Catherine looked at MacGuffin’s hanging tongue and agreed, and the Newfoundland padded down the hall behind the footman as the ladies climbed the stairs to her ladyship’s sitting-room.

Sir Philip was there, paying his daily duty call upon his aunt; he acknowledged Catherine with a nod and a smile, which she returned, still grateful for his kindness of the previous evening.

Mrs. Findlay was berating her sister-in-law. “It had to be Laura-place, did it not, Agatha? No Queen-squares for you, ma’am! And my poor brother not cold in his grave. ’Tis not enough that one of you disposed with him, but you must revel in it by making merry with his fortune!”

“I am sure that I do not know what you are talking about, Fanny,” said her ladyship; though her blush did not escape Catherine’s sharp eye.

“I believe you do, Agatha; I know one of you does. You,” she said, looking at Sir Philip, “or you,” turning a glare upon her niece.

“What are you suggesting, madam?” asked Sir Philip, his voice low and dangerous.

“I suggest nothing, sir; I state it for all to hear. I am come to Bath to determine which of you murdered my brother.”

Chapter Six

Murder and Everything of the Kind

Mrs. Findlay’s words shocked all present into silence.

“Really, Fanny,” said Lady Beauclerk in a faint tone of voice. “You must be reading horrid novels to imagine such a thing. Poor Sir Arthur, murdered! After he suffered so! I am sure that no man could have been more tenderly nursed by his wife and daughter.”

“Giving you the perfect opportunity to assist his exit from this world. And you,” said Mrs. Findlay, rounding on Sir Philip, “always hanging around and ingratiating yourself with the old man. You did not think he would hear about your unsavory adventures, did you? You are fortunate he did not cut you out of the will!”

“Beaumont is entailed,” said Sir Philip. “Whatever my uncle thought of me — and I think, and hope, he thought well — he did not have the power to disinherit me.”

“From the title and the estate, perhaps not; but what of the funded monies? I know of a few provisions in the entailment that would have put you in a very uncomfortable situation indeed: master of a great estate, and unable to afford to run it!”

“There was no reason for my uncle to change the provisions of his will,” said Sir Philip with a touch of impatience.

“No reason? After the way you carried on in Brighton last summer? To think I would live to see a Beauclerk involved in a criminal conversation!”

Catherine was paying little attention to the argument between Sir Philip and his aunt. She was thinking over everything she had learned that afternoon: that Sir Arthur’s sister thought his death had not been natural; that both Lady Beauclerk and her daughter had private, secret access to strong poison; and that the apothecary who provided Miss Beauclerk with that poisonous potion had tended Sir Arthur in his last days. A younger Catherine might have reached a most alarming conclusion indeed; but as Henry had once bid her, she now consulted her own sense of the probable. It did not seem possible that a man such as Sir Arthur Beauclerk, tended by a retinue of servants and physicians, could be the victim of a murderous plot; but the Beauclerks were an unhappy family, and who could tell to what measures the desperate might resort?

Sir Philip, mistaking Catherine’s thoughtfulness for distress, or perhaps just embarrassed that an outsider was witnessing the incident, said, “Mrs. Tilney should not have to listen to this.”

Mrs. Findlay whirled about. “Tilney! I have heard that name. You may tell General Tilney, madam, that he is in my sights as well. Sniffing round the widow before my poor brother had been dead half a year! I dare say that fancy Abbey of his costs a pretty penny to run. He’ll have a mind to your jointure, Agatha, you may depend upon it.”

“That is enough, aunt,” said Sir Philip. He crossed the room to where Catherine stood and took her elbow. “Let me procure a chair to take you home, ma’am.”

“Yes, let Philip help you,” said Miss Beauclerk. “Thank you for coming out with me this morning, Mrs. Tilney, and I hope to see you tonight at the theatre.”

Catherine hastily took her leave; Sir Philip escorted her down the stairs and waited with her while the footman went off to fetch MacGuffin.

“May I get you a chair?”

“Oh, no; my lodgings are just a few steps away, and I have my dog.”

“One of the footmen could bring your dog to your lodgings, and you are distressed by my aunt Findlay’s nonsense. Pray let me procure you a chair.”

“Oh, I am not distressed,” said Catherine.

He looked at her closely. “Are you not?”

“No, sir; I am perfectly able to walk; but is very kind of you to think of it.”

“Most women would have a fit of the vapors at overhearing such an extraordinary declaration as my aunt’s. I salute you, Mrs. Tilney.”

Catherine smiled and blushed as the footman returned, leading MacGuffin.

Sir Philip looked at the Newfoundland and said, “Good Lord. No, you need no chair, Mrs. Tilney; you could ride this fellow home.”

Catherine considered this. “Henry talks of training him to pull a little cart to give rides to the children of our parish. But that would not do for me.”



Sir Philip smiled. “Indeed not, madam; though he is a handsome lad.” He bent to pet MacGuffin, but the dog pressed against Catherine and made a sound somewhere between a snort and a growl.