Beatrice (The Tipton Hollow 2)

“Of course I do,” she snapped officiously. When she saw Ben’s brows lift querulously, she softened her gaze and glanced cautiously around them again. “I have it on good authority that the same group of people who were involved with the psychics have started a new Circle, and are getting involved in things that don’t concern them. I just wanted to warn you that if they do approach you for donations, don’t trust their endeavours. They are a very shady bunch of people, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you, Mrs Underwick,” Ben growled. He dropped his hand but Mrs Underwick’s gnarled fingers refused to release their hold on his now crumpled jacket. He glared down at her hand and shifted, but she refused to take the hint.

“They are into philanthropy now, I hear. There are persons who shall not be named,” she glanced around as though the said ‘persons who shall not be named’ were about to pop out from behind the gravestones, “who have since discovered that they are involving themselves in people’s lives, and it isn’t welcome. They are making a lot of people very angry. I just wanted to warn you in case you are asked to donate to their cause. They don’t operate on behalf of Tipton Hollow and I, for one, shall not donate anything to the things they get themselves involved with.” She glanced around them and slapped her mouth closed several more times before she leaned forward with yet more of her juicy gossip. “You know what happened the last time this group got themselves involved in anything, don’t you? Two –” she shoved two fingers up, practically under his nose, “- two deaths. Poor Mr Montague and Miss Haversham had no idea what they were getting themselves into. Of course that lot,” she nodded in Beatrice’s direction, “came away scot free. It’s a scandal, I tell you. I would strongly advise you not to get involved in their shenanigans.”

Ben felt his temper boil at the audacity of the woman before him. To think that she had the temerity to attempt to besmirch Beatrice’s name, especially when she wasn’t here to defend herself, appalled him.

“As I understand it, nobody from the Psychic Circle could be held accountable for the deaths of Mr Montague or Miss Haversham, because nobody in Tipton Hollow knew that they were living with a killer in their midst,” he bit out. “The police didn’t find anyone other the killer responsible. It is unwise for anyone to insinuate that any surviving member of the Psychic Circle, who is not already in jail, should be implicated in what went on purely because they were there at the time. It is outrageous, and highly insulting for anyone to be foolish enough to suggest such a thing.”

He gave her his darkest scowl and dropped his gaze to her hand, which still crumpled the material of his jacket. He quite carefully and deliberately prised each finger off, one by one; then dropped her hand. When he lifted his gaze, he saw shock and outrage on her face rather than apology, and it enraged him even more.

“I would strongly recommend that you confine your comments to more appropriate matters in the future, madam, because I do not consider us to be on a firm enough acquaintance for you to give me advice on what I should, or should not, get myself involved with. If the ladies from the Psychic Circle have taken it upon themselves to form a different circle which helps others, then good, I say. I applaud their endeavours, and have nothing but the upmost contempt for people who wish to besmirch any worthwhile activity they wish to conduct. Good day to you,” he snapped.

Before she could open her mouth to speak, he quite pointedly turned around and marched out of the graveyard. His fists clenched with the need to punch something, or turn back and give the old bag another piece of his mind.

It was only the thought that there might still be enough time to catch up with Beatrice that made him lengthen his stride and head out of the graveyard.

Beatrice drew in a deep breath and tipped her head back to allow the sunshine to bathe her face. The warmth outside was heaven in contrast to the almost frigid interior of the old stone church, and almost echoed her personal feelings about going there each week. She knew that at some point she would have to make a decision as to whether she wanted to continue to go to church each Sunday but, right now, she didn’t want anything to dampen her enjoyment of such a wonderful summer’s day.

Right now, she needed to savour the best of the afternoon and enjoy the birdsong, while she tried to block out all thoughts of just how handsome Benedict Addison had looked this morning.

To her consternation, somewhere off in the distance, the low rumble of carriage wheels suddenly interrupted the silence. At first she didn’t pay it any attention to it but, when the noise grew steadily louder, she was forced to open her eyes and consider it more closely.

She immediately made her way over to the grass verge which ran alongside the country lane but, to her utter horror, her boot had barely touched the grass when a huge black carriage flew past at breakneck speed. It was so close to her that she felt the rumble of the wheels mere inches from her toes.

She stepped onto the grass to avoid falling beneath the wheels but, at the last minute, realised that a deep ditch ran beneath the thick hedgerow. In a desperate attempt not to fall into either the hedge or the ditch, she flailed her arms wildly and staggered sideways. Unfortunately, she stepped into a hole that was hidden in the grass and twisted her ankle.

“You idiot!” Beatrice cried after the carriage as it disappeared rapidly down the lane. She watched it turn out of sight, and cursed the selfishness of the driver. He must have seen her; why hadn’t he stopped to see if she was alright?

“Oh, no,” she muttered as she tried to put her weight onto her ankle only for pain to immediately shoot up her shin. She stared down in horror. Her ankle throbbed mercilessly and, while she hadn’t felt anything pop or crack, she knew that it had been injured. She swallowed and tried to think what she should do.

Hardly anybody used this lane, so it was highly unlikely that anyone would pass by soon and be able to offer assistance. Maud would use the lane to get home but, unfortunately, could be several hours yet.

Beatrice sighed. If she wanted to get home at all, she had to do so under her own steam no matter how much it hurt.

“Can this day get much worse?” She gasped tearfully as she began to hobble toward home.

To her utter disbelief, she soon realised that her day could indeed get considerably worse as the first drops of rain began to fall around her.

She glared up at the dark clouds that seemed to grow increasingly darker with each passing minute. “Thank you,” she snapped at the sky.

The tentative step she took sent white-hot shafts of pain up her leg, and she knew that her journey home had just become incredibly difficult. Her instinctive wince was accompanied by a cry of pain, which escaped her in spite of the teeth that bit into her bottom lip.

She hobbled once or twice more, and managed to get off the verge and onto the more solid lane, but it didn’t help the soreness of her ankle which wasn’t able to bear much of her weight at all.

To add insult to injury, the sky chose that moment to gather as many rain clouds as it could and hold them over her. Within seconds, the heavens opened and she found herself in a sudden deluge that was relentless. A low rumble of warning rattled somewhere off in the distance, and assured her that she would be extremely foolhardy if she lingered outside any longer than she absolutely had to.

She knew that there was only one thing worse than being caught out in a rainstorm miles from home with a foot injury, and it was being caught out in a thunderstorm miles from home with a foot injury. With a disgusted sigh, she swiped rainwater out of her eyes and began to stumble, stagger and hop her way home.

Ben struggled to contain his fury as he trotted along the road toward Beatrice’s house. How dare that old harridan, Mrs Underwick, have the utter gall to accost him in the churchyard in the first place, let alone attempt to ‘advise’ him on what he should and should not get involved with? He was tempted to donate to new Circle just to spite the old gossip.

Of course everyone in the area had heard of the events that had surrounded the old Tipton Hollow Psychic Circle. How would in anyone not given that two members of the circle had been murdered? People were still talking about it to this day and, he rather suspected, would be for years to come. He was just glad that Beatrice was still alive. He had been away when the murders had taken place, but would never forget the moment when he had heard about what had happened. The thought that Beatrice could have ended up one of the murder’s victims had haunted him to the point that he had hurried to church the following Sunday, just to see for himself that she really was alright.

As though she had been sent by the Gods, Beatrice suddenly appeared in the lane before him. Unfortunately, it was evident that she had been hurt since she had left the churchyard. He scowled and watched the half-walk, half-stumble of her gait. He stood up in his stirrups and glanced around the empty fields on either side of the lane. As far as he could tell, they were the only people for miles around. What on earth could have gone wrong in the last few minutes?

“Beatrice? What’s happened?”

Everything within her froze at the sound of his voice. Even though she hadn’t turned around, she knew exactly who it was because she would recognise that voice anywhere. Those rich, husky tones were as familiar to her as her own voice. Her heart began to thump heavily in her chest and she looked around desperately to try to find a way out of having to talk to him, but there was nowhere to turn to. She had no choice but to reluctantly face him.