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Late Saturday night, 4 August 1821
Since it was an especially warm evening, I decided to not go straight up to my bedchamber, but instead turned and walked toward the solarium, thinking I might take a quick turn about the courtyard; perhaps say good night to the kittens. The fresh air this afternoon had revived me, perhaps tonight it would help me sleep more soundly.
I found the double doors to the solarium standing slightly ajar and without pausing to light a candle from a wall sconce; I stepped inside the darkened chamber and carefully crossed the room. Here and there long shafts of moonlight lit my path as I headed towards the French doors that gave onto the courtyard. Before I eased through one of them, however, the sound of hushed voices on the warm night air reached my ears. I knew, of course, that I should not listen in upon a private conversation, but the words I overheard kept me rooted in place.
Throughout the alarming exchange, I attempted to match the whispered voices to a known person, but try as I might I was unable to determine exactly who was speaking. All I could make out was that the voices belonged to a male and a female. Since all the females in the household had already vacated the drawing room, it could have been anyone, including a housemaid. Their ranks had thinned, to be sure, but an abundance of them were still in evidence.
“. . . must attempt to do nothing more for a spell,” whispered the female.
“But, what about her?” returned the male. “You said she . . .”
“Yes, she did. But . . . there is nothing to be done for it. I daresay she might also soon . . . fall prey to a gypsy’s dagger.”
That shocking remark was followed by my own intake of breath as a gasp of alarm escaped me.
“Perhaps poison would better serve,” came the whispered reply. “Far easier than a surprise attack with a dagger and every bit as deadly.”
Holding my breath, I waited while the female . . . considered.
“They just all returned quicker than I expected,” complained the female. “My main concern now is to continue to avoid detection.”
At that instant, I felt the beginning of a sneeze tickle my nose. Attempting to sniff back the inevitable explosion, I held my breath and also pinched my nostrils together, but my efforts were for naught. Rather than flee, and quite possibly announce my presence by tripping over a table or chair, I clamped a hand over my mouth the very instant the half-squelched sneeze escaped me. Of course, the noise, however muffled it was, instantly arrested the attention of the conspirators. The next sound I heard was that of crunching gravel as the pair of them scampered away into the night.
I turned and fled equally as quickly back through the solarium, into the passageway, up the stairwell and down the long corridor above stairs to the safe haven of my own bedchamber.
Dear God, who had I overheard plotting the death of yet another innocent person here at Medley Park? The only fact that I had gleaned from the exchange was that the next victim would be female.
Oh, why, why, why had I not come straight up to my bedchamber?
Who amongst the women of the household was slated to die next?
Lady Medley? Hannah?
No, I told myself, it would not be Lady Medley for had not the female plotter lamented that ‘they had returned sooner than expected?’ Which could only be a reference to Lord and Lady Medley. Therefore, the next person to be done away with would be . . . who? Hannah? Miss Hutchens? Isabella? Or, perhaps, Mrs. Bertram? Or, had the voice I heard been that of Mrs. Bertram?
It was possible. But, what reason would Mrs. Bertram have to kill anyone? Knowing nothing of her background meant I was not privy to anything that might incite murderous intent in her heart. Or, in anyone’s heart, for all that.
It could have also been Miss Hutchens, however . . . not likely. Pious Christian that she was, I doubted she would consider murdering another. But . . . could her piousness merely be a ruse, meant to throw off suspicion?
At a loss as to possible suspects, still, I knew I had to alert someone to what I had just overheard! I could not keep this to myself!
But, who must I tell?
Lady Medley?
Lord Medley?
The constable?
At that thought, I shuddered. Memories of Constable Wainwright harassing me in regard to the death of the heir at Morland Manor sprang to mind. More than likely, he would not believe a word I said. But, would anyone believe me? I was, after all, unknown to everyone in the Medley Park household.
Oh, what a dreadful pass! Dear God, what must I do now? The only saving grace I could see was that the plotters had declared they would refrain from doing anything . . . for a spell.
But, not even that was sufficient to ease my mind.
* * *
SUNDAY MORNING, 5 AUGUST 1821
I scarcely slept a wink all night. I fretted. I tossed. I turned. I rose and paced the floor. I peered from my window into the darkness. I even searched out a scrap of paper from the desk in my room and wrote down as accurately as I could recall every single word I had overheard the conspirators say, or rather . . . whisper. Perhaps to simply hand my essay to the constable would suffice. It would alert him to the possibility of yet another murder and he could decide what was best to be done next.
That is, if he believed me and would refrain from accusing me of purposely inciting alarm to avoid suspicion falling upon my own head.
At that point, I decided to make another copy of my recollections and present the second copy to Lady Medley. She could vouch for the time of evening that I left the drawing room tonight; meaning it would then fall to the constable to ascertain the whereabouts of . . . every other person in the household at about that same time. Which, given the vast number of persons residing upon the estate was a ridiculous notion in itself. Plus, there was also the possibility that because another murder had not yet been committed it might simply cause the constable to put it down to an imagination run riot. Mine.
Dejected, I sat back in the chair before the desk. Quite likely, the constable would do nothing at all. The man had his hands full with the current murder investigation and the accompanying rash of thefts. A second murder had not yet been committed and a person could not be hanged for simply plotting a murder. Could they? I did not know. All I knew was that another person was slated to die, and as things now stood, I was helpless to halt the ‘possible’ from becoming reality. Unless . . . I wasn’t.
But, could I truly do something? And, if so, what? I had my own all-consuming task here to do and I was duty-bound to perform it. Still, I did know that the conspirators were a man and a woman, and something told me they were not gypsies. Because the pair remarked that they must ‘attempt to do nothing more for a spell’ told me that they had been at their nefarious deeds for a while; then when they began to speak of murdering another led me to believe the thief and the murderer were one and the same. Could I somehow prevent the second murder from happening?
For now, the only concrete thing I could think to do was remain alert and keep my eyes and ears open to any sort of suspicious activity forwarded by anyone within the household.
Having reached that tenuous conclusion, I yawned wearily as I rested my head upon my arms on the desk before me. I had passed the entire night fretting over this alarming new turn. Only as dawn began to break on the horizon did I drag myself to my bed and lay down upon it. Perhaps I could rest my tortured mind a few moments before it was time to go down for breakfast.
A bit later, when something caused me to jerk awake, I rejoiced that I had, indeed, drifted off to sleep, if only for a short while.
I had just washed my face when Tilda appeared to help me dress. Her cheerful countenance warmed my heart. Tilda was the one chambermaid in the house toward whom I harbored no suspicion. However, her fellow maidservant Lottie was another story. I resolved then and there that before too very long, I would learn whatever I could of that sullen young lady.
Once dressed, I made my way to the breakfast room on the ground floor, eager for the opportunity to escape Medley Park today for the pretty little church on the green in Stoksey.
Unfortunately, my hope for a respite from the upheaval here at Medley Park was soon dashed to the ground by a stern command from his lordship delivered only moments after he slipped into a chair at the breakfast table.
“Miss Abbot, I have decided you shall not attend services with the family this morning. You will, instead, remain here and inventory every article in Aunt Martha’s suite. The old girl generally does not attend services with us as she can no longer hear, or see, the reverend, therefore, your presence will serve two purposes. You will keep her company whilst also completing a second inventory.”
Following the elder gentleman’s unexpected pronouncement, my heart sank as my harsh taskmaster downed a hearty breakfast and without another word, exited the pretty little breakfast chamber. Though I felt crestfallen, I still did not abandon my resolve to remain watchful and alert. Without being overt, I attempted to sneak peeks at both Miss Hutchens, and also Mrs. Bertram when that lady appeared in the room. To commit murder is not something I would ever have thought the attractive young housekeeper capable of, nor Miss Hutchens, yet . . . I clearly recalled the day I became acquainted with Cecil Ruston on the first occasion I ventured into the courtyard.
“Never assume anything, Miss Abbott,” the young man had cautioned me.
Perhaps I should take the sentiment to heart. However, if I did, would it also mean that I should not assume he was above committing the crime, or planning the next one? After all, he was absent from the drawing room last night . . . as were very nearly all of us.