Midnight in Austenland (15 page)

Mr. Mallery was humming some tune under his breath.

“You seem content this evening,” Charlotte said.

“You know, I think I am.”

“You thrive out here where ghosts wander?”

“That is an intriguing place to inhabit.” He placed his hand atop hers, where it rested on his arm. His hand was cold. “Or perhaps I am just content to be with you.”

She sighed. And decided it was okay to let her heart flit and flutter around, and for her breath to get caught in her chest like the ghost's flowing headdress on a shrub. It was okay to fall in love inside books and stories, and where was she if not inside a story? And wasn't this why she'd come, after all? She felt certain she would be able to withdraw herself intact when the time came. She felt certain she was not in too much danger.

Home, the previous two years

About a year before the divorce, James remarked to Charlotte that they ought to put their various bank accounts, investments, and Charlotte's business in both of their names.

“For tax reasons,” he said.

“Really? Since we file jointly, I didn't think that would make a difference.”

James frowned. “It's almost as if you don't trust me. It's almost as if you are trying to keep separate from me.”

The next day, Charlotte added his name to everything of hers—except the business. That turned out to be a little more complicated, and so she put it off until after her Web site redesign. But by then James had revealed the affair and asked for a divorce. There would be no alimony—Charlotte was the real breadwinner, and James's infidelity prevented his asking for payments. Despite her lawyer's advice, Charlotte didn't want to make a fuss and agreed to a fifty-fifty split of their joint assets. Which now included her bank accounts and investments. Everything but her business.

Despite the financial severing, over the next few months her income boomed. The harder she worked, the easier it became not to feel.

Austenland, days 10–11

The next morning, Charlotte dragged Miss Gardenside and Miss Charming to the second floor.

The night before in the garden, the colonel had told them, “Dear ladies, there is still a clue on the second floor. And, I mean to say, in the corridor. No need to open doors and disturb the maids in their chambers.”

But what about the secret room? Charlotte thought. She was sure Colonel Andrews would bring that back into the story at some point and she would finally understand what she'd seen the night of Bloody Murder, but apparently it was not time yet.

“I need fresh eyes, ladies,” said Charlotte. “What are we missing?”

Miss Charming hunched over, examining the carpet.

“It is quite bare, is it not?” said Miss Gardenside. “Nothing in the corridor but that table, vase, and the painting of Saint Francis.”

Charlotte whirled around. “Did you say ‘Saint Francis'?”

“Yes, that painting there. It depicts the story of Saint Francis speaking to the wolf.”

“ ‘Francis' as in
Mary
Francis?” Charlotte said.

“Oh, I see!” Miss Gardenside clapped her hands. “We discovered the clue! But what does it mean?”

Charlotte took the painting off the wall. The back was covered in brown paper, stapled all around, but something shifted inside.

“Tear it open,” Miss Gardenside said.

Charlotte hesitated. Mrs. Wattlesbrook would not be pleased if she tore the backing off a priceless work of art.

“Go ahead,” said Miss Charming. “It's not real.”

“How can you tell?”

“I'm really good at spotting fakes.” She gave her chest a gentle shake. “It's a genetic gift. I grew 'em real—and how—and as a bonus, I'm gifted with a radar for detecting frauds of any kind.”

As much as Charlotte wanted to believe that Miss Charming's abnormally large authentic bosoms granted her a superpowered ability to detect fake paintings, it seemed just a tad far-fetched.

Miss Charming turned the painting over. “See the even texture? This was one of those spray-on jobs, mass-produced duplicates. Not even a good one. Tear it up, darlin'.”

Charlotte ripped open a corner of the brown paper. Out slid a parchment, folded in thirds.

They opened it up breathlessly. The page was blank.

“Is this a joke?” Charlotte asked.

“Naw, it's just Andrews,” Miss Charming said with a fond smile. “He loves prolonging the climax.”

She examined the paper at arm's length, squinting, then ran downstairs. “Come on!”

Miss Gardenside and Charlotte followed.

They stood on the front steps, holding the paper up to the sun. Charlotte thought she could detect faint markings.

“Lemon juice!” she said. “My son used lemon juice as ink for a school science project once. We need heat.”

They hurried back inside, giggling and jostling and generally resembling a flock of busy geese. One lit candle later, they held the paper close to the flame and watched as marks painted in lemon juice darkened to brown.

Among dusty tomes stands

The work of the saint

And one girl's confessions

Penned without constraint

“Another clue. He does play with one,” Miss Gardenside said.

Miss Charming laughed. “Oh, you don't know the half.”

Charlotte led the women to the library. On the shelves of nonfiction was
Francis of Assisi: Patron Saint of Animals
.

Miss Gardenside and Miss Charming gathered in as she flipped through the pages. The end papers were covered in handwriting, made with the unmistakable strokes of a quill pen.

“I, Mary Francis, write this in my own hand—” Charlotte began to read.

“Aah!” all three screamed.

“We found it!” Charlotte yelled, as they ran back through the house. “We found it, we found it!”

Eddie, Mr. Mallery, and Colonel Andrews came from separate directions, converging in the front hall. Miss Charming was hopping up and down, her bosom nearly rising to slap her own forehead.

“We found the clue, Colonel Andrews! We found Mary's own words!”

Colonel Andrews clasped his hands together, his face aglow. Charlotte was so elated by his happiness that she wanted to squeeze his cheeks. His face cheeks, that is. Not that he didn't look great in breeches, but she didn't dwell on it.

The group rushed into the morning room and gathered around Charlotte. She opened the book, then thinking that Miss Gardenside might enjoy it more than she, gave it over to the girl to read. Miss Gardenside smiled and cleared her throat.

I, Mary Francis, write this in my own hand. I have just heard tale of the passing of the good abbess and now my tongue is loosed to speak. God alone will judge the abbess, for I will not and would not speak of the matter while she lived. Truth is a sword, and though it be good, it cuts. I will not wound anyone if I can help it. I have seen enough death. My parents of the fever. My brother in the fields. And then at the abbey …

I know the villagers think I killed my sister nuns, and if they could have claimed how, they would have hanged me at the moment. God knows my hands are clean. And none else believe me but Greta, the good cook's helper at the big house. She did not like how the others treated me. She could see how tortured I was, how I could not sleep for the nightmares, how I paced my room at night to keep from screaming. She meant well, but I did not think it wise for her to pretend to be a Spirit of Vengeance, warning them away. Though she was clever, putting on the muslin and balancing on that butter board to appear to float, and the others did leave me alone after that. Still I fear the lie in the thing and asked Greta to stop.

Now I will write the truth of that night, and pray to God that he take me home soon so I can rest. For some time the abbess had been doing poorly. Her hands shook, and her thoughts often muddled. That night she made the tea for supper, and, wishing to brighten the sisters' spirits, made it extra sweet with honey. The exertion tired her, and she took to rest. Poor abbess. She was mother to me, the kindest woman, a saint. I feared for her health and so was fasting that night in earnest prayer that she be made well.

The sisters sat to eat. I, fasting, served them, pouring their tea after the meal.

When tea was drunk, we retired to the chapel for compline prayers. But before we could start, some of the sisters began to moan, clutching their bellies. One fell to the earth, then another. I ran around, frantic, trying to help, but their faces convulsed horribly. Some screamed. In minutes, all lay dead. In confusion, I feared the Devil and his army were attacking and I hid beneath a pew, praying to the Almighty most fervently. Soon the abbess came in and saw the death. She fainted and I carried her to bed.

There was naught to be done. I laid out the bodies of my sisters and covered them in blankets. Come morn, I would go to the village and fetch help to bury the dead. In the meantime, I cleaned up the dishes from the last supper, thinking it was the only service I could offer my poor sisters. When I emptied the tea cauldron, I discovered something strange. The abbess had not boiled the usual dried herbs we had grown from our garden. I thought at first she had boiled fresh pine needles, as we sometimes did in winter, but the smell was wrong. Then I realized—the abbess in her confusion had mistaken the yew hedge for the pine trees. I have seen yew kill a horse. My dear sisters drank yew tea, well-sweetened.

I am consoled that the abbess will never know, and I pray God pardon her, for her heart was pure.

Miss Gardenside shut the book and looked around. “Well, I would like Mary Francis pleading for me at the final judgment.”

“Amen,” said Eddie.

Charlotte was silent, imagining Mary pacing in her room each night, haunted by the faces of the dying sisters.

Then Colonel Andrews began to laugh. He rocked back and forth, holding his knees. “Well done! Well done indeed. I say, what a right splendid way to end it all. I hereby declare the mystery solved!”

Miss Charming and Miss Gardenside hurrahed and clapped.

“Solved?” said Charlotte. “But what about the rest?”

“What rest?” the Colonel asked.

She sat beside him, speaking low so the others didn't overhear. “The fake body on the second floor. Or was it just a hand? Was there more than the rubber glove? I already guessed it was supposed to be Mr. Wattlesbrook or Mrs. Hatchet.”

Colonel Andrews's eyes widened. In amazement, no doubt! He hadn't realized she'd gotten so far into the mystery on her own.

“They were the only main characters who disappeared,” she explained. “And mysteriously too. No one seems to have witnessed Mr. Wattlesbrook's departure, and Miss Gardenside said she dismissed her nurse herself. It was the last night of the storm, and I looked around the next day. That's when I found the tracks from Mr. Wattlesbrook's—”

Car
. She was about to say “car.” That was not a Regency word. That was an off-limits word.

Oh no. Oh dear. She'd gotten this so wrong. Colonel Andrews would never involve a car in his Regency mystery. He was a purist. What was she saying? This had nothing to do with Mary Francis.

“Never mind. I just … never mind. I was thinking about another story line.” She trailed off and joined the others, who were gathered around the tea trolley.

Eddie sniffed his cup. “Does this brew smell a bit yew-ish?”

That night, Charlotte lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. Sometimes instinct isn't fancy. Sometimes when you think you've touched a corpse's hand, you actually have, and sometimes when you suspect there's a murderer lurking in a big strange house, there really is, and you should figure out who it is before they come for you.

She tried to sleep, but the noise of her fears grated in her head, loud as a siren, and she might as well have been trying to sleep atop a wailing fire truck. She dozed when she could, just trying to make it till dawn. She didn't dare venture out in the dark.

What do you think will happen? asked her Inner Thoughts. The bogeyman will bite you?

Basically I'm afraid of murder most foul, Charlotte answered.

Duh, people are killed at noon just as often as midnight, her Inner Thoughts replied.

Not helpful, Charlotte thought forcefully.

Well past midnight and between bouts of unconsciousness, Charlotte began to wonder if the house itself was the real assassin. It groused and soughed as if it had a voice and something to say. Perhaps someone had crossed the house, and it had seized the threat in its gullet and consumed it entirely. Charlotte had discovered the victim's body mid-digestion, finding only a hand, and by morning the house had absorbed the rest.

“Nice house,” she said, patting the wall. “Good house. Charlotte is friend.”

It couldn't hurt.

As soon as paleness filtered the black of the sky, Charlotte slipped on a robe, creaked her door open, and tiptoed to the second-floor secret room. She didn't really believe that the house had killed someone and swallowed the body. Not now that it was morning, anyway.

Charlotte lifted the lid of the black Chinese vase again, just because it seemed like something that should hold a clue. But it was still empty. In the unfinished light of dawn, the stack of broken chairs did resemble a dragon, but that wasn't particularly helpful. Even in her sleepy half-madness, Charlotte didn't believe in dragons.

Charlotte sat on an abandoned settee, slumping in the absence of a corset. A body had lain right over there on the couch. She couldn't talk herself out of it anymore. No way had she mistaken a glove for a fleshy dead hand.

To keep calm, she tried to reason it out logically.

1. Murderer approached victim. Lured up to this room? With intent to kill? Not likely. Must have been an unplanned crime or else a stupid criminal. The top floor of an occupied house was not an ideal location for a murder.

2. Victim killed in secret room, and body abandoned on sofa. Until more convenient time? Murderer lay velvet coverlet partially over the body. Possible sign of regret? Also a disregard for the value of a velvet coverlet.

3. Charlotte found body in room. The hand was cold, but she didn't remember any stench, so most likely the body was fresh. (Ugh, what a horrible adjective to apply to a body, as if it were meat, which, she supposed, it kind of was.) Killed recently? Same week? Same day?

4. Charlotte announced find to gentlemen and two ladies, none of whom claimed to know of the secret room. And Mary the maid had come out of her room, learning of Charlotte's find as well. Other servants could have heard of it after that, possibly via Mary. But it'd been very late. Unlikely any servants but those on the second floor would have found out that night, and besides Mary, the others had probably been asleep.