She sipped from her cup again. She expected the fizz this time, and found it wasn’t altogether unpleasant. It made her want to giggle. Dr. Snelling downed another half-glassful.
“That can happen with patients,” he said. “They rebound. Needs of the moment give them … how d’you say…” He quenched his parched memory with a swig of punch. “Vim. Vigor. A new lease on life. Maybe it’s this business with her grandson. No. Nephew, isn’t it?”
“Julius,” Martha offered.
Dr. Snelling waved this information away.
“I’ve seen patients at death’s door rally when a youngster in the family caught a trifling cold. Feeling needed is a remarkable tonic. ’Course, there are other powerful reasons to live, too. Like burning through all your dough.”
Dull Martha took another long draught of punch. How curious that she hadn’t liked it at first. Like nectar of the gods! It was pagan to think about gods. They didn’t wear enough clothes, for one thing. But if they drank punch like this, they couldn’t be all bad.
“Dough?”
Dr. Snelling grinned and adjusted his gold watch. “Money,” he said. “Rich people live forever, more’s the pity if you’re next in line. Live long to hoard your gold for spite.”
Words just spoken tickled Martha’s memory.
“Death’s door, you said?” She drained her last drops of punch. “Anyway, Mrs. Plackett isn’t rich.”
“Here. Let me refill you.” Martha held out her glass, which he filled along with his own. “Ahh. Nothing makes a man thirsty like riding around all day, talking to sick people. As to who’s rich, you never know.” He leaned in a little closer. “Do you want to hear a secret?”
Martha nodded. She wanted to hear what he meant by “death’s door,” but she could wait.
“Sick people smell terrible!”
Dr. Snelling’s face contorted into a grimace of hilarious laughter. He wheezed and chuckled to himself so contagiously that Martha couldn’t help giggling, too.
“Do they?”
The doctor had to wipe his eyes with his shirt cuffs. “That’s my professional secret. One they don’t exactly teach at university. I can tell whose days are numbered by how they smell.”
Henry Butts came into view across the room just then, and Martha found her interest in the doctor’s company begin to wane.
“Your headmistress, for instance. She’s got a liverish smell. Positively ripe, she is.”
Martha snickered at this. It was true. Mrs. Plackett had a distinctive sourness to her that no amount of scented powder could fully overcome. Martha took another deep draught of punch.
“There she sits now, looking like a picture of health.” The doctor licked his juice-stained lips and watched Stout Alice keenly. “But I submit to you that she isn’t long for this world. Months at most. Could be weeks. Money can’t buy a new liver, more’s the pity.”
Martha nearly choked on her punch. Its bubbles shot straight to her brain and left her feeling dizzy. She gulped down the last swallow and stared at Stout Alice, talking pleasantly to Disgraceful Mary Jane’s police constable beau. Months to live? Weeks? Had she misunderstood something? Poor Alice! So wise, and always so patient and kind. Martha looked to Alice as a shield whenever Mary Jane’s vanity or Smooth Kitty’s bossiness got to be too much. To lose her now was unbearable. She hoped she was wrong. For once it would be a comfort to be wrong.
The doctor scowled and muttered under his breath. He eyed his empty glass as though it were his enemy. Finally he nodded curtly in her direction. “Didn’t mean to worry you. Evening, Miss.” He strode away, leaving Dull Martha with a sticky mouth and a frightened heart.
And it was in this state that Henry Butts found her when he appeared at her side.
“Evening, Miss Martha.” He made a halting smile.
* * *
“This … Charles … Niff, or whatever he calls himself,” Stout Alice-as-Mrs.-Plackett haughtily informed Constable Quill, with an indifferent wave of her hand, “might well be mistaken. Or perhaps my brother found an opportunity to ride with an acquaintance to another nearby train station. I couldn’t say. And now, young man, you haven’t kept your promise to keep this brief. If we must have this conversation, a church social is no place for it.”
The policeman tipped his hat deferentially. “Pardon me, ma’am,” he said in a voice of meekness that Smooth Kitty didn’t trust. “I assumed you would share my concern for your brother’s safety.”
“My brother is a grown man, quite capable of looking after himself,” said the false Mrs. Plackett. “Good evening.”
Constable Quill bowed and left the table. Smooth Kitty had the distinct feeling he went away feeling he’d won.
Stout Alice’s breath came shakily. Disgraceful Mary Jane rose and followed after the constable, but Alice felt too rattled to try and stop her, though there was no telling what Mary Jane might let slip under the spell of handsome shoulders.
Back at their table, the remaining girls couldn’t give vent to emotions in a place like this, so stunned looks passing across their embroidered tablecloth had to suffice.
Smooth Kitty was the first to whisper aloud.
“We must not let this development rattle us,” she said. “It proves nothing and implies nothing. No foul play is even suspected.”
“Ssshh.” Stout Alice’s hush was full of warning. “Not here.”
The parish social now felt full, and the girls looked about themselves with horror. What other eyes were spying them and plotting their ruin? After this distasteful encounter with the police force, what else could go wrong?
Stout Alice looked across the hall to find Mary Jane. She and the constable flirted in a corner, partially shielded from view by the red velvet curtains which had been pulled aside in order that the pianoforte and the stage could be in full view of the guests seated at the tables. “We should go get Mary Jane.” Stout Alice shook her head. “She’ll make a spectacle of us all. Mrs. Plackett wouldn’t allow her to throw herself at police officers in public like this.”
They were deterred from retrieving Mary Jane. Like moles popping up from their holes, two young men suddenly materialized at their table. Both were tall and thin, and made to seem even more so by their somewhat oversized and faded black coats. Dear Roberta sat up straighter, and gave her coiffure a little boost.
“Pardon us, Madam,” said one of them, a youth with ginger hair pomaded flat upon his scalp, as he bowed deferentially to Stout Alice. “Do I apprehend correctly that your name is Mrs. Plackett, proprietress of Saint Etheldreda’s School for Young Ladies? May we be permitted to make the acquaintance of your charming pupils?”
Stout Alice shook herself slightly, reasserting the role of Mrs. Plackett.
“And what is your name, young man?”
The speaker bowed. “My friend and I are students at Barton Theological College. My name is Albert Bly. I hail from Northumberland. This is my friend, Charles Bringhurst, from Cambridge. ‘Funeral Charlie,’ we call him.”
“Do you indeed?” Stout Alice examined the young man from Cambridge. His dark hair was somewhat longer than fashion permitted, parted severely down the middle of his scalp. He was all angles, with a long Roman nose, protruding bones, and deep hollows in each cheek. “And why have you given your friend such a sobriquet?”
Mr. Albert Bly, who seemed incapable of not smiling, beamed. “His sermons on the state of the soul after death defy all description, and his eulogies make strong men weep over their mothers-in-law. We suspect he’s a little too fond of death, but it’s bound to make his career.”
“You joke about it,” said Dour Elinor, “but it seems proper that a future clergyman have keen sensibilities where mortality is concerned.”
Funeral Charlie gazed upon Dour Elinor, then bowed deeply. Stout Alice smiled behind her Chinese fan, and performed the necessary introductions.
“I’m more of a marriages-and-christenings man myself,” Mr. Bly told Dear Roberta.
Stou
t Alice felt herself warming to her sixty-something role. “I should say you are somewhat young to have much to offer to young couples by way of marital advice.”
Mr. Bly responded in a jovial spirit. “Ah, but a well-educated clergyman need never let a lack of experience stand in the way of preaching. Or else, what are all these divinity studies for?”
Their conversation fizzed along. Stout Alice welcomed the harmless distraction. Albert Bly, the smiler, was by all evidence quite taken with Dear Roberta, whose cheeks had never looked so bright. Her smile never shone to such perfection as it now did by parish hall lamplight. Mr. Charles Bringhurst somehow contrived to pull up a chair and insinuate himself between Dear Roberta and Dour Elinor, and soon he and the latter were deep in conversation on topics of morbid interest to them alone. Pocked Louise rolled her eyes at the transformation that had overtaken her classmates in the presence of these young gentlemen. She sent her gaze searching the room for Dull Martha, and scowled to see her smiling bashfully at Henry Butts.
Smooth Kitty found the scene amusing, but these theological gentlemen were a meager distraction from their present difficulties. Constable Quill would prove difficult. Not even Mary Jane’s bewitching green eyes could deter his investigative bloodlust. Alice’s vocal performance—where would it lead? To discovery and disaster? Somewhere in this room of friendly familiar Ely folk, a murderer might well be concealed—one still out to get Mrs. Plackett. But there Alice sat, conversing gravely as Mrs. Plackett with the two collegiate youths. It seemed she could manage her own affairs. For a brief hiatus, Kitty decided to let her.
“Excuse me, girls.” Smooth Kitty rose and pushed her chair in. “I need to stretch my legs a bit. I’ll be back presently.” She left before anyone could query her intentions, hoping she could look purposeful even with no place to go. The washroom, perhaps? The kitchen, where she might offer some assistance? No, Amanda Barnes might come in with a tray of empty glasses. She looked about for Mary Jane and saw her whispering into the constable’s ear. What could that shocking girl be saying?
Over the party’s hubbub Kitty’s ears caught the notes of a train’s whistle, down the hill at the station. Oh, that snoop of a ticket master! Someday soon, she vowed, they’d purchase seven tickets for that train, and ride away from this overly inquisitive little city, where everyone knew everyone else’s face and business—where, ironically, the guilty could get away with murder, but the innocent couldn’t get away with innocently covering it up. There was no justice in the world, or at least none in Ely.
The train whistle’s siren song called Kitty to far off places, to ports where swaying ships could carry the Saint Etheldreda sisterhood to any place they wished to see—Paris, Calcutta, America even. She wandered over to a piece of artwork tacked to the wall and pretended to examine it. In addition to the musical performances featured for the evening, members of the parish had contributed needlework samplers, sketches, and watercolors of their own make to display at the evening’s gala, for the cultural edification of all Ely. Mrs. Rumsey held adamant feelings about Culture, and Ely’s lack thereof. Kitty’s mind was so preoccupied that she failed to take much notice of the charcoal drawing that occupied her field of vision, except to observe that their own Dour Elinor could have done much, much better. It was a skyline of the cathedral, from the vantage point of the pretty park that lay on its southern side.
She drifted along the wall to another artistic offering. This was the cathedral from another angle, rather lumpy looking, but drenched in morning sunlight. Kitty stifled a yawn and wished she could stretch her arms over her head. She turned back to see Dear Roberta rise and walk to the punch table with the cheerful Mr. Bly. Then, of all things, Dour Elinor rose and accompanied Funeral Charlie to the heaping strawberry platters. This left Pocked Louise sitting ramrod-straight and looking vexed, and Stout Alice laughing into her fan.
Admiral Lockwood tottered across the room, cutting a slow-but-straight swath through the assembled guests for the table he believed belonged to Mrs. Constance Plackett. He held a glass of punch in one hand, and Kitty thought it more than likely some would slosh on Patricia Rumsey’s immaculate floors. But he reached Stout Alice’s side, set down the glass, bowed, and took one of the vacated seats beside Alice.
Kitty watched Stout Alice greet her octogenarian suitor. She should fly to Alice’s rescue, she felt, but she was tired. The weighty burden of safeguarding seven girls and a morbid secret hung like a millstone around her neck tonight. Her confidence frayed, unraveling slowly like a stocking poorly knitted by Elinor.
“Shame on you,” she chided herself. “Brace up and carry on. Or go home to Father.”
Alice seemed to be managing with old Admiral Lockwood well enough. The admiral gestured broadly as he spoke. Kitty suspected Alice was fond of the old sailor. Perhaps she could better help by standing guard, here by the wall, and watching for anything that could threaten Alice’s safety. People moved in and out of her field of vision, obscuring her view of Alice’s table, and it left Kitty feeling anxious. She moved along the wall in search of a better view.
Reverend and Mrs. Rumsey took to the dais and were met by polite applause from the assembly. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the vicar boomed. “Young people, and those young at heart, thank you for gracing our evening’s social with your presence. We are pleased to inaugurate the evening’s program of musical entertainment, but first, a few words of thanks to those without whom this event would not be possible. My dear and devoted wife, Mrs. Rumsey…”
Kitty turned back toward the wall and forced herself to look at the next painting, which seemed little more than a blur of watercolor. Brown columns rising against a field of blue … Oh, no. Not another one.
“A startlingly original concept, is it not? Painting the cathedral?”
“Oh!” She jumped at the sound of a low voice so close to her ear.
It was the young man from the chemist’s shop. The same one who had ridden by the house that very afternoon and caught her in a shabby housekeeping frock.
Kitty cringed to remember her cowardly behavior earlier. Now she had no place to hide.
Tonight the young man wore a dark blue coat and tails, with a white cravat and waistcoat. His dark brown curls gleamed in the lamplight. A faint smile played upon his lips as he studied this latest dubious work of art.
Kitty lowered her voice to a whisper. “You startled me, sneaking up like that.”
He pressed a finger over his lips, and whispered so that Kitty had to lean close to hear. “The good vicar is still making his speech. I’m only here to admire the masterpiece.”
The young man fixed his gaze piously upon the painting before them both, but there was mischief in the corners of his eyes, Kitty was certain. And then, uncertain. Somehow he seemed to take in both Kitty and the painting simultaneously. Again she noticed his skin, more brown from the sun than anyone in Ely so early in the year, and the note in his pronunciation she could not quite place. But she could not let his last word pass.
“Masterpiece indeed!”
“Don’t you think so?”
A pair of elderly ladies seated close by turned to frown at them. Kitty covered her mouth with her hand. In the background, Reverend Rumsey’s voice droned on. “… and Mrs. Livonia Butts, for her generous donation of her award-winning butter, so ingeniously sculpted into frolicking hams … I’m sorry, that’s frolicking lambs…”
The young man leaned in closer to whisper, pointing at the painting as he did so. “Let us analyze this painting, and prove my theory. There’s an airy lightness to the building that belies its solid bulk. The artist has defied stale notions of line and form, and branched out into bold new territory with curves. One almost feels the cathedral is a smoky apparition that will float away upon the next breeze.”
Kitty tried not to snort. “What rubbish! It looks like it’s made of gelatin.”
He raised an eyebrow quizzically, and peered at the painting. Kitty began to doubt herself. Was he serious? H
e sounded so well-trained in the language of art. Gelatin! Had her inane comments painted her to be a fool?
And why should she care if they had?
She watched his face anxiously for some sign, and saw his gaze move quickly to the placard naming the artist, T. Richardson. He looked back at the painting, and then at her.
A new and dreadful thought gripped Kitty. Was he T. Richardson? Had she just insulted his painting? Even if it was a gelatinous mess, Kitty would never dream of saying so to its creator. And especially when its creator had such a pleasant forehead. Well, dark curls, rather. Or was it the line of the nose? The thoughtful expression, surely. The brown Adam’s apple might distract one’s gaze, but that was only a comment upon the pure whiteness of its surrounding white collar. And that was a simple matter of good laundering.
Kitty began to feel a bit dizzy. The room around her ruptured into applause, for apparently the vicar had concluded his litany of gratitude. The young man began to clap as well, and as he did so he leaned in close to speak in Kitty’s ear.
“I take issue with your assessment of the painting. You are too harsh a critic. I would more likely call it a mousse.”
Kitty was too mortified to listen. “Oh, Mr. Richardson, I do apologize. My knowledge of art is so—” The abrupt end to the applause drew her up short. She whispered. “So limited. I’ve no right to judge.” She collected her wits. “Wait. Did you just say mousse?”
The young man’s eyes twinkled. “Mr. Richardson, am I? You cut me to the quick!”
A weedy-looking youth took the dais and began to play a breathy air upon his flute.
“Aren’t you Mr. Richardson?”
He shook his head. “Not this evening, at any rate.”
Kitty began to feel unsure of who she was that evening. “You’re better versed at art, anyway,” she said, recognizing this for the feeble statement it was.