by Anna Dean
Her smile broadened. ‘And do these strange thefts not suggest to you that someone has a secret to hide – some motive for wishing the circumstances surrounding Miss Fenn’s death to remain in obscurity?’
‘That, I grant you, is one interpretation.’
‘You believe that another is possible?’
‘I do.’ He said gravely. ‘Do you wish to hear my interpretation?’
‘Most certainly!’
‘Well, Mrs Harman-Foote’s suffering at the discovery of the corpse is very evident; it is entirely possible that someone with her best interests at heart might remove the remembrances of her friend in order to prevent her dwelling upon the unpleasant subject.’
‘But there has been no such effect. The losses have only added to her distress.’
‘I did not say the actions were well judged,’ he countered, ‘only that the motives might be kindly.’
‘I see.’ She was forced to consider his theory carefully. It was possible. ‘And this person who has Mrs Harman-Foote’s best interests at heart, would, I suppose, be her husband?’
‘Perhaps,’ he acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head.
‘Yes – and there was a hint of tobacco smoke in the room when we entered it,’ she mused, ‘which rather leads me to suppose that Mr Harman-Foote had been there just before us.’
There was a fleeting smile from the gentleman at this bit of cleverness, but it was quickly suppressed. ‘And you have suspected him of removing the letters in order to hide his own guilt?’ he asked.
‘You must at least grant that it is a possibility.’
‘A rather remote one, I think.’
‘No!’ she cried, stung by the note of dismissal in his voice. ‘Not so very remote! Not when everything is taken into consideration.’
‘Everything?’ he repeated. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘And what is this “everything” which must be considered?’
‘Oh!’ Dido found herself fairly caught. For now she must either allow him to think her suspicions unfounded and unreasonable, or else put forward her proofs – and reveal the extent of her investigation.
She hesitated a moment over the desire of preserving his good opinion and the pleasure of disputing with him – but the latter won the day. And, fixing her eyes once more upon the turning leaf – which was now beginning to sink beneath the weight of water – she launched herself upon an account of everything which argued against suicide: the coins, the housekeeper’s opinion that Miss Fenn had recovered from her melancholy, the position of the corpse in the pool …
He listened in silence, his hand all the while gripping the wooden rail of the bridge – his knuckles gradually whitening as her tale progressed.
She ended with an account of the letter in the bible. She had meant to leave it out, but, when she came to the point, she found that her case was incomplete without it, and her pride would not allow her to suppress it.
She finished her tale. Somewhere, deep among the trees, the woodpecker laughed to itself.
He became aware of his hand which seemed to be attempting to crush the rail of the bridge. Slowly he uncurled his fingers. ‘And what was the import of this letter?’ he asked stiffly.
She blushed but resolutely drew the letter from her pocket. ‘You may read it for yourself.’
He hesitated and she amused herself by imagining that conflict between propriety and curiosity, so familiar to herself, now taking place within his dignified bosom. Finally he took the letter and she watched him in silence as he read both pages, sunlight and the shadows of leaves shifting constantly across his frowning face.
He finished and stood for a moment, his hand, with the papers still in it, resting upon the rail of the bridge, his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon her. A muscle moved restlessly in his cheek. He seemed to be forcing back angry words.
‘The lady had a secret … attachment.’ he said quietly at last.
‘Yes, it would seem that she had.’
‘And this is the end of your compassion for Mrs Harman-Foote? You are able to defame the reputation of her dead friend!’
Dido recoiled. ‘It is unfortunate – but I could not have guessed …’
‘And the best comfort you can offer the poor lady,’ he ran on without seeming to hear her, ‘is that her own husband is the guilty man; guilty not only of gross immorality, but of murder too!’ He stopped. His hand had curled into a fist around the papers.
‘I wish with all my heart,’ she said, ‘that the evidence were different – that it pointed to entirely different conclusions. But I cannot regret undertaking the enquiry. The fear of uncovering inconvenient truths should never make us content to accept lies.’
‘You forget,’ he said in a voice of quiet restraint, ‘that I am not permitted to comment upon your conduct.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ she cried angrily, ‘I rather thought that it was you that had forgotten it.’
‘No,’ he said, struggling against himself, quite shocked by the violence of his own emotions. ‘I am not questioning your behaviour, madam, only your conclusions.’
‘And what, pray, is amiss with my conclusions?’
‘Nothing at all, except that they are ill-founded and entirely erroneous.’
‘Oh?’
‘I assure you,’ he said, hastily returning the papers, ‘Mr Harman-Foote did not write this letter.’
‘But how can you know?’
‘By the writing. He and I correspond from time to time on matters of business. This is certainly not his hand.’ He bowed with great formality and hurried away: too angry to remain with her a moment longer.
Chapter Twenty-One
My Dear Eliza,
I congratulate you. I had no idea of your possessing the gift of premonition! It is quite remarkable.
When I returned home from Madderstone this afternoon there was awaiting me your letter, written three days ago and cautioning me against ‘provoking poor Mr Lomax unnecessarily when he arrives at Badleigh’. Now, how could you know – without supernatural power – that I would do such a thing? I am quite sure that you have never detected in my extremely docile and accommodating nature anything which might be suspected of deliberately provoking a gentleman.
But I regret to inform you that you are doomed – like Cassandra of old – to have your wise warnings disregarded. You may consider Mr Lomax most thoroughly provoked. He has not spoken one word to me since a little meeting between us which occurred this morning. He has spent all evening at piquet with Margaret: which I consider to be a very bad sign indeed, for I am sure only a very strong desire of avoiding conversation could overcome his abhorrence of cards.
Dido, sitting rather stiffly upon her narrow bed, paused and leant her head against the sloping ceiling. The rain was once more pattering upon her dark window and the house becoming quiet as the family retired. Rebecca’s weary feet had already tramped past her door and now there was only the ticking of the clock on the landing and the occasional creak of settling floorboards.
But she could not sleep. Now that she was alone, fragments of her conversation with Mr Lomax would recur, and Eliza’s letter was also oddly disquieting. It was not in Eliza’s nature to detect faults in anyone, least of all her beloved sister, and yet there had been in this morning’s letter a rare hint of criticism. After anticipating Mr Lomax’s provocation, she had continued:
… I wonder sometimes, whether your quick wits do not make you just a little outspoken. Please do not misunderstand me, Dearest, I know that you never express an opinion which is not sound, and very clever, but I fear that sometimes gentlemen may misunderstand you.
Dido, do you remember the Reverend Mr Clarke who came to stay with the Fordwicks when we were one and twenty? He was a very pleasant gentleman, with three good livings – and so very much in love with you! I was quite sure he would make you an offer. But you would argue so with him!
Dido could not help but feel it was a little unfair of her sister to mention the Reveren
d Mr Clarke. For she had not exactly argued with him … She had done no more than tell him she disapproved of pluralism in the clergy – and light-coloured morning coats. And those were opinions which were better expressed immediately, for a wife could certainly not have kept them to herself after marriage – not if she were married to a man such as Mr Clarke, who was possessed of three livings – and a rather pale morning coat …
No, she assured herself, she was not argumentative … only honest. She bent her head once more over her page.
However, Eliza, I do not quite agree that Mr Lomax’s being provoked was unnecessary. For if the poor misguided man will persist in expecting me to be what I am not, then I must conclude that his disappointment is inevitable. He has no reason to suppose me reformed since our last meeting in Richmond; no cause at all to suppose me less curious or more inclined to rest contented with half truths when a little effort might uncover the whole.
Well, I suppose he is now congratulating himself upon his happy escape; for this morning’s little discussion must have proved to him how very unquiet his domestic life would have been had I accepted his offer of marriage.
She stopped. To her very great surprise a tear was splashing down upon the letter. And now a fit of sobbing seized her, shaking her whole frame – and even the frame of the bed. It was quite unaccountable: she had never in her life indulged in such an excess of sensibility – had always supposed herself quite incapable of it. But the pen was slipping from her hand, smearing the counterpane with ink, and the writing desk was clattering to the floor. She was curling up upon the bed.
Astonishing – impossible – though it seemed, Miss Dido Kent, that most composed and determinedly rational of creatures, was giving way to a fit of hysterics.
* * *
This outburst was all the more remarkable for following on a day of the most rational and useful pursuits. The little disagreement with Mr Lomax had not overset her at the time. Indeed, she had been rather pleased with her own composure in the face of his anger and, although she had rested about a quarter of an hour upon the bridge after he left her, at least seven and a half of those fifteen minutes had been spent in considering, not his displeasure, but his information.
It was that, she had rapidly decided, which must concern her. His ill temper was his own affair. She would not give it another thought … But his certainty that Mr Harman-Foote had not written the letter was of the first importance. It not only disproved her strongest suspicion, it also pointed a way forward for her investigations.
And, upon this subject, she had even had the grace to admit that Mr Lomax’s impatience was well-founded. It had, of course, been very stupid of her not to think before of comparing the handwriting, for such an undertaking might serve not only to discount the innocent, but also to uncover the guilty man.
Tapping her fingers on the rail of the bridge, she counted out the objects of her suspicion – the men whose handwriting she must try to get a sight of.
There was Mr Portinscale – though how she might gain a look at his writing she could not yet determine; and there was old Mr Harman – some correspondence of his might survive in his daughter’s possession, or in the library at Madderstone; and there was Captain Laurence … She stopped. But, of course, she knew the captain’s writing already! She recalled the looped characters of the message written to Penelope on the Navy List – and hurriedly unfolded the letter she was holding …
No. She was quite sure that there was no likeness at all. The writing of Miss Fenn’s ‘Beloved’ had no loops upon it. It was strong and straightforward with a vigorous forward slant.
Dido was on the point of putting up the letter when, quite suddenly, it flashed into her mind that the hand was not entirely unfamiliar to her. Spreading out the page in the dappled sunshine of the wood, she became quite certain that there was something about it which she recognised. She had seen a hand rather like it – and seen it recently. But where? The actual details eluded her – but the suspicion was extremely useful in dispelling any lingering solicitude over Mr Lomax’s behaviour.
She folded the papers away and turned resolutely towards Madderstone. She would busy herself about her mystery: she must begin to look about her for examples of handwriting – and she must also discover whether Miss Fenn had had any confidante who could be applied to for information concerning Mr Portinscale’s offer of marriage.
She certainly had no time to waste upon idle regrets.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dido found Mrs Philips busily watering plants in Madderstone Abbey’s great hothouse and lost no time in bringing forward a question about Miss Fenn’s friends and acquaintances.
‘No, miss,’ said Mrs Philips, setting down her pail and pressing a hand to her back as she straightened up, ‘I don’t reckon there was anyone hereabouts that Miss Fenn was what you might call intimate with – though she always had a pleasant word for everyone, I’m sure.’
‘There was no one she visited?’
The housekeeper frowned thoughtfully and Dido waited with the sun shining through the glass and warming the back of her head.
‘No.’ Mrs Philips pinched a dead leaf from a myrtle bush. ‘At least,’ she said, ‘she’d not paid many visits since she stopped going to call on that Mrs Pinker.’
‘Mrs Pinker?’
‘Yes, she used to visit her; but she wasn’t from round here. Lived over Great Farleigh way I believe.’
‘And did Miss Fenn visit her often?’
The shadows of clustering vine leaves shifted across Mrs Philips’ face as she struggled to remember. ‘She used to go to her once a week … on a Thursday afternoon,’ she said. ‘That is, she used to go the first few years she was here. Used to drive herself over there in the pony carriage. But she’d left off going lately – I mean a year or two before she disappeared.’
‘I see.’ Dido was very disappointed to find that the friendship had lapsed before Mr Portinscale’s courtship began. But the information might be of use. If Mrs Harman-Foote could be persuaded to make her carriage available, a visit to Great Farleigh ought to be made. Mrs Pinker might not know how the clergyman’s advances had been received but she might be able to tell something of Miss Fenn’s character and connections. Yes, she thought, she would call upon Mrs Pinker at the earliest opportunity. It was at least something to be doing. Activity, and having something to think about, seemed to be of the first importance with her just now …
Meanwhile, her companion was dusting a little earth from her hands and looking anxious. ‘Miss Kent,’ she began, ‘I wonder whether I might make so bold as to ask how you are going on with finding out about the ghost?’ As she spoke she looked out through the vine’s crowding foliage to the ruins, just visible beyond the despoiled lawns. ‘Have you found out what might be carrying on over there? Pardon me for asking about it, but Mrs Harman-Foote told me you’d been kind enough to say you would … look into it.’
Dido was forced to confess that, as yet, she had no notion of what might be ‘carrying on over there’.
‘Ah dear,’ said Mrs Philips. ‘I was in hopes you might be able to talk a little sense into the housemaids. They’re all full of it and now Mary-Ann says she’s so scared of the ghost she means to leave at Christmas. I declare, miss, I’d be very glad if you could get to the bottom of all this business of lights and haunting.’
‘Lights?’ repeated Dido rather puzzled – and then she remembered Lucy Crockford mentioning lights being seen in the gallery.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Philips, looking very troubled. ‘There certainly are lights, miss. At first I paid no attention to what was being said – I thought it was all in the girls’ heads. But then Mrs Jones came to me and said she had seen a light in the old ruins – when she was coming back late from her afternoon off. “Dear me!” I thought. “We are in a sorry state if such a steady old thing as Mrs Jones is taking fancies into her head!” So the next night – close on midnight – out I go myself. And, sure enough, there was a light! Just a f
aint one – and darting about a bit.’
‘Like a ghost?’
The housekeeper looked at her shrewdly, her brows raised. ‘Well, miss,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t know about that on account of never having seen a ghost. But I’ve seen a lantern being swung about as it’s carried – and that’s what it looked like to me.’
‘Did it, indeed?’ Dido stepped past the pots of marjoram and myrtle and pressed her face to the warm, steamy glass so that she could see the jagged walls and broken arches of the abbey more clearly. But the great nave of the abbey church presented only a blank wall. The gallery faced out across the parkland and no light upon it would be visible from the house. ‘Now who would be carrying a lantern about up there so late at night?’ she mused.
‘Someone up to no good,’ said the housekeeper with great conviction.
Someone up to no good upon the gallery. For some reason the description brought Captain Laurence immediately to Dido’s mind. A memory struck her with such force that she reached out to hold the gnarled trunk of the vine. The damp, peaty heat of the glasshouse seemed to be choking her.
She was remembering how the captain had come to inspect the gallery on the day that the bones were discovered. He had been so very interested in the place. His manner had been so secretive … And he had seemed to be searching for something …
Was it possible that Captain Laurence had returned to the ruins to continue his search – at night, when he might do so unobserved?
‘You are quite right to remind me, Mrs Philips,’ she said with sudden determination – and very pleased indeed to have a fresh cause of activity. ‘I believe I should be paying much more attention to what is “carrying on” over in the ruins.’
The housekeeper’s words had not exactly reminded Dido of the ghost in the ruins, for she had certainly not forgotten it; but they had served to recall her to its possible significance.
