Page 34 of A Ruse of Shadows
“Over the years, I’ve always worried about her, especially after I learned about her parents’ bankruptcy,” said Charlotte, her tone urgent. “She was a young girl left alone and destitute, with the care of a sister barely out of infancy. Maybe she married a man more than twice her age out of something other than desperation, but I’m no longer an adolescent romantic who can convince myself of that.
“And his death was so gruesome. If someone had shot him, perhaps I wouldn’t have been so perturbed, but I went to Manchester and found articles in the newspaper archives and—” She took a deep, audible breath. “I hope I don’t sound a complete ghoul, but I’ve been terrified ever since that Angelica—Mrs. Meadows—that—”
Miss Harcourt placed a finger before her own lips.
Charlotte hushed accordingly.
“If she did it, then it must have been for a good reason.” Miss Harcourt’s voice was low and equally urgent. “And if she did it, she’s been able to keep herself free all these years. Let’s not accidentally shatter the safeguards she may have put into place for her well-being.”
So Miss Harcourthadgiven the matter plenty of thought. Charlotte dropped her voice, too. “No, never.”
The errant rain cloud had moved on; the entire garden glistened under the midday sun. Miss Harcourt looked all around them before she spoke again. “The good news is that my mother didn’t think Aunt Meadows did it. The bad news is my uncle Ephraim also disappeared, sometime after my aunt Meadows. Taken together, thatwouldn’t look good—if anyone were still looking into the murder, that is.”
Inspector Brighton had looked into the case. Charlotte was looking into the case. And an ambitious young detective sergeant might receive the full dossier from Scotland Yard in the near future.
Charlotte gripped the handkerchief that she had been using as a napkin. “Surely you aren’t implying that…”
That Mrs. Meadows and Ephraim Meadows, her brother-in-law, had been in collusion?
“Not only do I not want to imply it, I do not even wish to think about it.” Miss Harcourt downed another draught of whisky and scooted a few inches closer to Charlotte on the covered swing. “But Mrs. Beaumont, do you remember what I said about my mother taking away the photograph from our mantelpiece?”
“Yes?”
“We didn’t talk about my aunt Meadows for years upon years. It was only in the final months of my mother’s life that Aunt Meadows came up again as a topic of conversation. That was the first time Mother told me the reason she removed the picture: She found out from my uncle Victor’s solicitors that before my aunt Meadows left for parts unknown, she’d informed them that she had remarried and would no longer be collecting the annualized dower that had been set out in my uncle Victor’s will.”
Charlotte sucked in a loud breath.
“That was when Mother became convinced that Aunt Meadows really wanted absolutely nothing to do with us. Why else would she have not breathed a word of something as significant as her remarriage? At the time, Mother happened to be extremely busy with the factories—and with me about to leave for Girton College—so it was some time before she realized that my uncle Ephraim hadn’t either called or written for a while.
“As he usually called or wrote to ask for money, at first she was simply glad not to have his news. But when more time passed and she still received no new entreaties, she began to find it incomprehensible.”
“No!” Charlotte leaped up from the swing. Her abrupt motion caused a metallic squeak. “My friend would never have married such a leech.”
Miss Harcourt rose, too. She had in hand an umbrella that the servants had brought and tapped its tip against the flagstone clearing on which the covered swing sat. “I don’t believe so either, and neither did Mother—her dower would have been too moderate for him, and his character too deficient for her. And that she refused further dower? Without a doubt, her bridegroom could not have been a man who had never seen a farthing he didn’t try to put into his own pocket.”
Miss Harcourt exhaled. “What worried Mother more was that they might have committed the crime together.”
“I’d rather that she did the killing herself, if it had to be her!” Charlotte cried softly.
At her minor outburst, Miss Harcourt, who had been frowning and tight-jawed, blinked—and burst out laughing. “I’m sorry.” She quickly gathered herself and apologized. “I’m not sure what made me laugh—I just did.”
“It’s this ridiculous murder,” said Charlotte. “It makes one conjure up too many awful theories. If we can’t find something to laugh at once in a while, we’d all be like a cat on a hot bakestone.”
“True. And anyway, I was trying to reassure you that neither my uncle Ephraim nor my aunt Meadows had the least reason to kill my uncle Victor—they both became worse off as a result of his death, and they both knew ahead of time that, for them, his will would not prove a lucrative document.
“But still it begs the question.” Miss Harcourt looked up, but there was no rainbow in the sky. “Why did they both drop off the face of the earth?”
Charlotte sighed. “And in the end, whom did she marry?”
Twelve
Miss Charlotte returned to London in time to join Mrs. Watson and Lawson at the Unicorn of the Sea for the evening’s pugilistic matches.
Mowlem, the publican, introduced them to Johnny E., the boxer who had left Mr. Underwood for greener pastures—and the greener pastures himself, a nervous-looking grocer named Gore.
It took little time to learn that Gore was a novice sponsor, Johnny E. being his very first boxer. And while Mowlem had reassured him that the rich Mr. Nelson from Manchester was interested only in Johnny E.’s friends, not Johnny E. himself, he still fretted about his new investment.
Lawson promptly took Gore aside for a chat. Johnny E., small, whipcord lean, his wary eyes set in an incongruously boyish face, darted a quick glance to where his new sponsor had been cordially abducted, then across the table at Mrs. Watson, attired as if she were on her way to the opera: glittering opera hood, satin opera cloak, sixteen-button kidskin opera gloves, all in a luxurious midnight blue and as thoroughly out of place in the tavern as a ballerina would have been at a Maypole dance.
