Page 61 of Murder of a Dead Man

“When shall we do this?” Mrs. Vance asked.

“I didn’t think we would all go,” protested Mrs. Worcham.

“You’ll need lookouts and backup,” Mrs. Vance said, getting into the idea of an adventure.

Cecilia laughed at Mrs. Vance’s attitude but didn’t nay say her. If they were discovered, it would be easier to claim they were a bunch of nosey women. “Midnight, I’d say. The appropriate time after everyone has gone to sleep for there to be things heard that go bump in the night.”

“Oh, please don’t even suggest that,” said Mrs. Worcham. “I sometimes go down to the kitchen late in the evening for warm milk. I have trouble falling asleep and that helps me. Thaddeus is used to me doing that nocturnal activity and won’t think a bit about it.”

“What about Matron?”

“I have some laudanum in my room. We could slip a teaspoon into her evening tea.”

“How will you get that by her.”

Mrs. Worcham smiled. “A little distraction and it’s done,” she said lightly.

“I feel a horrible coughing fit coming on,” suggested Cecilia, warming to Mrs. Worcham’s idea. “She is solicitous to those.”

“Yes. But what?—?”

The door to the little parlor opened. It was Dr. Worcham.

“Hello, my dear. When I didn’t find you in our rooms, I came down here, thinking maybe you’d fallen asleep reading. Yet here you are talking to patients! You know Mr. Turnbull-Minchin doesn’t like you to do so.”

“I know, Thaddeus dear. But I get so lonely sometimes. And we were just chatting.”

He looked at Cecilia and frowned. “And I suppose Lady Branstoke has told you Mr. Montgomery was married and had children?”

“Yes, and that Lady Stackpoole’s son wants to marry his oldest daughter despite his father’s objection. I find that romantic, don’t you?”

“Romantic? To go against his father?” Dr. Worcham countered.

“Because she is Scottish. So—so—antediluvian, don’t you think? I mean, you were born in Scotland. What if my father had the same objections when we wed?” Mrs. Worcham said.

Dr. Worcham harrumphed. “So that is what you have been discussing? This romance?”

“Women love romance, Dr. Worcham,” Cecilia said, wrapping her arms around herself in a hug.

“I suppose that is an acceptable topic of conversation.”

“It certainly isn’t a depressing one,” offered his wife.

“True. But it is late now. You ladies should be upstairs. Your absence will worry Matron.”

“What time is it?” Cecilia asked, looking about the room until she saw a mantle clock. “Gracious, it is nine. We shouldgo upstairs, Mrs. Vance, Lady Stackpoole. I sometime have such trouble falling asleep if I don’t do so in a timely fashion,” she told the doctor.

“Precisely why we have the retiring hour at 8:30. Early by society hours, healthy for you,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “Now off with you.”

“Yes, of course. And thank you, Mrs. Worcham, for allowing us to disturb your sewing,” Cecilia said.

Mrs. Vance led the way out of the small parlor, through the library and out to the hall and up the grand staircase. They didn’t speak amongst themselves, just hurried toward their destination, nodding to Mr. Turnbull-Minchin and the majordomo as they passed them.

In their wing, they nodded and mouthed an agreement to meet at midnight and each went into their own rooms.

CHAPTER 17

THE NEW BELL INN