Two Birds with One Stone (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 1) Read online

  Two Birds with One Stone

  A Marsden-Lacey Mystery

  Sigrid Vansandt

  Chapter 1

  Haworth, England

  March 5, 1855

  CHARLOTTE HAD BEEN MARRIED LESS than a year and was pregnant. At only thirty-eight, her health was dwindling fast. She was weak from the incessant vomiting and had begun coughing up blood. With a great effort she lifted herself from her bed and searched her bureau for Emily’s manuscript.

  Finding it under her chemises, she gently wrapped it and lovingly tucked it into a shallow leather box. The last time it had seen the light of day was during her and Arthur’s first days back at home. Arthur, her husband, had wished it burned and now that she had become so weak, he might start to purge some of Emily’s more questionable works while Charlotte was incapable of stopping him.

  The publishers Emily had contacted before her death had been pressing about the manuscript. They would be eager to have a sequel to Wuthering Heights. It was curious to Charlotte as she considered Emily’s lovely handwriting on the opening page, how Emily’s work either ignited a passionate desire to love it or an equally passionate desire to destroy it.

  For the time being, it would need a safe place to rest until Charlotte’s strength returned and she could decide what to do. The best place to keep it safe would be the secret hiding spot in the wainscot that she and her siblings used to use to hide things from their father.

  Her hands trembled as she cradled the leather box. Dear, long-lost faces rose up in her mind as the box whispered with familiar voices about far away times. Maybe her memory yoked with the solidity of the box would work an enchantment, allowing her to break the bitter spell of their deaths. Her mind flooded with longing for the times she spent with her sisters. It wouldn’t bring them back. She owed Emily the book’s safety.

  She tiptoed quietly across the room, careful to avoid the creaky spots in the floor. Everyone downstairs would be wondering what she was up to if they heard her moving about too much. Charlotte was to be resting and they would become curious, too curious.

  She had debated with herself so many times what to do with Emily’s last manuscript and once the baby was born and her health returned, she must make the final decision.

  To the left of the fender disguised as a knothole was the latch. A soft smile brushed her face as she remembered how much fun they had when hiding something from the adults.

  All one had to do was pull out the wooden knot in the panel with something sharp like a letter opener, insert your pinky into the hole and pull. As she opened the small door, the smells of musty, long-forgotten papers mingled together. Like a shy child, the scent timidly greeted her nose as the tomb of her childhood opened up once more. There, shoved within, was an old-fashioned magazine still hidden from her father’s and aunt’s eyes. A forgotten thing of childhood fancies.

  “Charlotte! Are you upstairs?” came a concerned man’s voice from the landing.

  Arthur. He had never liked what he read in Emily’s work or in some cases even Charlotte’s own. Something deep in her mind, in a corner she wasn’t comfortable visiting even furtively, made her want to protect the book from even her own husband.

  The call sent a shock wave through her wearied brain. Anxiety twisted the cord of tension between her mind and stomach, creating a burst of energy. She focused to complete her task.

  Her hands and brain moved efficiently. Pushing the old papers to the back, she made a fragile nest for the box then closed the door and studied it quickly to make sure it wouldn’t give up its secrets due to a misalignment or a tear in the varnish.

  Only she and her siblings knew of the hiding place, and she prayed they had all kept the secret. One thing was for sure, they would not be able to direct anyone to its location now.

  Certain that, like King Minos, she had hidden her truth where only a hero (or a demon) might dare to enter, Charlotte stood up and crossed the bedroom to the door. She turned and threw a last glance toward the secreted panel. If someone had been watching, they would have seen a pensive and exhausted expression on her weary face.

  With a soft click of the door latch, she left the hallowed room, never to return.

  Chapter 2

  Marsden-Lacey, Yorkshire, England

  Present Day

  MARTHA LITTLEWORD TUCKED THE NEWSPAPER she had bought at the news agent’s under her arm. She strutted down the High Street of Marsden-Lacey with an air of victory. Her red hair tried its best to escape the lopsided bun wobbling on top of her head.

  “That little mongrel never saw it coming,” she thought to herself triumphantly.

  The image of her attacker rolling and groaning in the street next to the news agent’s stand made her chuckle deliciously under her breath. Those self-defense classes at the Village Community Centre had actually worked. She was as surprised with herself as she was sure the young tough who attacked her must have been when he lunged for her purse and she neatly laid him out cold in the gutter.

  Ralph, the news agent, had recognized the teenager as Sam Berry, a local hooligan. Ralph couldn't get over what Martha had managed to do. He just stood there looking back and forth between Martha and the sprawled-out miscreant, Sam, repeating mostly to himself, “You,” and then looking at the teenage boy unconscious in the street, “He.” Then more as if questioning the truth of what he saw, “You?” and then “Sam?” Martha with her usual pragmatism had finally answered, “Yeah, Ralph, me.”

  It had been remarkably easy. She was standing talking to Ralph Emerson, a harmless but long-winded town gossip who was dropping innuendos about the new curator at The Grange, when a tremendous push from behind propelled her towards a surprised and open-mouthed Ralph. Then a firm jerk on her arm pulled her back toward her center of gravity and with a turn of her stout body, she did an about-face.

  Unconsciously aware of what she was doing, she pulled hard on the purse, forcing her attacker off-balance and reeling toward her five foot frame. She brought up her knee and neatly dealt a crushing blow to his manhood as she finished him off with an interlocking fist blow to the top of his rather mangy head.

  An amazing feat of athleticism and it was over in less than thirty seconds. As people gathered around with wide-eyed stares, she found herself not really sure what had happened. Only when Ralph started his monosyllabic utterances did Martha snap back to herself like a rubber band and pick up her purse. A sense of delight and weightlessness infused her whole self.

  After she gave her short statement to the police, she left the pitiful, human heap known as Sam for the police constable and Ralph to deal with, and continued with her original intentions up the High Street toward The Grange where she had an appointment with its new big-wig curator.

  Martha’s reflections on the experience began to take on a mythological aura which was partly due to her natural proclivity to enhance a story until it met with her standards of drama and with her propensity, like most humans, to enjoy a rare moment of self-pride. But her ego, happily for Martha, was fraught with attention deficit issues, so as she climbed the street, her steps became less reflective of a victory march and more in line with her usual upright and eager self.

  Her dress was professional and her shoes were the necessary black, low-heeled things required by the law office she worked in as a paralegal. Walking felt good. It stretched out the catch in her back. Being close to fifty, she needed slightly more maintenance these days. Things like magnifying glasses to read small print and stretching to combat the early morning stiffness when she got out of bed. So, taking the thug down in the High Street
was a nice way of rebalancing the cosmic bottom line in her favor. Naturally, this put Martha in fine spirits as she finally ascended the High Street hill and entered the iron gates of The Grange, Marsden-Lacey’s newest and, for that matter, only museum.

  She walked in through the entrance of the lovely, old Elizabethan manor home which had recently been turned into a repository for rare nineteenth-century manuscripts and books. A rush of cool air immediately enveloped her and she hesitated in the hall to allow her eyes to adjust. Slowly, the beautiful oak paneling and the worn flagstones came into view. She wondered, for what must have been the millionth time, at how divine these homes were in England. Being an American from the Midwest, she never tired of how her mind turned to romantic thoughts whenever she visited one of England’s heritage sites.

  In the corner of the hall was an elegant but newly-constructed reception desk built in a semicircle and made to conform to the rest of the hall’s architecture. She rang the bell on the desk and peeked over the edge. No one was around. Since the receptionist must be out, Martha decided to snoop about a bit. She walked down the main hallway toward two sizable and ornately-decorated mahogany doors, and with a quick look around to see if anyone might be watching her, she laid her ear against the door and listened.

  Martha could make out a woman’s voice on the other side. She gently opened the door to peer inside. There stood a tall brunette with her back to Martha. Her cell phone was pressed to her ear. The first surprise was hearing the woman’s voice. An American. It was always nice to hear the old, familiar accent, and from the sound of it, the woman was probably from either the Midwest or maybe a hair south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

  Years of working in the law field had given Martha ample experience in reading people. At first she thought the woman was an uptight, academic type. Shoes without any scuffs, neatly pressed spot-free blouse, and a perfectly coiffed hairstyle, certainly gave the woman the appearance of someone who practiced an acute attention to detail. But in an instant Martha saw there was something finer under the professional layers. The woman’s body language and the tone in her voice indicated sincerity and kindness.

  Martha could tell from the woman’s tone, she was talking to one of her children so Martha quietly waited until the call was over. The slim brunette slumped slightly as if she was tired.

  Martha did her assessment in less than thirty seconds. In sum, she knew she would probably like the woman.

  Chapter 3

  Haworth, England

  March 31, 1855

  ELLEN NUSSEY, CHARLOTTE’S DEAREST FRIEND through life, had received the letter from Charlotte’s father, Reverend Bronte, that Charlotte was dying. He had made it sound as if she would be gone within the day.

  Ellen had to be there when Charlotte died. They had loved each other as sisters and had shared all their secrets since their school days. Ellen knew deep in her soul the importance of getting to Haworth before Charlotte passed. If she didn’t make it, so much would be lost.

  Arthur Bell Nicholls, Charlotte’s husband, had increasingly censored her correspondence for the last few months of their marriage. He had started castigating Charlotte for her openness and the subject matter in the letters she sent Ellen. In the end, he had requested that every letter Ellen received be immediately burned after reading.

  Ellen had promised to obey his request because she realized he was the worst kind of man: a bully and a zealot who would never recognize the greatness of his wife’s gift or worse, he was jealous of it. The only way to deal with a tyrant like Reverend Nicholls was to let him think she was compliant. Otherwise, he would restrict Charlotte’s only means of expression and communication.

  When Ellen arrived at the parsonage, Charlotte had already passed. Her grief for her friend was absolute. Nicholls was in truth devastated by his wife’s death. He still clung to her tiny, wasted hand. Charlotte lay quiet and peaceful, free finally from the horrific and grueling suffering she had endured for last months of her life.

  As Ellen stood above her dear, brilliant friend, a terrific shock of realization came to her. It was only a matter of time before Nicholls would comb through Charlotte’s letters, papers, and memorabilia, and burn them all. From Ellen’s vantage point, looking down upon the grieving husband’s head, the truth of what she must do to save Charlotte’s work stormed through her mind. Feigning the need to lie down due to grief, she asked if she might go up to the old nursery. Charlotte’s father offered to show her up but she said she well-remembered the way.

  Once in the old room, a hundred happy memories came to her but she didn’t have time for any of that now. She shooed them away and went straight for the hidden place in the wainscot. Charlotte had alluded to this place in one of her last letters to Ellen and at the time Ellen thought the letter was odd. After some rereading, Ellen realized Charlotte couldn’t be forthright in her correspondence anymore and was trying to tell Ellen something.

  It took some time to locate the small hole in the wall but she found it and, placing her finger into the hole, she opened the hidden panel. There, wrapped and boxed, was the thing Charlotte had deemed so important she couldn’t dare name it in her letter.

  Ellen lifted it out. She couldn’t openly carry it out of the house so she lifted her skirt. Tearing long strands from her cotton petticoats, she tied the box securely to the outside of her leg. Once all her undergarments were in place, it was impossible to tell she had anything hidden on her person.

  Later that day, Ellen Nussey gave her condolences to the father and husband of her most-beloved friend. She departed the Haworth Parsonage and never looked back. She tried to find it in her heart to forgive Charlotte’s husband for his stupidity and inflated sense of self. It didn’t matter, because even Charlotte had realized the limitations of her husband and had acted responsibly in the end. She had gotten through to the one person she knew she could trust: her friend.

  Ellen wouldn’t let her down. She would keep it safe.

  Chapter 4

  Marsden-Lacey, England

  Present Day

  HELEN RYES PURSED HER LIPS and raised her eyebrows as she read the incoming number on her mobile. She had just finished a call from her daughter and now Timothy, her youngest, who lived in Concord, Massachusetts, was trying to reach her. With a deeply-resigned, maternal sigh, she brushed the glass surface of her device and asked, “Yes, Timothy?”

  “Mother. Why aren’t you answering your phone for God’s sake?”

  “I just got off the phone with Christine and I’m working. You do remember your mother works, dear?”

  “Oh, my God, of course I know you work, but you’ve been avoiding all of our phone calls because you don’t want to attend Dad’s wedding.”

  As the diatribe continued from her loving child, Helen held the phone slightly away from her ear and examined the back of her hand. She thought about how nice it would be to have a manicure and then, why not a pedicure, too? Something to give order to her life at the moment would be so nice.

  Once she realized the barking and whining had slowed on the other end of the line, she returned the phone to her ear, careful to avoid her pearl earring.

  “Darling, Mama’s not going to Daddy’s beach-side shindig.” Her temper stoked itself on visions of the happy couple’s matrimonial bliss being paid for by her hard work. Her words took on the impression of an irritated, albeit a loving, mother who had tired of her cub’s meddling with things he would be better off leaving alone.

  “You see, dear, I’m not paying to travel to some God-forsaken Floridian swamp to wish Fiona and your father happy trails. Not at my expense anyway, and why Florida? Why does everyone want to go to Florida? It’s hot and everyone ends up burned. In this case quite literally.”

  “You know it’s not about the wedding, Mother.”

  “Oh, dear, what exactly is it about then?”

  “Seeing your grandkids, maybe. Seeing your children possibly. I don’t know, Mother. Maybe seeing your family.”

  Th
is last fuming howl touched Helen. Timothy’s sweet, six-year-old, dirt-encrusted face swam up from her memory. She saw him again as he was the day she found him sitting in the garden digging for worms. Remembering how she had pulled Timothy into her arms, the feel of his small neck against her cheek and the soft smell of sunshine, fresh air and little boy mingling together made an elixir for maternal love. The memory hung there for a moment and Helen’s tone shifted.

  She said gently, “Darling, I’ll need some time. You do understand? Don’t you, Timothy? I need some time. Of course I want more than anything to see all of you. I’ll let you know. Give me a few days. Fiona and George,” she said these last two names with a definite hint of irritation, “aren’t marrying for another two weeks. I’ve got time to think it through still.”

  “Oh, all right, Mom. We want to see you and I know Christine and Peter are planning to be there. It wouldn’t be the same, you know, without you.” This last part faded away to a small crack in his voice.

  Helen quickly added, “I’ll let you know, dear. Don’t worry. It’ll all be fine. I love you, Timmy. Let’s talk later. Bye for now.” With a forced attempt to finish with a bright last note she touched “end” on the phone.

  “Hmph.” Someone cleared her throat. Helen spun around to see a conventionally-dressed, curvy but short woman in her late forties. Red hair was piled on the top of her head slightly askew with springing whispies flying out in every direction. It was as if she had been in a wind storm or had been wrestling with something, mused Helen.

  “Hello. I’m sorry to interrupt, but there isn’t a receptionist at the desk. My name is Martha Littleword. I’m with Partridge, Sims & Cuthbirt. I’m trying to locate Mr. Louis Devry, the curator?” This last bit was said with an apologetic, upward rise in her tone.

  “Oh, yes, of course, I’m Helen Ryes. I’m the book conservator,” Helen returned. “He just stepped out saying he wouldn’t be back for the day. He seemed a bit preoccupied. Is there anything I might help you with?”