Page 33 of A Ruse of Shadows
Miss Harcourt would have been all of seven when Victor Meadows had married his young wife, and fifteen at the time of hismurder. If even her mother hadn’t known much about the state of the Meadowses’ marriage, then there was no point for Charlotte to press further on the topic.
Charlotte made a show of twirling her parasol and thinking. “Yes, I do believe you’re right, Miss Harcourt. She listened far more than she spoke, and even when she spoke, it was rarely of herself.”
“Yes, that was exactly how I remembered her,” concurred Miss Harcourt.
The maze path turned again. Now their shadows were in front of them, small, stubby shapes surrounded by more nimbus-like shadows cast by the lace parasols.
“My mother always felt curious about her,” continued Miss Harcourt. “After Uncle Victor died, Aunt Meadows lived in Manchester for a while and our family, too, because Mother had to look after the factories. During that time, Mother called on her regularly, often with me tagging along. And most of our visits consisted of Mother and me blathering on and on about this and that, and my aunt Meadows listening with a nunlike concentration.”
“Did she never sayanythingabout herself then?”
“She was more likely to say something about Cousin Miriam. Cousin Miriam was very active and curious, so we heard tales about her spraining her foot trying to teach herself ballet and such.
“But even though Aunt Meadows didn’t like to talk about herself, I never received the impression that she found us trying,” Miss Harcourt went on. “She was curious about Mother’s work running the factories. And she always made sure to tell us how much Cousin Miriam enjoyed our visits. Which was why her disappearance dumbfounded us so—and baffles me to this day.”
Their shadows disappeared—a tall plume of a cumulus had eclipsed the sun. Charlotte turned to Miss Harcourt. “Can you tell me exactly what happened?”
Miss Harcourt looked at the darkening sky and collapsed her parasol, its trimming beads clinking pleasantly. “For Cousin Miriam’s twelfth birthday, we called on them with presents. As Mother hadjust then learned how to use a camera, she also photographed the two sisters together.
“When the photograph was developed, we used the opportunity for another visit. But when we reached their hired house, Aunt Meadows and Cousin Miriam were gone, and a for-let sign had been put up. When we found the estate agent, he said the house was vacated a fortnight earlier—mere days after the birthday visit—and the departing tenants had left no forwarding addresses.
“Mother spoke to two women who had been Aunt Meadows’s neighbors when Uncle Victor had been alive. They called on her occasionally, but it was from Mother that they first learned Aunt Meadows had moved away. She then managed to track down a few distant cousins of Aunt Meadows’s, but they hadn’t heard from her since before her marriage.
“The photograph of the two sisters together, which we weren’t able to give to them, found a place on our mantelpiece for a time—for as long as Mother’s search continued. We used to stand together and look at it. And then one day the photograph disappeared. Mother said that it felt wrong to keep staring at Aunt Meadows, when it was obvious she didn’t want to see us again.”
A stiff breeze blew. The fringes on Charlotte’s parasol streamed horizontally. “I was seventeen then, and took the snubbing personally. Aunt Meadows was like theMona Lisa, smiling yet inscrutable. We crowded near her not because we wished to be kind to someone less fortunate but because she was this beautiful mystery and we, her gauche admirers, longed to bask in her enigmatic allure.
“I’d been angry, but when the photograph disappeared and Mother said aloud what we’d both been thinking, I was crushed. Perhaps that’s how a rejected suitor feels—all that fervor and adoration marked undeliverable and returned to sender.”
This disclosure was not meant for Charlotte Holmes. Even Mrs. Watson, before whom everyone opened up like steamed clams, might not have elicited as deep a confession. These words were meant only for Mrs. Beaumont, a fellow devotee who had been ejected from Mrs.Meadows’s orbit just as unceremoniously—and who understood Miss Harcourt’s distress and bewilderment.
They walked silently for some time before Charlotte asked, “Would it be possible for me to see this photograph? I should dearly love to see her all grown up.”
“I would love to show it to you. In fact, I long to see it myself and started looking for it as soon as I received your note. But it was put away so many years ago and—”
Another gust of wind blew, and with it came large raindrops. Charlotte swung aside her parasol and looked up just as a small deluge came down, heavy and cool on her face, while the sun emerged at the same time.
She and Miss Harcourt stared at each other for a moment.
“This way!” cried Miss Harcourt. “There’s a covered swing!”
They were shaking out their drenched parasols—at least parasols could not develop pneumonia—when Miss Harcourt’s servants sprinted over with raincoats, umbrellas, and towels.
After inquiring into Charlotte’s preference, Miss Harcourt asked the staff to return to the house with the soaked parasols but leave behind the extra umbrellas that they had brought, along with the flask of whisky that the housekeeper had thrust into one footman’s hand.
The sun shone fiercely. The rain came down just as fiercely. Charlotte drank a small draught from the flask and offered in return a ginger-studded biscuit from her reticule—after having known real hunger the summer before, she never went anywhere these days without a supply of foodstuff.
The biscuits were the last of what remained of Lord Ingram’s hamper, now that most of its vast contents had been donated to Mrs. Watson’s staff in Paris. Miss Harcourt was eating solemnly when she broke out laughing. “My goodness, I don’t remember the last time I was caught in the rain.”
“I don’t mind this sort of being caught in the rain,” murmured Charlotte, “with shelter almost immediately at hand, and people to see to our comfort within seconds.”
Miss Harcourt laughed again. “True, this is a very pleasant way to be caught in the rain.”
Threads of rain shone white and silver in the brilliant sunlight—and then in the next minute dwindled to almost nothing, except for a steadydrip-dripfrom some nearby trees.
In the new silence, Charlotte gauged that the time had come. “Miss Harcourt, do you think my Angelica had anything to do with her husband’s murder?”
Miss Harcourt, who had been brushing crumbs from her fingertips, stilled.
