Chapter Ten
The Shades of Udolpho
The ruthless grip on her arm propelled Catherine down the pavement. In the swirling fog, she could not see where she was being taken or even identify her captor. One of Mrs. Radcliffe’s heroines might have swooned at such a moment, but Catherine had no idea of doing so.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “Let me go! Where are you taking me?”
Her abductor stopped and turned. A face came leering at her out of the mist; instinctively she raised her hand and prepared to cry out. . .
MacGuffin’s coat gleamed; all traces of mud and the Avon had been removed, and he was once again a pampered house pet rather than the wild-looking creature of nature he had been only a little while earlier. MacGuffin had no vanity, but he enjoyed the sensation of being brushed and the attention he received from his master, and wagged his tail gratefully.
Henry attempted to brush away some of the hair that had traveled from the dog to his own coat, but it soon proved a hopeless business.
“Matthew,” he said, “another time, remind me to take off my coat before brushing Mac.”
“Yes, Mr. Tilney,” said Matthew, who had done precisely that on the present occasion, but had not been heeded.
“Come along, Mac,” said Henry.
MacGuffin followed him very willingly upstairs, where, he knew, there would be scraps from his family’s evening meal and a warm fire to lie beside. He trotted ahead of his master in the entrance hallway and stopped to sniff at the door, which stood ajar.
Henry looked outside, and saw nothing but swirling fog; he wondered for a moment, and then shut the door. He went up the stairs to the drawing room, MacGuffin close behind.
“I think we must speak with the landlady, Cat,” said Henry as he entered the drawing room. “One of the servants left the door ajar — ” He stopped as he realized that Catherine was not in the room. “Cat?” he called out, thinking she must have stepped into their bedchamber. There was no answer. “Catherine?” he called, not alarmed, but curious as to where she might be.
He noticed an unfolded letter abandoned on the table with Catherine’s sewing, which showed signs of hasty abandonment. He was not the sort of man who read his wife’s correspondence without permission; but it was lying open on the table where anyone might see it; and combined with Catherine’s absence and the state of the shirt she was making for him, he thought the note might contain news of a distressing nature that would require some sort of husbandly comfort, so he picked it up and read it.
“Cat?” he called again when he had finished. “My sweet?” Now there was a note of alarm in his voice. “Catherine!” He strode from room to room, searching for her. There were not many rooms to search. He ran down the stairs, MacGuffin at his heels.
He knocked on the door of the ground floor apartment that the landlady occupied. “Ma’am,” he said as soon as the door opened, “is Mrs. Tilney here, by any chance?”
“No, sir,” said the landlady. “I have not seen her since you returned from your walk.”
MacGuffin went to the door, pawed it gently, and let out a little groan.
“Hush, lad,” said Henry. MacGuffin sat down, his nose pressed against the crack between the door and the jamb.
Matthew came through the door that led to the stairs from the kitchens at that moment. Henry handed him the letter. “Do you know what this could be about?”
Matthew read the note quickly and shook his head. “No, sir; I do not recognize the handwriting.”
MacGuffin pawed at the door again, whimpering. Matthew snapped his fingers, and the dog looked around alertly, but did not move away from the door.
“When I came upstairs, the front door stood ajar,” said Henry quietly. “I believe Mrs. Tilney has gone out to meet whomever wrote this note. She has such faith in the essential goodness of man — perhaps too much. I want you to — ”
His words were cut off by MacGuffin, who stood and barked at the door repeatedly. When they looked at him, he wagged his tail and whined, pushing his nose against the door.
Matthew and Henry exchanged a look.
“Get his lead,” said Henry, and Matthew returned with not only the lead but also a lantern and two loaded pistols. He handed one of the pistols to Henry, who raised his eyebrows.
“I hope we will not find them needful, sir,” said Matthew, “but in my experience it is best to be prepared for all eventualities.”
“Yes, of course,” said Henry. He thrust the pistol in his pocket, slipped the lead over MacGuffin’s head, opened the door, and said in an urgent voice, “Find her, Mac. Find Catherine.” MacGuffin pulled him out into the fog, with Matthew following close behind.
The cry died in Catherine’s throat; she dropped her hand and peered at the face before her. “You — I know you,” she said.
The man grinned, revealing several missing front teeth, and nodded vigorously. “How d’ye do, miss,” he said. “Mistress is wishful to talk with ye. Bring miss, she said, so I be bringin’ ye, see?”
“You are Mrs. Findlay’s man,” said Catherine.
“Aye, aye,” he said, grinning and nodding.
“She wants to talk to me? Why did she not simply send up her card? I would have been happy to see her.”
The elderly servant placed a finger over his lips. “Shh,” he said, looking around and then leaning close to her. “’Tis a secret, miss. You come with Barney now, miss.” He turned and pulled her behind him, around a corner to one of the little streets that extended off Pulteney-street. Catherine let him; he seemed harmless enough, though quite odd.
Barney brought her to a chaise stopped by the pavement. He rapped on the door, which opened. “You go in, miss,” he said.
Catherine was a great deal too well-read to climb into an unknown carriage so trustingly. “Mrs. Findlay?” she called. “Are you in there, ma’am?”
“Hush, you silly girl,” said Mrs. Findlay, leaning out of the chaise. “All of Bath can hear you. I know things that in the wrong hands could — well, get in.”
Reassured, Catherine climbed into the chaise, and Barney shut the door behind her.
The little moonlight that penetrated the fog cast harsh shadows across Mrs. Findlay’s face, giving her a mysterious appearance. Catherine swallowed. “You — you said in your note that you had news of — of — ”
“My brother’s murderer. Yes.” She leaned forward. “I have a warning for you.”
Catherine held her breath.
“I saw you with my nephew at the theatre,” she said. “He is like his father, a wastrel and a libertine. I know we live in a degenerate age, when young women no longer cleave to their husbands — ”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” cried Catherine eagerly, “you are mistaken! Sir Philip and I are not — that is — Henry is my husband.”
“Oh, yes, I know how it is with young people these days.” She wagged a finger accusingly. “But it is none of my concern. You just should know that when Philip wants to be rid of you, he might do the same thing he did to my poor brother.”
“Ma’am, are you suggesting that Sir Philip killed Sir Arthur?”
“Suggesting? I know it, ma’am.”
“But why would he do such a thing?”
“My brother was about to disinherit him.”
“Sir Arthur told you so?”
“My brother did not need to tell me! He knew that I knew what must be done to preserve the good name of the Beauclerks.” She leaned forward and spoke in a confidential tone. “You know the provisions of my brother’s will; your husband’s man got it from that silly maidservant.” Catherine’s face must have registered her surprise, for she said with smug satisfaction, “I have my spies in that house, too. Very clever of your husband to introduce the young man; I knew then that you would be the very person with whom I should share my theory, should — ” she held her handkerchief to her mouth for a moment — “should anything happen to me.”