A Place of Confinement: The Investigations of Miss Dido Kent (Dido Kent Mysteries)

by Dean, Anna

  ‘But your brother has a great deal to gain from remembering it. It is his threat of publishing this old tale which puts your jewels into his hands…’ Dido paused, then added very quietly, ‘Why?’

  Mrs Manners raised her head; the little white face looked like a child’s in the slanting sunlight, the burden of hair almost too great for the fragile neck to support. ‘Why?’ she repeated. ‘Are you so lost to all natural feeling that you cannot guess my reason? Naturally I wish to protect my sister’s reputation.’

  ‘At such a high cost? Thirty years after her death? Indeed, Aunt, I think you might let Mr George do his worst. I doubt anyone would care about the old story now. Why, even the women selling fish in the marketplace seem to know it already!’

  ‘You do not understand, miss! You know nothing about family loyalty.’

  ‘But I think I do understand why you must pay so dearly for your brother’s silence.’ Dido turned away to the window sill. ‘The explanation lies here. In these initials cut into the stone.’

  ‘Initials?’ The word was a little cry of fear. The chair on which Mrs Manners had been sitting scraped back, toppled over and crashed to the floor. She was on her feet now, beside Dido. ‘They are not still there? There is nothing which can still be read!’ She peered short-sightedly at the window ledge. ‘I can make out nothing.’ She waved an imperious hand at Dido. ‘Fetch my spectacles,’ she said – the ingrained habit of command surviving even the extremity of the moment.

  ‘I cannot supply your spectacles just now, Aunt, but I can tell you what the letters seem to be.’ Dido ran her finger along the clearest of the carvings. ‘FF,’ she said.

  ‘Oh!’ Mrs Manners held out a shaking hand and touched the letters with the kind of searching gentleness a blind woman might employ upon a loved face. ‘Francine Fenstanton,’ she said.

  Dido waited, hoping that she might continue; hoping that the rest of the tale might be taken out of her own hands. If only Aunt Manners would tell it herself. She searched the little white face for any sign of weakening; for a sign that true feeling – old feeling – might triumph over the rigid mask of dignity and propriety which had been worn for thirty years. But, after that one burst of emotion, the mouth and jaw were set firm once more.

  ‘Francine Fenstanton,’ said Dido reluctantly. ‘That is the interpretation which occurred to me. But now I have examined the letters more closely. And I have also carried out my own experiments in stone cutting.’

  Mrs Manners threw her a look which accused her of officiousness, but she said not a word.

  ‘And, I am quite sure that this…’ Dido ran a finger over the first letter ‘… is not an F at all.’ She did not look at her aunt, but sensed her emotion. ‘It is an S written long and straight – in the old-fashioned way.’

  Mrs Manners turned away unsteadily. Dido hurriedly retrieved the chair and righted it. Her aunt sat down and folded her shaking hands in her lap.

  ‘You still write your S’s in that style, Aunt. It – and your rather careless handwriting – bewilders the poor postmaster and turns the word Bristol into something resembling Beef-tea. To a modern eye your S looks very like an F; there is only a slight difference in the cross-stroke.’

  ‘What nonsense!’

  ‘No, I do not believe it is nonsense at all.’

  ‘Oh, but it is, miss!’ cried Mrs Manners with renewed spirit. ‘For all the world knows that when it forms an initial letter, S is never written long.’

  ‘No, in general it is not. And that is why it took me so long to properly decipher these initials. But then I remembered the many scratches – the unsuccessful carvings – which surround the finished letters. And I made my experiment.’ She laid a hand upon the window ledge. ‘This stone is very hard; and, using only a lady’s penknife – the implement with which I believe the letters were made – it is impossible to form a curled S. Curves are the very hardest thing to cut. I believe the person who made these initials—’

  ‘Oh very well, very well, miss,’ cried Mrs Manners impatiently. ‘I have had enough of your boasted cleverness. I know what you are about! You mean to accuse and humiliate me. You mean to say that the initials are SF, for Selina Fenstanton.’

  ‘I am right, am I not? You carved these initials.’

  Mrs Manners said nothing.

  But Dido interpreted the silence as consent. ‘I see now,’ she continued, ‘that I misunderstood Miss Emma’s information. She spoke of the east wing not being used since Miss Francine died, and immediately afterwards she said, ‘those were my aunts’ rooms.’ I misheard. It is a deficiency of our language. One is not able to hear where a possessive apostrophe falls. With Miss Francine in my mind I heard Miss Emma describing the whole of the east wing as belonging to that lady. But, of course, I was wrong. She said “aunts’”. It was a plural. In fact, this particular room was not Miss Francine’s at all. It was yours.’

  There was a long silence. Mrs Manners stared down upon her own linked fingers where the white, dented flesh still spoke of the rings lost to her brother’s greed.

  And, at last, Dido thought it best to continue, for she suspected that strength and courage might soon fail her. ‘I believe,’ she said, ‘it was you, not your sister that fell in love with Mr Sutherland during his visits to this house. And it was you that ran away with him. I have wondered for many days at your knowledge of the road to Gretna Green. When your mind wanders under the influence of physic you recall every detail. You have travelled that road, have you not? You eloped and your brothers brought you back. They shut you away and forced you to give up your lover – and marry my uncle instead.’

  The look of pain deepened on Mrs Manners’ face, her hand formed itself into a fist upon the table. There was such a silence in the room as admitted the little sounds of wood hitting wood out on the bowling green – followed by a little smattering of handclapping. Mrs Manners drew a long breath and raised her head proudly. ‘It is an old story,’ she said. ‘Why must you torment me with it now?’

  Dido felt no triumph in this oblique confession; only a horrible confusion of guilt. Every word she had said was a violation of duty which even her belief in her own cause could not make her forget. ‘I do not wish to torment you, Aunt,’ she said wretchedly. ‘I only do what is necessary, because this old story – and your brother’s abuse of the knowledge he possesses – all this I believe has resulted, not only in Miss Verney’s removal from the house, but also the murder of Mr Brodie.’

  ‘The murder?’ Mrs Manners shook her head. ‘No,’ she pronounced, with all the authority of a woman whose word has been law for thirty years, ‘it has nothing to do with the murder.’

  ‘But I believe that it has.’ Dido dropped to her knees before her aunt, gazing up into her face. ‘Your brother has been so very determined to keep the business secret that he has threatened poor Miss Gibbs, whom he believes to know about it. And he has attempted to injure her by causing rocks to fall on her at the beach. There is great danger here and I can neither prevent its continuance, nor reveal the true cause of Mr Brodie’s death, unless you authorise me to publish this old story. Unless I can present all the facts to Mr Parry he will never believe that young Mr Lomax is innocent.’

  ‘And I am to be made a subject of gossip, for Mr Tom Lomax’s convenience, am I? I am astonished that you should even suggest it. George’s … unkindness to me has nothing to do with the killing of the unfortunate man at the inn and I cannot, I will not, have it made common knowledge. The tale is thirty years old, I will not have it revived. It is too painful.’

  ‘My dear Aunt, I understand that you have suffered, but—’

  ‘No, miss, you do not!’ cried Mrs Manners with sudden passion. Her hand struck the table. ‘You understand nothing about the demands of duty, decency and family loyalty. You care about nothing but having your own way. Why, you believe yourself to be in prison because you have not every minute of every day at your own disposal! Oh yes, miss, you need not look so surprised. I saw the compla
ining letter which you discarded.’

  Dido blushed and turned down her eyes in confusion as she remembered the intemperate words which had burst from her when she had first written to Eliza after their arrival at Charcombe.

  ‘But I learnt my duty many years ago,’ continued Mrs Manners. ‘And I have never swerved from it. I know what it is to be confined – confined by my obligations to others, to my family. I have remained a prisoner…’ Her voice faltered. ‘I might have thought, when I was released from this room that I was free…’ She stopped. Her hands clutched at one another, enforcing stillness. ‘That does not matter,’ she said with a great effort. ‘I have nothing with which to reproach myself.’

  Dido looked up at the dignified little black figure with its heap of grey curls, and was suddenly reminded of a fanciful painting she had once seen of the French queen in her tumbrel. And a strange thought slipped into her head: She speaks true, she is still a prisoner. She never escaped …

  ‘Well, well, it is an old story.’ Mrs Manners had recovered herself and was rising to her feet. ‘It is of no consequence to anyone.’ She turned towards the door. ‘We shall forget all about it, Miss Dido. You will not mention it again – and I shall not mention to your brother and sister how extremely displeased I am with your behaviour towards me.’

  Dido scrambled to her feet in terror. Another step would take her aunt beyond the door and everything would be lost. She must be stopped.

  ‘But the old story is of the greatest consequence!’ she cried desperately. ‘I know that it is. I know the whole truth.’

  Mrs Manners pulled open the door, she was on the point of hurrying out into the bedchamber beyond.

  ‘It is of consequence, because you know the entire route from Devonshire to Gretna Green.’

  The black figure froze in the doorway.

  ‘If one looks closely at the carving on the window ledge,’ Dido continued, forcing herself to speak calmly, but hearing a treacherous tremor in the words, ‘it becomes plain it is not SF at all. It is the same letter repeated. SS.’

  Slowly Mrs Manners turned back to face her niece. Her face was white, her hand was clenched for support on the latch of the door, her knuckles pale and bloodless.

  ‘Selina Sutherland,’ said Dido, speaking quietly in the great silence that filled the room. ‘It was carved, I think, as an act of defiance. A declaration of your true name.’

  A tiny noise disturbed the silence. It was the rattling of the latch beneath Mrs Manner’s clutching hand.

  ‘It is true, is it not? Your brothers brought you back, but they were too late. You and Mr Sutherland had already reached the blacksmith’s shop – a marriage had taken place.’

  ‘You cannot prove it,’ said Mrs Manners at last.

  ‘No, I cannot,’ said Dido slowly as she took in the full import of her aunt’s words. ‘But you believe that Mr George Fenstanton is able to prove it. That is what gives him power over you. Your fortune is at his disposal, because you believe he is able to prove that you have no claim to it. The prior marriage makes your union with my uncle unsound. You were never legally his wife – and have no rights in his estate.’

  ‘That is enough, miss! I shall listen to no more.’ Mrs Manners released her hold upon the door. She turned away.

  ‘Please, Aunt, wait! The life of an innocent man is at stake…’

  ‘I have told you: this business has nothing to do with the murder.’

  ‘But it has,’ cried Dido. ‘Mr Brodie knew of the marriage, did he not? His home is in Gretna Green and I believe…’

  But the little black figure was retreating, rigid, dignified, taking with it all hope.

  ‘Please, you cannot run away from me…’ Dido clutched at the table’s edge. ‘You cannot run away from this room,’ she cried. ‘I know that it still holds you prisoner.’

  The retreating figure stopped.

  Dido’s fingers tightened on the table until they were all but numb. ‘Aunt Manners,’ she stammered, ‘I do understand. Though I have never suffered the confinement, the unkindness that you received at the hands of your brothers, I understand why you are still a prisoner. I know the power which has held you, long after the bolts were drawn on this room, long after you seemed to walk free from this prison.’

  Mrs Manners turned, poised with brittle dignity. ‘What do you know about that, miss?’

  ‘I know the power of “what if”,’ cried Dido desperately. ‘The terrible haunting of the mind. The knowledge that I might, by my own decisions, have made everything different. That is why you are still a prisoner, is it not, Aunt? You have never been able to escape from the thought that you might have held out against your brothers; that you might, in the end, have won your way back to the man you loved.’

  Dido leant against the table. She knew that she had played her last card; that there was no retreating from this point. She could never return to a state of polite accommodation. She had, in an effort to touch her aunt, delivered the final insult.

  Very slowly Mrs Manners walked into the dressing room, pulled back the chair with an unsteady hand and sat down. For a moment she looked upon her niece with the kind of startled recognition which a traveller in savage lands might turn upon the speaker of an English phrase. ‘What if,’ she repeated quietly. ‘So, Miss Dido, you suppose that you understand…’ She stopped herself, shook her head and turned her gaze upon the barred window. For several minutes there was silence in the wretched, dusty little room. Dido began to hope …

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Manners at last, as if speaking to herself; then, more loudly: ‘No. You do not truly understand the decision I made. You have not yet learnt all there is to know about duty to your family.’

  ‘Aunt Manners, please. You must help me bring about justice…’

  ‘No. You shall receive no help from me.’ She was recovering herself now; the moment of weakness was passing. ‘I have said, this murder is no concern of mine. And you will hold your tongue about my business, because you can prove nothing. You will not get a word from me – and George will certainly say nothing while I continue to pay him. You may forget all about it.’

  ‘But I cannot forget,’ cried Dido, tormented by the look of determination on her aunt’s face. ‘And if you will not help me, then I must find some other way to prove my case.’

  ‘I am not afraid of you,’ said Mrs Manners calmly. ‘Even if there is proof to be found, you will never bring it to a court of law.’

  ‘I shall!’

  ‘No, miss, you will not. I promise you that within four and twenty hours you will have changed your mind entirely. You will no longer wish to expose this old story. Before the sun sets tomorrow you will be pleading with me to keep everything hidden.’

  She stood up slowly and Dido watched her in mounting panic and confusion. She knew not what to say. She could not believe that she would ever cease to seek the truth – but her aunt’s odd conviction was disturbing.

  Mrs Manners paused in the doorway. ‘You suppose now,’ she said, ‘that you understand the decision which was forced upon me thirty years ago. You think you know all about obligation and duty. You know nothing of it – not yet. But soon you will understand – I shall ensure that you do.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Mr William Lomax looked angry, concerned – and very uncertain of what he should do.

  He stood, stiff and straight beside the Venetian windows of the new inn’s busy parlour and looked down upon the eager little figure who had sent a waiter to summon him from his apartment. A muscle moved in his hollow cheek. He swallowed hard. ‘Miss Kent, I cannot speak to you.’ He glanced about uneasily at the passengers of the Plymouth coach who were drinking tea – at a gay party of ladies and gentlemen who had just arrived in a pair of open carriages. ‘We agreed,’ he continued quietly, ‘that we should meet no more.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Dido. ‘I remember your expressing an opinion on the subject, but I do not believe we agreed upon anything other than my delivering the lett
er.’

  Anger seemed to be getting the better of it in his face. ‘I cannot talk to you. Good day.’ He bowed stiffly.

  ‘If you walk away from me,’ she said quickly, ‘I shall call you back. I shall call so loudly everyone in the room will hear.’

  ‘You would not!’ said he indignantly.

  But Dido was desperate. ‘I would,’ she said with great feeling. And it was true. In fact if he attempted to leave her, she believed it would be impossible for her to hide her distress. She would certainly call him back – she might even break into hysterical tears. The judges were perhaps already arrived in Exeter. There was little time left for the gathering of evidence and she could not proceed without his help. She needed him to act in ways which were all but impossible for her; but most of all she needed him to listen. She needed to check the riot of her ideas against his steady reason. ‘Please sit down with me,’ she said. ‘And we will talk as quickly and as quietly as we may.’

  He hesitated, looked about at the many witnesses, then back at her face, where he met an expression of great determination. ‘Very well,’ he sighed and gestured her towards a chair. ‘But I cannot imagine what has happened to make you so very … contrary.’

  ‘Oh, I have read a rather shocking book,’ she said as she sat down and folded her hands demurely over her reticule, ‘and I fear it may have corrupted my mind.’

  ‘Indeed!’ He drew a chair close to hers and studied her face.

  ‘No, I assure you it is dire necessity which has brought me here. You see there is evidence – at least, I believe there may be – and you must find it. It is our only chance.’

  He looked confused. ‘Evidence of what?’

  ‘The marriage, of course!’ she cried impatiently, but checked herself before his startled expression. Communication with him was so natural, so easy, that she must sometimes remind herself that it was, after all, necessary; that he did not immediately know everything that was in her own head. She gave a hasty account of the old elopement.