A moment of silence mdk-1

by Anna Dean

  ‘I shall be very glad to hear your proof.’

  ‘Very well then, I shall do my best to persuade you.’ He leant forward intently and, speaking in a quiet tone that was easily covered by the laughter and chatter from the nearby card table, he began. ‘I think we are agreed that the murder must have taken place between ten o’clock and one – while we were all shooting over in the spinney. Do you allow that to be true?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Dido. ‘It must have been then, otherwise the shot would certainly have been heard and remarked upon.’

  ‘So, we have to consider how everyone was employed during that time.’

  ‘Yes, I agree.’

  He smiled courteously. ‘It is not, of course,’ he said, ‘permissible to suspect ladies of murder. But even if it were, we would not, in this case, have to do so. For during that time all the ladies were together in the house – except for yourself, Miss Kent who, I believe, did not arrive until…?’

  ‘About four o’clock.’

  ‘Exactly. So the ladies can all vouch for each other. And so, I find, can the gentlemen – for we talked it all over after the ladies retired from the dining room yesterday, you see. As it happens, we were split into two parties that day. Tom and Harris went down on the south side of the hill while Sir Edgar and the colonel were shooting more to the east – and I was with them.’

  ‘And the two parties were not in sight of one another?’

  ‘You are a keen questioner, Miss Kent! No, the two parties were not in sight of each other. But, and this is my main point, every man is sure that he did not lose sight of the rest of his party all morning. Tom and Harris are sure that they were together all the time and I will personally swear upon my honour that neither the colonel nor Sir Edgar left the spinney.’ He paused and then leant a little closer in order to add, ‘And, since I must not suppose that I am not included in your suspicions, I will add that both Colonel Walborough and Sir Edgar are willing to take an oath that I did not run away to commit murder either.’

  ‘I am very glad to hear that you can prove your innocence, Mr Lomax,’ she said with a smile. And it was true; it would be awful to have to suspect such a charming man of murder.

  Of course, nothing that he said actually removed the suspicion of adultery; but his open, pleasant manner of talking made it very hard to believe that he could have any guilty secret to hide.

  …and all of this – this elegant proof that none of the gentlemen from the house could have carried out the crime – ought to be very consoling, Eliza, as I am sure Mr Lomax intended it to be. And yet, I confess that I cannot be at ease about it. I keep remembering those boot-marks in the ha-ha and the chairs that had been so recently occupied. I cannot rid myself of the conviction that someone left the shooting party for a meeting in the hermitage. And it must have been a secret assignation, for why else would anyone use such a place on a cold day in September? Furthermore, I am almost convinced that that person was Mr Tom Lomax. Though this is founded on no more than his liking for sitting with a cushion behind his head and my own prejudice which makes me feel that if any of Belsfield’s inmates must be proved guilty of murder and surrendered to the punishment of the law, I would give up Mr Tom with an easier mind than any other. Supposing, Eliza, that he had seduced poor Miss Wallis, got her with child and then abandoned her in order to make his fortune by marrying one of the Harris girls. And she had pursued him, threatening exposure…

  But Mr Lomax says that his son did not leave the spinney that morning. If what he told me holds true, then a stranger must have been responsible. It is certainly the only explanation which has been put forward by anyone in this house – and no one from the village has yet been so impertinent as to connect the Belsfield family with the crime.

  Sir Edgar’s offered reward has already produced some fruit and there have, I understand, been a great many reports of a company of gypsies who were encamped in the vicinity a week ago, and a young sailor boy who was seen loitering near the village. However, the gypsies, we now understand, were more than ten miles away on the Bristol road when the murder occurred. And, as for the sailor boy, well, I rather think that Miss Clara-at-the-Crown can account for him.

  Then there are the servants here in the house. Mrs Harris, I should say, rather favours the under-butler for a murderer. It seems she is an advocate not only of divination but also the science of physiognomy, and she assures us all that the under-butler has the chin and the eyebrows of a villain. But, for my own part, I cannot conceive how a servant – no matter what the appearance of his chin and eyebrows – could carry a shotgun about the grounds unchallenged, even if he was able to obtain one.

  And I cannot escape from the possibility that Mr Montague returned home unseen – or else seen only by Mrs Holmes, who has been bribed into silence. I cannot help but think that the gatekeeper and her child have a remarkably prosperous look…

  In short, I am so surrounded by unanswered questions that I do not know where to turn next. There is only one thing I am quite determined upon and that is pouring away that terrible medicine of Lady Montague’s. No doubt she will soon procure a replacement, but at least I will share no guilt in the business.

  The next morning, having sent her letter to the post and disposed of the patent medicine, Dido set out with her cough mixture in search of Jack, the footman. Another chat with one of the servants might prove useful and she could, she thought, at least discover whether the colonel had indeed sought him out to complain about the logs.

  However, on the stairs she met Lady Montague, who upon seeing the medicine bottle in her hand said, ‘Ah, Miss Kent, I believe you may have been given a package for me yesterday – by mistake – by the apothecary.’

  ‘Oh!’ Dido started guiltily, then decided that a bold attack might serve her best. ‘Yes, My Lady, I was.’ She looked directly into the clear green eyes. ‘But I am afraid I got the package mixed up with my own and opened it by mistake.’ Fear stirred deep in the eyes but the beautiful face remained impassive. ‘I found that my mistake was not the only one,’ continued Dido smoothly. ‘Instead of your physic, the apothecary – or his boy – had sent some patent rubbish.’

  ‘Indeed? How provoking!’

  ‘Naturally, I poured the stuff away.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘I did not want anyone to see it and be shocked.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘If anyone found out about it I thought it might be an embarrassment to Your Ladyship.’

  Her ladyship merely nodded and turned to continue on her way up the stairs. Dido moved very slightly into her way. ‘I could not help wondering, though,’ she said boldly, ‘how such a mistake came to be made.’

  The hard green eyes swept over her in chilling contempt. ‘I really have no idea, Miss Kent. I cannot be expected to explain a tradesman’s blunder.’ And the lady brushed past her up the stairs.

  That, thought Dido, certainly put me down. And perhaps I deserved it, she admitted after a few moments. She found she could not resent her ladyship’s sharpness; in fact, she rather preferred it to the usual insipidity.

  She continued thoughtfully on her way and found Jack stacking logs onto the roaring fire in the hall. Another footman – a rather older fellow with a knowing face – was leaning upon the mantel and talking urgently. ‘You had better do it,’ he was saying.

  Jack bent over the fire and pushed another log into place; his reply was half lost in the crackle of flames, but Dido thought she caught the word ‘wrong’.

  The older boy laughed. ‘What’s so wrong about it? And the colonel will pay you well; they say he always does. I tell you, Jack, if it was me…’

  Unfortunately, he looked round then and saw Dido standing at the foot of the stairs. He stood up smartly, pulled his livery jacket straight and hurried off towards the offices.

  Jack also straightened himself and gratefully accepted the medicine. Unlike her ladyship he was willing, indeed anxious, to talk. ‘There was something, miss,
I wanted to ask you, if you don’t mind,’ he began as soon as he had finished thanking her.

  He was a slight young man with a pale complexion and very thick black hair, and had such a sickly air as made her wonder how he was able to discharge his duties. At present he seemed very worried. His speech was punctuated by a great many brief, nervous smiles that displayed white, almost too perfect teeth.

  ‘No, I do not mind. What was it you wished to ask me, Jack?’

  ‘Well, I hoped, miss,’ he said, dusting fragments of bark and moss off his hands and cuffs, ‘I hoped you could tell me what to do about…something.’

  ‘I shall certainly do my best to advise you. Does it perhaps concern Colonel Walborough? I believe I heard your companion mention his name just now.’

  ‘Oh no, miss!’ he said quickly. ‘It is nothing to do with the colonel. It’s about…’ A look of panic crossed his face as he wondered how he should refer to a murdered corpse in the presence of a lady. ‘Well, it’s about what Mr Downe found in the shrubbery. They say… I mean Mr Carter – that’s the butler – he’s saying if you know anything about that business you’ve got to speak up. And if you don’t you might lose your place.’

  ‘Mr Carter is quite right, Jack. If you know anything, you must speak out.’

  ‘But you see, miss, I don’t know who I’m supposed to speak to.’

  ‘If you told Mr Carter, perhaps?’

  ‘But that don’t seem right, miss. You see, its something…’ He wiped his hand nervously across his mouth and looked about him. ‘It’s something about one of the gentlemen, miss.’

  ‘I see. Then perhaps you had better speak directly to Sir Edgar. That might be more discreet.’

  ‘If that’s what you think is right, miss,’ he said, but his face had gone paler than ever at the suggestion.

  ‘Are you are afraid of speaking to him?’

  ‘Well, miss…’ the boy began. But just then there was the sound of heavy footsteps upon the stair. She turned and saw Colonel Walborough descending in his slow, flat-footed gait.

  ‘Thank you again for the cough stuff, miss,’ said Jack hurriedly and, before she could stop him, he was gone.

  The colonel reached the foot of the stairs and, leaning heavily upon the newel post, looked about the hall suspiciously.

  ‘Good morning, Miss…er… Were you talking to young Jack just now?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Did you succeed yesterday in getting your log basket replenished?’

  ‘What? Oh, no. I could not find the young rascal.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear it.’

  She turned towards the drawing room and it seemed as if the colonel would accompany her, but just at that moment the pianoforte began to be played, and played in such a stumbling manner as clearly announced Miss Sophia to be the musician. The colonel winced and hurried away to the billiard room.

  Dido was much inclined to follow his example and flee from the noise too, but unfortunately it was raining and there was nowhere to which a lady might fairly retreat. There was nothing for it but to take her place in the drawing room and, under cover of some slight employment, let her mind range over the many mysteries that seemed to surround her.

  It was a long, wretched day. Margaret teased and insulted her; Catherine continued to sulk despite Dido’s attempts to be reconciled; her ladyship fidgeted interminably with her rings and Mrs Harris talked. And even when she was free to think, her own meditations produced nothing new and seemed only to confuse her more.

  Chapter Nine

  Dido awoke the next morning to brighter thoughts and the happy recollection that the discovery of a murderer was not, after all, her principal task. Her first duty was to find the reason for Mr Montague’s sudden departure from his father’s house. It would perhaps be best to set aside considerations of how the killing could have been accomplished and which gentleman it was of whom young Jack had something to report. Her first care must be for Catherine and the state of her engagement. She would visit Annie Holmes again – for she seemed to know something of Mr Montague which she was not telling.

  However, her resolution of visiting the lodge house was no sooner taken than she discovered that the rain was still falling heavily and she was confined for another three long hours to the drawing room, where Margaret wore her patience with questions about Catherine’s affairs which she could not answer, and Miss Sophia played upon the pianoforte without mercy.

  At one time Mr Harris came to sit with the ladies and alarmed Dido with one of his abrupt questions.

  ‘She plays well, does she not, Miss Kent?’ he said, taking a seat beside her and nodding in the direction of his youngest daughter. ‘She has talent, has she not?’

  She was at a loss for an answer, for it was impossible to tell from the gentleman’s tone whether he judged the music to be good or bad himself. After a moment’s struggle she replied, ‘She appears to have a great deal of taste, Mr Harris.’

  In Dido’s experience the word ‘taste’ was so ill-defined – it was so frequently laid claim to by women who could not distinguish one note from another – that it might be safely applied to the least competent of performers.

  ‘Ah, yes, taste,’ said Mr Harris and he listened in silence for a while.

  Dido studied him curiously. He was lean, with a face so lined and suntanned it was almost leathery, and he had the worn, fagged look common in men who have spent a long time in a hot climate. There was, altogether, something hard and unyielding in his appearance that reminded her of what her brother Charles had once said about ‘fellows who make great fortunes out in India.’ It was, Charles maintained, possible for such men to remain honest – but only just, and any kind of softer feelings were not to be expected of them.

  And yet, despite his appearance – and his fortune – Mr Harris seemed to be a devoted husband and a kindly father. He was now watching his daughter with a troubled expression.

  ‘Perhaps I lack taste myself,’ he said at last. ‘For sometimes Sophia’s playing seems delightful and sometimes…’ He shrugged and took his leave of her.

  She sat smiling for some time over his words for they presented an amusing picture of the battle between affection and sense; that constant denying of truth which can form a part of love.

  And that brought her to a more sombre consideration of Catherine’s behaviour. For never had she seen a stronger inclination to hide from unpleasant thoughts about the beloved; never had she encountered such determination to believe the best, contrary to all evidence.

  Yesterday she had affronted Catherine badly when she had tried again to persuade her to end her engagement.

  ‘It is, after all, what he wishes you to do,’ she had argued. And then, when that proved fruitless, she had tried, as delicately as possible, to suggest the most likely circumstance, which had, days ago, suggested itself: that Mr Montague had formed a dishonourable attachment in the past which could no longer be hidden and which had lost him his father’s favour. Of her other, darker, thoughts, which connected Mr Montague’s strange behaviour with the death of the young woman, she dared not speak; though she could not doubt that her niece suspected them.

  ‘But his father has not disowned him,’ Catherine argued stubbornly. ‘He is not even angry with him.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Dido, voicing another idea which had been forming in her head for some time, ‘perhaps Sir Edgar is not yet aware of all the truth. Yes, I know that Mr Montague said he was going to tell him everything on the night of the ball, but perhaps, when it came to the point, his courage failed him.’

  ‘No, it did not,’ cried Catherine. ‘Mr Montague is no coward. If a thing had to be said then he would have said it. Besides, he had no such shameful secret to reveal. I am sure he had not.’

  ‘My dear, how can you be sure?’

  ‘Because…’ Catherine stopped herself. There was just a touch of colour in her cheeks, which in another girl would have been scarcely noticeable but which in Catherine was as telling as a blus
h. ‘I just know,’ she said. ‘I cannot explain it.’

  ‘But how can you be certain? You have been acquainted with Mr Montague for so short a time. You scarcely know him.’

  ‘I do know him. I love him.’

  ‘I make no doubt you love him, Catherine. But what did love ever have to do with knowing? We hear every day of people falling in love at first sight…’

  ‘Oh, spare me the lecture, please!’ cried Catherine, jumping to her feet. ‘You know nothing of love. You have never loved a man. You are too cold and satirical.’

  You have never loved a man…

  Was that true? Dido wondered now, as she sat in the stuffy drawing room, gazing out of the rain-washed window at dripping rose bushes and puddled paths. Was this the reason why she was so impatient with Catherine’s determination to think the best of her lover?

  It was, of course, a great failure in a woman’s life – to never have achieved even a doomed and unsuccessful love. But she was not quite sure whether she had failed or not.

  When she was young there had been moments, of course. But those moments had never amounted to much more than a little fever of admiration – a little flutter and agitation in a ballroom – so slight a feeling that the cautious Dido had never considered it a secure foundation for a lifetime of living together. And then, sooner or later, she had always made an odd remark, or laughed at the wrong moment, and the young men became alarmed or angry – and the flutter and the agitation all turned into irritation.

  Dido could laugh and gossip about love as well as any woman but, deep down, she suspected that she had not the knack of falling into it.

  Well, she told herself bracingly, if she had never experienced such an elevating passion, neither had she been afflicted by the foolishness that so often accompanied it. She would never be so stupid as to deliberately blind herself to any man’s guilt.

  This reassuring thought, together with the ceasing of the rain, did a great deal to raise her spirits and she resolutely escaped for her walk, despite Margaret’s chiding and her ladyship’s languid protests that she would find it ‘too dirty for anything’.