Face Down In The Marrow-Bone Pie Part 4

"They say your husband is much in demand at court," Mistress Denholm said bluntly. "Is that why he has not come with you?"

"He is much in demand by the court," Susanna corrected her. Mistress Denholm seemed unaware that her words might give offense. "He is constantly being sent on one diplomatic mission or another, and all to foreign parts."

"Did he send you in his place, then?"

"Indeed, he did not. It is likely he will be most irritated with me when he hears what I am about." Fortunately, Robert's temper cooled rapidly. By the time Susanna saw him again she was sure he'd have long since forgiven her for ignoring his wishes.

Apparently pondering the strangeness of Susanna's words, Mistress Denholm slowed her pace still further. They were just pa.s.sing a stone dairy when she spoke again, gesturing toward the building with one large hand. "The best equipped in Lancashire," she said proudly, "with cheese presses, churns, settling pans, strainers, and earthenware jars."

"You must sell your b.u.t.ter and cheese, then."

"Aye, and at a good profit, too. The only other income we have here to equal it comes from our dovecotes. We produce an average of a thousand young doves a year."

Mistress Denholm directed her guest toward a broad path that ended at the orchard. A variety of fruit trees grew inside a low hedge composed of cornelian cherry trees and rose and gooseberry bushes. A few of the roses were still in bloom. Damson, bullace, and tall plum formed the outer circle of the orchard, growing around low plum, cherry, and apple trees. Randomly mixed in were filberts, more cornelian cherries, and medlars.

"You are still picking bullaces and medlars," Susanna observed, "but I see no sign of apricots or peaches or quinces."

"It is too cold here to grow them successfully. We do better with pears."

"I am accustomed to thinking of Worcestershire for those."

"And Kent is the county famous for cherries," Mistress Denholm agreed, intending a compliment. "We cannot rival either, but neither must we import those fruits."

They smiled at each other, considerably more at ease than they had been. Mistress Denholm indicated a conveniently located bench. "Will you sit?"

"It would be pleasant to rest here awhile." Susanna settled herself at one end of the st.u.r.dy stone seat, smoothing her skirts as she did so.

With a sigh of relief, Mistress Denholm sank down beside her. Her face was ruddy from just the moderate exertion of that short stroll.

"We must dispense with formality," she said when she had caught her breath. "I think you will find you need a friend here. My given name is Euphemia, but you may call me Effie as the members of my immediate family do."

"I am Susanna."

"Well, then, Susanna, will you accept a friend's advice?"

"That, Effie, depends not upon the friend but upon the advice."

"Have you heard . . . rumors?"

"My husband's lawyer writes that Appleton Manor is haunted, if that is what you mean." Susanna did not trouble to add that she did not believe in ghosts, for she saw no point in cutting off a potential source of information.

"That is one rumor. Tell me what Grimshaw said of the way the steward died."

"He was found face down in a marrow-bone pie. An ignominious end, I agree, but not necessarily one brought on by any supernatural cause. He was an old man, and old men die every day."

Effie Denholm's head was bowed. Her hands clenched and unclenched around the fabric across her lap. "He was sitting on the dais. He imagined himself, I suppose, in his old master's place. Overweening pride killed him." Abruptly, she looked up, eyes glittering. "Pride," she repeated. "It is said pride goeth before a fall."

Susanna was as puzzled by the other woman's intensity as she was by her apparent knowledge of what was on John Bexwith's mind on the last night of his life. "Why is where he sat at table so significant?"

"He usurped Sir George's place!"

Robert's, rather, Susanna thought, but she kept her comment to herself. If she had to, she'd demand details, but she was hoping the story would come out without prompting. She'd found that approach worked with almost everyone except her husband. He knew her too well.

Effie was no exception. After a moment she started speaking again. "Sir George Appleton was a legend in these parts, Susanna. He left broken hearts in every hamlet between here and Manchester."

"If my husband resembles his father in appearance, then I can believe it," Susanna conceded. "Sir Robert is a most handsome man."

"Pray his morals are better than his father's!"

Startled, Susanna bit back the impulse to defend both men. In truth, Robert had never told her much about his father. He'd evaded her questions by stating that they'd not gotten along. She did know that Robert had left Lancashire when he was nineteen and joined the retinue of the future Duke of Northumberland. That was nothing unusual. Most sons of the gentry received training in n.o.ble households at an even earlier age.

"I know little about Sir George and even less about my husband's mother," Susanna said carefully.

"He was a wicked, wicked man."

Curiosity warred with family loyalty. "Since he has been dead for some time, it seems pointless to revile him."

"Speak no ill of the dead, you mean? But, my dear Susanna, there is so much pleasure in it." Effie chuckled to herself, then slanted an inquisitive look in Susanna's direction. "What do you think of what he left behind? Sir George was an indifferent caretaker. Appleton Manor had deteriorated badly even before his shameful end."

Shameful end? And did that have something to do with Bexwith's death? Susanna's instincts told her there was more to this situation than met the eye, but before she could ask Effie what she meant, the older woman rose to her feet. "There is a charming fishpond this way," she said, striking out in that direction and giving Susanna no choice but to follow.

The pond was well stocked and dotted with lily pads. A willow tree dipped lissome branches near the surface at one end. "I find Appleton Manor a challenge," Susanna said as they came to a stop at bankside. She was reluctant to appear too eager for information. "The building is sound. With good workmen who know their business, I believe restoration will be complete within a year."

"An expensive project. Three thousand pounds at the least."

At a guess, more than that had been spent at Denholm Hall in recent years. Susanna complimented Effie on her taste, but she was more interested in returning to the subject of Sir George and his shameful end.

Susanna was reluctant to betray her own abysmal ignorance of events, but she did not see that she had much choice in the matter. "I will tell you true, Effie," she confided. "My husband has said perilous little about his early years and he has almost never mentioned his father. Will you tell me about Sir George?"

"Gladly. You should know the terrible truth."

"Terrible?" Susanna echoed. First it was shameful. Now it was terrible. Surely the woman exaggerated.

"He had five wives," Effie said bluntly, "all of whom died before him. There were mistresses, too. Many, many mistresses." Her face contorted briefly, but her voice did not change. "By the time his last wife went to her reward, Sir George was getting on in years and he was not so charming or so goodly to look at anymore. Still, he was wealthy, rich enough, he thought, to buy any woman he wanted. He could not conceive of encountering one who was unwilling. The night he died it is said he tried to seduce a serving wench, a girl new to the household at Appleton Manor. She fled his unwelcome attentions in a panic, running down the flight of stairs from the solar. He pursued her, cup-shotten and furious at the insult to his manhood."

"He died in a fall." Robert had told her that much.

"Aye. Broke his neck, the randy old goat."

Susanna considered the layout of the hall at Appleton Manor. From the dais, John Bexwith would have had an un.o.bstructed view of the stairs to the solar.

"And the girl?" she asked, her suspicions already forming. "What happened to her?"

"Never seen again."

"How . . . odd."

Effie did not seem to think so. "Sir George had sent all the servants away that day. Off to the fair in Manchester. He said he was not feeling well and wished to be alone, but Bexwith afterward claimed his master had ordered the girl to stay behind."

"And no one knows what happened to her? Besides being ravished, I mean?"

"Nearly ravished, I do think." Effie's eyes glittered, as if she relished the details she was providing. "Sir George was found at the foot of the stairs, his neck broken and his codpiece askew."

"And since the girl was never seen again," Susanna murmured, "I suppose she is our ghost."

Effie looked pleased by her deduction. "Does it not seem likely she'd seek revenge? Aye. It makes a certain kind of sense. Doubtless Bexwith was involved in it all, and her ghost returned for him."

After two years? And this tale did not explain the alleged sightings since, but for the moment Susanna let those aspects of the situation be.

"Tell me about her, Effie. What was her name? Had she family hereabout?"

"I do not recall. She was only a serving wench."

"Think, Effie. You must remember. 'Twas only two years ago and her name must have been on every tongue for weeks afterward."

Disconcerted by the demand, Mistress Denholm closed her eyes and thought. "Edith," she said after a moment. "I do remember now. The girl was called Edith."

"And her surname?"

"Edith. That is all I recall. No doubt 'tis all I ever knew."

"But Effie-" Susanna broke off as her companion's expression abruptly changed. She had caught sight of someone behind Susanna.

"We will talk again anon," Effie promised.

Uncertain if her new acquaintance was being deliberately evasive or merely unhelpful, Susanna turned to find that the young woman she'd caught a glimpse of inside the house was drifting toward them. She was followed at a little distance by an elderly man who leaned heavily on a walking stick.

"My daughter," Effie said. "Catherine."

On closer inspection Catherine Denholm proved to be a delicate, slender, almost childlike sprite. Susanna guessed she was no more than fifteen, but it was difficult to be certain. Her face was blank as a new canvas, unmarked by lines of thought or emotion.

"And that is Randall," Effie added dismissively. "My husband."

Susanna sent a swift, amazed glance in Effie's direction. Everything about Euphemia Denholm, especially the unrelieved black she wore, had proclaimed that she was a widow. The presence of a living husband came as a distinct shock. For whom, then, did Effie wear deepest mourning?

Catherine had little to say. Randall Denholm smiled and nodded, but when his wife informed him in a loud voice that Susanna had taken up residence at Appleton, he spat and cursed Sir George in succinct and colorful language.

"You must make allowances for Randall, Susanna." Effie said. "He's losing his hearing and other abilities, as well. I fear he's not been the man he once was for many years now."

Susanna was unsure how to take that statement. She glanced at Randall, wondering if that frail and sickly appearance was also the mark of a fellow without full grasp of his mental faculties.

The stark expression she surprised in his eyes startled her. It was gone again so quickly that Susanna thought she might have imagined it, but she could not be sure. Had it been a trick of the light, or had she seen, for one unguarded instant, the fire of a relentless hatred burning bright?

Randall took her hand in his and bowed over it in a courtly manner. "Appleton is no fit place for a lady," he said.

She spoke loudly, as Effie had. "It is my home now. I plan to rebuild."

Shaking his head, apparently at her foolishness, Randall wandered off toward the chapel.

Chapter Ten.

That evening at Appleton Manor, Susanna thought about all that Mistress Denholm had told her and all that she had not said. There had been no opportunity to ask more questions after Randall Denholm and young Catherine joined them. Immediately following Randall's departure, a servant had brought word that the supplies were loaded into a cart and ready to be transported back to Appleton Manor.

For whom did Effie wear mourning? Susanna wondered.

And whom did Randall hate?

Susanna could not help but speculate. Had that scathing look had been aimed at her . . . or at his own wife? The more she thought about the incident, the more certain she became that she had not imagined anything.

She was less sure about her suspicions concerning John Bexwith's death. It was very possible she had only hoped there was something odd about his demise in order to give herself something to do. Boredom was a terrible curse. Together with her active imagination had it sp.a.w.ned an unknown poisonous herb or mushroom?

Certes there was no ghost. The most likely theory was that superst.i.tious servants had seen draperies disturbed by the pa.s.sage of the cat and imagined the rest. And all too likely Bexwith had suffered a seizure and died of natural causes, or perhaps from a surfeit of rich food. She must find out what ingredients had gone into his marrow-bone pie.

A small sigh escaped her. Even if he had been poisoned, accidentally or on purpose, there seemed little chance of proving it after all this time. She comforted herself with the knowledge that her trip north had still been worthwhile. She had been wise to come and inspect the manor in person, for now that she'd seen the condition it was in, she had a new purpose. Making the place livable promised to provide her with an interesting challenge, just as she'd told Effie. By the time she left Lancashire, Appleton Manor would have not only a new steward but the beginnings of a complete renovation. The more she thought about it, the more this project appealed to her. She could scarce wait to begin.

Turning to Jennet, meaning to share some of her plans, Susanna noticed for the first time that there was a restlessness about their little band on this second night in the house. Even the cat was fidgeting. Susanna reached out a hand to stroke her, which seemed to have a calming effect. Cat, she decided, would do well enough as a name for the beast. Dame Cat, as she'd called her last night.

They were all huddled together around the smoking peat fire in the great hall. Lionel and Fulke sat directly across from their mistress. Jennet and Mark shared the bench that faced the lower end of the hall. Dame Cat's purring was the only sound in the silence. Jennet, who normally chattered cheerfully, was strangely quiet and kept sneaking furtive glances at the stairway that led to the solar.

"What are you looking at?" Susanna asked abruptly.

Jennet jumped, stuttering badly with her fear of the unknown dangers of the night. "I w-was n-not-"

"Someone at Denholm told you how Sir George died." It was not a question. It did not need to be.

After some prompting, Jennet repeated the story she'd heard from the servants at Denholm, how Sir George had sent everyone away, then died while chasing a maidservant down that staircase, a maidservant who'd vanished thereafter, never seen or heard from again. Susanna noticed that the men were listening avidly, but they said nothing.

"Is that all?" Susanna asked when Jennet stopped speaking. She had not given the object of Sir George's l.u.s.t a name.

"There is one peculiar thing," Jennet said after a moment's thought. She was calmer now, just beginning to relax.

"What is that, Jennet?"

"They say there was no ghost before John Bexwith died. She appeared the very first time that night. 'Twas John Bexwith putting himself in Sir George's place at the table on the dais that raised her spirit. When the maidservant Grizel found him dead, she saw it. Plain as daylight on the stair. And all white and fluttery." Jennet lowered her voice, overdramatizing a bit because she'd realized she was the center of attention. "And then, madam, she looked at the table and saw Bexwith lying there with his eyes open wide in horror at what he'd seen."

Susanna's eyes opened a bit wider, too. "Difficult to accomplish when one is lying face down in a marrow-bone pie."

Jennet frowned, trying to work that out.

"Never mind, Jennet. I am sure the story has been altered in the retelling. But I am puzzled. Are you telling me that it was Mistress Denholm's maidservant, the same one who met us on the road and led us to Denholm Hall, who found the body?"

Jennet nodded. "She worked here then, new come to the household."