Murder Past, Love Present

Excerpt

I glanced up at the clock on the façade, which in my time hasn’t worked in living memory: it said ten. In my time it lurches on a few minutes whenever I go back. I don’t know what the link is, but that’s why I don’t want to have it repaired, in case it spoils whatever allows, or perhaps causes, the shift.

I started off towards the church, walking briskly because a respectable lady shouldn’t be out by herself without her maid or footman. But this wasn’t London and I was in a respectable part of town, so I didn’t attract any stares. There were parts of old Welhampstead that I wouldn’t venture into by myself while I was pretending to be a lady and wasn’t armed with my safety boots and a spanner. I might enjoy window shopping the exclusive boutiques of Grape Lane in my day, but in this time it was Grope Lane with all that implied.

Past the churchyard and I was almost there when I saw Matthew coming out of his front gate. I stopped so I could admire the effect of breeches, boots and a rakish hat on a man with long legs and broad shoulders. Call it the Mr Darcy Effect, or just label me predictable, but my toes were curling inside my neat little leather shoes.

He recognised me, even with the veil down. Not difficult, I suppose – there weren’t many women in the town who were five foot eight and probably panting heavily with lust.

I had myself under control by the time he reached me and doffed his hat. ‘Good morning, Miss Rowlands. I was on my way to visit Thomas Grantly. Would you care to accompany me?’

‘Why certainly, Mr Sheldon.’ I put my hand into his crooked elbow and we turned around. ‘Is your arm quite recovered, sir?’

‘Completely, thank you. I feel ready for any exertion.’

‘In that case,’ I demanded, ‘what are we doing walking away from your house and your bed?’

Matthew choked and came to a halt while he recovered. He still wasn’t used to a woman who was quite capable of expressing what she wanted so frankly.

‘Mrs Bettison is giving the house a top to toe cleaning,’ he said, mopping his eyes. ‘She’s off to spend a week with her sister in St Albans the day after tomorrow and she doesn’t trust Molly to keep the place up to her standards without supervision.’

Mrs Bettison was his resident housekeeper and Molly the maid of all work who came in daily, but lived with her parents and five siblings somewhere off the High Street.

‘You could give Molly a day off while Mrs B’s away,’ I suggested. ‘I’m sure she deserves a holiday.’

‘Very true,’ Matthew said thoughtfully. ‘After all, the house will be so clean there won’t be much for her to do, will there? I could give her two days, or even three. I’m sure she deserves it.’

‘What a considerate employer you are,’ I said demurely.

‘No, I’m not. I’m being corrupted by a wicked woman.’ He sounded quite pleased at the prospect.

‘Why are we visiting Tom? Is everything all right with him?’ I asked. Tom Grantly, the town’s surgeon, was Matthew’s closest friend and the other person who knew the truth about me.

‘He is well, but I borrowed five pounds off him a couple of days ago when we were in Watford and I saw a saddle I wanted to buy.’ We cut across the churchyard where the sexton was scything some long grass and not, I was glad to see, digging a grave. There had been too many deaths recently in the town.

Despite the lack of a newly-dug grave I half expected to find Tom Grantly in his operating room conducting a post-mortem examination. But there was apparently no body waiting for him, nor any patients requiring bones setting, abscesses lancing or wounds stitching. Georgian medicine was split between the doctors, who happily went about applying ancient remedies and killing far more patients than they cured, the surgeons, who actually did the useful work (when not blood-letting and spreading infections) but on whom the doctors looked down on as artisans, and the apothecaries, who often knew a great deal more than the doctors, but were the lowest rung of the ladder, being not only artisans but shopkeepers into the bargain.

Instead we found Tom in his sitting room entertaining a young lady, her maid sitting discreetly in the corner as chaperone. There was something about him that was unfamiliar, that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He had expensive tastes and was always immaculately dressed, despite his profession, affecting the cult of utter (but costly) simplicity promoted by Beau Brummel. He also always seemed unflappable: the only time I had ever seen him less than assured was when we were shifting a coffin in a mausoleum and something inside knocked on the box.

Now he looked faintly ill at ease and the only thing that could account for it was his visitor, not that she looked like either trouble or insipient boredom, being a cheerful curvy brunette with big brown eyes, a long nose and freckles. Tom Grantly had no objection to pretty young women as far as I was aware, and he was hardly a shy man, so what his problem was, I couldn’t fathom.

Tom got to his feet when we came in. ‘Matthew? Er, Miss Pendrell, may I present my friend, Mr Sheldon and a visitor to the town, Miss Rowlands. Natasha, Matthew: Miss Pendrell.’

We shook hands and all sat down again. I looked meaningfully at the tea tray until Tom thought to ring for some more. Matthew had noticed something odd too, from the quizzical looks he was giving his friend.

‘I hope you are enjoying Welhampstead, Miss Rowlands,’ the visitor, clearly well trained in polite chitchat, asked.

‘Oh, very much. I’m thinking of settling here. Do you live locally, Miss Pendrell?’

She smiled at Tom as he handed her a cup of tea and politely ignored the fact that a man who could perform delicate surgery with a rock-steady hand had managed to splash some into the saucer.

‘Thank you, Mr Grantly. Yes, I live with my grandmother, Lady Blythe, the dowager countess, you know. The estate of my cousin, the fifth Earl of Blythe, runs close to the town, although his house, Pendrell Hall, is at the most distant point, whereas the dower house is only a mile away. I expect whichever of the earls had it built wanted to keep his mama at a safe distance.’ Her laugh was an infectious chuckle and I found myself smiling back.

Matthew, making himself quite at home, poured another cup of tea and settled back in his chair, ignoring the look Grantly shot him.

‘Is this just a social call, or has it some purpose?’ Tom asked pointedly after another five minutes of discussion about the weather, the availability of genteel houses in the district and the quality of the shops.

‘I came to return the money you loaned me the other day.’ Matthew handed it over without showing any inclination to get up.

Miss Pendrell put down her cup. ‘Well, this has been very pleasant, but I must not detain you, Mr Grantly. I only called to report on our boot boy’s progress,’ she added, turning to me. ‘He broke his leg and Mr Grantly set it last week. Young Diccon seems to be doing very well, although keeping him in bed as ordered is proving quite a task in itself.’ She stood up and her maid and both men did too, of course. ‘Good bye, Miss Rowlands, I do hope we may prove to be neighbours. Mr Sheldon, Mr Grantly – ’

She broke off at a thunderous knocking on the front door.

‘Excuse me, that sounds like an emergency.’ Tom strode to the door into the hall and reached it as it was opened by his housekeeper.

‘Mr Grantly, sir, there’s a groom from the Dower House here for you – Oh, and Miss Pendrell too.’ She stood aside to reveal a grim-faced young man, his hat clutched in his hand.

‘It’s her ladyship, Miss Pendrell. She’s had a fall and hit her head. It looks bad, Miss.’