The Echo at Rooke Court

by Harriet Smart

  “Of course.”

  “It’s about what you asked earlier. About Mr Pierce.”

  “Perhaps we should sit down?” he said, and led her to the window seat.

  “I hope you will not misconstrue what I’m going to say to you in any way. It is just that given the circumstances, I feel I have to tell someone. You see, I think Fred was a little in love with me...” Her voice trailed away. “As a young man sometimes is with a married woman. Not in the way of a French novel, but – perhaps you know what I mean, Major?”

  “Yes,” Giles said. “As in the old tales of chivalry?”

  “Exactly so. I knew I could count on your understanding,” Lady Wytton said. “I have heard you are a perceptive person. I should never have dared broach this otherwise.” She glanced around as if she were afraid of being overheard. “So he did confide in me a little.”

  “Thank you for being so frank,” Giles said. “Anything you tell me will be very helpful.”

  She studied her nails for a moment, nodding, and then said, “The fact of it is, that it makes no sense – the thing he was trying to tell me. Necessarily, he was not direct. He felt he could not be, I suppose.”

  This seemed to be nothing but riddles, so Giles said, “Perhaps you could just repeat his own words?”

  “Yes, yes, I shall try and remember it exactly: he said, ‘I have discovered something that makes me afraid for you,’ and he said it so gravely. What could he have meant?”

  “He did not clarify?”

  “There was no chance. We were alone for only a few minutes and it took him a while to get to the point, and then we were interrupted. And I never got the chance, and now – oh...” She looked away, tears overcoming her. “What did he mean?”

  Giles asked himself again why Fred Pierce had been in the bank so late at night.

  “Stockholm means nothing to you, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Stockholm?” she said.

  “Fred never spoke of Stockholm or Sweden to you?”

  “Not that I remember. Why do you ask?”

  “It is what he said before he died,” Giles said after a moment. This was too much for her and she began to cry. When her tears had subsided a little, Giles asked, “One last question, if I may, ma’am?”

  “Yes of course. Anything!”

  “Did Fred like puzzles and riddles? Word puzzles, in particular?”

  “Yes, yes, he did!” she exclaimed. “Very much. And he was clever at them. Rhymes, riddles, that sort of thing.”

  Carswell came into the room. He was still in his vomit-stained shirt sleeves, and he looked dishevelled and grim-faced. Seeing him, Lady Wytton took flight.

  “Anything interesting?” Carswell said, pointing to Giles’ open notebook.

  “Possibly. Stockholm may be an acronym or an anagram or a riddle. Or not. It may just be Stockholm, which is interesting in itself.”

  “Good God, what a tangle,” said Carswell, sitting down. “I shall have to stay here. The boy is in a shaky state, and as for the mother – may I beg a favour?”

  “I was about to suggest that I ride back by way of Hawksby and send your man – Jacob, is it not? – with some clean clothes.”

  “That is exactly what I was going to ask,” said Carswell. “Yes, please send Jacob. And I need a few things that Lady Blanchfort or the housekeeper might have to hand.”

  “Put them down here,” said Giles, offering his notebook. Carswell scratched down his list. “And what message shall I give Mrs Carswell?” he added.

  Carswell stared at him, as if the question was a shock to him.

  “I don’t know. What should I say?” He tugged at his filthy shirt front. “I have had one patient die today and now I have a child at death’s door. What am I supposed to say?”

  Giles hesitated to answer, knowing how easy it would be for him to fill a page or two to Emma outlining the day’s events and telling her how he wished he might be with her. Writing to her was always his greatest pleasure.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  Carswell ripped his list from the notebook and said after a moment, “Tell her I will be back as soon as I can.”

  “Of course,” said Giles, folding the list.

  ~

  Lady Blanchfort was resting, and so it was Mrs Carswell who received him, in an impressive library, shuttered and so deliciously cool that Giles found himself envying Carswell’s married quarters.

  Mrs Carswell was sitting at a desk surrounded by books, looking most industrious and charming. He could not help remembering the first days of his own marriage to Laura, how she had been waiting to greet him in the stuffy little sitting room and how another man telling him he had been delayed would be a grave disappointment. But Mrs Carswell showed no sign of that.

  “I have been trying to work out which neighbour you meant, Major Vernon,” she said, jumping up. “I have the county gazetteer here, you see, and the Peerage and Baronetage, and from what I can gather from the novel itself, I have solved it. Is it Hurrell of Hurrell Place?”

  “It is only a hypothesis,” said Giles.

  “I can tell by your expression I have hit the mark!” she said, smiling and clapping her hands together. “May I explain my reasoning to you? I must say it has been diverting.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  She picked up Anon’s novel, which now had a host of paper markers. “It is this passage here that I found telling. The description of the house – well, read it for yourself.” She offered him the book, open at the page. “From here,” she added, pointing out the passage.

  Mr Breakbridge was the youngest son of a country gentleman, bearing an illustrious and ancient name which he no longer felt able to use, such had been the quarrels in the family. He had grown up in his father’s house, a fabulous mansion, one of the most famous in the North of England, situated at the centre of an extensive and valuable estate. His father, though a mere baronet, considered the family far superior to any other in the district, for his forefathers had been on those lands since before the Norman Conquest, without the slightest doubt. Indeed, there was some talk of them being there at the time of the Romans, leaders of an ancient noble tribe of British warriors. This intense family pride kept them apart from their neighbours. Mr Breakbridge’s father did not care to dine anywhere except at his own table, and he schooled his children in the same creed. Breakbridge Place and the company of their own kin were to be sufficient for them. The other great noble families who lived within calling distance were counter-jumpers at best.

  Giles could not help smiling at that.

  “Hurrell of Hurrell Place. It can only be,” Mrs Carswell went on. “The county gazetteer has the line about the family being there at the time of the Romans. And then, there is the description of the house –”

  “Yes, yes, I see it. It is clear. I can see why –”

  “Sir Morten was moved to burn it? It gets far worse, I assure you.”

  “Well deduced, ma’am, I must say! But I must also counsel discretion. You may meet Sir Morten soon enough. Mrs Maitland and Lady Maria are at Hurrell Place at the moment, as a matter of fact.”

  “So you know the monstrous baronet?”

  “Monstrous? Is the book so plain as that?”

  “Yes. Monstrous and cruel. Poor Mr Breakbridge suffers terribly at his hands – especially as a boy. And there is a dreadful older brother too.”

  “That explains a great deal,” said Giles, thinking of the scene in the hall he had witnessed and the palpable anger of Arthur Hurrell. “I advise you not to take it at face value. People with grievances are liable to exaggerate. And being scrupulous and fair makes for a dull story.”

  “It is certainly not dull,” she said. “You must read it and see what you think, given you know the players.”

  “Your husband wants to read it first – if he has time. I’m afraid I have tied him up in a net of work already, Mrs Carswell, and now there has been an accident at Raythorpe Rectory which will keep him there to
night. A little boy of five – a horrible accident. It was fortunate that Mr Carswell was to hand, and he must stay there tonight in case of complications.”

  Mrs Carswell frowned and said, “How wretched. He is very clever at such things, though, so I am sure the boy will mend beautifully. But it is a pity he will not be home.”

  “That is something, I regret to say, that will be your lot to bear, Mrs Carswell. Our business is an inconvenient one for domestic life. Speaking as one about to establish my own hearth.”

  He made what he thought was a sympathetic gesture, but she did not look reconciled to her loss or her lot.

  Then inspiration struck him. “In the meantime, ma’am, perhaps I can ask a favour of you. I have a riddle on my hands. I have not made any progress with it. May I?” he said, indicating a stand of ink and paper.

  “Of course. What kind of riddle?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, taking up a sheet of paper and folding it in four, and then dividing the paper using a letter knife. “That is part of the difficulty.” He did the same with another two sheets and then wrote each letter of STOCKHOLM on his quarter scraps. Then he went over to a large baize-covered table in the centre of the room, meant for spreading out maps, and laid them out.

  “Stockholm?” she said.

  “The young man who died this morning from the fire had a love of puzzles and riddles. This was the last thing he said to us, and he seemed eager to say it. It may have been a product of delirium, but I want to see if there may be more to it than that. These trifles can sometimes mean a great deal. Perhaps you would like to help me?”

  “Stockholm,” she said again, and after a moment began to rearrange the letters. “Oh, how interesting,” she said, “most lock – but that leaves the h... moths lock?” And she began rearranging them again. “Cloth leaves us only skom... now I wonder –”

  When Lady Blanchfort came in a little later, Mrs Carswell was completely absorbed in the task, drawing up grids of letters and talking authoritatively of ciphers and substitutions. Giles, still a little astonished how she had taken to the task, was about to compliment Lady Blanchfort on her daughter’s accomplishments, but she seemed displeased by what she saw.

  “Eleanor, you must take care you do not tire yourself with that,” she said.

  “I will not be tired,” Mrs Carswell said. “Besides, I must help Major Vernon.”

  “And we all know how these things go with you,” said Lady Blanchfort. “You will work yourself into a frenzy.”

  “Of course, I shall not, Mama!” Mrs Carswell said. “What nonsense!”

  “Please take care, I beg you,” she said. She turned to Giles and said quietly, “Perhaps we might have a word in the garden, Major Vernon?”

  So he went out onto the terrace with Lady Blanchfort.

  “That sort of thing is dangerous for her,” she said. “I know I may sound foolish and old-fashioned, but I have learnt the hard way. When I discovered she had such a prodigious talent for mathematics, I was eager to encourage it, and I hired the best tutors for her. Unfortunately –” She sighed. “It disturbed her. I do not know why, but it was alarming the effect it had on her. I do not believe my sex to be weak and incapable, sir, but there are things that our temperaments are unsuited to bear, no matter how strong the appetite.”

  “My apologies. I had no intention of stirring her up. It was simply to give her a distraction while Mr Carswell is elsewhere. If I had known –”

  “You were not to know,” she said. “And perhaps I am being over-cautious. It is simply that this is a difficult time for her. The first days home as a wife. I remember all too well how bewildered I was!” She looked away, clearly embarrassed by her frankness. “Excuse me, sir.”

  “I will attempt to persuade her to stop, then,” said Giles.

  “Thank you. She may listen to you. I pray that she does. I do not want an episode developing. And you will stay and dine with us? We have no one to eat Mr Carswell’s portion, after all.”

  He went back into the library and found Mrs Carswell still at her desk.

  “It makes no sense,” she said. “I cannot find any sense in it.”

  “That is because there may be no sense in it. He had a high fever. It was uttered in extremis. Perhaps it was nothing, or something private and personal. Perhaps we shall never know what it meant.”

  “How can you, of all people, bear not to know?” she said, laying down her pen and gazing up at him. “All I have heard of you from my husband, is how you will worry at a problem until the answer emerges.”

  “That makes me sound like a terrier after a rabbit,” said Giles. “But I often let things go. To be careless is a delicious condition, especially on a beautiful evening like this. Would you show me the gardens?”

  “What did my mother say to you?” she said. “You are trying to make me stop.”

  “Yes, to be frank – and I hope I may claim that privilege with you?”

  She stood up and looked him over.

  “Your frankness is famous too. Felix has told me all about it. I should expect to be scourged if I permit it.”

  “It can be mutual,” Giles said. “No, it will be.” He made a slight bow and she smiled.

  “Very well. I will show you the gardens. How could I dare disobey you?”

  Chapter Ten

  Both Johnny and Mrs Gray passed a comfortable, uneventful night, much to Felix’s relief.

  He was taking his breakfast with Mr Gray the next morning when a servant came in to say that Mr Braithwaite was waiting to see him.

  “Show him in, Jane,” Gray said to the servant, and turned to Felix. “We are honoured. Braithwaite is our village blacksmith and a splendid man. I wonder what he wants.”

  He entered a moment later, and from his powerful physique and sturdy clothes one might have guessed his profession. He seemed ill at ease.

  “Sit down, won’t you? Will you have some breakfast?” said Gray.

  “No, sir, I couldn’t eat. The thing is –”

  “You must not mind Mr Carswell, Braithwaite. Come and sit down.”

  Braithwaite sat down awkwardly and Gray poured him a cup of tea.

  “Now, what is amiss, Braithwaite?” Gray said.

  “It’s the missus, Parson,” he said. “She’s gone. Clean gone.”

  “Did you quarrel?” Gray asked.

  “No, sir, certainly not. She’s just gone.”

  “When did you last see her?” Gray said.

  “Four nights ago. I’ve been hoping she’d be back by now.”

  “So she has gone off like this before?” Felix asked.

  “Nay, nay, nothing like that, sir, but she is a strange one. She has her notions and I’m not one to question them, for she has been the making of me, Parson, you know that – and you know what’s she’s like – queer, right queer at times.”

  “But never a bad wife or mother,” said Gray, “from what I have observed.”

  “You’d be right about that, Parson. She sees us all to church on Sundays.”

  “She does, and you are all a credit to her.”

  “Then where is she?” he said. “And why’s she gone?”

  “Tell me, did she vanish on her way somewhere, Mr Braithwaite,” said Felix, “or was she gone from your house?”

  “From the house. I went up to Pennings to look at his gates – he wants them replacing – and when I came back she was gone. She’d got our neighbour’s girl to mind the children. She gave her a ha’penny to do it, and off she went along the high road with her Sunday bonnet on.”

  “Her Sunday bonnet?” said Felix. “That’s interesting. Are you sure?”

  “Aye, for it’s not in its box. I gave it her at Easter and it cost me a pretty penny.”

  “Can you describe it?” Felix said.

  Braithwaite looked stumped for a moment and then said, “It was – you know, like this,” and gestured about his face to indicate the shape of the brim. “Black it was, with a lot of what-cha-ma-call-it
on it – Esther told me the proper name. She knows all the names. She wanted to be a milliner and have her own shop. Point of something. Nay, I can’t remember.”

  “Perhaps Mrs Gray will know,” said Gray. “She will have noticed, for Mrs Braithwaite is a handsome woman and knows how to choose a handsome bonnet.”

  “That’s true enough,” said Braithwaite.

  “But she did not put on her Sunday dress?” said Felix. “Just the bonnet?”

  Braithwaite nodded.

  Felix tried to form a mental picture of the missing blacksmith’s wife. What did Gray mean by her being handsome? That was a compliment reserved for a woman who was neither a classical beauty nor sweetly pretty.

  “And it has been four days since you saw her?”

  “Aye, sir, and I have asked all about the neighbourhood and no one has seen her. I am at my wits end, Parson. I am beginning to think something terrible has happened to her.”

  “No, no, I am sure that is not the case. Mrs Braithwaite is able to take care of herself.”

  “True, Parson, true.”

  “And you had no hint of her being unhappy or troubled by anything?” said Felix.

  “No, sir.”

  “Does she get letters?” said Felix. “There was nothing unusual in that regard? Or a visitor that you did not expect?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And in which direction was she headed, did the girl notice that?”

  “Northminster, sir, though why the devil she would want to go there, I cannot say. There is nothing there for any of us.”

  “Have you spoken to your village constable about this, Mr Braithwaite?” Felix said.

  “No, not yet, sir.”

  “Then you must give a full description to him and he will send it about the district,” Felix said. “And I will take a copy to Major Vernon at Constabulary Headquarters. They keep a list there of people who have gone missing, and it is often the case that they are found again without much difficulty. Likewise we have a list at the Infirmary.”

  Braithwaite looked downcast at that, and Mr Gray said, “Come, Braithwaite – I am going to say Morning Prayer. That will be a comfort for you.”