all facets of life—even death.” She smiled at Sir Charles. “Hence my interest in your photographs.”

Bradford Marsden roused himself from his preoccupation. “Sheridan, old chap,” he said, “you are in luck. Someone actually wants to see those wretched snapshots of yours.” He turned morosely to Kate. “Take my advice and don't encourage the fellow, Miss Ardleigh. He will not only insist on showing you his photographs, but his fingerprints as well.”

“Fingerprints?” Kate asked, finding that her opinion of Sir Charles was in need of revision. “You know about fingerprints?”

Sir Charles held out his hand, palm up. “Indeed,” he said. “The skin of each finger exhibits a unique set of ridges. Each time the finger touches a surface, it deposits a print, rather like a stamp.”

“That much I know,” Kate said.

Sir Charles frowned. “You know?”

“I read
Pudd'nhead Wilson,”
Kate explained. “Mark Twain's novel, published last year in Century Magazine. The murderer is convicted when the detective shows an enlarged drawing of a fingerprint to the jury.”

“Astonishing,” Sir Charles murmured.

“Absurd,” Mr. Marsden said. “Shows how far novels are from the real world. Convicting a man on the flimsy print of a finger!”

“Nevertheless,” Kate said bravely, “at some time when you would care to explain more about fingerprints, Sir Charles, I would be interested in listening.” And she sat back, fearing that she had called too much attention to herself already, when attention was the last thing she wished. In order for Beryl Bardwell to conduct her clandestine observations, she must remain discreet and undiscovered behind the mask of Kathryn Ardleigh, docile, decorous secretary-companion. But how interesting to encounter a man (however arrogant he might be) who could teach her something more than she already knew about fingerprints—
and
to encounter a murder. Not just fictional murder, either, but murder most
real!

So, as Eleanor Marsden pointed out landmarks of interest along the way, Beryl Bardwell was devising a catalog of things she needed to discover. Who was the murdered man? From whence had he come? And, above all, who had done the deed and why? It was up to her to find answers, or, rather, to create them. When it came to thrillers, Beryl Bardwell was constrained neither by truth nor by fact.

The splendour falls on castle walls

—ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON The Princess

 

 

 

To Charles Sheridan's surprise, he found the drive to Bishop's Keep rather interesting. Marsden was sitting like a stick, busy with his thoughts. Eleanor was no less feather-witted than usual. But Miss Ardleigh—

Ah, yes, Miss Ardleigh. Charles occasionally amused himself by drawing conclusions about people's characters and personal histories from appearance and odd bits of conversation. It was not difficult to conclude, from the plain cut and plainer fabric of her costume, that Miss Ardleigh was a poor relation. The woman was not particularly young, and not particularly beautiful. She lacked either the interest, the skill, or the funds—perhaps chiefly interest, since most women managed to pretty themselves no matter what their funds—to devote much attention to her appearance. The undisciplined mass of auburn hair, for instance, bespoke both a lack of concern for elegance and an unruly will, while the second finger of the right hand bore inky tribute to her acquaintance with the pen. That, and her age, indicated a type: the American spinster abroad, greedily consuming every delight of the excursive experience, and writing volumes about it in the form of letters home.

But there seemed to be more to Miss Ardleigh than that, Charles acknowledged. The unruly hair was quite lovely and the forthright hazel eyes under straight dark brows unusually striking. She would photograph well. And more, she had intrigued him with her odd remark about Mark Twain's use of fingerprints. It had betrayed an unusual interest. What sort of woman read detective stories?

Three-quarters of an hour after leaving the station, the carriage with its four passengers turned off the road and onto a curving lane lined with mist-cloaked beeches. Miss Ardleigh seemed to be holding an excited expectation in stern check. “I suppose Bishop's Keep is very medieval,” she said in an offhand way, glancing across the fog-wreathed landscape.

“Medieval?” Eleanor asked in surprise. “Why, no. Why did you—Oh, of course. The
Keep.”

Charles suppressed a smile. Americans harbored endless misconceptions about England. All the fault of Byron and Wordsworth and those other soulful purveyors of the Romantic view. Caught up in a New World whirlwind of invention and innovation, Americans loved to take a holiday from progress to revel in the picturesque, the macabre, the mist. That's what came of having virtually no history of their own, and no castles. And very little fog, either.

“You have been reading thrillers,” Bradford remarked. “Towers and turrets and dead bodies in great chests, and bats in all the belfries.”

Charles was distracted from his reflections on the American temperament. “Ah, bats,” he said energetically. “D'you know, there is a bat in this locality that is quite a rare little fellow, a—”

Eleanor's laugh was a melodious tinkle. “I am sure Kathryn will have more exciting things to do than spy out bats for you, Charles.”

“Are you saying that Bishop's Keep is not really a castle?” Miss Ardleigh asked, clearly disappointed but trying not to seem so.

“There once was a castle,” Bradford said carelessly, “the country seat of some great churchman or another. But Cromwell pulled it down during the Civil War, and there is little left save the odd flint rubble wall. The present residence is less than seventy years old. Not as romantic as a castle, but a damned sight less drafty, I warrant.” A little of his flirtatious good humor seemed to be coming back, and he grinned. “If it's romance you're after, Miss Ardleigh, you must visit Marsden Manor. No ruin, but we have our own resident ghost.”

At the word “ghost,” Charles noticed, Miss Ardleigh leaned slightly forward, her face eager. She was no doubt impressed by Bradford's attention, as were most women. The brief sigh that escaped his lips as he turned away was largely unconscious.

Sir Charles could not know, of course, that Kate was far less impressed by Mr. Marsden's person and manner than by his last remark. “Is there truly a ghost?” she asked, trying to keep the hopeful note out of her voice.

“Truly,” Bradford said solemnly.

Eleanor patted her hand. “Do come and be introduced to him, Kathryn. Bradford will give you the life story of the wretched creature, and I shall show off my wedding dress.”

Kate smiled. “I certainly shall,” she said. “I don't imagine your ghost goes to weddings,” she said, hoping to prompt Mr. Marsden to say more.

The corners of Bradford's mouth twitched and his pale blue eyes were amused. “No, but he's quite civil, all the same. If you will do us the honor of staying over the night, we can put you in the chamber which he frequents. In search of his missing head.”

“His head!” Kate exclaimed. “You mean, he was
murdered?”

“Bradford!”
Eleanor protested.

“Ah,” Bradford said knowingly, and to Kate's disappointment, lapsed into silence. Eleanor launched into a lengthy description of the gown she planned to wear to the next ball, while Kate feigned interest. Eleanor's chatter seemed to plunge her brother further into gloom. Sir Charles sat quiet, thinking, perhaps, of his bats.

Kate was half listening to Eleanor and watching the mist-draped groves on either side of the road when the carriage turned a sharp bend, a meadow opened, and Bishop's Keep loomed through the silver fog. She suppressed a little “Oh!” and leaned forward eagerly.

But what Kate saw before her was not the splendor of castle walls that Beryl Bardwell had conjured up in her novelistic imagination. It was instead a large and rather dull-looking Georgian residence built of gray brick and decorated only by monotonous rows of tall windows capped with white-painted pediments. A pair of stone lions, more like sour toads than royal beasts, flanked the slate steps that led down to the drive. Kate's disappointment stuck in her throat like a bitter pill. Bishop's Keep, despite its romantic name, was only an ordinary house. No doubt the life she would lead there would be equally ordinary, conventionally routine, and boring.

Sir Charles glanced at her, the corners of his mouth amused. “Does Bishop's Keep meet your expectation?” he asked mildly.

Kate's lips thinned. The man had seen through her. How intolerable!

“In every detail,” she lied tartly. She gathered her skirts, accepted Bradford Marsden's hand, and alighted from the carriage.

The farewells took but a moment and, after a round of promises to exchange calls, Kate found her bags sitting beside one of the lions and herself standing on the lowest step, waving. The coachman's whip cracked, the Marsden carriage disappeared into the mist, and Kate turned reluctantly to face her fate. She stood looking for a moment, then stuck out her tongue at one of the lions and marched up the stairs and down the walk to the massive oak door. She lifted her hand to the brass knocker.