The Dead Queen's Garden (3 page)

‘A mediaeval garden?’ Charlotte was intrigued, her hazel eyes sparkling. ‘I only know about growing vegetables and very little about flowers; our old gardener at Rowan Lodge is set in his ways and doesn’t allow us to interfere, but a mediaeval garden? Yes, Lady Frampton and I might well be most intrigued.’ She thought for a moment. ‘As it happens, I believe we are both free tomorrow and I promise I’ll come even if Lady Frampton doesn’t feel equal to it. Provided of course, your mama really will wish to invite me?’

‘Oh thank you, Mrs Richmond.’ The boy was delighted beyond what seemed reasonable. ‘My father makes jokes about it, saying that Mama is foolish to spend so much time and money on what he calls a “dead queen’s garden” but lots of people do seem to find it interesting.’ He kicked up a pebble and hunched his shoulders. ‘Do come if you can, ma’am. Mama won’t even let me out into the grounds on my own, not since Dunster – that was her maid – um, you know….’

There was a quiver in his voice and Charlotte was dismayed to see that his cheeks were pale. They had reached the porch of Finchbourne Manor now and she only had time for a quick
question
before they were swept into the house.

‘It’s understandable that your mama should be anxious.’ Charlotte’s warm sympathy did its work and the boy’s colour was returning, but Charlotte still felt uneasy. ‘Is there something worrying you?’ she asked quietly. She thought he was about to confide in her, but although he slid a considering glance in her direction and hesitated, the moment was lost and he shook his head.

Never mind, she thought, another time perhaps, so she asked with a smile, ‘Now, I know that you are Master Granville, but I don’t believe I know your first name?’

‘I’m Oz, ma’am,’ he said, adding in a tone that brooked no further comment, a mulish expression at odds with his pleasant, lightly-freckled face. ‘Just call me Oz,’ and he was gone, slipping skilfully out of sight – clearly the result of much practice – as his anxious mother peered round the hall from the drawing-room door leaving Charlotte to wonder who was the ‘dead queen’ and how she had come to have a garden in Hampshire.

T
HE DAY HAD
begun with a severe frost and now in the early dusk, Charlotte, who still missed the sunshine of her Australian youth and the heat of last winter’s Indian sojourn, gave a shiver, only too glad to make her way from the porch into the Tudor entrance hall at the manor. There, the customary gloom was lightened for once by an enormous Christmas tree radiant with wax candles. The tree’s spreading branches happily concealed the depressing display of ancestral martial cutlery (relic of a bygone and more bellicose era) that was splayed in tarnished glory across the oak panelling. This arrangement had an unfortunate drawback by way of allowing the tree, with its long, pine-scented branches festooned with sharp needles, to attack the unwary.

A small ground-floor room just beyond the stairs had been set aside so that visiting ladies might take off their cloaks and refresh themselves, while any attendant maids and companions, such as Lady Granville’s, had to make do with the servants’ quarters. Charlotte however, made her way up the second staircase and turned left into the new wing (built in Queen Anne’s time) to her own old room, now always kept in readiness for her occasional overnight visits. On her way downstairs once more, she exclaimed in annoyance, ‘How annoying,’ as she realized that a flounce from her petticoat was dangling a little below her skirt. ‘Oh well, there is no-one about so I’ll mend it here.’ After a cautious look around to make sure she was unobserved, she sat in the gloom on the top stair of the final, shallow flight to pin it up. She was half-conscious of a movement on the landing above her, but a glance revealed only emptiness there and as she bent to her task she heard voices
immediately below her in the shadows at the back of the hall, just outside the half-closed cloakroom door.

‘Well?’ The female voice was light and bore a faintly malicious note. ‘How are you supporting the strain of this occasion? I had supposed today’s gathering among the dull worthies of Hampshire would be tedious in the extreme but it is not at all what I expected. There has been the constant whispering about the recent frightful crime and I declare my blood has almost run cold, particularly when there was that nonsensical accident at the church door. Did you hear people crying out that it must be the murderer? Such foolishness! Besides that, it has certainly been a surprise to encounter one or two old… how shall I say? Acquaintances? Familiar faces, at any rate even though we have been
roundly
snubbed, but I must say it is proving rather invigorating, though I had not bargained for there to be quite so strenuous an exit from the church.’

The voice was unfamiliar to Charlotte and she could not make out the low-toned reply. She patted her hair to make sure her glossy brown plaits were still neatly in place, and was about to rise from her station at the turn of the landing when the unknown lady spoke again.

‘I am finding it most amusing, you know,’ she laughed. ‘When you are in possession, as I am, of a secret – and
such
a surprising secret – and no, my dear, you need not raise your scolding finger, nor caution me; the very last thing I would dream of doing is to disclose that secret, not to a single soul. No indeed, what do you think I am? How can you possibly think such a thing? Nobody need go in fear of
my
knowledge, all is safe with me.’

The hall was temporarily deserted and Charlotte was frankly eavesdropping now, her hazel eyes bright with curiosity. What were these secrets and who on earth could the well-informed lady be? And who was her companion? The low murmuring voice was indistinguishable and might even, at a pinch, be that of a gentleman, though if that were indeed the case, what could a member of the stronger sex be doing outside the room set aside for the ladies at this time?

Maddeningly, to someone blessed with a lively curiosity, there was the sound of doors opening and shutting and a sudden influx
of merry-makers into the hall. She deemed it politic to emerge from her seat on the stairs, so she made haste to return to the party. Here, her beefy, black-haired brother-in-law surged out of the
drawing-room
to greet her with a hearty kiss and a smile of real pleasure on his large rubicund face.

‘Well, well, Charlotte, m’dear,’ he addressed her. ‘You’re looking very handsome today in that green rig-out, but why have you taken off that fetching little hat, eh? It suited you, my dear, even Lily remarked upon it.’

‘Dear Barnard,’ Charlotte returned his kiss of greeting with great affection. ‘My best hat is upstairs, of course, but I’m glad you approve. I almost jibbed at the price but it was so extremely becoming I threw caution to the winds.’ She grinned at him and patted his arm. ‘I think it all went very well, don’t you? Your young Algy is such a large promising baby, I’m sure everyone admired him.’

‘I should think myself that they were all in awe of his healthy lung capacity.’ Kit Knightley, near neighbour and Algy’s least
illustrious
godparent had come over to greet her and to shake Barnard heartily by the hand. ‘Congratulations, old fellow, a job well done.’

He nodded to his old school friend and took Charlotte’s hand between both his own. ‘And how are you?’ he asked, leading her towards the warmth and light of the drawing-room, which was to be found in the later addition to the old Tudor house. Here by the hearth stood a group of stout citizens, armed with song sheets and a lantern, singing their hearts out in carol after carol. Kit paused for a moment, merely thought Charlotte, to give an impression of listening with polite interest, before he steered her skilfully away from them to the other side of the room. ‘I’ve seen very little of you for the last couple of months, Char, what with your removal to Rowan Lodge and my own….’

‘What, what? What’s that?’ It was Lord Granville, breaking in on their conversation with a cheerful lack of ceremony and manners. ‘Knightley, is that you? What was that you called this young lady? What, what? Was it “Char” for
Char
ming, eh? Come now, my dear Mrs Richmond, I’ll wager that’s it. What do you say?’

His hand had sought and grasped Charlotte’s own once more,
and he bent towards her, evidently admiring her tall slim figure and attractively angular features. As she struggled to disengage herself without offence she shook her head with a smile.

‘It is merely a nickname, my lord,’ she said. ‘My baptismal name is Charlotte but I have sometimes been known as Char.’

‘Just as I said,’ he looked pleased with his own wit. ‘Char short for
Char
ming; after all, it sounds the same. I shall call you so, what do you say? What?’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ she managed to conceal her transports of delight at this honour. ‘But I had rather you did not, it’s just a foolish family name. My present acquaintances call me by my given name, Charlotte, and I should feel honoured indeed, if you would do so.’ She felt slightly hypocritical at this lofty
pronouncement
, bearing in mind that she was known as Miss Char to the entire village, but she reflected that Lord Granville needed no encouragement.

He looked momentarily abashed but recovered his composure quickly and was about to speak once more when he stopped short, staring after a group of ladies, his hand cupped to his ear. One of them, she could not tell which, had spoken as they promenaded round the large room now thronged with guests and at the sound of her voice, Lord Granville’s face lost a shade of its ruddy hue. He now wore an expression of extreme surprise which was, she noted with interest, replaced by something like a furtive panic. Charlotte followed his gaze but saw nothing of moment in the cluster of guests round Lily. Lord Granville harrumphed, nodded amiably, and sauntered over to speak to some of the gentlemen present, though Charlotte observed that he continued to peer anxiously after the knot of ladies.

Someone else was watching them too, she realized, noticing that Lady Granville’s companion was staring at the group of women. Lily had mentioned that a spinster lady, some kind of poor relation, was employed as a lady-in-waiting and that it was this Miss Cole who had unwittingly stumbled upon the body of her employer’s maid. While Charlotte had the utmost sympathy for any woman who must be constantly at another’s beck and call, and even more for one who had found herself confronted by a corpse and a villain
too, she was repelled by the companion’s turned-down mouth. A short, self-important looking woman, plumply pink and of
uncertain
years and clad in a plain grey dress, she had followed Charlotte downstairs and was now, after a nod and dismissive wave of the hand from Lady Granville, sitting on a hard, upright, chair, looking sour. Besides, the fussiness the woman displayed in constantly flapping a lace handkerchief to and fro in front of her face would probably drive one mad.

Charlotte, circling the room, greeting old friends and new, felt an idle curiosity as she glanced across at the companion. Miss Cole, having stared round at the assembled company, jumped up now and insistently hemmed her employer into a corner. Lady Granville, who appeared to have recovered from the upset at the church, listened with an impassive face as her companion whispered urgently into her lady’s ear. Charlotte, watching discreetly as she had no wish to be caught staring, was fascinated by the plump woman’s hairstyle, with its intricately plaited pepper-and-salt loops and twists that bobbed busily to and fro as she spoke. Like the ears on a King Charles spaniel, thought Charlotte, remembering a dog of her acquaintance in Sydney.

With another peremptory wave of dismissal, Lady Granville turned away from her companion and Charlotte saw that the lady – who had earlier looked down her nose with an air of chilly resignation while Lord Granville attempted to flirt with Charlotte – was now, after a brief glance at her husband, staring severely through her eyelashes at three particular women who were making desultory small talk where they had been left by their hostess.

There seemed nothing remarkable about the lady’s disapproval. Charlotte had observed that whenever Lord Granville approached another woman, whether seventeen or seventy, his lady’s brow had furrowed even more severely and she moved to distract him. I’m not surprised, Char sympathised in silence; his lordship looks to have been quite a handful in his younger days but he must be getting on now, so he is surely less of a worry? She glanced at the ladies currently under scrutiny; Lady Granville had clearly spotted her husband’s passing interest and was taking a closer look at them
on her own behalf as she positioned herself in such a way as to obscure her husband’s view.

Two were ladies of recent acquaintance whom Lily Richmond and Agnes had met at the Deanery in Winchester, and surely
introductions
came with no higher recommendation of respectability, mused Charlotte. These were the individuals involved in the ‘falling dominoes’ incident Agnes had described at the church door but, like Lady Granville, they appeared to have suffered no lasting damage. They were sisters, Charlotte understood, though she had not come across them until today. There was no longer any
requirement
, thank heaven, to sit through Lily’s interminable daily stories of what she and her cronies had discussed over tea when out visiting.

Under her lashes, she watched with amusement as Lord Granville sidled away from his monumental wife and tried to edge his way to be near the visiting women. He was soon thwarted by his lady who, apparently all unconscious of his intention, moved to take his arm and turn him into another direction. She must be accustomed to his habits, Charlotte thought, admiring the guest’s strategy.

There must be forty or more guests, she thought, counting heads, and although the drawing-room was large enough, the heat was rising, what with the roaring fire, and she spotted several red faces. She had decided on a strategic retreat to find somewhere less crowded, when she heard her name hissed in conspiratorial tones.

‘Char,’ Lily had whisked into the room with a gracious smile pinned to her round pink face but with disaster written there unmistakably when she ran Charlotte to earth.

‘You must help me, Char,’ she whispered, making sure none of the guests were within hearing. ‘I’m at my wits’ end. The kitchen cat has brought in a dead rat and planted it right on top of Little Algy’s christening cake. What in heaven’s name are we to do?’

‘Oh my goodness,’ Charlotte stifled an urge to giggle; this was far too serious for laughter – Lily would never forgive her. ‘I hope someone has taken it off? Good, that’s the first thing, then….’

‘But, Char,’ Lily whispered again, even more urgently. ‘The wretched cat has left footprints on the cake too.’

‘Don’t worry, Lily. I remember that my stepfather met with something like this in one of his parishes in South Australia. The thing to do is to conceal the damage and act as if nothing had happened. I know….’ Her gaze fell on one of the bowls of
potpourri
dotted around the room, evidence of her own efforts as a result of her delight in last summer’s flowers. No, not flowers, of course, but… ‘Are there any of those candied fruits left over? Cherries? Excellent, tell Cook to give the top of the cake a quick wipe over with a clean damp cloth to get rid of any dirt and she should press the cherries down all over the cake top.’

It was a makeshift solution but Lily’s gratitude was heartfelt as she vanished towards the kitchen. Charlotte recalled her stepfather’s mirth:
‘Luckily I had stepped into the parlour shortly before the company made its way there and I found the lady of the house in hysterics. Her precious cat had chosen that day of all days to move her kittens from a dark cupboard somewhere, but she must have been startled somehow and leaped on to the table, only to drop one poor little thing into the punch bowl.’
Will had laughed anew at the calamity.
‘What with the cat going frantic to rescue its child and the lady even more in a state, with her illustrious visitors almost upon us, I did the only thing possible. I rescued the kitten and got it and its careless parent out of the way, then I seized a knife and cut up some fruit to throw in the punchbowl, along with half a bottle of brandy.’
He had winked at his stepdaughter.
‘I thought it best to forego the punch myself – the kitten had had quite a fright, after all – though as it turned out, nobody suffered any ill effects, not even the kitten.’