Free There Must Be Murder by Margaret C. Sullivan Page B

circumstance was not
unusual and did not trouble her.
    As was her custom while working, her mind ran on
other matters than the task at hand, and her needle slowed as she
considered all that had happened that day. When she had defended
Matthew, Catherine had spoken instinctively; she did not know
Matthew well. He was always pleasant and respectful, but his
disposition was not open. It had never before occurred to her to
wonder about his situation. He was Henry’s clerk, and wrote in a
strong, elegant hand, so clearly he was an educated man; but then
why had he been obliged to go into service? He had worked for Henry
since he had taken over the living at Woodston, and was always
there, dependable and steady, but so unobtrusive that she rarely
thought of him except when he was needed or present. She realized
she did not even know his surname.
    Such an unremarkable young man—and yet so
completely capable of gaining access to Lady Beauclerk’s house and
the confidence of her servant! Mr. Shaw, for instance, could not
have done such a thing. His first concern was himself, his own
wishes and concerns, and he was not able to put those aside for
duty. No wonder he worked for a vulgar apothecary, while Matthew
had a comfortable, if not prominent, place at Woodston parsonage,
where his singular skills were valued.
    Such skills were not commonplace; yet how had
someone like Matthew acquired them? Immediately a romantic past for
Matthew sprung up in her imagination: perhaps he was a younger son
from a great family, now fallen on hard times, or perhaps his
mother had died and his father remarried to a cruel woman who would
not allow him to assist his own children. Young Matthew, forced
from his far-flung, retired home, had learned woodcraft for
survival; thus his general reserve and silent movement. During a
snowstorm, he was forced to ask for shelter at a country parsonage
(a comfortable yet unpretending place, rather like Woodston), and
the kind rector had taken in the orphan and given him the final
polish on his education. Catherine smiled over her sewing, lost in
dreams of romance and adventure.
    Her solitude was broken by the little
maidservant coming in with a note. Catherine did not recognize the
handwriting; she broke open the wafer and read.
    You have not been asking the right questions.
If you wish to know all about the murder of Sir Arthur Beauclerk,
go outside now. All will be explained.
    The note was unsigned.
    What had Henry just said about a mysterious,
unsigned note? “Beware getting too close to the truth. Next you
will receive a mysterious unsigned note warning you off, and any
heroine worth her smelling salts cannot resist such a challenge.”
Her mind swirled with possibilities: Lady Beauclerk, weary at a
lifetime of harsh treatment; Miss Beauclerk, resisting overbearing
parental authority with the help of a besotted apothecary; Sir
Philip, desperate to keep his uncle from changing his will; Mrs.
Findlay herself, attempting to set into action a cunningly planned
series of events. It was just like a book! Though Catherine’s
disposition was mostly quite unheroic, when presented with such a
delicious adventure, what heroine could resist?
    She went to the window and peered down onto
Pulteney-street, looking for lurking figures; the darkness was
almost full, and a fog swirled off the river, making it impossible
to see anything. Catherine hesitated, then decided; someone was
trying to tell her something, and she must know what happened. She
threw a shawl about her shoulders and went downstairs.
    She opened the door and peered outside; she saw
no one. She took one step, then another, down the short path that
crossed over the vaults below; as she drew close to the iron
archway that marked the edge of the pavement, a hand reached out of
the fog and seized her wrist. “You come with me now,” said a voice,
and bore her inexorably away before she could breathe a word.

Chapter Ten
The Shades of Udolpho
    The ruthless grip