by Anna Dean
Under these circumstances, can I, in all conscience, stand by and do nothing? Every principle of humanity and morality cries out against it …
And yet it will be impossible – or, at least, exceedingly difficult – to proceed with my enquiries without revealing the things I have learnt to Anne Harman-Foote. And that I cannot face, for I would be forced not only to reveal the improper behaviour of her friend, I would also have to cast the shadow of suspicion upon her own husband.
For you see, Eliza, I am sure that Mr Harman-Foote is the guilty man … No, no, I am not sure at all. But the evidences against him are very strong.
That hint of tobacco smoke suggests that it was he who took the letters from the desk – that is the first, and most powerful, argument against him. He would also have had the opportunity of taking away the ring. (Which ring, by the by, Anne informs me was not found in her search.) Mr Harman-Foote, you will remember, has been from the very beginning quite determined that his wife should make no enquiries into her friend’s death. And he seems to have ordered the refilling of the pool – as if he wishes the matter to be forgotten as quickly as possible … And then there are the details which, while not exactly proving his guilt, certainly make it plausible. We know that he was staying at Madderstone when Miss Fenn met her death; and their both originating in Shropshire makes possible a connection between them before her coming into this country.
Eliza, what am I to do? My mind is in turmoil. For when I am not doubting the husband I find that my suspicions fall upon the father, who, for some reason, installed a governess in luxury. Though Mr Harman’s being dead does, I confess, rather excuse him from being the thief of the letters and the ring. I certainly do not wish to start the possibility of there being another ghost haunting Madderstone …
But then there are strong evidences against the cousin, Captain Laurence, too. I am certain he knew of the existence of the body before it was discovered. We know that he was also staying in the house at the time of Miss Fenn’s disappearance. And, by the housekeeper’s account, he was quite in the habit of following the governess. Well, supposing he followed her upon that fateful evening, and saw something – perhaps her meeting with a lover – something which turned his boyish love to jealousy and anger …
Of course, there is the possibility that Mr Portinscale is the guilty man! Now there is a better thought, Eliza! It would certainly be a great deal more agreeable to suspect a man unconnected with the family. Might he have been so enraged by Miss Fenn’s rejecting his offer that he persuaded her to walk to the pool with him one more time and there exacted a terrible revenge?
Well, I grant that it does seem rather extreme. Revenge for such an affront usually amounts to no more than a little coldness and formality in future meetings, and, at the very worst, a hasty marriage to someone else. Murder is not a common sequel to a rejected proposal. But perhaps there was something which made her refusal particularly objectionable … Mrs Philips spoke of him being very discomposed when he left the house – ‘A face like thunder.’ That is what she said.
Oh dear! Forgive my rambling, Eliza. I am writing down my thoughts as they arise and I doubt you will be able to make any sense of them.
I do not know what I should do next and I have come to such a pass that I am almost glad that Margaret makes it impossible for me to carry my enquiries any further just now. The expectation of our visitor has thrown her into a paroxysm of housekeeping and, what with washing glasses, overseeing the polishing of silver, and rehanging curtains, I am quite unable to leave the house.
And, within a few hours, Mr Lomax will be here …
In a corner of the orchard at Badleigh Vicarage there was a moss hut. Made by a previous incumbent with a taste for rustic simplicity, it had stood for the most part unregarded by the present family – except when the little boys were home from school and had a mind to turn it into a ship or a robbers’ stronghold – until Dido discovered it.
So sheltered as to be habitable on a fine day even in October and so conveniently overrun by spiders as to deter any visit from Margaret, it formed an excellent hiding place. If she provided herself with a basket of plain sewing, Dido had found she could often sit there a whole hour undisturbed.
And she retreated to it on the morning after Mr Lomax’s arrival – meaning to sew and to think. Her plan had been to think about Miss Elinor Fenn, but, as she drew a cravat of Francis’s from her basket and held her needle to the light to thread it, it was rather more immediate matters which concerned her …
The meeting yesterday with Mr Lomax – the first meeting since that extraordinary interview in the lime walk – had been keenly anticipated, looked forward to with such dread and such pleasure as could not but lead to a kind of disappointment. It had passed, as such meetings frequently do, quite unremarkably. He had been pleased to see her – he had said it, and he had certainly looked it; but he was too well-bred to give any hint of what had passed between them. For which she was, of course, grateful … but …
She frowned at the cravat as she began to sew its hem. She could not explain why she should feel so very restless this morning.
She had, as yet, had little opportunity for private conversation with the visitor. The talk at dinner yesterday had been only a general telling over of news. But that news had necessarily included the recent events at Madderstone. And later, when Margaret and Francis were busy at backgammon, Mr Lomax had taken the opportunity of coming to Dido and saying very quietly – with just that lifting of his brows as appeared in their imagined conversations – ‘And what is your opinion of the ghost in the ruins, Miss Kent?’
‘Oh,’ she replied in some confusion, ‘I do not have an opinion, for I do not believe in ghosts.’
‘No, I would not have expected it of you.’ He steepled his fingers together, rested his chin upon them and regarded her with mock gravity. ‘But I would have thought your very disbelief would give you a strong interest in the business. For if there is no ghost, then there is a mystery, is there not?’
‘Is there?’ she said, smiling as innocently as she knew how. ‘I assure you I had not thought about it.’
‘Indeed?’ he said disbelievingly.
Dido had turned away her face and rather wondered at herself. Why should she attempt to hide her curiosity from him now? What did it matter if he thought ill of her? Could it be that, although she was determined not to marry him, she wanted him still to wish for it?
That, she told herself severely, was very selfish indeed.
Meanwhile he was considering – and the result of his consideration was: ‘Well, well, I suppose someone had got into the gallery. A servant perhaps. A figure appearing suddenly in the shadows might well frighten the poor young lady.’
‘Oh no!’ cried Dido immediately. ‘That is not possible. There is no door, you see, and no other stairway – and there is only a ten-foot drop at the end, guarded by a wall this high.’ She leant forward eagerly and held up her hand to indicate the size of the wall.
He began to laugh.
She froze for a moment with her hand still extended. She dropped her hand. ‘I assure you,’ she said demurely, ‘there was no one in the gallery that morning besides ourselves. But I do not see why you should be amused by it.’
‘I am not,’ he said. ‘I am only amused to find that a woman who has not even thought about the matter should be able to give such very exact information.’
As she sat at her sewing in the orchard remembering this conversation, Dido could not quite determine whether she should regret, or rejoice in it. She upbraided herself for having betrayed herself. And yet there had been a kind of pleasure in the discussion – he had not seemed so very disgusted by her interest in the ghost …
A heavy footstep and, ‘Ah Miss Kent! I hope I do not intrude too grossly upon your domestic labours!’ roused her abruptly from her thoughts. Much to her surprise, Mr Portinscale was picking his way delicately through the long grass of the orchard.
‘Not at all,
sir,’ she replied putting the cravat back into its basket and closing the lid. ‘I am very happy to suspend domestic duties for the pleasures of society.’ (For some reason, she found Mr Portinscale’s ponderous manner rather infectious.)
He stepped into the moss hut and looked rather warily at a particularly fine spider which was resting in a web of its own making only inches above her head.
‘I was in hopes of a private conference with you,’ he said.
She obligingly lifted her basket from the bench to make room for him. But, remembering their last ‘private conference’, she could not help asking, ‘Have I been so unfortunate as to incur your displeasure again, Mr Portinscale?’
He looked uncomfortable, attempted a laugh, took a handkerchief from his pocket and made a great to-do about dusting a few fragments of moss and dead leaves from the seat before settling himself and smiling in a way which, to Dido’s mind, could only be described as conciliatory.
‘Ah! No, no, not at all. Not at all!’ he assured her. ‘On the contrary.’ He attempted another laugh which sounded more like a snort. ‘On the contrary. I was, in fact, rather hoping to consult with you, Miss Kent.’
Dido raised her brows in surprise.
‘That is, I am come upon business to visit your brother. But, finding I must wait for him … I hoped that I might – as I said – consult.’
‘Yes?’
‘About dear Mrs Harman-Foote.’
‘Oh?’
‘I do hope,’ he said, folding his narrow features into an expression of mournful concern, ‘I do sincerely hope that she is not so very distraught as she was – I mean, of course, in relation to the dreadful demise of her governess.’
Dido stole a glance at his face: it was red, shiny and exceedingly anxious. Was he relenting? Might he consent to a removal of the grave? ‘I do not think,’ she said carefully, ‘that it is the loss of her friend which hurts the lady so badly as the nature of Mr Wishart’s verdict – and its consequences. The death she has been long resigned to; but the disposal of the corpse is a fresh – and unexpected – blow.’
She looked steadily at him. He was sitting uncomfortably on the very edge of the bench, his ankles crossed, his thin, delicate hands clasped upon his knees. His eyes were resolutely turned from her, fixed in a study of the buttons on his gaiters.
‘Mrs Harman-Foote,’ she continued, ‘is very certain that Miss Fenn’s principles and character would have prevented her taking her own life.’ Still he would not look at her. She longed to know the emotions which kept him silent. Was there still tenderness in his memory of the dead woman? Or lingering resentment for her refusal of him? Was there perhaps even guilt?
‘And everything I have heard,’ Dido concluded, ‘would seem to support Mrs Harman-Foote’s view that self-murder was … unlikely. Miss Fenn was, by all accounts, a very religious woman.’
The colour deepened on the clergyman’s face and he looked up at last, scowling stubbornly. ‘I am very well aware of how the young woman appeared to her neighbours,’ he said with considerable force. ‘But appearances can deceive, Miss Kent. The Lord God looks not upon appearances but upon the secrets of our hearts.’
‘Yes, I am sure He does,’ said Dido – but she was more concerned to know whether, in this case, the Reverend Mr Portinscale had looked upon the secrets of the heart. Was he suggesting that he knew something to Miss Fenn’s disadvantage?
Meanwhile the clergyman appeared to be considering. At last he raised his eyes to hers with a look of determination. ‘Miss Kent, I have been at a loss to know what I should do – what it is right for me to do – in the face of your extraordinary determination to continue upon your enquiries, in spite of the very strong advice you have been given to desist. I am afraid that you leave me with no alternative but to be a great deal more explicit upon this subject than one would wish to be with a gently reared lady.’
‘Oh!’ A gently reared lady ought, of course, to disclaim immediately – to prevent him from continuing. Dido did not; she waited instead – with considerable eagerness – for him to be explicit …
He sighed, deeply and with great disapproval. ‘The woman you are interesting yourself about,’ he said stiffly, ‘was not at all what she appeared to be – she was not what she ought to be. Her religious principles were a pretence. She was, I fear, capable of anything – even of destroying the life which the Good Lord had seen fit to bestow upon her.’
‘Oh?’ Dido waited for more, but he appeared to have finished speaking. ‘Oh, but I cannot believe it!’ she cried provokingly, watching his face for a response. ‘The world could not be so deceived! There is no proof of her wickedness.’
‘There is indeed proof! There is the proof of her own words!’ he stopped, aware that she had driven him too far and looking about for a way in which to retract.
‘That is a very serious accusation,’ said Dido quietly.
‘But it is a well-founded one.’
She raised her brows – she would not be so discourteous as to say she doubted him, but there was disbelief in every line of her face.
‘I cannot give you my proof, Miss Kent, without disclosing matters … of a personal nature.’
‘I would not wish to make you uncomfortable, Mr Portinscale. But you may rely entirely upon my discretion – and I confess myself to be very surprised by your poor opinion of a woman who is spoken of so very highly by the whole neighbourhood.’
He sighed again. ‘There was a time,’ he said, ‘when I was more disposed to admire her than anyone else.’ He stared down at the thin hands clasped upon his knee. ‘I asked her to be my wife,’ he said quietly. ‘And it was then I discovered …’
‘Yes?’
‘It was then that she confessed to … another attachment.’
‘Miss Fenn was engaged to another man?’
‘No,’ he replied stiffly, ‘she was not. She spoke of an attachment and, when I asked …’ He stopped, cleared his throat, seemed to force himself to go on. ‘When I asked if I should … soon suffer the pain of witnessing her marriage to another man, she told me – with decision – that, no, that would never happen. I should never witness her marriage.’
‘Oh dear …’
‘In short, Miss Kent, it was an improper attachment – one of which she should have been ashamed, against which she should have struggled – but which she preferred over an honourable offer …’ He stopped. His face was now very red and his clasped hands were tapping up and down upon his knees.
Dido watched him with concern – a little ashamed of herself for forcing the confidence. She was wondering how best to soothe him when Rebecca made her appearance with the news that Francis was returned and awaiting his visitor in the library.
The gentleman jumped up immediately, very glad to hurry away – though he very much regretted the necessity, and was greatly obliged to her for the honour she had done him in bestowing her time upon him …
And she was left alone, watching his narrow black back retreating through the fruit trees and wondering very much about his response. The information he had given was not new to her – though she was rather surprised to find that the lady had spoken so … explicitly.
But the great revelation of the interview was Mr Portinscale’s palpable emotion.
There had been such an air, not only of the resentment which she had expected, but also of very great suffering. He had been so badly hurt by the rejection that there could be no doubt of his having deeply loved Elinor Fenn. And furthermore, he had believed that she returned his affection. He must have done, for he had been sorely disappointed by her refusal. And disappointment had found expression in cruel resentment.
The pale autumn sun warmed the sheltered corner of the orchard, raising a sweet scent from overripe fruit lying in the long grass. But, all of a sudden, there seemed to be something of melancholy in the mellow warmth – and in the singing of a blackbird on the roof of the moss hut.
Dido was deeply affected to discover that Mr Portinscal
e’s insistence upon the poor woman’s eternal punishment – her casting out from God’s grace – arose not, as she had thought, from narrow, unbending piety, but from thwarted, human love. She pitied him from her heart – she even wondered whether there had perhaps been a more general souring of his character. Perhaps it had been this injury which had turned the handsome young clergyman capable of preaching eloquently upon such a text as ‘husbands love your wives’ into the dry, narrow moralist that he was today …
And yet she could not excuse him. It was wrong: it was monstrous and hypocritical to use religion in inexorable punishment of a personal slight.
Chapter Nineteen
Deep in thought, Dido sewed carelessly, putting untidy stitches into the cravat which her fastidious brother would be sure to remark upon later.
The interview with Mr Portinscale troubled her greatly.
She recollected that her original task – the justification for beginning enquiries – was the removal of Miss Fenn’s grave. And that removal lay within the parson’s gift. If she was correct in supposing his resentment and disappointment were the main causes of his consigning the corpse to unhallowed ground, then overcoming that resentment was a matter of first importance.
But how was it to be accomplished? How was he to be worked upon? A man tormented by an old unrequited love was a formidable opponent. He would not easily be won over.
At the opening of their interview there had seemed to be some hope. He had certainly been fearful of offending Mrs Harman-Foote. She could not help but wonder why he was so very anxious for the lady’s good opinion.
