by Anna Dean
But, for now, she could indulge herself in the exquisite relief of talking – of sharing her ideas with a mind she knew could meet hers in understanding.
She folded her hands in her lap, as demure as a child preparing to recite a lesson, turned her face into the sun’s warmth and began to ‘tell all about it’ – starting with the information she had gained upon her recent visit to Mrs Nolan, and the conversation between Captain Laurence and his friend which she ‘happened to have heard as she passed through the parlour just now.’
By the time she reached this point he was watching her with interest: the tips of his fingers were coming together … ‘And so, you believe that Mr Harman-Foote is Miss Lambe’s father?’ he said as she paused.
‘No.’ She continued resolutely, without apologising for the indelicacy of the subject – for it had to be said; but she turned away her face to the window so that she was watching the smoke of the town’s breakfast fires roll across the sunny roofs as she said, ‘No, I do not believe that he is Penelope’s father at all.’
‘You think the schoolmistress is lying?’
‘No, no, I am sure her information is correct – so far as it goes. I believe Mr Harman-Foote has indeed supported Penelope these last fifteen years. But, it does not necessarily follow that he has been prompted by either duty or guilt. I think his only motive has been benevolence.’
‘That,’ he acknowledged, consideringly, ‘would accord well with his character. I have a great regard for the man and I would be very happy to believe him innocent. But what is your proof?’ He stopped, smiled. ‘You see, Miss Kent, I have such confidence in your reasoning that I am sure you have proof.’
‘And your confidence is not misplaced. My proof lies in the behaviour of Captain Laurence. You see,’ she said, ‘I believe the captain knew that Miss Fenn had gone to the pool on the day of her death – and suspected that she had died there. But, for fifteen years he said nothing of his suspicions – and then, about two months ago, he began making enquiries. He followed the same trail as I did, through the information of servants, to Great Farleigh – and Penelope. And he also persuaded Mr Coulson to drain the lower pool.’
‘But this is no proof of your case!’ he cried. ‘Laurence’s most probable motive was to expose Harman-Foote’s guilt and subject him to blackmail.’
‘No, no,’ she said eagerly. ‘I do not think so. If his intention was to get money from Mr Harman-Foote, why did he not approach him with his discoveries? Why did he come here to Bath – and tell Lord Congreve?’
‘Congreve?’ The gathering interest in Lomax’s face was all swallowed up in alarm. The very name seemed to make him uneasy.
‘What would you say,’ continued Dido eagerly, ‘if I told you that His Lordship is Penelope’s father?’
‘Ah!’ he frowned and hastened to supply an explanation himself; in order, no doubt, to save her ‘concerning herself’ with unsuitable information. ‘You believe that Congreve … forced his attentions upon this woman Elinor Fenn – when she was maid to old Mrs Foote. That he got her with child. And that, out of compassion, Mr Harman-Foote persuaded his mother to recommend her as a governess.’
‘Do you not think it possible?’ she asked.
‘No!’ he protested warmly. ‘No I certainly do not!’
She tilted her head and looked up at him questioningly. ‘And what, pray, is the weakness in my reasoning?’
‘I regret to say there are so many weaknesses I scarcely know where to begin.’ His face was frowning severely in the sunshine, criss-crossed by the shadows of the window-leads. ‘A disgraced maid become a governess! It was most unsuitable. And yet you believe that two such respectable people as Mrs Foote and Mr Harman were complicit in the deception?’
‘I believe that they must have both known the truth of the young governess’s history. Otherwise the plan could not have been carried out.’
‘No!’ he cried. ‘This is very poor reasoning. I knew Mrs Foote. She was a very proper lady. She would not have taken part in such a business.’
‘So, I cannot convince you that this story is true?’
‘I am afraid you cannot. It is nonsense … That is,’ he added, recollecting himself, and bowing slightly awkwardly in the confined space of the window seat. ‘I would not contradict a lady …’
‘No, no Mr Lomax,’ she cried immediately, ‘you are forgetting that there is to be open and honest discussion between you and I. Please contradict me as much as you wish. You must be as free to mention my errors as I am to mention other people’s crimes.’
‘Must I?’ He looked at her in surprise – then laughed, set his elbow on the edge of the window and leant towards her, shaking his head. ‘Then I shall contradict you. My dear Miss Kent,’ he said in gentle challenge, ‘I would suggest that you are talking nonsense.’
‘Yes,’ she said, smiling serenely up into his eyes. ‘I know that I am.’
‘You know?’
‘Yes, of course this tale is arrant nonsense! And yet,’ she added, ‘you failed to mention the one most startling piece of evidence against it – the very comfortable bedchamber which was allotted to Miss Fenn at Madderstone.’
‘The bedchamber?’ he repeated, rather confused by this sudden turn of events. ‘Why should that be significant?’
She hesitated over answering the question. A part of her would have liked to jump up at this point and walk about the room – for there were a great many ideas and suspicions crowding in upon her now and her mind was always clearer when her body was in motion. But she did not wish to move away from him. Honest and open discussion was, she found, rather pleasantly conducted at rest together upon the sun-warmed window seat, where his long fingers played restlessly within inches of her face and she could see the tiny dark flecks which the sunlight revealed in the grey of his eyes.
‘In the theatre,’ she said, striking out into another branch of reasoning, ‘I suggested to you that the key to all our mysteries might lie in the face of Lord Congreve’s present mistress.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Well, afterwards – in the lobby – I contrived to look more closely at that young lady’s face.’
‘And what did her face reveal?’
‘It revealed a great deal of grease and powder; but not quite enough – not enough to hide a blackened eye, a bruised cheek and a split lip.’
‘Congreve!’ he cried in a voice of controlled fury. The restless fingers formed an involuntary fist. He smote the ancient frame of the window and set the panes rattling.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I believe him to have been the source of the injuries – for I remember Harriet telling me once that it was his unkind treatment of his wife which ended his marriage.’
‘In God’s name, I wish – for the honour of my own sex – that I could repudiate it. But I cannot.’
‘Very well then,’ she said solemnly, ‘the young lady’s face reveals Lord Congreve’s nature – the behaviour he is capable of towards women.’ For a moment there was no sound within the room except the soft flap and stutter of flames on the hearth. But from below came the shouts of coachmen and the ringing of plates and tankards upon tables – reminding Dido that they must soon be disturbed. Hastily she picked up the third – and final – thread of her reasoning. ‘Yesterday,’ she said, ‘when we were all discussing His Lordship, Mr Crockford remarked that the captain’s connection with him would be disapproved at Madderstone. He seemed to hint at a particular reason for that disapproval.’
Mr Lomax was watching her intently, his fingers just tapping slightly against one another.
‘I meant,’ she said, ‘to ask Mr Crockford to explain his remark. For you know, masculine disputes are generally better known to gentlemen. But perhaps you can supply the information, Mr Lomax. Why is Mr Harman-Foote Lord Congreve’s enemy?’
‘Ah!’ he cried, ‘I am not sure that is a question …’
‘… that a lady should concern herself with. But,’ she ran on hastily, ‘I find
that I must concern myself with this question of the gentlemen’s enmity. For I believe it is all to do with the scar upon His Lordship’s cheek – and Mr Harman-Foote’s reputation for having fought and marked his man.’ She paused, brows raised. ‘I am right, am I not?’ she said. ‘The man he fought many years ago was Lord Congreve?’
He nodded.
‘And the cause of their fight was?’
‘My dear Miss Kent, gentlemen do not discuss the cause of a duel!’
‘Then gentlemen are very foolish indeed,’ she cried impatiently. ‘I am sure no woman would put an embargo upon a subject which might uncover the guilt of a murderer! Upon my word, I begin to suspect that between considerations of what women must not think about and men may not talk of, a great many crimes go undetected!’
‘But, it is a matter of honour not to disclose the name of a lady …’
‘Ah!’ she cried, well satisfied. ‘So, there was a lady involved in the dispute between Mr Harman-Foote and Lord Congreve!’
He groaned and passed his hand across his face. She seemed to defeat him at every turn.
‘Very well, then,’ she continued. ‘And, to spare you the dishonour of speaking her name, I shall supply it myself. It was Lady Congreve, was it not? It was His Lordship’s ill-treatment of his own wife which Mr Harman-Foote sought to punish in that meeting?’
‘It was. However,’ he said, finding suddenly a new angle of attack, ‘I am sure that your hitting upon the name is no more than a lucky guess. For I defy even you to produce any proof of your surmise.’
‘No,’ she said with dignity. ‘It is not a guess; it is an hypothesis.’
‘An hypothesis?’
‘Yes, for once we assume that she was the cause of the fight, the events at Madderstone become a great deal more comprehensible. Consider the matter carefully: more than twenty years ago, Lady Congreve suffered such ill-usage at the hands of her husband that she removed herself from his house. And Mr Harman-Foote fought His Lordship over the matter. And …’ Her face was glowing with something of the fervour that can be seen in those high-spirited women who follow the fox-hunt. ‘And, at about the same time as Lady Congreve disappeared, a governess appeared at Madderstone Abbey – upon the recommendation of the Foote family: a friendless woman who, apparently, had no relations, no connections.’
‘But,’ objected Lomax, ‘the governess was Elinor Fenn.’
‘No,’ insisted Dido quietly. ‘The governess was Lady Congreve. A homeless fugitive, after her flight from a wretched marriage had left her utterly destitute.’
She had certainly won her companion’s attention. He was leaning towards her, his brow gathered into a frown of concentration, his fingers tapping together as he considered.
‘I believe,’ she continued, very eager to strengthen and elaborate her case, before he could begin to doubt, ‘I believe that the key to the name – Elinor Fenn – might lie in the matter-of-fact character of old Mrs Foote. Called upon to introduce Her Ladyship under a new identity, the poor woman found that invention was beyond her, and she fell back upon a name fresh in her mind from her maid’s recent departure. But the one point which convinces me that I am right is the bedchamber.’
‘You think a great deal about this bedchamber.’
‘I do indeed. You see, I can conceive of a country gentleman like Mr Harman taking in – out of compassion – a viscountess, and hiding her under the guise of a governess. But I am sure he would be quite incapable of consigning her to an attic!’
Lomax shook his head. ‘It is a fantastic – an impossible tale! That a lady of such standing should take on the post of country governess …’
‘It may be fantastic to a man,’ said Dido with quiet feeling, ‘but I believe it would fall within the comprehension of many women: we have so little power over our own destiny, Mr Lomax, we slip so easily from comfort – even luxury – into poverty. We have so little that we can truly call our own …’ She sat for a moment looking down at her own hands folded in her lap.
And he watched her in silence, the telltale muscle in his cheek moving slightly in the way it always did when he was forcing himself to hold back words.
‘Consider the situation of a woman such as Lady Congreve,’ said Dido at last. ‘A woman who finds herself living in fear of her husband’s violent temper. She has no power, no right even to remove herself, much less take any wealth with her. Even a viscountess might be compelled to seek employment in such an extremity.’
‘Well,’ he conceded with a heavy sigh, ‘Congreve’s vicious nature would certainly have made concealment necessary for his poor wife.’
‘You believe then that I am right?’
‘Ah! I did not quite say that,’ he cried hastily. ‘I admit that there are evidences in support of your theory; however there are also arguments against it.’
‘Indeed? And what are they?’
‘Principally the character of Lady Congreve. She was, by all accounts, a very religious woman …’
‘And so was Elinor Fenn,’ countered Dido quickly. ‘I am by no means suggesting that the lady changed her character with her name. Indeed, I rather consider Her Ladyship’s piety to be a point in my favour. For I believe there is evidence of scruples. Consider the verse in the Bible which had been underlined. It was the second part of the commandment which was so very important to her. St Paul begins by demanding obedience from women; but he then insists upon a man’s kindly treatment of his wife. And I believe Lady Congreve found comfort in considering that, by his abominable behaviour, His Lordship had been the first to break the sacred pact of matrimony.’
But still he insisted upon disbelief. ‘It would all have involved such a degree of calculation,’ he objected, ‘not only upon the part of Lady Congreve, but of others too. Compassion, I believe, is rarely carried to such extremes.’
‘But,’ she said, ‘there is one circumstance which might have made Lady Congreve’s friends particularly willing to assist her. You see, she was with child when she left her husband; and I believe this provides whatever explanation is still wanting for her desperate scheme – and her friends’ compliance in it. If it was feared that her husband’s vicious conduct not only threatened her own safety, but also put at risk the life of the child she carried, might not very religious, moral people feel that the highest duty was to protect that young life?’
He considered her words in silence. Meanwhile the noises about them were becoming louder. The old staircase of the inn was in such constant and heavy use now that the panelled walls of their parlour were shaking a little. Harriet, Lucy and Silas must soon make their appearance.
‘Have I convinced you, Mr Lomax?’ she ventured to ask.
But he avoided admitting the force of her arguments. ‘And do you believe that Congreve discovered his wife – and exacted a terrible revenge for her desertion?’ he asked.
She would have dearly loved to make him acknowledge defeat. It would have been delightful to have him admit the superiority of her reasoning – but, unfortunately, it was an indulgence for which she had no time.
‘No,’ she said in a great hurry, ‘I do not think that His Lordship was the murderer. For I am quite sure that Laurence carried out his investigations in order to please his influential friend. I believe the two men met about two months ago and, when Laurence heard the tale of his new acquaintance’s divorce, he remembered the coming of the governess to Madderstone. That is what prompted him to begin his enquiries.’
‘I see.’
Harriet and Silas could now be heard talking on the landing.
‘And all this,’ Dido ran on hurriedly, ‘argues for Lord Congreve wishing for information about the fate of his wife – and that of course rather rules out his having murdered her.’
‘That is soundly reasoned,’ he acknowledged. ‘But if Congreve is not the murderer, then who is it that you suspect? And why should you believe Congreve’s latest commission to Laurence to be so dangerous, if he only wishes for the business to be covere
d up?’
A hand turned the lock of the parlour door. ‘Because,’ Dido said urgently, ‘Lady Congreve was a remarkably clever woman. I have been thinking it all over for half the night, and I believe that Captain Laurence has not yet discovered her most dangerous secret. And it is,’ she added, ‘of the greatest importance that he never does discover it. That is why he must not be allowed to find the missing letters.’
Harriet and Silas were actually in the room now; but, fortunately, they were too busy arguing over whether Silas should wear a flannel waistcoat for the journey to take any notice of the couple in the window seat. Lomax leant close and, in his anxiety, laid his hand upon Dido’s arm. ‘Why?’ he whispered. ‘What do you fear the letters might reveal?’
‘I fear they will reveal that His Lordship is mistaken in thinking his wife stole nothing from him. You see, Mr Lomax, I believe that when Lady Congreve left her husband’s house she defied those laws which said she could take nothing. She took with her something of very great value indeed – something which was the cause of her death. And, if her husband ever discovers that she robbed him, he will stop at nothing to retrieve his property.’
‘Good God! Explain yourself, please! I do not like to see you involving yourself with the affairs of such a man as Congreve. I would advise against it if I dared, but I fear my very opposition would make you more determined …’ Without his knowing it, the pressure of his fingers on her arm increased and their urgent warmth moved her more than any words of persuasion.
‘But I cannot explain it yet,’ she answered regretfully, ‘for I do not yet understand it all myself. I must send a message to Great Farleigh immediately; and I need to find out who stole the letters and the ring; and I must look again at the pieces of gold and silver which were taken from the lake …’
