by Issy Brooke
Ten
Even outside of London, there were plenty of postal deliveries each day and by making use of those and with the ease of sending a boy with a note between the castle and the town, a meeting was soon arranged between Harriet and Adelia. Rather than subject her friend to Theodore’s almost inevitable disdain by receiving her at the castle, Adelia arranged to meet her in a cosy private room upstairs in the coaching inn where Harriet was staying.
Furthermore, it was nice to be away from Mondial Castle for a while. The town was only a few miles away and the roads were well-maintained. Unfortunately, Adelia didn’t find herself quite as free of the castle as she had hoped. It sat on a hill and seemed to loom over the town even from its distant perch. Adelia turned her head away and closed her eyes while she rode in the enclosed carriage until she was in the market square and ready to alight.
Harriet was waiting for her on the steps of the pleasant and respectable inn. She enfolded Adelia in a firm hug as soon as they met, even while they were still standing on the public steps. “Mrs Hobson!” Adelia protested, muffled against her friend’s hair. But she didn’t fight back. It was so reassuring to be with her old friend once more.
Harriet dragged her up the stairs and into the room she’d booked which overlooked the street. She had already had a table of finger-food ordered, and a selection of things suitable for ladies to drink was laid out on a clean red and white cloth: various summery fruit cordials, lemonade and barley water plus the welcome sight of a warm teapot. It was very much like an early afternoon tea. Adelia stripped off her outerwear. The rain had eased to a light drizzle and she was keen to get out of her hooded walking cloak. She even took her gloves off, as they were in private, and spread them on the windowsill to dry while Harriet played mum and poured the tea from the fine china pot.
“Murder!” squealed Harriet without any preamble. “I’ve seen the newspapers. That poor girl! My husband has prayed for her ceaselessly.”
“How good of him. Do thank him.”
“Oh, no, I shan’t, it’s positively tiresome. Because I knew Miss Lamb, through you, he has decided that I am utterly devastated, and of course I simply am but not, you know, so incapacitated that I must spend all my hours on my knees in the chapel, which he does, and seems to think that I want to do so too.”
“It is his job to be on his knees in the chapel, surely.”
“I thought I was marrying a bishop for the social life,” Harriet sniffed. “The wife of a bishop gets invited to all the best parties. That’s what I was led to believe.”
“He wasn’t a bishop when you married him.”
“Maybe not but I knew he would rise because he was so very good at being good, even then.”
Adelia rolled her eyes at her friend’s constant revising of her own history. “A good man isn’t going to become a socialite the minute he pulls on a mitre. Maybe he simply becomes an even better man.”
“Well, it was unexpected, that’s all I’m saying.”
“That he continues to be who he always was?”
“Oh, stop it, you are trying to confuse me with your ... your logic and good sense! You are as bad as my Ophelia.”
“And how is your darling daughter?”
“As judgmental as always. At least my dear husband has a generous Christian spirit. Ophelia is becoming more rigid by the day. I quite expect her to go over to the Calvinists and there where shall we be?”
“You shall be having very interesting conversations at the dinner table. Christmas will be fun.”
“Oh, she will probably be on bread and water by then. Already she is teetotal and lectured me for fully an hour as I worked my way through an entire bottle of red wine to take the edge off her words.”
“Harriet!”
“Well, what is one to do when one’s own offspring take such a dreary approach to life? Philippa Lamb, though, she was a girl who could mingle at a soiree. She was always so much fun to talk to. Oh, I wish we had more than tea and lemon-water here. Perhaps I should ring for a bottle.”
“Not at one in the afternoon, you won’t. There is ginger-ale. Try that if you want a bit of a fizz.”
“Oh, Adelia. But poor Philippa Lamb!” Harriet put down her tea-cup and looked dejected. Her eyes were swimming with genuine tears. “Tell me everything that has happened and if I interrupt, you may hurl something at my head.”
“I will, don’t worry. Here’s the tale so far...”
Harriet was good and managed to contain her stream of comments until the end of Adelia’s recount. They then discussed the matter from all angles – “Look to that Marquis, for he is a dodgy character!” was Harriet’s opinion. “I bet he could have shot himself in the arm, whatever your Theodore says.” She took up a thin pocketbook and tried to hold it like a pistol, pressing it to her upper arm. “See. I could shoot myself quite easily.”
“Luckily, the book is not loaded. And yes, while Lord Mondial could have done it, the question must arise – why would he do it?”
“Love. Money. Spite. Jealousy. The usual things.”
“And you’d know all about these things?”
Harriet wiggled in her chair. “Adelia. Adelia! The sanctity of the church is paramount of course, but my good husband does discuss matters in a very abstract way with me, and I know more of the seedy side of the world than you might imagine.”
“Yes, from a distance, in the same way as someone might learn from penny dreadfuls or magazines.”
“Not so. I accompany him to the darkest places in town. I am a woman of the world and it’s a world you can barely imagine. Anyway, all knowledge is useful, whether from books or from life. Which brings me to another matter. I am not here to see you for fun.”
“Are you not? I could be offended.”
“Oh, but you won’t be. No, I mean, I am here to bring you some knowledge, useful knowledge. Well, it’s more like a warning. Perhaps? No, not quite a warning...”
“Harriet! I do not like cucumber sandwiches and I am quite prepared to sacrifice this one.” Adelia held it aloft as if she were about to fling it into her friend’s face.
“Yes, yes, fine. It is a serious matter so put the food down. It is about your brother.”
“Alfred?”
“Yes. He is looking for you.”
“I think that he has found me already.”
“What?”
Adelia had to sit on her hands to stop herself fiddling with the flabby cucumber sandwich. She said, reluctantly, “The servants were talking about some man they saw hiding in the gardens.”
“Before the murder?”
“Yes. He was asking to speak to me but refused to come to the house, which is how I know it must have been him. They said he spoke like a refined man of quality but dressed as if he’d been sleeping in a ditch, which is likely, knowing Alfred.”
Harriet leaned forward, serious at last. “Adelia, this is important. Are you absolutely sure that the man in the gardens was Alfred? Did you see him?”
“I am relatively sure. But no, I haven’t spoken to him yet. What do you know of it? Why do you know he’s here?”
“He came to our house. Obviously we have an open door policy as the Bishop won’t turn anyone away.”
Adelia smiled to herself. Harriet never referred to her husband by his name. He had always been a title to her, even in private. It was common enough for wives to call their husbands by their formal designation in public but Harriet kept just a little distance from him at all times. They utterly doted on one another; Adelia wasn’t fooled by Harriet’s uncharacteristic reserve. It was almost as if Harriet couldn’t quite admit the depths of her feelings for him to anyone, even herself. Adelia was not sure why, though she had her suspicions. Like Adelia, Harriet had past pains of her own. One learned to protect one’s heart.
“Was he looking for me?” Adelia asked.
“Of course he was. He has not suddenly had a religious epiphany. He had been to your own house and found you gone, so he came to me
, as the next likely place. I had your letters and knew you were here but I didn’t tell him. He went off, but later I found the doors downstairs – you know, at the back, that lead from the patio to the garden room – they were open and my writing desk, which I’d put in there to make the most of the summer light, was open too. He had read the letters and knew where you were.”
“So he is a trespasser on top of everything else.”
“He is not malicious. He took nothing, though there were items of value that he could have lifted. I offered him refreshments while he was with me and he refused them all, out of pride, though I am sure he was hungry.”
“Oh, the poor, stupid man. His latest venture must have failed, then. Did he tell you why he wanted to see me this time?”
“I suspect it was the usual story,” Harriet said. “He didn’t mention any business dealings but he looked shabby and tired. He did say that his son has just turned thirteen and he was hoping that he could be sent away to school.”
“Alfred has very little to do with young Wilson.”
“Apparently he’s a bright lad and Alfred has just decided to take an interest.”
“I am surprised Jane has let Alfred anywhere near her or their son. I thought that Alfred didn’t even know where she had gone.”
Harriet shrugged. “He didn’t tell me anything personal.”
“He wouldn’t. Pride and dignity sustain him, at least outwardly. So he is circling here, waiting for a chance to come and speak to me and ask for money. He won’t spend it on Wilson even if I give him some.”
“I don’t know. His plea seemed genuine,” Harriet said. “I don’t pay heed to my Bible half as much as the Bishop would like me to, but even I can argue the case for forgiveness. He is your brother and he is asking on behalf of your nephew.”
Adelia gave her a rueful smile. Under her frivolity and chatter, Harriet was as good and upright a person as anyone could wish for. “His intentions might be to spend it on his son, yes,” she agreed. “It is just that things happen between his intentions and his actions. His own nature intervenes in the very worst of ways. I suppose that I ought to go and seek him out and speak to him before he is caught on the grounds and makes a scene. Or, worse ...”
“Worse, he is arrested on suspicion of murder!” Harriet said, her eyes now wide with horror. “Oh, whatever else he is, your brother cannot be a murderer. Can he?”
“I cannot see it. I will not see it. He is many, many things but he has never once caused anyone physical harm and he never would. I wonder if he has lodgings here? He cannot actually be sleeping in a ditch.”
“I have not seen him in this inn but there are cheaper places where one can rent a bed or a share of one, in a room of others,” Harriet said. “Even this town has flophouses and the like.”
“I will have to make enquiries.”
“I will, too.”
“Thank you. Do not put yourself at risk in lowly places, though. If you do find him, will you send word immediately and engineer a meeting between us if you can? I will give him whatever he wants on the understanding that he goes away immediately. I cannot have him here, at risk of being arrested.” Or at the risk of him bringing shame on my good name and upsetting the rest of my family, she thought.
“I promise.” Harriet patted Adelia’s hand. “Are we definitely agreed that he cannot possibly be the murderer? Not even accidentally? I am so sorry to have to ask,” she added hastily. “It’s only that I’d hate to be misled by my own desire to see the best in him, and end up as an accessory after the fact.”
Adelia winced. “Me too, Harriet. Me too. I must go.”
“It was lovely to see you again.”
“I shall get you onto the list for this garden party.”
“Oh, please do! And send my love to your husband.”
“I won’t.”
Harriet laughed throatily and they embraced once more before Adelia swung her still-damp cloak around her shoulders, tied and pinned on her hat, gingerly squeezed her hands into her gloves, and headed out into the town.
Eleven
Adelia took care to proceed slowly through the entrance hall back at Mondial Castle, greeting each servant that she recognised by name, and asking about their welfare. Clearly, such solicitations were familiar to them from her daughter’s own household management, and they responded warmly to Adelia. She noticed, however, they always spoke to her with a certain alertness about their manner, keeping an eye out for the sudden appearance of Lord Mondial. She suspected that he was more old-fashioned in his approach to staff, insisting that they kept a distance.
On her way, she gathered up a handful of letters that had come for Dido and assumed they were mostly replies to the invitations or expressions of condolence for the loss of her friend. She carried them upstairs, telling the maid that tried to follow her that she was perfectly capable of taking the letters to her daughter, but that she would be grateful for a certain amount of attention to be paid to her walking gear. She left her cloak in the care of the maid, and her kidskin gloves she passed to her own woman, Smith, who was as trustworthy as anyone and had a fine eye for needlework and skilful repairs. Adelia did not like to be purchasing new gloves every time rain stained the previous pair, and preferred to have them properly cleaned even if it meant unstitching them to some extent.
She used to do it herself until Smith had found out, chided her, and wrestled them from her mistress’s grasp. The pride of a good servant was a funny thing, but a useful one.
Adelia paused when she reached the landing. It was mid-afternoon now. She was not entirely sure where she’d find Dido. Although it was officially her day to be at-home to receive visitors, no one who knew what had happened here would have dared to request admittance so soon after the death of Miss Lamb. A garden party half a month later was cutting etiquette very finely; a social call a mere two days later was inexcusable.
All the people in the local area who were ‘someone’ would be frantically visiting one another to exchange increasingly scurrilous gossip and speculation, anyway. And Adelia thought about Lord Mondial’s fears, and knew that he had a point. There was nothing else to talk about except the murder. Rumours would grow if given half a chance.
Adelia sighed. There was a very fine line between the useful sharing of information, which had paid dividends for her match-making exploits, and the spreading of gossip and rumour. She didn’t feel as if she was always on the right side of that line. Gloomily, she carried on along the corridor, heading towards the sitting room. She stopped outside and remembered that the last time she’d been in there, she had been with Dido and Philippa Lamb.
It had been the last time she’d seen Philippa alive.
A lump came into her throat. She was no stranger to death; who was? Disease or calamity could strike anyone at any time. She was the only one in all her round of friends and acquaintances who had not lost a child but she had certainly lost other close family members. One couldn’t walk down the street, it felt, without facing horrors everywhere one looked. Yet this death felt personal and she balled up her grief into an anger at the perpetrator. Part of her didn’t want the murderer to have been a passing footpad, for in that case, they would have long since left the area. She wanted them to be found, and brought to justice. She wanted to look them in the eye.
She wanted to spit and shout and stamp her feet.
She heard a noise from within the room and remembered her task. She had the letters in her hand. She tapped once, lightly, and went straight in, not expecting to see anyone but Dido within.
There was one person in the room and it was not Dido. Sir Henry jumped up from the desk by the window, half hidden by a potted plant, with a look of horrified surprise on his face. “Lady Calaway! A thousand apologies.”
“No, the fault is mine. I knocked but did not wait for an answer. I was looking for Lady Mondial. Have you seen her? This is her room,” she added meaningfully.
He seemed flushed and his ears were very red. S
he moved so that she could see the table and his hands moved, closing a writing case hurriedly, and now Adelia was interested. That was not his writing case. It was Dido’s.
“I am so sorry. No, I haven’t seen her today.” He began to inch to the side of the table. Adelia put herself squarely in front of him, and rested her hands on her hips like a market trader selling oranges.
“That is my daughter’s writing case.”
“I – er – is it?”
Such obvious lying could not be ignored. Adelia said, “You know that it is hers. Who else’s could it be? What are you looking for, Sir Henry?”
The baronet darted his eyes this way and that. He didn’t dare push past her, and she knew it. She used her untouchable femininity and his honour to her advantage, and advanced upon him. He backed away and found himself trapped by the table on one side and the aspidistra on the other.
“I have nothing to apologise for!” he blurted out.
“I am sure that you do not,” she replied mildly. “I am not asking for an apology. Merely an explanation.”
“I have mislaid an ... item ... and wished to find it.”
“How might you have mislaid something in someone else’s correspondence? Tell me what it is, and I will help you to look for it,” she said. She spoke sweetly and innocently.
He was not fooled. He knew that he looked guilty and that she suspected him of something, hence his defensive reaction. He made it a hundred times worse by saying, “No, no, I cannot trouble you. It is a private matter between ... my lady and myself.”
“Then ask her.”
“I – cannot, in the current circumstances.”
“What is the relationship between you and my daughter?”
“Nothing! Nothing at all!” he stammered out desperately. “No shame attaches to her – to anyone – nothing! I must go. Please, please excuse me.”
He looked so distressed that she feared to press him any further in case she drove him to tears, a situation which most men would not forgive. So she stepped aside and let him flee from the room.
