Two Birds with One Stone (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 1)

Two Birds with One Stone

A Marsden-Lacey Mystery

Sigrid Vansandt

Chapter 1

Haworth, England

March 5, 1855

CHARLOTTE HAD BEEN MARRIED LESS than a year and was
pregnant. At only thirty-eight, her health was dwindling fast. She was weak
from the incessant vomiting and had begun coughing up blood. With a great
effort she lifted herself from her bed and searched her bureau for Emily’s
manuscript.

Finding it under her chemises, she gently wrapped it and
lovingly tucked it into a shallow leather box. The last time it had seen the
light of day was during her and Arthur
’
s first days back
at home. Arthur, her husband, had wished it burned and now that she had become
so weak, he might start to purge some of Emily
’
s more
questionable works while Charlotte was incapable of stopping him.

The publishers Emily had contacted before her death had been
pressing about the manuscript. They would be eager to have a sequel to
Wuthering
Heights
. It was curious to Charlotte as she considered Emily
’
s
lovely handwriting on the opening page, how Emily’s work either ignited a
passionate desire to love it or an equally passionate desire to destroy it.

For the time being, it would need a safe place to rest until
Charlotte
’
s strength returned and she could decide what to
do. The best place to keep it safe would be the secret hiding spot in the
wainscot that she and her siblings used to use to hide things from their
father.

Her hands trembled as she cradled the leather box. Dear,
long-lost faces rose up in her mind as the box whispered with familiar voices
about far away times. Maybe her memory yoked with the solidity of the box would
work an enchantment, allowing her to break the bitter spell of their deaths.
Her mind flooded with longing for the times she spent with her sisters. It
wouldn
’
t bring them back. She owed Emily the book
’
s safety.

She tiptoed quietly across the room, careful to avoid the
creaky spots in the floor. Everyone downstairs would be wondering what she was
up to if they heard her moving about too much. Charlotte was to be resting and
they would become curious, too curious.

She had debated with herself so many times what to do with
Emily
’
s last manuscript and once the baby was born and her
health returned, she must make the final decision.

To the left of the fender disguised as a knothole was the
latch. A soft smile brushed her face as she remembered how much fun they had
when hiding something from the adults.

All one had to do was pull out the wooden knot in the panel
with something sharp like a letter opener, insert your pinky into the hole and
pull. As she opened the small door, the smells of musty, long-forgotten papers
mingled together. Like a shy child, the scent timidly greeted her nose as the
tomb of her childhood opened up once more. There, shoved within, was an
old-fashioned magazine still hidden from her father
’
s and
aunt
’
s eyes. A forgotten thing of childhood fancies.

“
Charlotte! Are you upstairs?
”
came a concerned
man
’
s voice from the landing.

Arthur. He had never liked what he read in Emily
’
s work or in some cases even Charlotte
’
s
own. Something deep in her mind, in a corner she wasn
’
t
comfortable visiting even furtively, made her want to protect the book from
even her own husband.

The call sent a shock wave through her wearied brain.
Anxiety twisted the cord of tension between her mind and stomach, creating a
burst of energy. She focused to complete her task.

Her hands and brain moved efficiently. Pushing the old
papers to the back, she made a fragile nest for the box then closed the door
and studied it quickly to make sure it wouldn
’
t give up
its secrets due to a misalignment or a tear in the varnish.

Only she and her siblings knew of the hiding place, and she
prayed they had all kept the secret. One thing was for sure, they would not be
able to direct anyone to its location now.

Certain that, like King Minos, she had hidden her truth
where only a hero (or a demon) might dare to enter, Charlotte stood up and
crossed the bedroom to the door. She turned and threw a last glance toward the
secreted panel. If someone had been watching, they would have seen a pensive
and exhausted expression on her weary face.

With a soft click of the door latch, she left the hallowed
room, never to return.

Chapter 2

Marsden-Lacey, Yorkshire, England

Present Day

MARTHA LITTLEWORD TUCKED THE NEWSPAPER she had bought at
the news agent’s under her arm. She strutted down the High Street of
Marsden-Lacey with an air of victory. Her red hair tried its best to escape the
lopsided bun wobbling on top of her head.

“That little mongrel never saw it coming,”
she thought to
herself triumphantly.

The image of her attacker rolling and groaning in the street
next to the news agent
’
s stand made her chuckle
deliciously under her breath. Those self-defense classes at the Village
Community Centre had actually worked. She was as surprised with herself as she
was sure the young tough who attacked her must have been when he lunged for her
purse and she neatly laid him out cold in the gutter.

Ralph, the news agent, had recognized the teenager as Sam
Berry, a local hooligan. Ralph couldn't get over what Martha had managed to do.
He just stood there looking back and forth between Martha and the sprawled-out
miscreant, Sam, repeating mostly to himself, “You,”
and then looking at the teenage boy
unconscious in the street, “He.”
Then more as if questioning the truth of what he saw, “You?”
and then “Sam?”
Martha with her
usual pragmatism had finally answered, “Yeah, Ralph, me.”

It had been remarkably easy. She was standing talking to
Ralph Emerson, a harmless but long-winded town gossip who was dropping
innuendos about the new curator at The Grange, when a tremendous push from
behind propelled her towards a surprised and open-mouthed Ralph. Then a firm jerk
on her arm pulled her back toward her center of gravity and with a turn of her
stout body, she did an about-face.

Unconsciously aware of what she was doing, she pulled hard
on the purse, forcing her attacker off-balance and reeling toward her five foot
frame. She brought up her knee and neatly dealt a crushing blow to his manhood
as she finished him off with an interlocking fist blow to the top of his rather
mangy head.

An amazing feat of athleticism and it was over in less than
thirty seconds. As people gathered around with wide-eyed stares, she found
herself not really sure what had happened. Only when Ralph started his
monosyllabic utterances did Martha snap back to herself like a rubber band and
pick up her purse. A sense of delight and weightlessness infused her whole
self.

After she gave her short statement to the police, she left
the pitiful, human heap known as Sam for the police constable and Ralph to deal
with, and continued with her original intentions up the High Street toward The
Grange where she had an appointment with its new big-wig curator.

Martha
’
s reflections on the experience
began to take on a mythological aura which was partly due to her natural
proclivity to enhance a story until it met with her standards of drama and with
her propensity, like most humans, to enjoy a rare moment of self-pride. But her
ego, happily for Martha, was fraught with attention deficit issues, so as she
climbed the street, her steps became less reflective of a victory march and
more in line with her usual upright and eager self.

Her dress was professional and her shoes were the necessary
black, low-heeled things required by the law office she worked in as a
paralegal. Walking felt good. It stretched out the catch in her back. Being
close to fifty, she needed slightly more maintenance these days. Things like
magnifying glasses to read small print and stretching to combat the early
morning stiffness when she got out of bed. So, taking the thug down in the High
Street was a nice way of rebalancing the cosmic bottom line in her favor.
Naturally, this put Martha in fine spirits as she finally ascended the High
Street hill and entered the iron gates of The Grange, Marsden-Lacey
’
s newest and, for that matter, only museum.

She walked in through the entrance of the lovely, old
Elizabethan manor home which had recently been turned into a repository for
rare nineteenth-century manuscripts and books. A rush of cool air immediately
enveloped her and she hesitated in the hall to allow her eyes to adjust.
Slowly, the beautiful oak paneling and the worn flagstones came into view. She
wondered, for what must have been the millionth time, at how divine these homes
were in England. Being an American from the Midwest, she never tired of how her
mind turned to romantic thoughts whenever she visited one of England
’
s heritage sites.

In the corner of the hall was an elegant but
newly-constructed reception desk built in a semicircle and made to conform to
the rest of the hall
’
s architecture. She rang the bell on
the desk and peeked over the edge. No one was around. Since the receptionist
must be out, Martha decided to snoop about a bit. She walked down the main
hallway toward two sizable and ornately-decorated mahogany doors, and with a
quick look around to see if anyone might be watching her, she laid her ear
against the door and listened.

Martha could make out a woman
’
s voice
on the other side. She gently opened the door to peer inside. There stood a
tall brunette with her back to Martha. Her cell phone was pressed to her ear.
The first surprise was hearing the woman
’
s voice. An
American. It was always nice to hear the old, familiar accent, and from the
sound of it, the woman was probably from either the Midwest or maybe a hair
south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Years of working in the law field had given Martha ample
experience in reading people. At first she thought the woman was an uptight,
academic type. Shoes without any scuffs, neatly pressed spot-free blouse, and a
perfectly coiffed hairstyle, certainly gave the woman the appearance of someone
who practiced an acute attention to detail. But in an instant Martha saw there
was something finer under the professional layers. The woman
’
s
body language and the tone in her voice indicated sincerity and kindness.

Martha could tell from the woman’s tone, she was talking to
one of her children so Martha quietly waited until the call was over. The slim
brunette slumped slightly as if she was tired.

Martha did her assessment in less than thirty seconds. In
sum, she knew she would probably like the woman.

Chapter 3

Haworth, England

March 31, 1855

ELLEN NUSSEY, CHARLOTTE’S DEAREST FRIEND through life, had
received the letter from Charlotte’s father, Reverend Bronte, that Charlotte
was dying. He had made it sound as if she would be gone within the day.

Ellen had to be there when Charlotte died. They had loved
each other as sisters and had shared all their secrets since their school days.
Ellen knew deep in her soul the importance of getting to Haworth before
Charlotte passed. If she didn
’
t make it, so much would be
lost.

Arthur Bell Nicholls, Charlotte
’
s husband, had increasingly censored her correspondence for the
last few months of their marriage. He had started castigating Charlotte for her
openness and the subject matter in the letters she sent Ellen. In the end, he
had requested that every letter Ellen received be immediately burned after
reading.

Ellen had promised to obey his request because she realized
he was the worst kind of man: a bully and a zealot who would never recognize
the greatness of his wife
’
s gift or worse, he was jealous
of it. The only way to deal with a tyrant like Reverend Nicholls was to let him
think she was compliant. Otherwise, he would restrict Charlotte
’
s
only means of expression and communication.

When Ellen arrived at the parsonage, Charlotte had already
passed. Her grief for her friend was absolute. Nicholls was in truth devastated
by his wife
’
s death. He still clung to her tiny, wasted
hand. Charlotte lay quiet and peaceful, free finally from the horrific and
grueling suffering she had endured for last months of her life.

As Ellen stood above her dear, brilliant friend, a terrific
shock of realization came to her. It was only a matter of time before Nicholls
would comb through Charlotte
’
s letters, papers, and
memorabilia, and burn them all. From Ellen
’
s vantage
point, looking down upon the grieving husband
’
s head, the
truth of what she must do to save Charlotte
’
s work stormed
through her mind. Feigning the need to lie down due to grief, she asked if she
might go up to the old nursery. Charlotte
’
s father offered
to show her up but she said she well-remembered the way.

Once in the old room, a hundred happy memories came to her
but she didn
’
t have time for any of that now. She shooed
them away and went straight for the hidden place in the wainscot. Charlotte had
alluded to this place in one of her last letters to Ellen and at the time Ellen
thought the letter was odd. After some rereading, Ellen realized Charlotte
couldn
’
t be forthright in her correspondence anymore and
was trying to tell Ellen something.

It took some time to locate the small hole in the wall but
she found it and, placing her finger into the hole, she opened the hidden
panel. There, wrapped and boxed, was the thing Charlotte had deemed so
important she couldn
’
t dare name it in her letter.

Ellen lifted it out. She couldn
’
t
openly carry it out of the house so she lifted her skirt. Tearing long strands
from her cotton petticoats, she tied the box securely to the outside of her
leg. Once all her undergarments were in place, it was impossible to tell she
had anything hidden on her person.

Later that day, Ellen Nussey gave her condolences to the
father and husband of her most-beloved friend. She departed the Haworth
Parsonage and never looked back. She tried to find it in her heart to forgive
Charlotte
’
s husband for his stupidity and inflated sense
of self. It didn
’
t matter, because even Charlotte had
realized the limitations of her husband and had acted responsibly in the end.
She had gotten through to the one person she knew she could trust: her friend.

Ellen wouldn
’
t let her down. She would
keep it safe.