Beatrice (The Tipton Hollow 2)

“Beatrice?”

She whirled around, and smiled in delight to find Ben a few feet behind her. “Are you alright?”

Beatrice opened her mouth to assure him that she was fine but then paused and looked at him hesitantly. “Maud is not very well this morning,” she sighed.

“Maud?” Ben frowned. Did he know a Maud?”

“Mrs Partridge. I think she got caught out in the rain yesterday and has caught a chill, so is going to spend the day in bed.”

Ben nodded. “It sounds the best place for her. Is there anything I can do?” He asked hopefully.

This morning she looked even more beautiful than she had yesterday. Her hair had once again been swept back into a tight bun at the base of her neck, but several small strands of hair had managed to escape anyway and now danced gaily against her cheek. He was just contemplating kissing the delightful curve of her lips when her words snapped him out of his revere.

Beatrice shook her head and offered him a smile. “I was just going to investigate this up here. I am sure that it wasn’t here yesterday, but cannot think for the life of me what it might be.” She nodded toward the mysterious bundle of rags.

She led the way up the path and tried to stop herself from staring at him. It was a struggle to think of anything other than just how wonderful he looked this morning. He had changed into a pair of dark charcoal-coloured trousers, accompanied with a white shirt and beautiful waistcoat which was made from the same material as his rather finely cut jacket. However, she rather felt that his mesmerising masculinity had little to do with the expensive cut of his clothing, and more to do with the charisma of the man himself.

“I am glad you are here,” she added quietly with a smile. Her heart flipped when he immediately grinned at her.

“Me too.” He nodded toward the bundle of rags. “Is it wildlife, do you think?”

“I don’t know.” Beatrice turned around and moved a bit closer to the object of her curiosity. “I don’t think so.”

“Good Lord,” she whispered moments later. Now that she was closer, she was able to see a pair of feet pointing toward her. Her stomach started to churn as dread drew her to a stop.

“Go back inside, Beatrice, while I take a closer look,” Ben ordered quietly.

When she didn’t move, he took her by the shoulders and tried to turn her around only for her to refuse to budge.

“No, I need to see if it is someone I know.” She looked down at the boots and felt sick with dread at the thought of viewing a corpse, but she couldn’t afford to be squeamish now. She had seen Miss Haversham die right in front of her eyes; she had seen dead bodies before. Although she tried to remind herself that there was absolutely nothing to be concerned about with this body either; deep inside, she knew that this was not just a dead body.

Ben studied her for a moment and contemplated whether to continue to argue with her until she left. However, for every second that they talked, they were not able to find out who the person was, or if they still needed help. The thought that he might be injured was enough to leave Beatrice where she was so he could squat down beside the body and give it a gentle nudge. He knew immediately from the way the body rocked stiffly that the person was dead, and had been quite some time.

“I am going to roll him over,” Ben warned her and waited for her to nod before he did just that.

They both stared in horror at the slack-jawed look of horror on the man’s face, and the large handle that protruded from the centre of the man’s chest. Death had claimed him hours ago from the look of the rigor mortis that had settled into his limbs. Had he been murdered yesterday during the storm? Or overnight while she had been asleep in her bed?

“God in heaven,” Beatrice whispered, fervently glad that she hadn’t had any breakfast. “He has been murdered.”

“Do you recognise him?” Ben asked as he studied the ground around the body.

Beatrice didn’t want to look at that death-gnarled face, she really didn’t, but had to. If only so she could assure herself that she didn’t recognise him. “I don’t think so. No.”

“What’s that?” Ben asked with a frown as he studied a white piece of something the man held in his clenched fingers.

“It looks like a piece of paper,” Beatrice replied cautiously but made no attempt to reach out to get it. The thought of having to touch the body made her feel sick. She watched in horror as Ben picked up a twig from the base of the nearest tree, and slowly prised the fingers open enough to retrieve a small piece of white paper.

He carefully unfolded it and swore. He didn’t want to show her, but could hardly ignore it now that they had it. Reluctantly, he glanced up at her and shook his head.

“You are not going to like it,” he warned and held the paper aloft for her to read.

Beatrice tipped her head: Beatrice Northolt, Brantley Manor, Tipton Hollow.

“Oh my,” she whispered in horror. “He was here for me.”

“Are you sure you don’t know him, Beatrice?” he demanded.

When she continued to stare in stunned disbelief at the body and didn’t appear to have even heard him, he grabbed her