Chapter 10

An ornate black wrought iron stanchion held up the Magnum and Sons Linen Drapers’ white sign with its simple black lettering. The building was a neat Georgian brick structure with a slate roof, no doubt built during the flurry of canal building at the end of the last century. As she looked down the road, Cecilia noted several more modern businesses interspersed with older Tudor buildings. There were numerous people walking about the town from various classes, including a woman who appeared to wear an elaborate white wig from the previous century.

She walked alone, with a vigorous stride, into the linen drapers. Cecilia and Sarah were not far behind her. Before entering the charming shop, Cecilia cautioned herself to maintain an invalidish manner. What had once been an easy manner to adopt, she’d found it getting increasingly difficult to maintain. James didn’t like it when she fell back into the weak, fainting, na?ve-woman role. She was none of those things and James reminded her he remained enamored of the clever, slyly humorous, and laughing woman he’d married.

Cecilia knew her short, slender stature did much to give people she met the impression she was an invalidish female before she’d ever spoke to them! Today, the addition of a little ash on her face would heighten the effect.

She stopped just inside the door. There were a dozen women in the mercantile, gathered together in clumps loudly chatting—not at all shopping for fabric or assorted fripperies. She heard the door open behind her and quickly stepped aside to allow another woman to enter. Cecilia nodded apologetically to the newcomer for blocking her entrance, then looked down and made her way to a long counter with baskets of ribbons and bows.

“Oh, look, my lady, at this ribbon!” Sarah said, picking up a wood spool of blue ribbon. “It matches your eyes! Sir James would certainly notice that ribbon threaded through your hair.”

Cecilia smiled wanly. “Yes, I suppose…,” she said faintly, passing the ribbon through her gloved fingers.

“I believe we have a couple ells of fabric in that same shade that my lady might be interested to see,” said a man from across the counter.

Cecilia looked up into the eyes of a chubby, balding young gentleman. She felt him look her over, calculating her worth.

“Perfect amount and weight for a spencer,” the man continued, smiling in quite an ingratiating manner.

“Perhaps…,” Cecilia said faintly, her eyes wandering away as another surge of coughing gripped her. She noted several women looking at her curiously. She smiled in what she hoped was an appropriate shy manner as she recovered her composure. There was generally one woman in a crowd of women like this who gravitated to the shy ones.

“Might there be a chair where my lady might sit for a moment?” Sarah asked the clerk. “She is still recovering from a long illness and the walk here has brought on renewed coughing and fatigue. Perhaps she might like to look at the fabric then,” Sarah told him, her voice pitched for others to hear.

Cecilia kept her eyes downcast, forcing a smile away. In the year since she’d married James, Sarah had become the foil for Cecilia’s fragile-woman persona, a role her Aunt Jessamine played when Cecilia sought her first husband’s murderer. Cecilia thought Sarah enjoyed her little bits of invalid playacting and her role as Cecilia’s caregiver. Unfortunately, at the moment, her coughing was all too real.

“Yes, of course,” the clerk said. “Right this way.” He led her to a chair near a large coal stove.

“Thank you,” she said softly. She looked about while the man went to find the fabric. Cecilia humorously thought she’d be obliged to purchase the fabric, no matter what it looked like.

A tall angular woman walked up to Cecilia. “Are you quite all right? That cough sounded nasty, and you do look a bit peaked.”

Cecilia looked at the woman and smiled. “Yes, thank you. I’m recovering from being sick. Unfortunately, this plaguey cough lingers and I tire easily,” she said. “My doctor said walking would be good for me.”

“You might need both rest and walking. I am Mrs. Tiptree.” She sat down on the chair on the other side of the coal stove.

“Lady Branstoke,” Cecilia said in return.

“What brings you to Camdenton Village?” she asked.

“My doctor has suggested a short stay at a sanatorium where I should not have to worry about any household matters. A friend suggested Camden House.”

“And a good suggestion it is too. That is Mrs. Worcham over there,” she said, pointing to the woman with the last-century wig.”

“Oh!”

Mrs. Tiptree laughed. “Don’t mind Emily Worcham and her wigs. The poor dear has a skin condition that has caused most of her hair to fall out, so she has taken to wearing wigs. All nature of wigs. It is her bit of humor. Today, a full white wig. Tomorrow, it could be a wig of dark red curls.”

Cecilia looked over at the bewigged woman.

“I know her wig choices might make her appear to be one with the patients. She says living in a quiet sanatorium, as she does, can be overwhelming. She feels for her own sanity she needs to liven her life up occasionally,” Mrs. Tiptree said with a laugh.

“How does Dr. Worcham feel about his wife’s habit?”

“He does not have an objection, for you see, all the patients love her. She helps them see they need not feel so tightly bound to convention. Let me introduce her to you. You will love her, too.—Mrs. Worcham—Emily!” Mrs. Tiptree called out. She rose from the chair and crossed the space to the other side of the room where Mrs. Worcham talked animatedly with three other women. A moment later she returned to Cecilia’s side, accompanied by Mrs. Worcham.

Mrs. Worcham was Cecilia’s height, and with her bright, smiling dark eyes, she resembled an alert sparrow. One look at this woman and Cecilia knew this woman would see through her charade, if she were not careful. She had that keen observation eye that missed nothing.

“Mrs. Worcham, this is Lady Branstoke. She’s going to Camden House this afternoon to see about a short stay. Lady Branstoke, this is our favorite Camden House resident, Emily Worcham, Dr. Worcham’s wife.”

The two women acknowledged the introduction, and then Mrs. Worcham sat down on the seat Mrs. Tiptree had been sitting in. “And why is it you wish to come to Camden House,” Mrs. Worcham inquired.

Cecilia drew her handkerchief from the cuff of her jacket where she had placed it for easy access. She sniffed lightly and blotted at the end of her nose. “Forgive me for admitting it is not my notion. I was very sick not a sennight ago. I contracted a terrible influenza. I was confined to my bed for two weeks. Now that the illness has passed, a cough remains, and I am slow to regain my strength. My dear husband is concerned as I am with child. He doesn’t believe I am resting enough. He thinks I am trying to do too much too fast, so he suggested a sanatorium stay for a time to ensure I get the proper rest and care I need to fully recover.” She smiled weakly, waving the handkerchief before her. “I protested but the dratted man found a medical man to support his concerns and his suggested solution.”

Mrs. Worcham leaned forward to pat her hand resting in her lap. “If that is your situation then Camden House is the perfect place for you to rest and recover. I dare swear that after just a couple of weeks, you will feel rested and ready for what life has for you.”

“But, but…I heard—they said at the inn, that a man was murdered there,” she said softly, keeping her eyes wide and fearful.

Mrs. Worcham closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again, their bright bird light dimmed. “Yes. Mr. Montgomery. We really don’t know what happened,” she said, frowning.

“Didn’t they arrest someone?” Mrs. Tiptree asked.

Mrs. Worcham looked up at her where she stood near Cecilia. “Yes, yes they did,” she said, her voice turning brisk. She looked back at Cecila. “So, you have no worries, my dear. I look forward to seeing you at Camden House.” She rose and smoothed the fabric of her skirt down. “And I really did intend to buy a length of lace today. I heard from Mrs. Shepley they’ve received a new shipment.”

What just happened?Cecilia wondered.

She looked over her shoulder where Sarah stood behind her. Her maid ever so slightly shook her head. Mrs. Worcham’s demeanor changed abruptly when Mrs. Tiptree asked for confirmation that someone had been arrested. Why would that be?

She had just said they didn’t know what happened and, practically in the next breath, briskly agreed a person had been arrested. Cecilia stared after the woman, now fingering lace on the other side of the store. Cecilia had the feeling Mrs. Worcham did not think the Earl of Soothcoor was the murderer. That was the only cause she could reason for her abrupt change in demeanor. What did she know? And how did she know it? It was fortuitous to meet her before she must go to Camden House. She turned back to Mrs. Tiptree who’d resumed her seat opposite Cecilia.

“Can you tell me about this murder? And,” she added softly, conspiratorially, “you would be doing me a favor to remain engaged with me lest that clerk come back with fabric he intends for me to purchase.”

Mr. Tiptree laughed. “Yes, that is young Mr. Jenkins. He tries very hard to prove himself to Mr. Magnum, the owner of the shop, as he would like to court Mr. Magnum’s elder daughter, Iris. Frankly, I think his efforts are wasted on that Miss. She aspires to a higher status, which I doubt she could acquire. However, it is sometimes amusing to observe the antics of the young in their mating dances. I shall do all I can to keep him away from your purse.”

Cecilia extended a shy smile to her. “Thank you. And the murder victim?” she reminded her.

“Oh, bless you, yes. It was Mr. Montgomery. He had been a longtime resident of Camden House. They don’t have many longtime residents there as Dr. Worcham does not want his sanatorium to be little better than a prison. There are other institutions for the severely ill.”

“But murder,” Cecilia said softly, opening her eyes wide, hoping to draw the woman out more.

Mrs. Tiptree nodded. Then her brow furrowed. “But the location and manner of death was quite similar to an earlier death at Camden House.”

“An earlier death?” Cecilia parroted.

“Yes, indeed. It happened ten months ago, and that death was judged a suicide. I do not know what the difference between the two deaths might be. They were both found face down in the canal rushes near the northeast corner of the house. Why one is considered murder and the other suicide, I don’t know.” She shook her head, then stopped and shook her finger in Lady Cecilia’s direction. “They are being quiet up at the big house, that is for sure. And the magistrate made a surprisingly quick arrest. Too quick, to my mind,” she said flatly.

Cecilia coughed and nodded vaguely. “Do you know the man arrested?”

Mrs. Tiptree compressed her lips as she shook her head. “Some peer, I heard. Seems strange. Never came here before, as far as I’ve heard, and up and murders Mr. Montgomery.”

“Did you ever meet this Mr. Montgomery?”

“No, no. Those of us in the village rarely see the patients. But I felt like I knew him Emily—I mean Mrs. Worcham—talked about him a lot, how sad it was that his affliction kept him in a sanatorium. She’s a very caring, tender-hearted soul.”

“I see. Thank you. I should be returning to The New Bell Inn now. My husband will likely be returning from his errand and wondering where we are! Thank you for introducing me to Mrs. Worcham. Meeting her has alleviated many of my concerns,” she admitted. “I’m sorry that we will not likely meet again, that there is no mixing between the sanatorium and the village.”

“I’m delighted, my dear, that I’ve had the chance to meet you, too. You will enjoy it at Camden House.”

Cecilia reached across the space between them and patted Mrs. Tiptree’s arm. “Thank you, again.” Cecilia rose from the chair and turned. “—Sarah?” Cecilia said.

“Right here, my lady.”

“Excellent. Good day to you,” Cecilia said to Mrs. Tiptree, bestowing a warm smile in her direction as she turned to leave the store.

James arrived backat The New Bell Inn scarcely fifteen minutes after Cecilia and Sarah returned. Cecilia took to her bed, letting Mrs. Price know she was tired after her excursion and requested a light nuncheon. She sent Sarah to find out how the two ill people were doing, so James caught her quite alone.

Without the need for playacting, Cecilia jumped out of bed and hurdled herself into James’s arms.

He laughed as he caught her. He nuzzled the side of her neck. “So, what have you been up to today, my love,” he asked as he set her back into the circle of his arms.

Her exuberance caused another cough to grip her. She cleared her throat afterward. “Sarah and I walked to the Linen Draper’s today. It wasn’t far, and I believe supported Dr. Nowlton’s suggestion to walk and get outside.”

“Yes, if it truly isn’t far, it would,” he said doubtfully, after hearing her cough again. He stroked her back.

“It isn’t. And it is the hub of local female society. It was quite crowded. Guess who I fortuitously met there!” she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“I’m not even going to guess,” he said as he held her still. “You have a habit of meeting the correct people.”

She laughed; James thought it sounded like the tinkling of bells.

“Mrs. Worcham!” she said.

“The good doctor’s wife?” James asked, his eyebrows rising. Once again, she had managed to surprise him.

“Yes! I told her my circumstance—the story as we agreed upon—and she thought Camden House would be the perfect place for me to continue my recuperation,” she said impishly.

James laughed. “I do not know how you do it. You are my most resourceful wife.”

“I am your only wife so be careful what you say,” she said with mock severity.

James laughed more and hugged her to him. “But, in all seriousness, have you heard anything of Mr. Stackpoole?”

“Yes, he is not better and even had a setback of symptoms again today. And another person has exhibited the same signs of illness!”

“Who?”

“A maid here. Her name is Susan Divers. She told Sarah she didn’t feel well this morning; but thought it just the matter of a sore throat, then it seemed to consume her entire body and she went on to exhibit the same loss of bowel control and stomach contents. Nasty. Miss Hammond is tending to her and Mr. Stackpoole.”

He shook his head as he compressed his lips briefly. “We need to remove you from this inn as soon as possible. I do not wish to see you sick again.”

“I agree.” She tugged on the lapels of his jacket. “—But tell me of Soothcoor.”

“A moment, let me order the carriage.” James left the room to call down to one of the inn staff to have his carriage brought around. Another illness was more than unsettling. He wanted Cecilia out of the inn as soon as possible.

“How is Soothcoor?” Cecilia demanded when he’d returned and closed the door behind him. “What did he have to say about Mr. Montgomery and his death?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Not much more than we already knew. Mr. Montgomery was alive when he left him, standing outside near the edge of the canal. He’d told Alastair he’d requested his Scottish solicitor to take divorce papers to Scotland to file.

“Getting a divorce will take time; however, it is doable, especially under the circumstances, I would assume,” Cecilia said.

“Yes. He did tell me one crucial detail that Mrs. Montgomery failed to relate to us.”

Cecilia’s head tilted to the side. “What is that?”

“Mrs. Montgomery is enceinte.”

“What? Oh, dear.” She sat abruptly on the edge of the bed, her thoughts racing through all the ramifications of that information.

“While only circumstantial evidence exists to suggest Soothcoor murdered Mr. Montgomery, her condition does point to a clear motive.”

“Yes, I see that,” Cecilia said. Oh no, oh, no! she thought. She rose from the bed to pace the small bedroom while wringing her hands. “I must get into Camden House as soon possible.”

“Agreed. After I get you settled there, I want to seek out the magistrate and see why he focused on Soothcoor as the murderer so swiftly. While I am not in favor of you becoming a patient at the sanatorium, it might be the healthiest place for you to be,” he said grimly. “Are you packed and ready?”

“Almost. I have just a few more things to gather. Can I ask you to call Sarah?”

“I’d rather you did not,” he said.

“Why?”

“She has been in other parts of the inn that have contagion. We should limit the risks to you.”

Cecilia rolled her eyes, but she agreed. “I’ll gather everything together.”

“I’ll help. The sooner I have out of here the better.”

“Oh, James! You are being melodramatic.”

“Maybe.” He crossed to the wardrobe in the corner of the room and pulled out her portmanteau and her cloak from where it hung. He checked a drawer in the bottom and discovered her bonnet and pulled that out along with a stack of lace-edged handkerchiefs. He held those up.

“I can see you are well prepared for the role,” he said with a small smile.

“I always carry a stack. They have come in so handy,” she said, taking the stack from him. She tucked a clean one up the sleeve of the dull-green gown she wore. She rearranged her fichu higher around her neck, draped her shawl over her shoulders, pulling in close, then put on her cloak over the shawl and clasped it at her neck.

“I should be bundled well enough for the weather,” she said as she tied her bonnet on, glancing at a mirror hung on the wall.

James nodded approval at her bundled appearance, then picked up her portmanteau and escorted her out of the room and down the stairs while Cecilia kept her features wan and weak.

Mr. Price saw them and scurried over to them.

“Are you leaving?” he asked, worry edging his tone.

“I am taking Lady Branstoke to Camden House.”

“But we have prepared a luncheon for you,” the man protested.

“Allow Miss Hammond and my servants to enjoy the food,” James said. “With illness here, I want my wife out of here as soon as possible.”

“Of course, Sir James,” the innkeeper said, bowing his head.

James led Cecilia outside as George Romley pulled the carriage around to the front of the inn.

The sky turned dark gray as the carriage progressed up the road, even though it wasn’t a long drive from the inn and through the village to Camden House. It was just a matter of turning a corner and the scene that stretched before them looked desolate, matching the gray skies encroaching upon them. The road, built as part of a dike for a canal, ran three feet above the surrounding countryside with scarcely a tree in sight. Up ahead, on an island rising above the surrounding landscape, stood a rambling gray stone and brick mansion with chimneys stuck up on various slate roof levels in seemingly random, gothic fashion.

Unlike the surrounding landscape, trees and shrubs filled the property. Leaves fluttered and plants swayed in a wind that threatened to bring rain clouds over the area. There was only one approach to the mansion, a newer-looking brick bridge over the straight canal that ran beside the road.

“Are you certain you wish to become a patient here?” James asked Cecilia as the carriage turned to cross the bridge, the horses’ hooves clapped loud on the brick surface.

“Yes, more than ever, now that we know of Mrs. Montgomery’s condition.”

The corner of James’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “Alastair deserves his happiness for all he does for people. Though knowing Alastair, it wouldn’t matter to him if the child were born out of wedlock.”

“I’d have to agree. But think, James, what should occur if Soothcoor were found guilty? His title and properties could be stripped away. That should have far-reaching effects on all of his charities.”

He nodded. “They would evaporate in an instant and the ghouls of society would be only too happy to make up stories to pervert everything good he has done to evil.”

Cecilia put her hand on his. “We shall not let that happen.”

The carriage drew up before the grand dark oak door to the mansion as clumps of patients, with their matrons and orderlies, made their way into the house ahead of the coming rainstorm.

A broad-shouldered man came to meet their carriage, one hand on his head to hold his hat in place in the increasing wind. He handed Cecilia out of the carriage and took the portmanteau from James, gesturing them up the stairs before shouting instructions to Romley to drive the carriage to the back of the building to the stable yard. He then hurried up the stairs to join the Branstokes in the entrance hall.

“That storm came up quite rapidly,” Cecilia observed. She shivered and clutched her cape around her as a crack of thunder shook the windows. She looked up as if to see the roof come crashing down on them.

“Yes, they have been doing so this season,” the man said. “Sir James and Lady Branstoke, I presume?” he said. “This way please.” His arm extended toward a small room to the left, no doubt formerly a cloakroom.

Cecilia glanced about the grand hall with its high, arched ceiling braced with ornately carved oak ceiling beams. It was a long room with a stone floor. Chairs—mainly Tudor in style—dotted the room in small groupings. Beyond the little room where the man directed them was a pair of large wrought iron gates that could shut off the entrance to the rest of the mansion. At that moment, they stood open, and patients and their guardians walked through them deeper into the mansion. Cecilia caught the glances of those who passed her along with their whispered words, no doubt wondering about her identity.

“Before you meet Dr. Worcham, I will introduce you to Mr. Turnbull-Minchin, our superintendent. He will ask you some questions and then take you to meet Dr. Worcham. Is that agreeable?”

Cecilia nodded faintly while James responded with unusual vigor, “Yes, of course. Let’s get on with it.”

Looking down, Cecilia held back a smirk at James’s manner, so unlike him. What was his intention?

“Sir James and Lady Branstoke, this is Superintendent Mr. Turnbull-Minchin. Sir James and Lady Branstoke, sir, to see Dr. Worcham,” the majordomo said as he bowed himself out of the room. The frizzled-haired, middle-aged man behind the desk rose on hearing their rank.

“Sir James, Lady Branstoke, please come in,” he said. He gestured to the two chairs in front of his desk.

“We’ve come to see Dr. Worcham,” James said, ignoring the chair and standing behind Cecilia. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Yes, yes, and you will. Just a few questions, please, for registration purposes.” The man tried to smile pleasantly. He dipped his quill in ink. “Now, full name and direction, please.”

“Cecilia Houghton Haukstrom Branstoke,” Cecilia said softly.

“Lady Cecilia Houghton Haukstrom Branstoke,” put in James, “granddaughter of the Duke of Cheney.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. “I see,” he said. “Age?”

“Six and twenty.”

“Home?”

Cecilia looked up at her husband.

“Summerworth Park, in Kent, outside the village of Ingleston,” Sir James supplied.

“You have come quite a distance,” Mr. Turnbull-Minchin said.

“Your sanatorium has been highly recommended.”

“Oh? By whom?”

“Mr. Stackpoole.”

“Stackpoole!” The man leaned back in his chair as he looked at them. “How do you know him?”

“We have several mutual friends in London. Stackpoole says his mother has been here for several years and he has been satisfied with her care. Said she is calm and happy here.”

“Yes, yes, she has been.” His brows knitted together. “Have you spoken to Mr. Stackpoole recently?” he asked.

James shook his head. “Not recently. He has been ill.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. One last question, then I’ll take you to Dr. Worcham. It’s a delicate issue, and I apologize. We require your yearly income?—”

“I beg your pardon. You treat patients differently based on income?”

“No, no, not in terms of medical care. I assure you Dr. Worcham treats all of his patients equally and makes no difference. It is only my poor lot to assign patients to their lodgings and any extras in keeping with what they may be accustomed to having. Size of rooms, types of meals, assistance with dressing and care. These are the services that don’t relate to their health and speak more to what they are accustomed to receiving. Dr. Worcham believes we need to keep our patients comfortable to aid in their recovery and provide for them that to which they are accustomed. I ask for income so I can determine if they truly can afford what they would like or if, ultimately, they cannot pay. That can prove to be too embarrassing for all. I do not like to distress Dr. Worcham with such mundane matters or move patients from a large single room to shared accommodations. That does not help their treatment.”

Reluctantly James nodded. “I can see your concern. Trust that I am able to pay your fees,” he said severely.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said quickly. “Now may I ask the nature of your wife’s illness?”

“No, you may not,” James said, staring him down.

“I see. Well then, let me advise you of a few of the rules. Visitors are only allowed visitation in the great hall, where you first entered, or outside. We do encourage our patients to walk the grounds and visitors are welcome to join them.

“Dr. Worcham believes a good diet is important for the health of the body. We serve three meals a day at Camden House: Breakfast, a hearty meal to get the body alert, a lunch at 1 p.m., offering lighter fare designed to bridge the body’s needs until dinner which is at 5 p.m. The meals are simple fare, shunning heavy sauces. Dr. Worcham believes heavy sauces weigh one’s stomach down robbing one of energy.

“We do make attempts to satisfy all food favorites with one exception. Food items made or flavored with sugar or honey are forbidden. Dr. Worcham believes sweets can be detrimental to our equilibrium. I always advise this on registration, so spouses or relatives of patients know not to bring in sweet treats. They will be confiscated. Dr. Worcham wants everyone to know that on entry so there are no hard feelings later. Is this acceptable to you?” Mr. Turnbull-Minchin asked with steely professionalism.

It was clear to James and Cecilia the man did not like his financial requests being ignored and had dropped his overt friendliness. However, he was professional, and they had no trouble agreeing to the rules he laid out.

“Good,” Mr. Turnbull-Minchin said with a stiff nod. “Let me conduct you, then, to Dr. Worcham. He is generally in the library at this time of day, doing observations.” He stood up. “If you will follow me?”