Midnight in Austenland (Austenland 2)

“We found it!” Charlotte yelled, as they ran back through the house. “We found it, we found it!”

Eddie, Mr. Mallery, and Colonel Andrews came from separate directions, converging in the front hall. Miss Charming was hopping up and down, her bosom nearly rising to slap her own forehead.

“We found the clue, Colonel Andrews! We found Mary’s own words!”

Colonel Andrews clasped his hands together, his face aglow. Charlotte was so elated by his happiness that she wanted to squeeze his cheeks. His face cheeks, that is. Not that he didn’t look great in breeches, but she didn’t dwell on it.

The group rushed into the morning room and gathered around Charlotte. She opened the book, then thinking that Miss Gardenside might enjoy it more than she, gave it over to the girl to read. Miss Gardenside smiled and cleared her throat.

I, Mary Francis, write this in my own hand. I have just heard tale of the passing of the good abbess and now my tongue is loosed to speak. God alone will judge the abbess, for I will not and would not speak of the matter while she lived. Truth is a sword, and though it be good, it cuts. I will not wound anyone if I can help it. I have seen enough death. My parents of the fever. My brother in the fields. And then at the abbey …

I know the villagers think I killed my sister nuns, and if they could have claimed how, they would have hanged me at the moment. God knows my hands are clean. And none else believe me but Greta, the good cook’s helper at the big house. She did not like how the others treated me. She could see how tortured I was, how I could not sleep for the nightmares, how I paced my room at night to keep from screaming. She meant well, but I did not think it wise for her to pretend to be a Spirit of Vengeance, warning them away. Though she was clever, putting on the muslin and balancing on that butter board to appear to float, and the others did leave me alone after that. Still I fear the lie in the thing and asked Greta to stop.

Now I will write the truth of that night, and pray to God that he take me home soon so I can rest. For some time the abbess had been doing poorly. Her hands shook, and her thoughts often muddled. That night she made the tea for supper, and, wishing to brighten the sisters’ spirits, made it extra sweet with honey. The exertion tired her, and she took to rest. Poor abbess. She was mother to me, the kindest woman, a saint. I feared for her health and so was fasting that night in earnest prayer that she be made well.

The sisters sat to eat. I, fasting, served them, pouring their tea after the meal.

When tea was drunk, we retired to the chapel for compline prayers. But before we could start, some of the sisters began to moan, clutching their bellies. One fell to the earth, then another. I ran around, frantic, trying to help, but their faces convulsed horribly. Some screamed. In minutes, all lay dead. In confusion, I feared the Devil and his army were attacking and I hid beneath a pew, praying to the Almighty most fervently. Soon the abbess came in and saw the death. She fainted and I carried her to bed.

There was naught to be done. I laid out the bodies of my sisters and covered them in blankets. Come morn, I would go to the village and fetch help to bury the dead. In the meantime, I cleaned up the dishes from the last supper, thinking it was the only service I could offer my poor sisters. When I emptied the tea cauldron, I discovered something strange. The abbess had not boiled the usual dried herbs we had grown from our garden. I thought at first she had boiled fresh pine needles, as we sometimes did in winter, but the smell was wrong. Then I realized—the abbess in her confusion had mistaken the yew hedge for the pine trees. I have seen yew kill a horse. My dear sisters drank yew tea, well-sweetened.

I am consoled that the abbess will never know, and I pray God pardon her, for her heart was pure.

Miss Gardenside shut the book and looked around. “Well, I would like Mary Francis pleading for me at the final judgment.”

“Amen,” said Eddie.

Charlotte was silent, imagining Mary pacing in her room each night, haunted by the faces of the dying sisters.

Then Colonel Andrews began to laugh. He rocked back and forth, holding his knees. “Well done! Well done indeed. I say, what a right splendid way to end it all. I hereby declare the mystery solved!”

Miss Charming and Miss Gardenside hurrahed and clapped.

“Solved?” said Charlotte. “But what about the rest?”

“What rest?” the Colonel asked.

She sat beside him, speaking low so the others didn’t overhear. “The fake body on the second floor. Or was it just a hand? Was there more than the rubber glove? I already guessed it was supposed to be Mr. Wattlesbrook or Mrs. Hatchet.”

Colonel Andrews’s eyes widened. In amazement, no doubt! He hadn’t realized she’d gotten so far into the mystery on her own.

“They were the only main characters who disappeared,” she explained. “And mysteriously too. No one seems to have witnessed Mr. Wattlesbrook’s departure, and Miss Gardenside said she dismissed her nurse herself. It was the last night of the storm, and I looked around the next day. That’s when I found the tracks from Mr. Wattlesbrook’s—”

Car. She was about to say “car.” That was not a Regency word. That was an off-limits word.

Oh no. Oh dear. She’d gotten this so wrong. Colonel Andrews would never involve a car in his Regency mystery. He was a purist. What was she saying? This had nothing to do with Mary Francis.

“Never mind. I just … never mind. I was thinking about another story line.” She trailed off and joined the others, who were gathered around the tea trolley.

Eddie sniffed his cup. “Does this brew smell a bit yew-ish?”

That night, Charlotte lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. Sometimes instinct isn’t fancy. Sometimes when you think you’ve touched a corpse’s hand, you actually have, and sometimes when you suspect there’s a murderer lurking in a big strange house, there really is, and you should figure out who it is before they come for you.

She tried to sleep, but the noise of her fears grated in her head, loud as a siren, and she might as well have been trying to sleep atop a wailing fire truck. She dozed when she could, just trying to make it till dawn. She didn’t dare venture out in the dark.

What do you think will happen? asked her Inner Thoughts. The bogeyman will bite you?

Basically I’m afraid of murder most foul, Charlotte answered.