Chapter Text
Previously ...
Sidney dismisses Tom’s suggestions for an event to promote Sanditon. Lennox shows a certain interest in the library’s mysterious secret corridor. Charlotte dreams sweetly (and not very innocently) of Mr Parker but has a rough awakening early the next morning when she first finds the Beaufort girls missing and then discovers another body in the library...
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A late-night bath (undisturbed, this time) and a generous shot of Chivas Regal helped Sidney fall asleep quickly. His slumber was relatively peaceful - that is, as peaceful as can be when a lovely woman roamed one’s dreams. She was here, there, everywhere, gazing at him from those expressive dark eyes, reaching for him, her fingertips tracing the shape of his face, her lips brushing his, her sweet body melting against his muscles, her voice whispering tender reassurances of affection into his ear.
“Mr Parker? Mr Parker! Please, wake up!”
Sidney opened his eyes. The voice was correct, but the words were hardly the endearment he’d hoped for.
“Mr Parker? Oh, good, you’re awake.” The reading light on his bedside table was switched on, and he stared directly into Charlotte’s brown eyes, finding not indefinite passion but great alarm in them.
“I’m so sorry for disturbing your sleep, sir,” she said, biting her lip.
“Charlotte?” Sidney sat up, wide awake now, taking in the vision by his bedside yet slowly realising that she was not going to join him for a morning snog. In fact, she looked decidedly flustered – if not outright panicky. “What is it?” he said, taking her hand, only to realise what he was doing when he felt her small fingers clasping around his.
“Best come and see for yourself,” she said pleadingly. “I know what to do … theoretically, and I think I did the right thing last time … but… I didn’t expect it to happen again.”
“What to happen again?”
“There’s another dead body in the library, I’m afraid.”
Sidney jumped out of his bed and into his morning gown and slippers, all pleasant fantasies involving Charlotte Heywood forgotten. There she was, a brave young woman, yet clearly unsettled now. She’d never enter that library alone again, that much was sure. “Let’s get downstairs.” – Without much thought now, he took her by her hand again, pulling her with him. Out in the corridor, he remembered: “Who is it?”
“It’s old Constable Stringer, I’m afraid.” Even in the scarce light, he could see the tear running down her cheek. “The poor inspector. This will be such a blow to him.”
The grumpy old policeman. It would be a blow indeed for young Thor.
“There’s more,” she now said, covering his hand with both of hers as if he were her anchor. “The Beaufort girls are gone. Fled at night. I assume they never were as ill as they claimed.”
This whole affair was becoming increasingly dubious. “Have you called the police station?” Sidney asked.
“Not yet. Not after what happened last time.”
“Do you want me to call them?”
“That was my first impulse. But thinking about it, it’s maybe not such a good idea. I would have to explain why I came to you first …”
Excellent question. Why did she come to him first? Peering into her sad yet still luminous eyes, her small hands sandwiching his with soft pressure, he believed he knew the answer, and it made his heart flutter in a way he’d long forgotten. He let one breath go by, and a second. Her gaze never left his face.
“Charlotte …”
Behind them, a door opened with a creak. Charlotte jumped apart, releasing Sidney’s hand.
Lockhart stuck his uncombed head out of the door. “Are you guys having a midnight party?”
“Go back to bed,” Sidney ordered. “It’s a quarter to six.”
“So what are you doing here?” The writer’s gaze travelled from Sidney to Charlotte and back, turning from curious to knowing. Charlotte blushed, staring at her feet. Sidney felt an anger rise inside of him that he didn’t even know he possessed. But before he could tell the man to shut up and mind his own bloody business, the sound of the dressing gong rang through the house.
Charlotte and Sidney shared one quick glance before running towards the stairs and down to the hall, followed by Lockhart, who was uttering very American expletives (which were foreign to the innocent English ear and therefore cannot be repeated here).
Mrs Griffiths was sounding the gong, wielding the clapper with both hands, as if she were defending herself against the Grim Reaper; her face a grimace of shock and fear. “Ouch! Someone take that thing from the woman!” Lockhart winced after being hit by the pommel.
“Mrs Griffiths.” Babington was arriving on scene in his majestic silk banyan, as always the diplomat and best disposed to calm down an excited woman’s nerves. “Mrs Griffiths,” he said again, offering his hand to take the clapper from the housekeeper. “Will you tell us what happened, Mrs Griffiths?”
“It’s … It’s the constable…” She pointed the clapper at the library. “The poor man … He’s lying there, in his own blood …”
“What?” Babington and Lockhart asked at the same time, and “The constable?” added Lennox, who was just arriving, still knotting the belt of his bathrobe.
“Yes, and he’s dead… as dead as poor Sir Rowleigh.” The housekeeper was crying now, and Babington, ever the gentleman, generously offered his shoulder for her to cry as much as she needed.
“Dead!” Lockhart called. “Another man dead! Is that what you English people do? Kill each other, until there’s none of you left?”
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for what’s happened.” Lennox eyed the library door with a frown. “Has the police been informed?”
Mrs Griffiths, still wetting Babington’s shoulder with her tears, shook her head. “I’ll do that,” Lennox said, taking charge, suddenly all military man. “Mr Parker, make sure no one enters the library … Hankins!” The butler was just arriving, already in his uniform, nervously stroking his sideburns.
“Mrs Griffiths… what is it with her?” he asked.
“Mrs Griffiths will be alright,” Lennox decreed. “Hankins, I need you to make sure no one’s leaving Sanditon House. There’s been another unpleasant incident in the library.”
“What? And Mrs Griffiths … has she …”
“… discovered the body, yes,” the colonel confirmed.
“But what were you doing that early in the morning in the library?” the butler asked the housekeeper.
She stopped crying on Babington’s shoulder and turned around, pointing at Charlotte.
“It’s all because of her! That obstinate, headstrong girl! – Her ladyship asked me to remove her and make sure she’s gone from the house before breakfast. That’s why I walked into the library, where I believed she was laying the fire – only it turned out she wasn’t, and I found the poor constable instead ….”
“Wait, wait, wait, wait …” Sidney kept himself from shouting at the woman. “Are you implying Char… the maid did this?”
“I’m not implying anything,” the housekeeper declared. “I’m just detailing what happened.”
“You’re missing part of the picture, Mrs Griffiths,” Charlotte calmly said, and Sidney could only admire her for staying focused even when under scrutiny and pressure. “I found the constable before you did – I was about to get help. And I found the Beaufort girls took flight last night.”
“The Beaufort girls?” Hankins repeated as Mrs Griffiths was shaken by a fresh wave of tears: “Those silly, silly girls!”
“Does that mean they took out Sir Rowleigh and the cop?” Lockhart enquired.
“Right, while you’re all busy solving the case, I’ll alert Sanditon police station.” Lennox walked towards the phone booth, nodding at Clara Brereton, who came downstairs now.
“What happened? Is there another one?” she asked, closing a man’s nightgown over her silk pyjamas.
“It seems Constable Stringer died last night,” Sidney said. “Though I would like to remind you all that this could be down to natural causes. He might very well have suffered a heart attack. Until Dr Fox has examined him, nothing is for sure.”
“Inspector Stringer will be so upset,” Charlotte mumbled, looking quite sad. As much as Sidney appreciated her compassion for young Thor, he wished it were directed elsewhere.
“What did you say about the Beaufort girls?” Babington asked her. “They are gone?”
“Yes,” Charlotte confirmed. “Their room is empty. They’ve been behaving very strangely these past few days, always claiming they were suffering the worst cases of taptikliditis imaginable, but I tend to doubt that. Taptikliditis is known to befall mostly middle-aged women.”
“So are those girls our suspects?” Lockhart asked. “I’d like to know, because if they are, and they are gone, I’ll feel much safer.”
“They are exceptionally silly girls, but I doubt they are capable of murder,” Charlotte said. Mrs Griffiths finally woke up from the stupor she’d been in.
“You! What are you still doing here? Her ladyship wants you gone, and for good reason. Go upstairs, packing!”
“She’s a witness, Mrs Griffiths, like us all.” Babington turned all diplomatic again. “She’ll have to stay until the police have spoken with her.”
“There’s no female staff left if she leaves,” Clara added. “Unless you want to make the beds yourself, Mrs G.”
Mrs Griffiths’ tears started falling again. Hankins sent a glaring gaze towards Charlotte. “This whole disruption only started with you!”
This wasn’t true, and Sidney saw that Charlotte was about to tell the butler, which in no way would have improved her situation. He stepped between Hankins and the maid. “It’s Scotland Yard’s task to establish who’s responsible for these events,” he said. “Not ours, Hankins.”
Lennox returned from making the phone call. “Sanditon police station will send officers over to secure the scene, but given that the victim is his father, Scotland Yard has to pull Inspector Stringer from the investigation and send someone new.”
“I’m feeling so sorry for him,” Charlotte said again. “Has he been told?”
“He’s staying at the Crown Hotel, so the station sergeant will walk over and inform him,” Lennox said.
“And what about us? Are we taken prisoners again?” Lockhart asked.
Lennox shrugged his shoulders. “Same procedure as last time, Mr Lockhart, I’d assume. We make ourselves representable, meet in the breakfast room, and wait for a little chat with the new inspector. – Hankins, would you be so good as to guard the library until the police arrive?”
“But what about her?” Mrs Griffiths pointed at Charlotte. “Her ladyship wants her gone before breakfast!”
The colonel looked Charlotte up and down. “I suggest you retire to your room and wait for further instructions.”
Charlotte didn’t like this – she bit her lip as if to prevent protest coming out of her mouth, her eyes gleaming with anger. However, it was Clara who liked Lennox’s orders even less.
“Are you the one giving orders now in this house, Colonel Lennox?”
“I’m taking charge in a situation of uncertainty, Miss Brereton.”
“You seem to be making a good job of worming your way into our aunt’s heart. Only know that it’s an icy place. Once you’re inside, you’re likely to freeze to death.”
*
What weird turn of events! And how frustrating! On the way back to her room, Charlotte sighed deeply. Poor Stringer junior. Poor Stringer senior! Dying in the line of duty certainly had a heroic ring to it; yet, when faced in reality, it wasn’t anything but sad. And poor Mrs Griffiths! The woman was a bundle of nerves under the best of circumstances, yet the image of the old man, his twisted neck, the eyes staring into the void – it would haunt the housekeeper for a good while. Charlotte certainly knew it would haunt her.
Plus the issue of Mr Parker. She’d hoped that once the initial excitement was over, her feelings towards Lady D’s most befuddling guest would cool down quickly. He was only a man, after all.
But then again, he wasn’t. He was the most fascinating, most interesting, most intriguing man she’d ever met. And to think that her dear papa had wanted her to marry their neighbour’s son, Ralphie Starling – not for love, or affection, or anything else connected to sentiment, but because it was a good match, at least from a father’s standpoint – when such a unique specimen of man as Mr Parker roamed the earth!
Charlotte kicked the door to her servant chamber open and, moaning in frustration, threw herself on the bed.
“It’s so unfair!” she told Becky and the kitten whose pink nose was peeking out from underneath the crocodile’s snout. “Finally, something exciting happens in my life, and the next thing I know, I’m being sent to my room as if I were a little girl behaving badly.”
The kitten lovingly licked Charlotte’s little finger with its scrawny tongue. “He was about to kiss me,” she whispered. “Had not Mr Lockhart interfered … oh, such an odious man! – But I think he likes me too. Mr Parker, that is. Not that false American.” Neither the kitten nor Becky disagreed. They were the most encouraging friends a girl in love could hope for.
Charlotte lay back on her bed, gently cradling the kitten that was crawling on top of her, rubbing its little nose against her cheek. So much had happened these past days – apart from falling in love.
For any murder, she remembered, there was this one initial starting point from which the drama took off. One key moment, one impulse, one act – or perhaps just a word – that was too much and catapulted the culprit beyond the point of no return.
For all Charlotte knew, with Sir Rowleigh’s case, that was the minute when her ladyship had announced their marriage plans. Her family’s dreams of riches to come had burst, and Tom Parker’s financial difficulties with the pleasure pier had only increased. Whether the news had any impact on Colonel Lennox and Mr Lockhart, or even on Mr Crowe and Miss Lambe, Charlotte couldn’t tell. Yet, when hunting for a murderer, it would be wrong to concentrate solely on Lady D’s immediate family and the Parkers.
Clearly, the murderer had acted in a moment of rage: the whole situation with the broken glass and the mess around the fireplace was proof enough. Also, a pen knife sticking out of Sir Rowleigh’s throat: that was a brutal image in itself. Someone following a precise and diligent plan might have chosen a less sensational method.
As for the suspects, Sir Teddy was certainly at the top of the list. Or Miss Brereton. Yet could a woman have committed such a savage crime? Maybe Sir Teddy and Miss Brereton? – But there had been only two glasses in the library. Or were the glasses and the brandy bottle just part of the deception?
Next was Lockhart. A caricature of an American, and definitely not who he claimed to be. Charlotte shuddered, thinking of how she’d found the Baedeker under his undies. But if he wasn’t Charles Lockhart, Hartford, Connecticut, who was he? Why was he here? And did her ladyship know about his true identity? Charlotte’s brain made a wide loop… what if he was a secret agent, placed here to spy on Lord Babington and Mr Parker? Both men were working at the foreign office, and their exact tasks remained unknown … If they were involved in some secret work, they might be targeted by a foreign foe… Charlotte knew her Scarlet Pimpernel well, and it was easy to cast Mr Parker in the title role. So was Lockhart the evil antagonist, Mr Parker’s very own Citizen Chauvelin? - And if Mr Parker was the Pimpernel, who was his lovely Marguerite?
If Lockhart was a foe, who was Lennox? The colonel’s motives for coming to Sanditon were sketchy, at best. Charlotte assumed there was a connection to the taciturn new neighbour, Mr Colbourne, and his wife, yet such matters were truly not her business.
Finally, the Beaufort girls’ flight. Truly suspicious. But what connection could there be between them and Sir Rowleigh? Charlotte sighed. Philly had always been useless as a housemaid, and her sister Julia, Lady Denham’s short-lived lady’s maid, had not done much better, both of them frequently distracted by their interest in dance, fun, and famous actors.
And how did poor Stringer senior fit in all this? Why did he have to die? Had he come too close to the secret door in the library? Did the feather and the bead she’d found in the secret corridor have any meaning?
The whole affair was a conundrum Charlotte found impossible to solve. Just as Mr Parker, who was also a conundrum.
And now that Lady Denham seemed determined to fire her, she might never learn the end of the story. She’d have to go back to Willingden, defeated, heartbroken, facing her father’s I-told-you-so-expression. She would not inspire her sisters as a glowing example of a modern woman; she’d be laughed at as the embodiment of conceit and failure. “I can’t go back,” she told the kitten. “I can’t go home.”
Outside on the window ledge, a large herring gull started a cacophony of laughter. “What’s it to you, Mr Bird?” Charlotte said, pulling the kitten a little closer. Her tiny friend hissed at the gull, then, with a gentle purr, nestled in the crook of Charlotte’s neck.
She thought of Mr Parker, of all the moments and glances they’d shared over these two short days. Why did it feel as if she’d known him all her life? One thing she knew for sure: He was a challenge worth fighting for. She was not going to let him go just because that miserly old woman, otherwise known as Lady Denham, was angry with her for stumbling over her murdered fiancé.
No, Charlotte determined, she was a girl of brains and determination; she would fight for her future – and for Sidney Parker to be in it.
The gull stopped laughing. The kitten, in its unique kitten way, changed its mood immediately and, rather than gently purring, started jumping up and down Charlotte’s chest, chasing invisible intruders.
“Well then,” Charlotte said, carefully placing her little companion under Becky’s snout. “Have a little nap, sweetheart, while I go investigating.” It certainly took more than an angry Lady D to keep Charlotte Heywood confined to her room – especially when there was a mystery to solve.