Sally James (15 page)

“Now you have seen my new home, my dear Mary, I trust it will assist you in coming to a decision. You must admit it is a most pleasing situation, and there is some very select company in the neighbourhood. Apart from the inhabitants of those houses you see across the green, there are several good families within a few miles, and they have all made me very welcome. You would not lack for agreeable friends, and neither, I venture to suggest, would your father if he also made his home with us.”

In an unusually despondent mood, Mary was tempted to take the easiest way and forget the qualms that had kept her from accepting Mr Knowle’s proposal before. She knew he would be kind, attentive to her comfort and that of her father, and it was certainly a pleasant home he had to offer her. There would be no more problems if she accepted him, and she longed to forget her worries and doubts and Matthew’s reprehensible behaviour. It was tempting to think of placing her burdens on shoulders that she knew would willingly bear them. But I do not love him, a tiny voice persisted, and somehow Mary wondered whether, as Mr Knowle had asserted, love was bound to develop after they were married. It was a risk she was reluctant to take, but she knew she had no right to try his patience for much longer.

She sighed, and tried to explain some of this to him. He made light of her fears, saying that love before marriage was a sin, and naturally she would not allow herself to indulge in such thoughts or feelings.

“If you did, my dear, I would not respect you as I do, and certainly not consider you a fit wife for a clergyman! Allow me to be the judge. If you have no personal revulsion to me, and think we could be friends, as indeed I hope we are already, then love will come and be sanctified after marriage.”

“I feel that I am taking an unconscionable time,” Mary apologised.

“I am patient, for I know this is a most serious matter. But now you have seen the house, and can soon come to a decision. I have to be in Bath on Saturday, two days from now. Shall I wait on you then?”

Mary grasped at this slight reprieve. “You are too good to me,” she said slowly, and took a deep breath. “I will give you a definite answer then, I promise.”

He seemed content, and the remainder of the visit passed uneventfully. Mr Knowle was in an almost jovial mood, and Mary endeavoured to appear light hearted. She was very silent as they drove home, however, and merely nodded when, at parting, Sir Ingram promised to call for her on the following morning. She was chiding herself for not having had the courage to give a firm decision immediately. How would the delay of yet two more days help her to make up her mind, she wondered, for nothing could change, and perhaps her scruples were silly and he was correct in saying that love would come.

Caroline, with her suspicions of what had been said, and silent relief that apparently Mary had not yet accepted Mr Knowle, judged it more discreet to avoid the topic until Mary herself should introduce it. She praised the house and the village, but added that Bath was just a little too far for easy access, and Bristol, about the same distance away, not a great deal better.

“Mr Knowle will not be able to plan for visits to London very easily with what appears to be a large parish to care for. He has no curate to assist him, and from what he told me does not intend to have one.”

She then began to talk of their plans for the next few days, dwelling on her delight that Arthur would be able to join her soon for a short visit.

“I have never before been away from him for more than a few days, usually when he has had to go to London on business, and I had not realised how truly lonely I would be,” she confessed. “Oh, you have been a great comfort to me, Mary, but I loved Arthur the moment I saw him, and when we are apart I never cease thinking of him.”

Would she ever feel like that about Mr Knowle, Mary wondered, and unbidden the image of Sir Ingram came into her mind. Inexplicably she felt her spirits rising as she thought of their drive on the following day.

Sir Ingram arrived promptly. Caroline had already departed for her treatment, and Mary was ready so that she was able to go down as soon as Sir Ingram was announced. His groom held the horses’ heads while Sir Ingram, looking appreciatively at Mary’s walking dress of soft blue muslin, edged with narrow rolls of a slightly darker shade, handed her up into the curricle, a sporty affair, and then leapt up after her.

“You can walk home, Grant,” he ordered, and turned the horses to drive out of the Square. He had gone but a few yards, however, when to Mary’s horror she saw Teresa, wild eyed, hatless, and apparently terrified, running into the Square, oblivious alike of the traffic and the disapproving looks of passers by.

“Mary, oh stop! “ she cried as she saw Mary in the curricle, and veered across the roadway in front of them so that Sir Ingram, cursing under his breath, only just avoided her.

Mary sprang down from the curricle and took the distraught girl into her arms.

“My dear, be calm. What in the world has happened?”

“Mama fell down the stairs last night,” Teresa gasped, trying to regain her breath.

“Oh dear, is she badly hurt?” Mary asked in dismay.

“No, no, of course not,” Teresa managed to say. “It’s my parrot! He’s been killed, stabbed! Oh, Mary, it’s horrible!”

Mary cast a look of appeal at Sir Ingram and, since his groom, seeing the commotion, had run back to hold the horses, he came across to where Teresa clung to her.

“What is all this about the parrot?” he asked, puzzled. “Who in the world would want to stab a bird?”

Teresa shrank away from him. “You should know! How could you! And it’s not only the parrot, it’s mama as well now,” she concluded breathlessly.

“I had best get her indoors,” Mary said apologetically, and Sir Ingram nodded.

Mary put her arm about Teresa’s waist and urged her towards the house. Teresa permitted herself to be led, but protested hysterically when Sir Ingram appeared to be following them in.

“No! Mary, don’t let him come in! I will not have it! I’ll run away, he must not come in!”

“I’m sorry. I will see that she is taken home when she is calmer,” Mary promised. “I will not be able to come with you now, I fear.”

“I might have known morning was not the most favourable time,” he remarked, and Mary gave him a puzzled look. Then he laughed slightly. “Can you manage her? I will go round to Great Pulteney Street now and find out what is amiss,” he said quietly so that Teresa would not hear him, and as Mary nodded he turned away.

Mary took the distraught Teresa into their sitting room, and tried to persuade her to sit down, saying she must calm herself before trying to explain. Instead, Teresa flung herself, sobbing violently, into Mary’s arms.

“He did it, I know he did!” she gasped.

“My dear, do sit down,” Mary said gently. “We will have some tea first.”

She rang for Susan and asked her to bring tea as swiftly as possible. Teresa had thrown herself into a chair, and was still crying with complete abandon, so Mary sat quietly, stroking her hand, and helping her to recover from her distressing experience. Soon Susan appeared with the tea, and when she had set it down on a small table Mary dismissed her, and proceeded to pour out the tea.

“Drink this,” she said, offering the cup to Teresa.

Teresa stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, and then her eyes widened with terror. She sprang up, and before Mary realised her intention, pushed the cup away so that the tea spilled over the carpet.

“Really, Teresa!” Mary exclaimed, looking in amazement at the girl.

“He’s poisoned the tea, he’s poisoned it! Why should he smile when he left me here, where I thought I was safe?” Teresa sobbed, and then her cries rose into a scream and she flung herself back into the chair, rocking herself from side to side and plucking feverishly at her gown.

For a moment Mary was too surprised to move, but then, recalling the best way to halt hysteria was to slap the patient hard, she dealt Teresa a stinging slap on her cheek.

Teresa gulped, stared in astonishment at Mary, and then collapsed into tears, but this time they were normal sobs, not the wild hysterics of a moment before.

“You hit me!” she gasped at last.

“I was forced to, my dear, for you were beyond yourself. Now we will drink some tea. There is nothing wrong with it, I assure you. It will help you to feel better.”

Mary drank from her cup, and reluctantly Teresa followed her example.

“Now, calmly, dearest, tell me when the parrot was discovered?”

“This morning,” Teresa contrived to say with more calm. “I did not go to see him when we got home last night and this morning when I went in he was lying on the floor of the cage, horribly stiff! When I picked him up, he was stiff, and cold!” She shuddered convulsively and Mary held her tightly.

“Poor Teresa, what a shocking discovery to have made. But why do you think he was stabbed? Could he not have died naturally?”

“There were a few spots of blood on the floor of the cage, and when I looked closer, beneath his feathers, I saw the hole! It was quite large and went right through him! It must have been something very sharp!” she wept.

“And what is this about your mama? Is she hurt?”

“Oh, no, but she is complaining as much as though her leg were broken!” said her dutiful daughter. “That happened last night, just before we got home. I had been out with Aunt Hermione to visit one of her friends. Mama did not come because she had a headache. She said she had been unable to sleep, and was going to the drawing room to fetch her new novel, and slipped. She did not fall far and has only a few bruises. I believe that Ingram pushed her!” she concluded dramatically.

Mary was shocked. “How could he? How could he have been in the house? And he was with us all day.”

“But not so late - you returned soon after dark, did you not?”

Mary agreed, and Teresa, now anxious to tell her story, went on quickly, her tears forgotten.

“He has a key to the house and could have let himself in without the servants knowing,” she explained.

“Yes, but why should he wish to do such a horrid thing?”

“If he cannot marry me, and Matthew made it plain to him that we do not intend to give way, then mama is as much a hindrance to him as I am,” Teresa explained patiently. “I think he has decided to murder her first and then he will turn to me. He must have killed the parrot, because the parrot may have made a noise when mama fell, or he thought the servants would go into that room if they heard it. He must have slipped into there after pushing mama,” she said. “Mary, I’m afraid!”

“I am not surprised, after such a dreadful thing happening, but I still cannot believe it was your cousin.”

“He’s getting round you now! I saw him making up to you at the Assembly Rooms, and then he went with you yesterday, and was going to take you for a drive this morning. But who else
could
it be? None of the servants would do such a thing, and there is no one who could enter the house apart from Ingram!”

“Might it have been a burglar? You do not know that it happened precisely when your mother fell, and that could have been an accident. A burglar might have got in later and been afraid when the parrot began to make a noise.”

“No. The windows are all seen to early every evening. Aunt Hermione is
most
particular about that, and there are none broken that a burglar could have used. We checked that at once. No, whoever did it
must
have come through the front door, unknown to the servants, and that leaves only Ingram!”

“What does your mother say?”

“She is concerned only with her own fall! And Aunt Hermione tells me not to be ridiculous, but she can find no other explanation!”

“I confess that it baffles me too,” Mary said slowly.

“Mary, what can I do? He will succeed in the end!”

Perturbed, Mary tried to reassure her, and partially succeeded in making her believe that much of what had happened to her could be explained away purely as accidents, and that it was difficult to contrive a murder in such a fashion, so that she only had to be on her guard to foil further attempts.

“What of the attack in the caves?”

“Your imagination, I am sure,” Mary said firmly, but she could not devise any satisfactory explanation for this latest outrage.

Teresa was somewhat comforted, however, and after some time agreed to return home. Thinking it would calm her Mary suggested they walked, and mentioned that she needed to make some purchases in Milson Street. By the time these errands had been satisfactorily made, Teresa was chattering in a manner more akin to her normal behaviour, and Mary breathed a sigh of relief. When they reached Great Pulteney Street, Teresa turned impulsively to her.

“You are so good to me! Thank you, dearest Mary! You are the nicest sister I could hope for!”

“Well, I am sure we will one day become sisters,” Mary replied, amused, and pleased that Teresa seemed to have recovered from the unpleasantness of the morning. “Now you are safely here I will go and find Caroline.”

“And I will take the dogs for a walk in Sydney Gardens,” Teresa said pensively. “I am sorry I spoiled your drive,” she added, as though having just recalled the fact that she had interrupted Mary. “That is, if you really wished to go. I think it would be wiser if you were not alone with him. After all, if he can kill an innocent parrot as well as attempting to kill mama and me, what is to stop him from killing you too? Please take great care of yourself, Mary!”

Mary smiled. “Even if your suspicions are correct, and I cannot think they are, for what possible reason could he wish to kill me?” she demanded.

Teresa shrugged. “He had no reason to kill the parrot, and so he must be mad. In which case there is no knowing
what
he might do!”

Unable to reason with her Mary departed, to find that Caroline had left the Pump Room and gone home. Caroline had heard all about the affair from Mrs Leigh.

“What a macabre thing to have done,” she said, shivering. “Was Teresa very deeply upset? Mrs Standish had remained at home, and Teresa must have left the house without her knowledge.”