Chapter One
“This is the second funeral we’ve attended this week,” I whispered in Uncle Gerald’s ear.
He gave me the look that served as chastisement when I was a child, but it had lost its power over the years.
“Don’t you find it odd?” I asked.
He lifted his fingers to his mustache and muttered into his hand. “Catherine, please. We are at a funeral.”
“Exactly.” I ignored the disapproving stare of Mrs. Witherpoole and gazed at open grave before us. Sunlight filtered through the trees onto the cemetery grounds, its warmth brushing against my shoulders as leaves swayed in the wind. Behind us, the simple stone church marked the center of the village, with the graveyard on one side and the village green across from it. It was a beautiful morning, which made the funeral even sadder.
Just visible in the depths of the grave lay the coffin that held young Ann Claybrook. Next to the grave’s edge, Mrs. Claybrook stifled a sob with her handkerchief. Mr. Claybrook looked stunned. He’d worn the same expression for two days now, and I feared he’d wear it a while longer.
Three nights ago, I saw Ann Claybrook at the Richardsons’ party. Talked to her, watched her dance and laugh. She was only sixteen.
That night, according to the Claybrooks, Ann walked ahead of them on their short journey home. It was too fine a summer night to waste in a carriage. Ann turned the corner of the lane that led to their house, and when the Claybrooks followed a few moments later, she had disappeared from view.
They thought nothing of it at first—Ann had run ahead, cutting through the Fredericks’ garden as she often did. But when they reached the house and still could not find her, a search party was formed.
They found her four hours later, beneath a hedge on the far side of the Fredericks’ property.
The vicar cleared his throat and resumed his liturgy. I watched his mouth as he spoke. I would have this service memorized soon if these strange deaths kept occurring. Sixteen-year-old girls did not inexplicably drop dead beneath hedges. Nor did young tailors mysteriously die in ditches.
I seemed to be the only person in Harwick convinced of this fact.
The service was short, and Uncle Gerald and I followed the other villagers as we shuffled through the cemetery gate and into the lane. It felt wrong to bask in the sunlight when Ann Claybrook was dead, but I couldn’t help myself.
An arm slipped through mine, and I lowered my face from the sun’s rays to smile at my friend Mary Hayworth.
“It’s far too gorgeous today for a funeral,” she said. “Poor Ann.”
I nodded. We slowed our pace, letting the crowd pass us and disperse to their homes. After a quick look over his shoulder to ascertain my intentions, Uncle Gerald walked ahead, no doubt thinking about dinner and whether or not Polly, our cook and housekeeper, had remembered to sweep the mud from the foyer.
Peter Amherst, the shopkeeper’s son, walked by, and he and Mary gave each other secret smiles. We turned down the shaded lane that led to the Andersons’ orchard, and I gave Mary’s arm a squeeze.
“Why don’t you just run away together?” I asked, as I always did.
“You know why.” She leaned her head against my shoulder. “I couldn’t bear to disappoint Mother and Father.”
“If you want to be with him, I’m not sure you have much choice.”
She dropped my arm and drifted to the side of the lane, pretending to look for wildflowers. “It’s not that easy.”
Mary and Peter had been secretly engaged for two years, but her family was the richest in thirty miles. Her father owned half the farmland surrounding the village, and her mother boasted wealthy family connections throughout northern England. The Hayworths would never allow their daughter to marry a common man who’d have to work his entire life.
I decided to change the subject. These arguments never accomplished anything.
“Don’t you find these deaths strange? So many of them in such a short time?”
Mary looked at me, but I could tell her thoughts were still on Peter. “Perhaps it’s the heat.”
I laughed. “The world will end before it gets hot enough in Harwick to do a person harm.”
“What do you think, then?”
I watched my feet rise and fall on the path for the space of a breath before answering. “I think someone killed them.”
Mary stopped and gaped at me. “Catherine! You can’t be serious.”
“I am. Three people found dead in two weeks! It can’t be natural.”
“Three? You can’t include that soldier. He didn’t live here.”
“He died here.”
She didn’t reply, just continued walking. I followed. We were quiet for several minutes before she spoke again.
“I think you’re overreacting. It’s strange, yes, but a murderer in Harwick? I can’t imagine anything more farfetched.”
Neither could I, but nothing else made sense.
+++++
I sat with Uncle Gerald in the parlor that evening and pretended to read, though really I was planning my attack.
Our home had a simple layout, with a parlor, my uncle’s small study, a dining room, and the kitchen on the main floor, and four modest bedrooms on the upper level. It felt too big for just Uncle and I these days, though when I was growing up with my three cousins, the house felt full to bursting with our antics. The difference was stark, when I let myself think about it.
For now, I had more dire things to ponder. Before he retired two years ago, Uncle Gerald had been Harwick’s doctor. He still consulted with the village surgeon, Mr. Haviland, on a regular basis, and I was sure they’d discussed the recent deaths. I wanted the details.
When a violent illness took my parents and Uncle Gerald’s wife eight years ago, it left me in his care. Having had three sons, he had no idea how to relate to a twelve-year-old girl. In the end, he decided to treat me like one of my cousins, which meant he indulged my interest in medicine rather than discouraging me as a woman would have. I’d read all of the medical texts in Uncle’s study, and during winter evenings, he used to quiz me, giving me symptoms and seeing if I could diagnose the illness. By the time I was eighteen, he could no longer stump me.
The question was whether he would be willing to discuss a real case, not just mere theory.
“Uncle,” I said, laying my book across my lap, “I’m disturbed by Ann Claybrook’s death.”
He looked up from his newspaper and peered at me over his spectacles. “It’s very sad. Poor child.”
I nodded and ran my fingers along the spine of my book. “Does Mr. Haviland know how she died?”
Uncle lowered his newspaper, and the look he gave me was much sharper than a moment ago. “Catherine, you’re not starting in on this suspicion of yours again, are you? Miss Claybrook’s death was perfectly innocent. A tragedy, but nothing could have been done to prevent it.”
“But how does Mr. Haviland know it was her heart?” I asked. “I mean, what were the signs? The symptoms?” I hoped that, by casting my questions in the vein of our old game, Uncle Gerald would share his knowledge.
It didn’t work.
“Catherine.” He sighed. “I can’t discuss this with you. Even dead, patients have a right to confidentiality. You shall just have to trust my word and that of Mr. Haviland.”
“I do. Of course I do. I just wondered how you identify such an invisible illness, that’s all.”
“That’s just the trouble.” He rubbed his temples with his fingers. “You can’t identify it until it’s too late.” He looked out the window. “Too late.”
He drifted into his thoughts, and I didn’t have the heart to push him further. Despite his steadily receding hair and thinning cheeks, it was only in moments of unguarded emotion like this that he looked his age. I swallowed my guilt as he seemed to shrink in on himself. After a few minutes, he hoisted himself out of the chair, patted my shoulder, and left the parlor.
I retired to my room shortly after, frustrated. I didn’t like casting my uncle into a melancholy. I should have realized my questions would turn his mind to his wife and my parents. On the other hand, I desperately wanted to know if there were any strange circumstances surrounding Ann Claybrook’s death. When she was first discovered, one of the Claybrook servants went into hysterics, screaming in Gaelic. She was promptly silenced with the threat of dismissal, according to gossip, but I couldn’t help my curiosity.
I wanted to know what had frightened her.
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