by Issy Brooke
“I thought so, too. How does she live like that?”
“I’ve been in the house before, though only a few times. Although that room was never luxurious, there were a few things scattered around previously that are no longer there. She’s got rid of them, I am sure of it.”
“She might have sold them for money. What if this Spenning was never a miser at all, but simply very, very poor?”
“I don’t think that makes sense, but you will need to go deeper into his business and financial affairs to find the truth of that.”
“I’ll leave it to your father, then,” said Adelia. “Let us concentrate on our task here. She might have gone, but there are still some staff here. What are our chances of speaking with that venerable article who opened the door to us?”
“Rather slim, but let’s try.”
No one in the household would speak to them. The few servants were uniformly sullen and bordering on downright rude, no doubt following their spiky mistress’s example. Adelia found that being Lady Calaway had absolutely no jurisdiction over them and even Anne was not able to appeal to their better senses. But on the other hand, they were in fact being exceedingly loyal, and one could not exactly criticise them for that.
So they soon found themselves out in the muddy street. The Spennings’ house was set back from the road along its private track and had no immediate neighbours, but on a whim, Adelia went to the next nearest cottage that lay on the road back into the village. The door was partly open and she called out a greeting while knocking on the wood.
A harassed-looking woman opened the door. She was dressed in grubby clothing of many sizes, and her hair was thin and had not been washed or properly pinned up for some time. She looked first at their hands, and then at the ground, as if she was expecting some sort of charitable gift.
Seeing that the two wealthy-looking women had nothing to give her, she shrugged and said, “What?”
“Er – Mrs … Ham?” Anne said.
“Mrs Holt. What do you want?”
“Mrs Holt! Of course! I am so sorry. We were wondering if we might talk to you about Mr and Mrs Spenning.”
Mrs Holt frowned. “Why?”
It transpired that there was another person in the gloomy single room of the cottage. The door from the street opened directly into the dark interior, and now Adelia could see a vaguely male shape at the table that dominated the space.
He called out, “We got nothing to say about that pair!”
“Mr Spenning was your landlord, wasn’t he?” Anne said.
The man inside cursed in a violent manner and made no apology for it. He said, “He was the landlord of most everyone hereabouts and may he rot in hell for it.”
“That’s rather strong,” Adelia said.
“He were an evil man who let us rot in this life so he shall rot in the next, you mark my words. He were a terrible landlord and she’s no better.”
“Has she raised the rents or mistreated you?” Anne cried in alarm.
“No, at least she’s done none of that. It’s the fact that she does nothing at all makes her so bad. He would raise rents and raise rents, and he never lifted a finger to do any repairs. She has kept the rents the same but that’s as good as she has done. We’d hoped she’d drop them. No such luck.”
“Has she made any inspections? Does she know what works need to be done? I am happy to act as an intermediary in this matter,” Anne said while Adelia nodded furiously.
“Jake Tarry wrote to her on behalf of us and the vicar’s wife did too, but she’s not been out and seen a thing. She must know, but she doesn’t care.”
“She is in mourning,” Anne said.
Even Adelia could not feel much sympathy, however. She said, musing mostly to herself, “So Mrs Spenning is not well-liked.”
The woman at the door laughed. “Liked? She’s hated. And she knows it.”
“Hate is a strong word…” Anne said but she tailed off. She could see the poverty and degradation in which the couple were living.
The man inside said, bitterly, “Hate’s all she’s known, though, isn’t it? The cruellest thing that man ever did was bringing her here and the second cruellest was dying.”
“So why doesn’t she leave?”
“No idea. Why don’t you?” he said, and laughed at his own joke, and they took the hint, and withdrew.
They were none the wiser about Florence Spenning’s background.
8
Later that afternoon, they all convened to talk about the case.
Well, not quite all.
“Where’s Miss Johnson?” Anne demanded, looking around the library as if Emily was about to burst out from behind a shelf. Everyone else was there – Bernard, Bamfylde, and the Calaways.
Adelia glanced over at Theodore, who looked a little awkward. “We didn’t mention this meeting to her. We were wondering if, I mean, as Miss Johnson has been so overwrought lately, she ought to have some time to relax.”
“You didn’t invite her? She’s not a suspect, is she? Papa! Don’t be so utterly ridiculous. Oh, I know you have to consider everyone as guilty but if you are to fix upon our Miss Johnson, then you must also suspect me or Bernard or the cook or little Patrick.”
“You take it to extremes. Anyway…” But Theodore was interrupted as the door burst open and the object of their conversation stood there.
Adelia realised that once again, Emily Johnson had been eavesdropping. The woman was pale in the face, and furious.
“Me? Me?” she cried out. “Why aren’t you looking at the most guilty person there could possibly be? Florence Spenning is the one, the only one you ought to think about.”
Anne rushed to Emily’s side and drew her into the room, urging her to sit down and calm herself.
Emily did sit, but she remained ramrod-straight and glared at Theodore with her nostrils flaring.
“There are others we need to consider,” Theodore said. “Not just Mrs Spenning, but there is clear suspicion to lay upon Mr Macauley and Mr Calcraft.”
Bamfylde spoke, saying somewhat reluctantly, “Ah, no, as for Mr Macauley, I looked into the alibi that he had presented to the police and made some enquiries of my own. He certainly had a motive; he had a clearly stated wish to kill Spenning, in fact, but he was definitely not in the area when the death occurred. His alibi is irrefutable.”
“Mr Calcraft, however…” Theodore said, but he was interrupted again by Emily, who seemed to be burning with a passionate intensity.
“Mr Calcraft! Don’t speak of that man. The Calcrafts hate me,” she said.
It sounded like a slightly strange thing to say, Adelia thought. You, who are so full of hate for everyone else. The younger Mr Calcraft must have loved her once, and he had seemed to be truly full of remorse and regret for what had transpired. The hate, surely, was on Emily’s side – and she certainly had good reason to hate them. Her hate for the Calcrafts made more sense than her apparent loathing for Florence Spenning.
Although Florence Spenning had said “do send my regards to Miss Johnson” with such a peculiar intonation. What had she meant by it? Adelia had decided not to pass on those regards, for fear of sending Miss Johnson into yet another tedious fit of hysterics.
Bernard had been listening to everything with interest. He said, “I do suspect that Mr Calcraft is becoming increasingly soft in the head. He believes in superstition and prophecy.” He shook his head sadly.
Adelia had to turn away to hide her smile. Of all the people to look down on another for unconventional beliefs, Bernard had the least high ground possible. He was constantly talking of ley-lines and stone circles and hidden power that had been used by the prehistoric inhabitants of the British Isles. He claimed it was an academic interest but he spoke with a passion for his subject that hinted at some level of belief.
But, she thought, one man’s truth is another’s spurious fantasy. With daily discoveries in the realms of science and natural history, it was hard to tell the difference
sometimes. After all, her own grandparents would have not been able to distinguish between an electric light and actual witchcraft.
“Not to mention those blessed fireworks of Calcraft’s,” Bernard added. “A menace. Surely they confuse owls. How did you get on with calling on him? Was he dressed like a Chinaman?”
Theodore told them all, though there was precious little of anything solid. He then said, “What is in that strange box he’s so obsessed with? It hypnotised him and he quite ignored us as soon as his gaze fell upon it.”
But no one knew. Bernard said he’d never been aware of it and no one could guess what it could contain. “Love letters” was the most likely, to Adelia’s mind, though that would have not had any bearing on the case, unless he had had a torrid affair with Florence Spenning at some point.
It seemed deeply unlikely.
But Florence Spenning was still preying on Adelia’s mind. She addressed everyone generally, but looked at Emily as she asked, “What does Mrs Spenning do with her time? She is not engaged in continuing her husband’s responsibilities as a landlord, that much is clear.”
“Are you asking me?” Emily said in surprise.
“Anyone. But perhaps you, Miss Johnson, have particular knowledge or insight.” Adelia meant it in a rather cutting way, implying that Emily’s constant antipathy to Mrs Spenning must have a cause.
But Emily seemed to take it as a compliment. Adelia realised that Emily wasn’t expecting to be addressed as someone with some worthwhile insight. Emily was therefore flattered, and she took her time in replying carefully.
She said, “I am not entirely sure. I cannot name any place or person. I prefer not to think about that woman. But, I do believe that she has some link to a charitable interest appropriate to ladies which makes some sort of a demand upon her time. I don’t think she’s a charitable person, not in her heart. It’s a disguise for something. She is pretending to be good for her own wicked ends. But I think that takes her constantly to … to Great Yarmouth.”
“However do you know that, dear Em?” said Anne in astonishment.
“Well, as you know, I am often out and about, undertaking whatever errands I can that might make your life a little easier.” Emily smiled thinly. She was pale.
“And I am constantly grateful for that,” Anne replied.
Adelia said, “Does she frequent anywhere in particular, do you know?”
Again there was a fractional hesitation before Emily said, with something like a dragging reluctance, “Yes. I have seen her on a number of occasions near to a rather grand town house called Finches, which is set a little out of the main town centre, on White Lane.”
“Finches?” said Bernard, stroking his beard. “I know the name of the place. Who lives there? Remind me.”
“I don’t know the name but it’s a businessman and I am sure that he once had links with old Mr Spenning. The wife there is active in local charities. Apparently active, anyway.” Miss Johnson spoke with such care that it was obvious she was hiding something.
Adelia said, “But we have been told that Spenning had no links with anyone in business. Except, once, Calcraft.”
Theodore objected. “He has not had links of a business nature, but he is known in town. He cannot have worked entirely alone. Even a business that operates with only one person at the helm must, naturally, have dealings with other businesses. Suppliers. Customers. Clients.”
“That would be logical, perhaps. She might have engaged him to continue the business interests of her husband, on her behalf,” Adelia mused.
“Or it could be some terrible, evil plot,” said Emily. “For all that I have said of her involvement in charitable works, it does not make her a good person. She is a murderer. She is a liar. She is a … She is merely hiding her guilt, painting on an artifice to beguile the world.”
Florence Spenning wasn’t remotely beguiling, Adelia thought. And what were you going to say that she was, before you censored yourself?
Anne patted Emily’s hand to comfort her. Emily snatched it away and glowered.
Bernard said, “Well, we’ve looked at Calcraft and dismissed Macauley. Let’s put Mrs Spenning aside for the moment. I’d suggest that the next person who needs to be examined is Mr Hedges, the family solicitor. He’s slippery, though.”
“We’ve dealt with slippery characters before,” Theodore said, looking at Adelia.
She glanced at him, and then returned her attention to Emily Johnson.
Slippery, indeed.
Theodore thought that it was all very well having these big group meetings but things were far easier when the investigation was just between the two of them. He cornered Adelia just before dinner. She had dressed, and she dismissed Smith so that they could have a private talk.
“We have ten minutes,” he said. “Sit down again, dear heart. I find I am somewhat concerned that everything is a wild goose chase, or could become so if we do not keep clear about our task.”
“How so?”
“The death was a year ago. It could easily have been accidental. And simply everyone knows our business here – we have no advantage of secrecy, nor do we have the advantage of authority that the police had. We’ve lost too much time and we don’t know the local history of people and business. In short, we are up against it. And the one person who really ought to want to know the cause of Spenning’s death – Florence Spenning – is most unhelpful.”
“Which makes her look guilty. Miss Johnson is certainly convinced that’s the case.”
“Indeed. Or all of this could just as easily point to there being no crime here at all. It’s a diversion of Bernard’s, nothing more. An idle speculation.”
“Well, let us set a little time limit. We’ll indulge Bernard for a week or two more, but let us not get too caught up in things.”
“But if there has been a murder…”
“Yes, yes,” she said, patting his hand. “Justice, and all that. But we must simply put it aside like all the hundreds of other crimes which occur every day and which never have a conclusion.”
“No,” he said, stubbornly. “Yes, it’s a wild goose chase, and it concerns me, but even wild geese must come to land somewhere. I will find out if there was a crime, and if so, I will discover the perpetrator. Anyway, you’re enjoying being here with Anne. Hasn’t she turned out splendidly?”
“She really has. We should go down to dinner.”
“No, wait one more minute.” He twisted his hand so that now, his fingers curled around her own. He said, “Miss Johnson is quite determined that Mrs Spenning is the culprit here. What do you think?”
“I could agree if I think logically about it. Mrs Spenning had the most to gain.”
“So it appears.”
“But,” she went on forcefully, “the reality does not match what we assume to be the case. Mrs Spenning ekes out an unhappy life in a place she hates, and in a place where everyone hates her. She has not benefited. She hasn’t taken on the role of benefactor for the poor of the village. She hasn’t got involved in her husband’s business, in spite of entreaties from the folk who are now her tenants. She ignores them. Why and how is she trapped here? His death did not release her from a life of dragging poverty.”
“If we set Mrs Spenning aside, then, is Miss Johnson herself our main suspect then?” Theodore said. “Her vehement declarations of Mrs Spenning’s guilt look suspicious to me. Though I cannot think of a motive for her – except that she seems to despise everyone. She is hiding something, don’t you think?”
“And you’re right,” Adelia said, making him smile with pleasure. “I do believe she is hiding a secret of her own. But I would wager that Mrs Macauley knows more about Miss Johnson’s secret than anyone else. It may well not be connected directly to Mr Spenning’s death. It could be connected to Mrs Spenning, of course – in fact, I would count upon it. But I suspect it’s women’s business and not murderous at all.”
“How irritating. I’ll defer to your insight on that. An
d then there’s Mr Calcraft,” Theodore said. “I’ve met the chap twice now, and you’ve seen him once. Curious, isn’t he?”
“Curious, aren’t you?” she teased.
“Naturally I am. Aren’t you?”
“I am. So we must know all of the facts of the business between Calcraft and Spenning. That is the only real link that we have. This solicitor, the slippery Mr Hedges, has to be found and spoken with. He is sure to know more.”
Adelia stood up but Theodore kept a hold of her hand. He rose alongside her and spoke in a low voice, as if he suspected that once more, Emily Johnson might be hiding behind the door. “We must trust no one, Adelia. No one at all.”
“I agree. We must be careful as the murderer, if there is one, knows that we are investigating. They could do anything to throw us off the scent. However, you must trust Bamfylde at least…”
“I trust Bamfylde as much as you must trust Anne, and we trust Bernard who brought us here. Which is to say, though we trust them all as individuals that we love, we cannot trust people. Human nature and its weaknesses are our problem here.”
“So what shall we do next?”
Theodore said, “We will go to Great Yarmouth.”
“Just us two?”
“Perhaps with Anne. And – bearing in mind our suspicions – what do you say to the idea that we actually bring Miss Johnson with us? She could be helpful even if she does not realise it. Let us bring her into the investigation as if we trust her, but we do not. Perhaps she will let something slip. We need to know her secret. It will either condemn her – or exonerate her.” As he spoke, he became more convinced of his plan.
“We are late for dinner,” Adelia said, but it looked as if she agreed with him. She didn’t argue back, at any rate.
“Good. Let them wonder what we have been up to.”
“We have only been discussing the case,” she laughed, tugging him towards the door. “They will know that.”
