The Dead Queen's Garden (21 page)

She pressed her hands to her temples, trying to rub away the headache, trying to banish the suspicion from her mind. If I am right, she fretted; if my wild imaginings are cold, hard truth, what then? What do I propose to do with such knowledge? Her thoughts flew to the man who had so recently left the party. I cannot go to anyone in authority, Kit Knightley, for instance, as he is a Justice of the Peace, and say to him, I believe Verena Chant was murdered. Nor can I possibly say to him, yes she was murdered and this person, I believe, is the murderer. I have no proof, merely suspicions borne of glimpses of character,
comments referring to past events, circumstances that could mean it to be so.

She caught her breath; still less can I say that the reason I believe this to be true is because of a murder that a long ago Queen Eleanor of England is said to have committed.

She was still safely alone in Lady Granville’s room, had been there for fifteen minutes or more, but the thoughts jangled to and fro in her brain and gave her no rest, so she picked up her new paisley shawl and went quietly to the door.

I cannot go back to the Great Hall just yet, she told herself, it must be only too clear that I am disturbed and what explanation can I give? The passageway was empty for the moment so she wrapped herself warmly in the cashmere folds and made her way towards the outside door. It was the work of a moment to turn the handle and she slipped silently out to the gravelled walk, this time unchallenged.

Fresh air was what she craved, but the icy chill struck her at once and she shivered, clutching the shawl more closely to her throat, but as she faltered there, she saw that Lady Granville must have left the door to the garden ajar. She hesitated, glanced around, and saw nobody, so she pushed the heavy door and entered the mediaeval garden undeterred and unobserved. I need to think, she told herself as she set off at a brisk pace down the path at the side of the stream, wishing ruefully that she had worn stouter shoes; her glacé kid slippers were woefully inadequate for the task.

What
am
I to do?

Her anxiety made her careless and she frowned in dismay as she stumbled awkwardly off the path and onto the snow-covered earth. How fortunate, she thought briefly, that Lady Granville has had these fearsome-looking torches set high on the wall at either side of the entrance to the house. His lordship might laugh at his lady’s obsession with antiquity, but on a night like this, in spite of the brightly shining moon, Charlotte was only too glad of the flaring pitch. In the silent garden she could still hear the crackle and hiss of the flames and it gave her an illusion of safety, made her feel less entirely alone.

There were no torches at the far end of the garden but still
something attracted her attention in the moonlight. The snow had drifted in the hollow at the corner of the two adjoining walls where, in warmer weather, the little stream flowed through a stone arch; though today the splash of water was silent and frozen.

‘What on earth is that?’ Charlotte spoke aloud in the still air as she stared at something black just visible on the piled drift of snow. ‘It looks like…’ she gave a shocked gasp and regardless of her thin slippers, she scrambled across to take a closer look. It looked like the heel of a shoe. A shabby, black shoe, the kind of shoe worn by a woman of slender means. The kind of shoe, in fact, worn by….

‘Miss Cole? Oh no, no….’ Charlotte hardly dared breathe the name as she bent down and, with a sudden futile urgency, scraped away the snow to reveal a stout leg, attired in a black woollen stocking. And another, both protruding from under a sodden black dress.

Charlotte backed away in horror until she found herself on solid ground, her hand to her mouth. What did this mean? Her instinct, all her training from childhood, was always to run away from trouble. To run and run and keep on running, so that nobody could associate her with whatever had gone wrong. That was the way she had been brought up, but common sense prevailed and halted her urge to flee. This had nothing to do with her, she reflected, as her breathing settled to a more regular rhythm, and she began to feel calmer.

I must get help….

She summoned her distracted thoughts and turned back towards the garden door.

I need say nothing of my worries, my suspicions about that – other matter. All I need to do is tell the truth, that I found the door unlocked and felt like a last stroll round the garden by moonlight and – and found her. Because it
must
be an accident, mustn’t it?

As she hastened back to the house, Charlotte puzzled over this shocking discovery. Could it be that Miss Cole had not, after all, abandoned her mistress in so cavalier a fashion? It had snowed heavily yesterday afternoon, Charlotte recalled, so perhaps the poor woman simply strayed into the garden where she slipped and somehow died. Drowned in the stream perhaps?

But there was a note….

Charlotte stopped in her tracks. Miss Cole had left a note of explanation and farewell to her employer.

Hadn’t she?

A shocking thought came into her mind. Had Miss Cole, the woman who had been so conveniently on the spot on so many occasions – the death of the maid, Dunster; the wassail cup that might or might not have been tampered with; the bolting pony – had she in truth been responsible for all these occurrences? And could the note to Lady Granville have been a ruse? Could the woman, in fact, have slipped into the garden to do away with herself?

Shivering, and not only from the cold, Charlotte slipped thankfully into the house, leaving the garden door as she had found it, slightly ajar. Fortunately there was no other occupant of the small room set aside for the ladies, so she was able to effect what repairs she could to the damage caused by the cold and damp. Towels and soap lay ready for the guests to use, so she removed the worst of the moisture from her skirt while a brisk rub warmed her hands and feet when she removed her slippers. A wipe with the cloth made these presentable enough. What a fortunate circumstance, she thought, that they are black kid; it would be impossible to disguise any soiling on satin shoes.

She tidied her hair at the looking glass and made her way back to the Great Hall, slipping over to warm herself at the fireside. Lady Frampton waved again, and Lord Granville was still holding forth in his jovial way to Lily and Barnard, while Oz stood proudly at his side. But where was the boy’s doting mama? There was no sign of Lady Granville nor, Charlotte realized as she tried to stare discreetly round the assembled guests, was Sibella Armstrong to be seen. Captain Penbury was still booming away to anyone who had the misfortune to stray into his grasp, but Miss Armstrong was no longer seated beside him. Besides, though this troubled Charlotte far less, the captain’s lady, Melicent, was nowhere to be seen.

O
H
,
WHY
DID
I let Kit go home? I could have confessed my anxieties to him and let him laugh me out of this ridiculous state of panic. If that still did not suffice to allay my fears, I could at least have inveigled him into coming out to the garden to support me while I found someone to bring that poor woman’s body indoors. But how am I to do that without ruining Oz’s party?

She glanced round the hall again. Barnard was a steady creature, but how could she extricate him from the clutches of Lily and their host without raising a hullaballoo? Dr Perry was another obvious candidate but he was at the far end of the room in a group of local gentlemen who were clearly enjoying Lord Granville’s best brandy. No, the doctor could not help her – and under no circumstances did she feel any urge to confide in the other physician present: Dr Chant’s assistance would not be welcome.

A passing footman paused to offer another glass of wine and she hesitantly asked whether he knew of his mistress’s whereabouts.

‘I believe her ladyship is showing her tower to one of the ladies,’ he told her. She thanked him and he turned to go on his way when she called him back.

‘If you have the opportunity,’ she faltered. ‘I should be glad if you would tell Mr Richmond that I’m going to admire the garden. Pray, do not interrupt his conversation with Lord Granville, but it is – rather important so, when he is at liberty, please ask him to come out to me. I may join the ladies in the tower.’ There, that was the best she could do without making a fuss. She wrapped the shawl more tightly round her shoulders, took a deep breath, and slipped out through the glass door once more.

They must have gone outside while I was drying myself in the
ladies’ room, she frowned; ah, thank goodness the wooden door was ajar still. The dead queen’s garden shone silver and black as she slipped inside, the shadows sharply defined and now, to her heightened senses, looking sinister so that when something
skittered
across the path in front of her, she was only just able to repress a scream.

‘Oh, you dreadful creature,’ she held a hand to her heart as a scrawny ginger cat halted in its progress and came to see if she had anything interesting about her. ‘I almost had a heart attack, puss.’ The cat rubbed its head against her skirt, uttering loud yowls of either pleasure or hunger, probably both. She pushed it firmly, shooing it away from her. ‘Be off with you now, I’ve nothing for you.’

Ignoring its persistent miaowing seemed to do the trick. The cat disappeared in search of more rewarding company and Charlotte hastened her steps along the central path between the flower-beds. There was no sign of Lady Granville or Sibella and when she reached the crossway she could see no further tracks in the snow to where Miss Cole lay undisturbed. There were certainly footprints leading to the ivy-clad tower at the end of the garden, however.

As she hesitated, Charlotte stared at a flicker of light up on the battlements; there was someone up there, someone carrying a candle. She took a deep breath, and another, to try to calm her fears, then gritted her teeth and headed for the narrow archway at the base of the tower.

If I am completely wrong about all of this, she told herself, if there is no mystery and Oz the belated blessing he is said to be, while Lady Granville is merely being polite to an old acquaintance – even so I must still catch up with her and tell her what I have found. It’s her garden and her companion, she is the lady of the house and she must be told first. Somehow, the possession of a legitimate errand gave her courage and strengthened her resolve. Never mind her almost hysterical romancing, here was a real task ahead of her.

The door to Lady Granville’s garden-room, in the thickness of the wall, was shut and barred. The mock-mediaeval torches on the stairs were unlit and no comforting spit and crackle of flames
warmed her, but she could hear distant voices away up at the top of the turret. Her heart in her mouth, she began to tiptoe upwards, wondering what on earth she could say when she reached the top; then, when she was halfway up and approaching the niche within the walls, allegedly for an archer to stand guard by the arrow slit, she tripped over something hard and fell heavily to her hands and knees.

Her stifled cry was echoed by a gasp from someone else, very close by.

‘Who – who is it?’ she whispered, shakily feeling about her to see what had caused her fall. To her astonishment she saw that Melicent Penbury, just visible in a glimmer of moonlight, her eyes wide and terrified, was lying in an awkward huddle in the archer’s bay, her false leg – which Charlotte had tripped on – lying at an unnatural angle across the step. Charlotte bit off the startled questions that sprang to mind and crawled over to the captain’s lady, who was clearly scared out of her wits and in considerable pain besides.

‘What on earth has happened?’ she hissed. ‘Let me help you to sit up, Melicent. Here….’ She thrust an arm round the older woman and helped pull her into a more comfortable position, fishing a handkerchief out of her pocket as Melicent burst into tears of relief. ‘Hush, now, hush, it’s all right, don’t fret.’ Her brave words rang hollow to herself but Melicent seemed reassured. ‘Quickly, tell me what you’re doing here? Are you hurt? Did you fall?’

It seemed to Charlotte that it was more urgent to attend to Melicent than to creep up the last turn of the stairs; besides she was ruefully aware that emerging at the top of the turret was at this moment the last thing on earth that she wanted to do. She patted the other woman’s hand and bent to listen to the anguished whisper.

‘I heard Lady Granville press Miss Armstrong to see the ruins,’ Melicent stammered. ‘And I was rather affronted that she didn’t ask me too.’ She started to bridle at the memory but Charlotte hushed her again, so she continued, ‘I thought it was impolite but I decided that if I simply followed them and came up to them, in a casual sort of way, it could not signify and they would be bound to invite me to join them.’

Charlotte sighed. Poor Melicent, always left out, always resentful, never understanding why she annoyed people so.

‘Go on,’ she murmured. ‘So you followed them into the garden and into the ruins, what happened then? Did you fall?’

‘I slipped in the dark,’ said Melicent. ‘I don’t know how I did it but I twisted somehow and in falling, I felt the strap on my harness break.’ She shuddered and dabbed her eyes again. ‘The harness on my – my leg, you see.’

‘Oh goodness, you poor soul.’ Charlotte’s ready sympathy rose up and instantly banished her uncharitable thoughts. ‘I’ll go for help in a minute, and don’t worry, I’ll be very discreet. Nobody will know a thing about it, other than that you felt unwell and had to be taken home. Just let me go up and see if – if Lady Granville is at liberty so that I can tell her.’

Melicent shrank back and Charlotte understood. ‘I won’t betray your confidence, never fear. I’ll make up some story about you dragging yourself in here to shelter.’

It sounded unlikely in the highest degree that a woman in such a case could have reached the halfway point of the staircase but it was the best Charlotte could do on the spur of the moment and it seemed to satisfy Melicent, which was all that mattered just now. As for tackling Lady Granville, Charlotte admitted to herself that she was quite terrified. She strained and could still hear a murmur up aloft, so she crept up the stairs and hid at the top.

‘Why do you not answer me? You do not speak. Tell me, why did you come here, to Winchester?’ The voice had to be Lady Granville’s because it was so much deeper than Sibella’s, but otherwise, Charlotte would not have recognised those anguished tones. ‘I could not believe my ears when Cole told me she had seen you and your sister in the Cathedral that day. She knew you at once, she said, and hurried home to tell me that you were to attend the Richmond child’s christening.’

‘I didn’t know, I thought you would be in town. I assure you I didn’t know you were in the country, Lady Granville.’ That was Sibella’s voice, ragged and breathless. ‘My sister suggested a short visit to Winchester and I had been so ill that I went where she took
me. I would not have come here for the world, had I known you were here. You must believe me, you must.’

‘All these years,’ the other woman said, a sob rising in her throat. ‘All these years and I was safe. My maid…’ The harsh voice ceased for a moment and Charlotte shuddered anew. ‘But she – died and only Cole remained. And then, there
you
were, the pair of you, your sister simpering and smirking and you, never saying boo to a goose.’

Charlotte held her breath. What on earth should I do, she agonized. Dare I run for help? How can I leave Melicent here in this state? Tension had her nails running into the palms of her hands as she wavered, meanwhile Lady Granville was speaking again. What was Sibella doing, she wondered. Was she cowering away from the passionate anger in the older woman’s voice? And am I right about what this means, she wondered, ashamed that curiosity should be uppermost in her mind at such a time.

‘Dunster had become senile and she talked too much so … oh well. Then, when Cole told me,’ the voice sounded calmer now, almost reflective, as though the speaker were reminiscing, ‘I was beside myself at first but I realized that I could take steps to remove yet another threat to my son’s happiness. What?’

Charlotte felt a shiver run down her spine as Lady Granville actually laughed, albeit mirthlessly.

‘Allow my darling to be disowned, cast out as a bastard? I think not. It was simple enough in the end, to decide on a solution. I had only to spend time working in my garden, always a place of solace, and as always I found peace here.’

‘What – what do you mean?’ Sibella sounded farther away. Had she moved to the other side of the tower? Charlotte wondered. She found herself nodding in approval; that’s right, she thought, keep her talking. It was only too clear now that whatever the truth of the matter Lady Granville was definitely sounding dangerous, even more so as she responded to the timid question.

‘You did not drink the punch,’ she said in a cold, level voice. ‘Everyone knew that Barnard Richmond was brewing up some kind of wassail at the behest of his vulgar little wife, so it was easy enough for a garden-lover to think of a remedy. “If thine eye offend
thee, pluck it out,” she declaimed suddenly, her voice rising, “Pluck it out.”’

As Charlotte digested this remark, Lady Granville snapped at Sibella. ‘Why did you not drink the punch?’ she demanded, ‘I made sure you took the glass. I have been experimenting for years, drying seeds, trying new varieties of plants, and last year I dried some seeds from Queen Eleanor’s yew, though I had no real thought of using them, knowing how deadly they can be. When Cole told me you were to be at the manor I made up a tiny packet of seeds, and tucked it into my pocket. There was a gossiping crowd at the table and nobody paid the slightest attention to me so it was the work of a moment to whisk out the packet and sprinkle the seeds into a glass for you. I did have a fancy to suit my potion to the season and indeed, had intended to add a handful of berries to the wassail, holly and mistletoe and the last berries of the yew. They would have looked handsome floating on top of the brew but I decided it was too dangerous. You took the glass, but why did your sister drink it, and not you?’

There it was; Charlotte heaved a shaky sigh. She had been right all along. Right about Verena’s death being suspicious, and right about the reason. But wrong about the real mother of the child.
Sibella!
It was Sibella who had given up her baby to Lady Granville, and it was Sibella who should have died.

What in the world am I to do now? Charlotte was racked by indecision. Lady Granville had stopped talking in that chilly, rational tone and from the sound of it she was pacing round the roof of the turret. Was there time to go for help? Charlotte thought not.

I’ve heard enough, she concluded. Enough to warrant going up there and trying to rescue Sibella, but how am I to do that? It would be foolish to assume Lady Granville is unarmed but I daren’t leave the ruins to look for some kind of weapon. If only her ladyship’s love of historical accuracy ran to halberds and pikes hung on the walls of her ruined castle.

Suddenly a solution sprang to mind. Something so ludicrous that an hysterical giggle almost escaped her lips in spite of the gravity of the situation, but rack her brains as she might, nothing
else offered, not even a stone to throw. She crept back down to Melicent and bent beside her.

‘Lady Granville is – is very angry about something,’ she whispered, ignoring the other woman’s gasp of disbelief. ‘I know, but it’s true and I’m afraid she is beside herself and means to harm Miss Armstrong. I, er, I believe she’s having some kind of seizure, or a fit of mania or something and moreover, I’m afraid she might harm the pair of us if she stumbles over us, as she may well do at any moment. I need something to use as a weapon, in case she attacks us and – listen, Melicent, and whatever you do, don’t scream – the only thing I can think of, is your false leg.’

Foresight made her clap her hand across Melicent’s mouth to stifle the outcry, and she went on in a rapid whisper. ‘I know it’s dreadful, but I assure you, I’ve thought and thought and I can’t see any other solution. I daren’t leave you here unprotected….’ She smiled in involuntarily sympathy as she felt Melicent’s heartfelt shiver of agreement, and pressed home her argument. ‘Just shut your eyes and I’ll fish under your crinoline and try to extricate your leg. If the harness is broken it shouldn’t be too difficult and –
goodness
, I had no idea I was still carrying my reticule, what in heaven’s name was I thinking.’ She sighed with relief. ‘My embroidery
scissors
are in it. They were my godmother’s, the only memento of her that I have.’ (And wouldn’t Lady Meg have hooted with delight had she been privy to the use her goddaughter was making of her keepsake?)

Mercifully the gravity of their situation seemed to have penetrated Melicent’s muddled consciousness so that she made no demur when Charlotte reached under the puce skirts and fiddled with the harness. A few moments as she sawed at the leather, and the leg was free. As she tugged it out from under Melicent’s
crinoline
, Char surprised them both by giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.