The Echo at Rooke Court

by Harriet Smart

  “Certainly they will. But when I talk to Miss Wytton, I’m sure I can get the truth of it out of her. Mrs Braithwaite had a nasty secret that Margaret Wytton exploited to get what she wanted. It seems likely that Mrs Braithwaite was behind the burning of the rigs at the Raythorpe Home Farm in the summer of 1825 and that Miss Wytton knew of it.”

  After a diligent search, Jerome had turned up a report that confirmed the fire mentioned by Mrs Walker.

  “But why would this woman Braithwaite do such a thing in the first place?” said Lazenby.

  “She was an angry, vengeful sixteen-year-old with a talent for fire making. Her half-sister had been disgraced and dismissed by the Wyttons.”

  Lazenby frowned.

  “That strikes me as a disproportionate reaction to such an event.”

  “Yes, I agree, but she had a passionate nature. When we are young we can be foolish and impulsive, and her anger at her sister’s fate got the better of her. She regretted doing it for the rest of her life.”

  “But you have no direct evidence for this?” Lazenby said.

  “No, not yet, but neither can I find a scrap of anything else that might cause Mrs Braithwaite to leave her family. A man died in the Home Farm fire. That would weigh heavily enough on anyone, and when threatened with exposure from Miss Wytton she became an easy prey. And when we have finished talking to Miss Wytton, with luck we will have a full confession to all this, and perhaps more. She may be cunning, but a night here will make her see things more clearly.”

  “That remains to be seen,” said Lazenby. “There is another matter, Major Vernon, that I wanted to raise with you. I have received an” – he hesitated for a moment – “interesting communication from Dr Wharne in Axworth.”

  “Ah yes, that, I wanted to speak to you about it,” said Giles. “What does he say?”

  “That he intends to pursue the matter. It is a serious thing, certainly.”

  “It was a serious situation.”

  “But your actions appear to have been quite improper.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” Giles said. “There was a crisis and I was forced to act. Lives were at stake. He was incompetent and dangerous.”

  “That’s very strong.”

  “I saw what I saw. And Mr Carswell’s judgement as a medical man could not be dismissed. Something needed to be done. You would have done the same, sir, I think. Sometimes rules need to be broken.”

  Lazenby frowned at that and said, “That is not a motto I like.”

  “Nor do I. But in this case I had no choice. It was not done lightly, I assure you. But it had to be done.”

  “That remains to be seen. I am afraid I cannot entirely take your word for it. There must be a further investigation and in the meantime, I regret to say that I must suspend you from duty until the matter has been dealt with.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” said Giles.

  “There is no room for discussion,” he said. “That is an order, Major Vernon, and you must obey it.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Giles sat by his empty hearth, turning over in his mind what Lazenby had said. He had listened to it meekly enough at the time, perhaps because he had not taken it seriously. He had thought, in the first instance, that it had just been said for form’s sake, and once it was said, that was the end of the matter. It was a rebuke, a reminder, a warning even, that if he did not take more care he would be suspended. That was how he had carried the words from the room and out into the street, and all the way to his sitting room at The Black Bull.

  Here, having taken off his boots and his coat, he had sat down at once, contrary to his normal habit. Usually he would wash and then make a few notes for the following day, standing at the secretaire in the corner. Only after that did he allow himself to relax, but on this occasion, as if winded by a blow, he had sat down and stared at the blackened bricks of the hearth without seeing them, as he realised that Lazenby had meant what he said. He had suspended him from duty until further notice, an act that was entirely within his rights, and in the circumstances, understandable. Giles knew he would have done the same thing in Lazenby’s position. The matter could not be dropped quietly. There had to be an investigation of some sort, that much was clear. Lazenby, the man he had recommended for the job, was doing exactly as he ought.

  What was not clear was how he had found himself to be on the receiving end of such an action. How was it that he had, without much thought, strayed into such dubious territory? To make up a tale like that, to resort so calmly to low trickery – the means had justified the end. This was an idea that he had cheerfully adopted; indeed, he had nailed it to his coat of arms.

  No doubt that was obvious to Lazenby. For this was hardly the first time he had exercised such expediency, and perhaps Lazenby feared this would not be the last. He had been checked – again Lazenby was doing exactly as he should. He had proved himself the right man for the post while he, Giles, had proved himself slippery.

  Yet as he reminded himself carefully of all this, he began to feel a dry fury at Lazenby’s punctiliousness. In the circumstances it looked like utter stupidity. How could Lazenby not see that? He was like a general surveying the field, on the bright high ground, never leaving safety, never going down to the place of battle itself, that low, dirty and dangerous region, inhabited by devils who had no scruples at all. As such he was failing to see that the war would be lost if his men were not adequately armed. How could they fight if they were constantly checked by such peccadilloes? He had done what needed to be done, and if his hands were now dirty, so be it. That was the sacrifice that the cause demanded, and Lazenby ought to be able to see that.

  And to find himself put out at such a moment, when he had got his birds in the net! Was Lazenby really not going to let him question Margaret Wytton? Who else would be able to get her to talk? He knew he had trained Coxe and Rollins well, and that their own intelligence could guide them to success in many instances, but Miss Wytton was a special case. He feared that their natural deference to a woman of her background would stop their tongues and make them squeamish in going for the kill. She could not be held more than another few hours without a formal charge, and it seemed unlikely that Lazenby would relent so swiftly. He was obviously not in a rational mood. Margaret Wytton would slip through their fingers. She could easily vanish to the Continent. She had the resources to do so. That was always the difficulty with such people. They could defend themselves so much better than the commoner sort of criminal.

  He got up and opened the window to get what breath of air he could from a night so sultry and sticky that he was reminded of the humid summers of Upper Canada. Leaning out, attempting to calm himself, he realised that was what angered him most of all about this business. He wanted Miss Wytton to himself, wanted to see her crumble and admit it all. This was a cruel pleasure that he could not resist and which went far beyond any nice ideas of justice. That was the cold, plain truth of it.

  Holt came in.

  “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not hungry, sir?”

  Giles glanced back as he began to clear the table of the food he had put out.

  “No. Leave the wine, though.”

  “Yes, of course, sir,” said Holt, and gave him a puzzled look. “What orders for tomorrow?”

  “A good question,” said Giles. “I’m not sure. Captain Lazenby has suspended me from duty.”

  “The devil he has!” said Holt. “He can’t do that, sir, can he?” Giles nodded. “But why?”

  “I took a short cut. And he may use my indiscretion to dispense with me entirely. Which is within his rights.”

  “He’d be a bloody madman if he did that!” said Holt. “If you’ll pardon me saying so, sir.”

  “I appreciate your loyalty,” said Giles. “But it is perhaps unjustified.”

  “And now you’re talking like a madman, sir,” said Holt, “and for saying that, I shan’t ask your pardon. What could you
have done to make the Captain think that he can turn you out?”

  “There is a line that one ought not to cross in this profession, and I have crossed it now, too many times to mention. Lazenby has seen that. That is the difficulty.”

  Holt stood with his arms folded, shaking his head.

  “Nay,” he said. “The Captain is jealous, sir, that’ll be it. He’s never been comfortable having you serving under him, and now he is picking on some trifle to get you to go. You should not stand for it, sir, that you should not! That’s what the mistress would say, I know it, sir, and Mr Carswell, and no doubt the Canon and your sister as well!”

  “And Lord Rothborough?” Giles said, smiling.

  “Aye, certainly his Lordship. In fact he will not stand for this, will he, sir? He will get it set to rights. Mr Bodley says that his Lordship thinks as highly of you as if you were his own kin. I reckon if you were not to turn to him, he’d take it as an insult.”

  “Yes, yes, I take your point,” said Giles.

  “It’s your livelihood, after all, sir,” said Holt.

  “And yours too,” Giles said. “Though I am sure you could get an excellent place elsewhere.”

  “That I could, sir, that I could, but you shan’t be rid of me that easily.”

  “You will when there is no money to pay you.”

  “I doubt that, sir,” said Holt. “The Captain will never see this through, no matter how much he may want rid of you. If you fight your corner, sir, then all will come right.”

  “I suppose so,” said Giles, sitting down again, exhausted suddenly. “Take the wine away after all.”

  “As you wish, sir. And when shall I call you tomorrow?”

  “The usual time,” said Giles, taking his letters from his pocket. “Goodnight – and thank you for your counsel.”

  “Aye, and you will thank me for it, sir,” said Holt as he was leaving. He always liked to have the last word.

  Could Holt’s theory, crude though it seemed, have any merit in it? It could not have been entirely easy for Lazenby to take command in the circumstances. Giles thought he had exercised sufficient deference to make the arrangement workable. But perhaps he had not. Perhaps the occasional annoyance he had felt about the way Lazenby had been conducting things had been apparent to Lazenby. Perhaps he had been a thorn in his side, and an excuse to relieve himself of such an inconvenience, when it came, was to be seized upon. In which case, he had to seriously consider whether he wished to save himself. He had no desire to be an unwelcome irritant.

  Yet there was the question of his livelihood, and it was not a small one. Holt, the working man who understood the true meaning of shillings and pennies, never having many of them to his name, had seen that clearly. Many things depended on his stipend – most pressingly his marriage. Emma had given up a wealthy man for him. She did not expect a fortune, but he had promised bread on the table. He had a small income of his own, which would have kept him quietly in lodgings, but without his salary it was not enough for a wife, let alone a wife with a maid, a manservant of his own and his wife, all installed in a ruinous property for which they had scarcely a stick of furniture. To be removed from his post at such a time was a grave misfortune. As Holt had said, he would have to fight his corner if he were not to put all that in jeopardy. Yet he suspected it would not be so much a matter of fighting as humbling himself. Lazenby would want an act of repentance and a guarantee that there would be no further transgressions. He would be allowed to continue, but not as before. Would that, he wondered, even be bearable?

  Frowning at himself, he turned to the comfort and distraction of his letters: one from Sally and one from Emma. What talent these women had for letter-writing – for being as intimate and as lively on paper as they were by the fireside in a private conversation! He could not feel dejected for long with such correspondents.

  He opened Sally’s first – it was a long account of their family travels in the Channel Islands, visiting various Fforde relatives, with much in the way of sea-bathing, botanising and pony-riding. There were sketches from Celia to enliven the text, a lengthy interjection from Lambert about fishing and then a scrawl from Tom, before the baton had passed again to Sally.

  We have been vexing ourselves about a wedding gift for you. But the sale of an old manor house near here has put something in our path which will suit your tastes: a fine old bed of a hundred years ago, in the best quality mahogany, and of magnificent proportions (at least six foot long) with a beautiful set of bedroom furniture to go with it. It is the work of a famous local cabinet maker, we are informed, in a simple but grand style that Lambert seconded me in approving (and he has nice tastes, as you know). It will suit whatever sort of house you do settle on, and the hangings and so forth can easily be replaced – but they are of first rate quality, with hardly any wear despite being so old. Does this sound of use?

  He laid down the letter, glad that he did not have to reply at once to that, and picked up Emma’s letter instead.

  He turned it in his hands for a moment or two before breaking the seal. He then opened it, and settled back a little in his chair as he slipped the letter from the envelope. The letter was dated Tuesday.

  My dearest man,

  We are now safely lodged at Holbroke. The master of the house has returned but not the mistress, a circumstance you may or may not have heard about. It seems that she has decided to remain in Italy after all.

  Maria has been brave, as you might imagine, but she had set her heart on a reconciliation and is cast down by it. The ugly question of having to make a choice has now raised itself in earnest. Lord Rothborough has told her that there is no question of choice, telling her she may spend half the year with him and half in Italy, but she does not quite believe that, and neither does she have any wish to spend half her life in Florence. So she is rather distraught. Thankfully we have become intimate enough so that she did not hesitate to turn to me. All I can do is play the old nurse, and mercifully she permits this liberty. So we take long walks, and read together, and talk, mostly the latter.

  Lord Rothborough is not at all himself. The blow has fallen far harder than he imagined, and he could very much do with your counsel were it possible for you to come here. He has told me to ask you to come on several occasions. I think he may write to you.

  There is one curious thing that I must mention: Mark Hurrell is in the neighbourhood. He called on Sunday afternoon, asking to see Lord Rothborough, but he was not yet back from Dover. Lady Maria saw him, in my company, and we drank tea and he was gravely charming and much affected by his brother’s death.

  Now, I am not sure, but it felt to me as though he was there by some prearrangement with Maria, but how that can be, I have no idea! He had been most insistent that his call was to see his Lordship rather than her, but to me he had the distinct air of a man wanting to get permission from a father to address his daughter. That evening, when we were alone, I made a vague hint to that effect to Maria, as carelessly as I could, as if it were something ridiculous. She told me I was indeed being ridiculous, and so I thought no more of it. After all, she is the last person to be involved in something clandestine.

  However, on Monday, a little after we had heard the news, he came again. He is staying in the village, it seems, waiting there like a patient Holbroke spaniel to call upon Lord and Lady Rothborough, and then he had heard of that lady’s decision and felt he must come again, to see if there was anything he could do. This was all done very well – one cannot fault his manners – entirely correct, and with much warmth and sincerity behind them – but it struck me again that it was the most important thing in the world to him that he should see Lord R. Why would that be? Surely he wishes to present himself as a candidate for Maria’s hand?

  He was here fifteen minutes at most, but I swear I saw them glance at one another when they did not think I was looking, and Maria was flushed and foolish. When he had gone, she was in a flood of tears, telling me how it had comforted her to see him, and t
hat he seemed to understand exactly how she felt, and was it not remarkable? She is falling in love, if I am not mistaken. I want to counsel her against it. This is not the time for surrender, especially to such an unlikely candidate. It is true that he is now the heir to all that glory, but I am sure he is not entirely what Lord Rothborough would want, and certainly not what the Lady R would want. There are too many uncomfortable questions about him. But what does she see? – a handsome, passionate and intelligent young man; a wronged, misunderstood young man with fresh scars on his face, who seems like the hero from a novel, and who gazes at her as if he means to find his redemption in her. It is too powerful a mixture for a girl like Maria who has just suffered a profound emotional blow.

  It has occurred to me I should go and tell him this – that she is too fragile for such an assault and that no good can come of it. Is this meddling? Am I forming a story from scraps where there is no such story? I would press her about it, but it seems cruel to do so, especially if it is only a foolish comforting dream for her. I cannot think that there has been any clandestine communication between them. She would never stoop to that, and yet he is, I sense, a terrible temptation for her. Sometimes the best among us will fall and I can understand the allure of Mark Hurrell. I should undoubtedly have fallen for him myself at that age.

  Chapter Thirty

  “You are frowning over your letters,” said Emma, coming into the library.

  “I am frowning over my lack of letters,” said Giles, getting up and greeting her with a kiss. He had been sitting in the great library at Holbroke, with a long, half-written memorandum in front of him. He had retreated there from Northminster two days previously.

  “Nothing from Captain Lazenby?” she said.

  “Nothing. And nothing from Inspector Rollins. Have they been told not to write to me?”

  “They are probably too busy,” Emma said. “You said yourself that the business of interviewing Lord Wytton and Miss Wytton would be a serious one.”