by Dorothy Eden
‘He’s not going to drown himself!’ Lady Arabella cried.
‘I don’t know. What with the disappointment about Fanny this morning and the state of his damaged mind—if anyone can stop him, you can.’
‘Fanny can. He loves her.’
The door of the library had opened and Lady Arabella, wheeling her chair furiously, had appeared, followed by Uncle Edgar.
He was saying in a low hurried voice, ‘No. The sight of her may send him over the edge. Poor fellow! Let me push you, Mamma. Quietly. We don’t want all the servants rushing down, and a scandal. You and I can handle this. I expect the truth is he’s taken a little too much to drink.’
They had almost reached the big oak door with its heavy fastenings. Fanny never knew what made her run forward.
‘Great-aunt Arabella! Don’t go!’
The two stopped, turning startled heads.
‘Don’t go!’ Fanny cried again. She was, quite irrationally, remembering the kaleidoscope in Marcus’s hands, with its little flurry of leaves settling, settling. And Hamish Barlow saying coldly and finally, ‘Your uncle will never forgive you …’ It was Great-aunt Arabella who was the person who didn’t forgive, not Uncle Edgar …And perhaps poor distraught George really was hesitating on the edge of the lake, trying to make up his mind to plunge into the blackness and the iciness.
Amelia was flying down the stairs.
‘What’s happening? Where is Papa taking Grandmamma at this hour?’
‘Great-aunt Arabella, don’t you remember? The cushion. The fall you had. It’s dark outside. Your chair runs away down the slope …’
Fanny was aghast at what she had said. The words had come compulsively, without coherent thought. But Lady Arabella was turning heir chair round, and slowly getting out of if. When Uncle Edgar put out his hand to assist her she pushed it away.
‘No, Edgar, I can manage alone. Fanny! Come here at once. What is in your head?’
Nolly’s little Chinese doll tossed negligently on her bed, Fanny was thinking, the dead bird in the cage, the cancelled trip to London, Uncle Edgar’s insistence that she signed her will.
‘You’re not signing your death sentence,’ he had said to the two maids …
‘Nothing that makes sense,’ she said. ‘But let us all go down to the lake and find George. All of us. Amelia! Barker, Hannah, and Lizzie and Cook! Barker will push your chair, Great-aunt Arabella.’
Her hand was on the bell rope.
‘Fanny! Leave that alone!’ Uncle Edgar ordered. His voice went soft. ‘You interfering creature! You have defied me long enough. There’s a limit—’ But before he could finish what he was saying, and before Fanny could realise the fury in his face someone rapped on the door, lifting the heavy knocker and letting the sound thud through the house.
‘George!’ Lady Arabella gasped thankfully.
Barker appeared, looked surprised at the gathering in the hall, and retired discreetly, as Uncle Edgar himself opened the heavy door and saw the light shine on the tall figure without.
‘Marsh!’ he exclaimed. He recovered himself quickly, stepping back for Adam Marsh to come in. ‘I wasn’t aware you were expected. Did my wife—Amelia, perhaps—’
Amelia had made a sound of pleasure, but it was Fanny who ran forward, whose feet, acting as compulsively as previously her tongue had, carried her straight to Adam Marsh’s arms.
‘Fanny!’ ejaculated Lady Arabella.
‘Fanny!’ shrieked Amelia. ‘How could you?’
Fanny’s face was pressed hard into Adam’s bosom, her waist was likely to be crushed by the strength of his grip. The pain was ecstasy, she wanted to suffer it forever.
‘You went away without telling me!’ she said furiously. ‘I rode over. There was no one there.’
‘It was urgent,’ said Adam. ‘I couldn’t help it. But I got back in time for your birthday.’
‘Back from where ?’
He pushed her away.
‘From London, of course. And I brought you a present.’
‘Ah!’ said Lady Arabella icily. ‘So now Fanny, your behaviour becomes clear. How long has this intrigue been going on? And don’t stand there, the two of you, as if you were on the moon. Mr Marsh, we are suffering the most intense anxiety as to the whereabouts of George, and you burst in, uninvited, full of your private affairs!’
Adam bowed with the greatest courtesy.
‘Lady Arabella, forgive me! I was carried away. And if you’re worrying about George, he is at present drinking in the village inn. Or was, not half an hour since. I imagine he’ll be there for some time yet.’
‘So!’ The old lady had collapsed back into her chair. Her chin was on her breast. Fanny knelt quickly beside her, but in a moment she was waved vigorously away. Lady Arabella’s chin was up, her eyes as cold as the lake water on a grey day.
Nevertheless, her voice was almost grotesquely gay.
‘Edgar, we will have things to talk of later. But not in front of these young people. I suggest you sit down, Amelia, and try not to indulge in anything as futile as an attack of the vapours. Mr Marsh, it seems, simply has a birthday gift for Fanny. A charming sentiment. Perhaps we may be permitted to look at it.’
‘Certainly,’ said Adam. He handed Fanny a small jeweller’s box of red morocco. ‘You might be interested to hear, Mr Davenport, that I patronised your friend, Mr Solomon. He has an interesting collection in that extraordinarily dark shop of his, hasn’t he?’
Before Uncle Edgar could reply Aunt Louisa came hurrying downstairs, exclaiming in her petulant voice, ‘Is this where everyone is? Fanny, Dora finds it impossible to control those children. You’d better go up—oh, Mr Marsh, we weren’t expecting you. Did I hear the name Solomon? Surely you haven’t been buying diamonds from him!’
‘Louisa, be quiet!’ Hastily Uncle Edgar tried to smooth over his anger. ‘We are all bursting with curiosity to see Mr Marsh’s gift. Open it, Fanny.’
Fanny knew it wasn’t a real gift. She knew it was being made like this, publicly, for a purpose. As Adam’s eyes reassured her, she pressed, the catch and the little box sprang open.
She almost dropped it.
‘But no! They’re Nolly’s. The green earrings!’
‘Emeralds,’ said Adam casually, as if he might have been mentioning green bottle glass. ‘And they’re yours now, Fanny. I bought them. You may, of course, like to give them to Nolly at some future date.’
‘What right have you, Mr Marsh, to stick your nose into my affairs like this?’ Uncle Edgar demanded stiffly. ‘It seems to me like damned inquisitive impertinence. And I don’t apologise for my language. I am within my rights, as my brother’s trustee, in disposing of his property as I think fit.’
‘And I within mine for buying property legally for sale,’ Adam replied. ‘Your brother must have done better than you expected him to do in China, Mr Davenport. Weren’t you a little hasty in labelling him a failure? Could it be that you had always disliked him? Perhaps envied his popularity? I know how a prejudice will arise. But you shouldn’t have assumed he died penniless.’
Uncle Edgar’s brows rose in angry astonishment at Adam’s attack.
‘I assumed nothing of the kind.’
‘I think you did at first. And you made no statement to correct that impression when you made that rather momentous discovery.’
Aunt Louisa started forward.
‘Edgar, do you mean that bag of green stones, the things the childrens called their marbles, were emeralds! Why, you told me they were some sort of inferior jade.’
‘A fortune,’ said Adam softly. ‘Your wastrel brother, Mr Davenport, was making sure of his children’s future after all.’
Aunt Louisa pointed a trembling finger.
‘But you lied to me, Edgar! You must have stolen those jewels!’
Strangely, her words gave back to Uncle Edgar his poise. He thrust his fingers into the pockets of his elegant flowered waistcoat with an air of negligent ease.
‘Not stole, my de
ar wife. Merely invested. Mr Marsh, who seems to have a passion for secret investigation, may care to inspect my investments. I would remind him again that I am legally the children’s guardian, and perfectly within my rights to dispose of property. Mr Barlow would bear me out. We talked of this at length.’
‘But could it be,’ said Adam, in his deceptively soft voice, ‘that there was a conspiracy between you and Mr Barlow? Unlucky fellow that he was.’
‘Unlucky?’
‘I understand the bargaining point was your niece Fanny. He was to take her off to China, and nothing more would be said about the children’s assets. Am I right?’
‘Adam! Adam!’ Fanny cried, unable to be silent any longer. ‘Mr Barlow’s bags are still here. We found them today. I’m so afraid—’
Adam’s grip on her fingers was remarkably soothing. Almost in a moment her terror quietened. She could even think of that pile of autumn leaves without such great distress.
‘You think the poor fellow is still here? Perhaps he may be. Wild pigs can be destructive, can’t they, Mr Davenport?’
Uncle Edgar stared at him, his pale eyes expressionless. Adam went on, ‘A man buried not very skilfully, and in evening dress, could easily seem like a large black bird to a child, if a wild pig had previously investigated the grave and some part of the body, perhaps an arm, protruded. You followed the children that day, didn’t you, Mr Davenport? And made some quick repairs. I expect you made a much more thorough job later in the night. But I have taken the liberty of asking the police to investigate. They’re in the copse now, with lanterns.’
He looked at the horrified women, and said, ‘I apologise for the grisly nature of this conversation. But it isn’t really as distressing as a hunt for a live prisoner. A man, a human being, hunted like an animal. And conveniently at hand when the little Chinese woman, who knew too much about the wealth of her charges, was lured down to the lake looking for a doll that had already been safely secreted.’
‘And encountered a desperate man on the run,’ Uncle Edgar said, speaking at last his well-rehearsed statement. It had been said to the police and the coroner many times.
‘Did she?’
‘Of course. Oh, there’s recently some hearsay evidence against it, but—’
‘Papa!’ That was, surprisingly, Amelia. White-faced, with brilliantly shining eyes, she faced her father. ‘It isn’t true about the prisoner. You know it isn’t. And so do I!’
There was all the usual indulgence in Uncle Edgar’s voice as he answered his daughter.
‘Your kind heart does you credit, my dear, but you know nothing whatever of this. Kindly stay silent.’
Amelia’s head was up, her face strangely mature.
‘I do know something about it, Papa. I must speak. The prisoner was here the night after Ching Mei’s death. The next night! He told me he had come from Okehampton, miles away. I gave him food. Cook will tell you. She wonders’—Amelia’s voice trembled in a travesty of her light-hearted giggle—‘where’ my appetite has vanished to lately. I don’t want sandwiches and slices of fruit cake after dinner any more. But the prisoner wasn’t here the night Ching Mei died, Papa. I know.’
Uncle Edgar’s eyes went from one to another. He seemed to come, regretfully, to a long-expected decision.
‘Then I am afraid the police will have to interview my son.’
Aunt Louisa made a violent movement. ‘Edgar! How dare you! putting the blame on your innocent son!’
The eyes of husband and wife were locked. Twenty-five years of marriage culminated in that moment of Aunt Louisa’s bitter disillusionment, no longer hidden, and Uncle Edgar’s aggressive dislike.
Yet Uncle Edgar spoke quite quietly and gently.
‘It’s something we can no longer make a secret of, my dear. George isn’t safe. The police should also be told about his hatred for Hamish Barlow.’ He threw out his hands. ‘I hate to disappoint you, Marsh, but I myself am entirely innocent. Your assumptions are fantastic. I merely sold some jewels and invested the proceeds on behalf of my nephew and niece. And may I add I find your whole manner and actions extremely offensive.’
‘But there is another thing,’ said Adam insistently. ‘I didn’t travel alone from London. I persuaded a very old gentleman to travel with me. He’s staying at the inn in the village at present. He needed to rest. But he will be calling on Fanny tomorrow. He has some extremely interesting and vital information for her. His name, I scarcely need to tell you, is Timothy Craike.’
25
THAT WAS WHEN THE disintegration of the man who, with his jokes, his whimsicalities, his naïve pleasure in himself, his vanity, his desire for public esteem, and his autocratic will, as befitted the master of the house, began.
He sat down very slowly in one of the carved hall chairs. His chubby hands were fiddling restlessly with his watch chain. His jowls had dropped, his face had grown thinner and lost its ruddy colour. His eyes were very tired.
‘What an extraordinarily interfering young man you are,’ he said to Adam, almost mildly. ‘So now you know everything, and I observe you are quick to have an eye for an heiress into the bargain. All the summer, it was my poor little Amelia, with her promise of a substantial dowry. But your affections seem to be easily transferable.’
‘My affections,’ Adam said quietly, ‘have always been with Fanny, as I think she knows. To my great regret I have had to hurt her and puzzle her occasionally. I also can’t apologise sufficiently to Amelia for misleading her so wilfully. But she was too useful to my purpose. She made me welcome here. She talked a great deal, and unwittingly gave me important information. It was she who told me about Fanny’s disappointment over not getting to London to see this Mr Craike who had written to her. It was my first real clue about Fanny’s affairs. I had waited all summer for it. But I am deeply sorry it had to be discovered at the risk of hurting Amelia.’ He turned to Amelia, holding out his hand. ‘Can you forgive me?’
Amelia promptly burst into tears, and ran to her mother. Aunt Louisa said in a strangled voice, ‘I don’t understand one word that has been said. Fanny can’t be an heiress! Why have I never been told? Is this another of my husband’s machinations?’
‘But it isn’t true!’ whispered Fanny incredulously.
Her eyes were caught by Lady Arabella’s expression. It was unreadable. Her eyelids drooped until her eyes were mere slits. But it seemed as if she might be hiding triumph. Almost, as if she might have been waiting for this hour.
‘Adam?’ said Fanny urgently. ‘What has Mr Craike to tell me? Have I got a fortune, also in jewels? Was the sapphire pendant really my own all the time?’
It was at that moment there was a flurry at the top of the stairs. Dora was crying helplessly, ‘Miss Nolly! Come back at once. Oh, I declare!’ But her words were useless, for Nolly was flying down the stairs in her nightgown.
‘Cousin Fanny! Cousin Fanny!’
Fanny started towards her. ‘What is it? Nothing’s happened to frighten you—’
But it was not fright, she saw at once, that possessed Nolly. The little face was illuminated with excitement, and had its moment of blazing prettiness.
‘Cousin Fanny, this dear little pincushion Great-aunt Arabella gave me opens! Look, the top comes off and makes the sweetest little box. I shall keep my jewels in it.’
‘Is that all?’ said Fanny. ‘Does it please you so much?’
‘Yes, it does. And I found this letter in it. I think it’s about you. See, here is your name. F-a-n-n-y.’
Suddenly and rather frighteningly Lady Arabella began to laugh.
Ah, Edgar! You searched so hard. And such a simple hiding place. I used to keep my love letters there and when I was very young. I baffled you, didn’t I? And I wasn’t bluffing about that letter. But it would never have been discovered if I hadn’t realised you would kill for it.’ Her mirth had left her. Her eyes were fully open now and full of implacable revenge. ‘Fanny, send that child upstairs!’
‘Yes, No
lly. Run up to Dora.’
‘But don’t you think the little pincushion is delightful?’
‘I do. And tomorrow we’ll find some treasures to keep in it. Run along.’
Nolly went reluctantly and Lady Arabella continued her conversation as if she hadn’t interrupted it.
‘I decided to dismiss that clumsy accident you arranged for me, Edgar. Just the threat of a schoolboy, I thought. Give her a fright and who knows, the old lady might have a stroke. But today, this evening, everything has changed. I would have had another accident down at the lake, wouldn’t I? Just a feeble old woman tripping in the dark. Fanny knew. I underestimated you, Edgar. I even despised you. Now I must admire your—how shall I put it—diabolical simplicity. But I don’t forgive it. You would have blamed your son. I share my daughter’s feelings for you at this moment. I hope, Edgar,’ she finished, slowly and distinctly, ‘that you hang.’
Uncle Edgar made no attempt to defend himself. He sat with his head slumped, his eyes far-off, almost as if he were in a dream.
Then he said, ‘I am very tired. It has all been a great strain for too long.’
Looking at him, Fanny had the impression of reading him as if his life were written in his face—the over-sensitive pompous young man laughed at by the girl he loved, looked down on by his wife and mother-in-law, scorned by his gay reckless brother as dull, given only the qualities of steadiness and reliability by relatives who found him useful—no wonder he had had to puff himself up into a turkeycock of importance, seeking and finding the wherewithal for his family, his household, his village and the whole community to revolve round him.
‘Uncle Edgar—’ she began.
Uncle Edgar lifted his extinguished eyes.
‘No, child. Don’t come near me. I would have killed you, too. Don’t you realise that? I could never have let you find out that I had spent your capital and taken possession of your property. Yes, you would have died. A fall off the train, I thought, on a journey to London. Or perhaps a skating accident on the lake. There were so many possibilities.’
‘Edgar!’ Aunt Louisa had difficulty in speaking. Her face was so alarmingly flushed that it seemed she would have a seizure. ‘Do you mean to say that Darkwater, everything, belongs to Fanny!’
