The Shadowcutter

by Harriet Smart

  “And Lady Augusta was standing where, approximately?”

  Syme made a gesture towards the ground in front of him.

  “So you were looking back towards the house when you saw her?”

  “Yes. She was in the lee of the wall, coming along there,” Syme said, pointing.

  It was certainly a prudent route for someone discreetly leaving the house to take. The ground was covered with mossy turf, which could be walked on soundlessly, and the wall provided some cover. A slight woman in a dark dress could be mistaken for a shadow if she took care not to be noticed.

  “And which way did she go after she had passed by?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t look. I didn’t wish to draw any attention to the fact we had been seen, so I simply – ”

  “Went on with what you were doing,” Giles said. “I see. And for how long did you remain here?”

  “I don’t know. Not long. Naturally, Lady Augusta could not remain long. She left and I – ” He broke off.

  “Yes?”

  “I sat here and contemplated my conduct,” Syme said. “I prayed to be delivered from temptation.”

  “And were you?” Giles said. “Or did you go after her?”

  “I… may have.”

  Giles sat down beside him.

  “It would have been understandable if you did. You would want to explain to her, I think?”

  Syme covered his hands with his face, and made a sort of nod. Giles, feeling that something significant might soon be said, pressed on gently. “So you sought her out?”

  Syme took his hands from his face and gave a great sigh, and then in an instant, his demeanour changed entirely, in response to something he had caught sight of. Giles glanced behind him, and saw, to his annoyance that Lady Augusta and Lady Rothborough were making a stately progress towards them. They were accompanied by one of the household’s tallest footmen, who carried a great fringed parasol to shelter them from the sun, giving the whole ensemble a rather oriental effect.

  Syme was on his feet already and heading towards them, his steps springy with relief at having escaped further questions. Indeed it looked for a moment, almost as if he meant to hide behind the wide skirts of his noble patroness.

  Giles got up and contemplated how he should go on, watching as Syme bowed and scraped to the ladies. He imagined quite another scenario, involving Syme and Eliza Jones. Had Syme found her in the cave because he had known that was where she was going? Had there, in fact, been a pre-arranged tryst there between them which, because of Lady Augusta, then turned into a dangerous and aggressive quarrel? A torrent of angry, bitter words exchanged which then degenerated into violence? Perhaps she attacked him, causing him to lose his temper and retaliate. That, Giles knew, would be the way to get him to admit it: to suggest that he was provoked; to put all the blame on the woman; to insinuate that he might get away with manslaughter and escape the gallows.

  He had established enough to make Syme a notable suspect, but not quite enough to arrest him at once, however tempting that might be.

  “I do think we should go back into the house,” Lady Rothborough said. “It is trop fatigant out here. It is unhealthy.”

  “Might I offer you my arm, my Lady?” Syme said and Lady Rothborough assented.

  Giles was left to walk back to the house with Lady Augusta, who did not look like she would accept his arm, if he had offered it. Although her face was shaded by a deep bonnet brim, a glance was enough to reveal she was not at all at her ease. Giles wondered if she had come out to rescue her lover from him. The timing of their appearance was altogether too convenient.

  “Lady Augusta,” he said, slowing his step so that they fell far behind the others, “if I might have your attention. There are a few things we must discuss.”

  She stopped and nodded, but he saw her bite her lip.

  “We will talk inside, of course, but I am glad you understand we must talk.”

  She nodded again, as if she did not trust her voice. She raised her hand and nervously adjusted her bonnet ribbon, which did not need adjusting.

  They came into the pillared undercroft, which was hardly the place for this conversation, although it was delightfully cool. Lady Rothborough stopped at the threshold to the great staircase hall, and turned, expecting Lady Augusta to come back to her side.

  “Now, sir?” Lady Augusta said to Giles in a whisper.

  “Yes, I would prefer it,” Giles said.

  It was imperative that he spoke to her before Syme could get to her and coach her in her answers. “Perhaps you could make some excuse to your mother now? Else I will be obliged to ask her to be present at the interview.”

  She darted forward, clearly galvanised by this threat. She was not ready to expose herself to her mother. She said something to her mother, which had the desired effect, and she went upstairs, accompanied by Syme.

  “I said I would show you the chapel,” she said.

  “That is a good a place for this conversation as any,” Giles said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You didn’t say anything about visitors, Mr Carswell,” said Mrs Bolland.

  “Visitors?”

  “Aye. With luggage.” She gestured towards the box and travelling bag that were sitting in the hall. Felix recognised both these items by their shabby antiquity and their appearance there was alarming. “Looking like they are planning on staying.”

  “Are they –?” He gestured upstairs towards the drawing room.

  “Aye, sir. I gave them tea, as well,” she added, as if she had given them her entire worldly goods.

  “Thank you,” he managed to say, as he pushed past her and strode up the narrow stairs, taking two steps at a time, his hat still on his head.

  He walked into the drawing room, and immediately stumbled over the large shepherd’s crook which was lying in his path. This wretched item was, as ever, in entirely the wrong place. Felix had spent most of his childhood falling over it.

  He exclaimed loudly at it, and only just managed to restrain himself from using a coarse expression and kicking it across the room.

  However, the sight that met his eyes – a woman in a black dress stretched out on the couch in the far corner, under the window – was enough to silence him. For a long and terrible moment he thought he was looking at the corpse of his mother, so still and white did she seem, with her head fallen back on the cushion, her cap gone awry.

  He rushed over and knelt down beside her. He grabbed her hand, anxious to feel her pulse, which mercifully was in evidence but at the same time, her emaciated appearance could only excite his alarm. She had always been slight and delicate in her build, but now she struck him as dangerously wasted, and her greyish white pallor frightened him. Her hand was cold too, as if the heat of the day had no effect upon her. He began to rub her hand between his.

  “Oh Felix, there you are,” she said, stirring into life. Her eyes scarcely opened though, and her smile seemed an effort. “Was I asleep?” she went on in a dry whisper. “How strange. I did not mean to...”

  He could not speak for a moment.

  Behind him, there was a creaking in the easy chair, and he glanced over to see his father waking.

  “But the journey was tiring, I suppose,” she said.

  A host of questions crowded his mind and it was not the moment for asking them.

  “Here he is, James!” she said, and reached out and stroked Felix’s cheek with her cold, bony knuckle.

  “How long have you been in this state?” he said, unable to restrain himself.

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “You’re not well. You look so –” He let go of her hand and sprung round to come face to face with his father. “Why did you let her come all this way in this condition?” he burst out. “It’s obviously that she is gravely – What on earth were you thinking?”

  “That’s no way to greet your father,” he heard his mother say. “And I’m not ill, truly I am not.”

  To
his horror she began to attempt to get up from the couch, when it was plain she scarcely had the strength to do so. She fell into his arms.

  “I am only tired from the journey,” she said, protesting still, as he helped her back onto the couch. “I am quite well, Felix. Just a little hungry and thirsty. There was tea, was there not? I think a cup of tea would set me straight.”

  His father made a gesture, discreetly, out of her eye shot, that Felix was not to say another word on the subject. A fiction was clearly being kept up.

  “Where is Molly?” Felix asked. Molly was a devoted servant and he would have been comforted to see her.

  “Oh, she is not here. No, Molly would not have liked it. And I needed someone to feed my chickens and look after dear Tam.” Tam was her beloved grey cat.

  “The tea has gone cold,” Mr Carswell said.

  “I will go and get Mrs Bolland to get some more. And you can rest upstairs, Mother. Major and Mrs Vernon are not here at present.” He refrained from saying that they were at Holbroke. “So there are beds to spare. You will be more comfortable.” Then he hoped he might make a proper examination of her – if he was allowed to. “And brandy and hot water, I think.” Three glasses of brandy, he thought, for he felt he needed one as much as any of them.

  He left them and went downstairs to give his instructions to the ever-grudging Mrs Bolland. In the end she was pacified by his handing over some money to cover the extra expenses of housekeeping. He ascertained that there was a jug of chicken broth made by Sukey for Mrs Vernon, sitting on an ice block in the larder, and she promised to send the girl out for fresh butter and rolls.

  “That lady is your mother, sir?” she said.

  “Yes,” said Felix. “What of it?”

  “It seems right odd, gentry folk arriving just like that.” Her curiosity was clearly roused. “Smells of something, well –” She gave a little shrug.

  What on earth was she thinking, he wondered. Did his parents, with their weathered and shabby appearance arriving unannounced and apparently throwing themselves upon his mercy, look to her like the actors in some sordid scandal?

  “You are not paid to speculate on such things,” he said, rather sharply. “Do as I ask, and quickly, please!”

  -0-

  In the end he carried her up the stairs – she was no great burden – and laid her on Laura Vernon’s bed. The room was, of course, in immaculate order, left so by Sukey.

  “You’ve grown very strong, Felix,” Mrs Carswell said. “You never could have lifted me so easily before.”

  “My work must be doing me good then,” he said, making an attempt to smile.

  “Yes, you look well. Very fine. I like your coat,” she added, touching the cloth of his sleeve, appreciating the quality of the linen. He was wearing a linen summer coat, the colour of a milky cup of tea, that Mr Loake had made for him.

  “You look like a man of fashion,” said Mr Carswell. It was quite a relief to hear him resume his usual tone. “I hope this Major Vernon of yours has not led you into vanity, Felix.”

  “Hardly,” said Felix.

  “This house seems vain enough,” said Mr Carswell, touching the elaborate fringe on the bed curtains.

  “He did not furnish it,” said Felix. “He took it for the summer so his wife could take the waters. He has the plainest taste.”

  “I shall take the waters,” said Mrs Carswell.

  “They are extremely unpleasant,” said Felix. “I couldn’t recommend it. But Su –” he was forced to correct himself – “Mrs Connolly makes an excellent chicken broth. That would be a better idea.”

  “Mrs Connolly, that is Major Vernon’s housekeeper?” said Mr Carswell.

  “Yes, of course she is,” said Mrs Carswell. “You have often mentioned her in your letters. She sounds a great treasure.”

  “She is,” Felix said, and wished to God that she were there. She would have managed this situation perfectly. She would have known how to offer kindly and discreetly all the assistance his mother needed, and done it with such sweetness that it would have seemed like the greatest of pleasure for her to do it. She had nothing of servitude about her.

  And he longed for her to be there, for his own sake, just to see her there, to watch her going about her tasks. It would have calmed him, steadied his jangling nerves. As it was, he was struggling.

  Mrs Bolland came in with the fresh tea and the brandy and hot water, and Felix was relieved that his mother took her glassful without much protest.

  “We thought we would find rooms somewhere,” his father said, having drunk his own brandy.

  “You had better stay here,” said Felix.

  “We have brought our own sheets, of course,” said Mrs Carswell, the brandy bringing a little welcome colour back to her complexion. “They are in the box. One never knows about the sheets in lodgings.”

  “I’ll go and bring up the box,” Felix said, draining his glass.

  His father followed him downstairs.

  “What is wrong with her?” said Felix, when they were in the lee of the stairs, and out of earshot.

  “Her heart. Murray said...”

  “Professor Murray?” said Felix. “You took her to Murray in Edinburgh?”

  “Yes, yes, that was the man you set great store by, I think?”

  “Yes,” said Felix, though he wished they had not consulted him. Any diagnosis he made was liable to be extremely accurate and suddenly Felix wanted as much room for error as possible. “And?”

  Mr Carswell took a great breath: “He said –” But it was clearly to painful to repeat. Instead he laid his hands on Felix’s shoulders, gripped them and said, “She thought, we thought that you might be able to do something. And if not, then –”

  “What did Murray say?” Felix said, again, but his father would not answer. Instead he began to climb upstairs with the bag. “Papa, you must tell me.”

  “He wrote it out for me,” said Mr Carswell. “You may look at it later.”

  Murray might be wrong, Felix thought as he heaved the box upstairs. Even the greatest physicians made mistakes at times. There was always room for a second opinion, though he wondered how objective it was possible to be when the patient was an intimate. There was a detachment needed to make a really precise diagnosis, and that was something he knew he could never be when it came to her.

  Mrs Bolland reappeared with the broth and the bread, and they proceeded to arrange themselves to make an odd sort of picnic luncheon in Mrs Vernon’s bedroom. The old customs could not be disregarded and his father said a long and sincere grace over the unbroken bread, and Felix, who might in times past been annoyed by this, was oddly moved. The quiet family circle of the three of them, unexpectedly reconstituted after such an interval, held its old comforting power, despite the quicksands of uncertainty.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A young lady who had entered into a foolish romantic entanglement deserved to be treated delicately, no matter how silly she had been. Lady Augusta was going to suffer enough when the truth came out: from a broken heart and from considerable loss of face, and the latter, Giles suspected, would mean more to her than the former. For a women to allow herself to be trifled with by a social inferior was a sin not easily forgotten.

  They entered the chapel, which was as sumptuously arranged as the rest of the house and had the appearance of a theatre rather than a place of worship, with a velvet hung gallery, entered from above, where the family might pray in comfort. The household, however, sat on benches in the main body of the chapel below. Some of these were furnished with squab cushions, presumably for the upper servants, but apart from that, comfort was in short supply.

  Giles chose a lowly bench in the shadow of the gallery and Lady Augusta sat down beside him.

  “I cannot lie to you here, can I?” she said, in a tiny voice.

  “Were you thinking of doing so?” he said.

  “He –” She broke off, and stared at the cross above the communion table. “Oh dear, oh
dear...”

  “Let us go back a step or two,” said Giles, feeling her heaviness of heart as if it were his own. The poor creature, for all her advantages, had been pulled into a net. “That will make it easier. And remember, this is the right thing to do. To act for justice, no matter how painful, is always right.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, straightening. “Thank you.”

  “What I want to talk to you about is last Tuesday night,” he said, opening his notebook. “What happened after dinner, to be precise.”

  “Tuesday last. That is the day Eliza Jones went missing.”

  “Yes, and I think you may have seen her that night.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And where was this, Lady Augusta?”

  “In the garden, after dinner. I was in the little pavilion at the far corner, and I saw her pass by the edge of the parterre.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You don’t know what time this was?”

  “No. I was there after dinner, that is all I can say”

  “And why were you there?”

  “Because, because... I think you know why, sir.”

  “I need to hear your account of it, I’m afraid.”

  “Very well. I went to talk with Mr Syme.”

  “And how long did you talk with him for? Were you there half an hour, perhaps, or longer?”

  “I am not sure. We had a great deal to discuss.”

  “And what happened when you saw Miss Jones? Did you simply see her pass by or did she see you?”

  There was a long silence, and Augusta said, “She saw us.”

  “How do you know this?” Giles said.

  “Because she spoke to him. And in such a fashion. I think she had been drinking. She was very wild. It was quite shocking.”

  “What did she say, precisely?”

  “I cannot repeat it. It was indelicate.”

  “Can you give me the gist of it then?”

  Lady Augusta hesitated for a moment.

  “She reproached him, in strong language.”