‘You’re quite right, my lord,’ said Major Spittlehouse rather gruffly, rousing the young man from his musings. ‘I daresay I’m making a bit of a mountain out of a mole hill.’
Cedric, taken by surprise said hurriedly: ‘Not at all. I spoke rather hastily. You’ve every right to protect your property as you see fit. It’s just a pity that your bit of woodland backs on to the field where the festivities are held. I daresay it’s a bit too tempting, boys being boys.’
‘It’s not just our boys,’ said the major hurriedly. ‘Some of the lads from the other villages are pilfering the wood. You know what lads are like, they like to compete with each other to see who can build the biggest bonfire. More often than not Sedgwick’s won. I don’t need to tell you it’s something we’ve always prided ourselves on.’ He bent forward, as if to impart some privileged information. ‘We’ve even received reports this year that some of the wood has been stolen from our pyre by a rival gang. No mean feat either, because our mound of sticks had been covered by canvas and the like to keep the rain out. The Committee has had to organise a night watch. Between you and me, my lord, we wouldn’t put it past the wretched little blighters to creep in and try and set fire to our bonfire.’
‘Indeed?’ said Cedric, trying to appear shocked. Memories, however, flooded back to him of his younger days when he himself had been part of a Sedgwick gang of boys pilfering wood from other villages. He consoled himself with the belief that there had been little harm in it and certainly they had not gone so far as setting light to a rival village’s bonfire. Feeling the air had been cleared a little, he took a deep breath before he lost his nerve and began to pace the room so that he was not required to look the major in the eye when he commenced his speech.
‘Look here, Spittlehouse,’ he began, without preamble. ‘I daresay you’ll think it none of my business and all that, and I feel dashed embarrassed raising it, but … well, your sister came to tea with my wife yesterday and –’
‘Came to tea with Lady Belvedere?’ Major Spittlehouse was clearly surprised by the fact.
‘Yes. Didn’t you know?’ said Cedric, before rushing on, fearful of another interruption. ‘The thing is, she mentioned her young man and how you have rather taken against him –’
‘Now, look here,’ began Major Spittlehouse angrily, going a deep shade of crimson. ‘I don’t see what business –’
‘You are quite right of course, it is none of my business,’ Cedric interrupted hurriedly, having anticipated that the major would make attempts to protest. ‘But Miss Spittlehouse extracted a promise from my wife that I would raise the matter with you, put her case, if you will. Whatever you may think of this Archie Mayhew fellow, and I don’t doubt that you have your reasons, your sister is obviously in love with him.’ He stared at Major Spittlehouse’s face, which was now the shade of ripe beetroot. He felt a surge of anger. ‘Dash it all, Spittlehouse, your sister is of age. Why not let her make her own decision and marry the fellow?’
Major Spittlehouse visibly bristled. ‘Now, look here, my lord, it’s very good of you to take an interest in my sister, but the man’s little more than an office clerk and –’
‘I daresay he might not be quite the man you would have chosen for your sister,’ Cedric conceded, ‘but I, of all people, can appreciate how it is to love outside one’s class. And your sister is quite old enough to know her own mind.’
‘I can do nothing to prevent the marriage,’ said Major Spittlehouse quietly. ‘If Daphne’s set on marrying this fellow, there is nothing I can do about it.’
‘The terms of your parents’ will mean that she is wholly dependent on your generosity regarding her inheritance,’ protested Cedric.
Major Spittlehouse stared at him in surprise. ‘Oh, you know about that, do you? Well if this damned fellow truly loves Daphne he’ll marry her, even if she doesn’t have a penny to her name.’ He stared at his hands that were resting on the table. ‘Happen he’ll prove me wrong, and no one will be more glad than me if he does, but I tell you, my lord, he’s the worthless type. I’ve seen plenty of his sort in the army. They want an easy life and they don’t mind how they get it. They think nothing of living off a woman until they’ve bled her dry. It’s enough to make your blood boil. Archie Mayhew doesn’t care tuppence for my sister. Why, she’s almost old enough to be his mother. He’ll make her life a misery, mark my words if he doesn’t. That sort of fellow always does.’
During the latter part of this speech the major had risen and was now all but trembling with emotion. Cedric stared at him somewhat taken aback for he had not thought the old soldier had it in him to display such feeling. The two stood facing one another. That the major was of the opinion that he had his sister’s best interests at heart was clear, yet Cedric remembered that Daphne had made some reference to embezzlement. Whether there was any truth in the assertion, or whether Daphne had only said it out of a malicious bitterness, he did not know. Certainly Rose had told him that Daphne had alluded to the matter in a most casual fashion, as if it were not a thing of any great significance. A part of him was tempted to make mention of it now, for the major was glowering at him with barely concealed anger. Yet he was certain it would only make matters worse and consequently thought better of it. Also, perhaps surprisingly, he felt a sudden touch of compassion for the soldier and his predicament.
‘You need to resolve the situation one way or the other, old chap,’ Cedric said more kindly, coming over and laying his hand briefly on the other man’s shoulder almost as if it were he who were the older of the two men. ‘Your sister feels wretched and ill done by. That she spoke about so personal a matter to my wife whom she is hardly acquainted with shows how miserable she must be over it all. I’d advise you to make your peace with her.’
‘Yes. Yes, my lord. That’s very good advice,’ mumbled Major Spittlehouse. He had resumed his seat and now stared into the middle distance, as if the answer to his problems could be found among the many books crowding the shelves. There was, however, no lightening of his mood and his face looked even more strained than before. ‘It’s knowing what is best, that’s the problem. If only that was all …’
‘Is something else the matter, Major?’ inquired Cedric gently. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, you don’t seem quite yourself. You look a little off colour.’
‘It is just this business with my sister,’ sighed Major Spittlehouse. ‘Lord knows I don’t like making her unhappy even if it is for her own good.’
‘But you said … Never mind. But there is nothing else troubling you?’
‘You are very like your father, my lord,’ the major smiled sadly. ‘You see things that others do not see.’
‘Oh?’ said Cedric, not having been paid this particular compliment before. ‘Well you did say …’
There was a slight pause and then the major said: ‘I admit there is something else troubling me.’ He rose again from his seat, but this time started gathering up his papers and putting them back in to a rather battered and well-worn leather briefcase. ‘But I won’t bore you with it. I shouldn’t have mentioned … It is of a somewhat personal nature. Nothing to do with this Mayhew fellow or my sister, mind. But a matter that I intend to deal with alone. It doesn’t concern anyone else, you see.’
He bid a hasty farewell and made for the door before Cedric had a chance to ring the bell.
‘If my father were here,’ called out Cedric on impulse, ‘would you have confided in him?’
‘You know, my lord, I just might have done.’ The major paused at the door in the act of turning the handle, swung around and chuckled, though there was little mirth in his laughter.
‘I know I am not my father …’ began Cedric, but the major had raised his hand for him to stop what he was saying and he faltered, his unfinished sentence drifting unuttered in the air.
‘It’s very kind of you I am sure, my lord, but as you say, you are not your father. I’m not holding that against you, mind, but you have not a few years of fri
endship on which to base my character and, if you don’t mind my saying, you are too young. You have very little experience of life.’
‘Does that matter so very much?’ cried Cedric, somewhat indignant about the sweeping assumption the major was making regarding his character.
‘Yes, it does. You will judge me too harshly for my sins, you see, my lord. And heaven knows I would rather do anything than burden such a young soul with the secret that I have carried around with me for years.’
‘But –’
‘Good day to you, my lord.’
With that, Major Spittlehouse was gone, leaving the door ajar and Cedric to do nothing but stare after him.
Chapter Nine
‘The major still up with his nibs?’ enquired Masters, wandering aimlessly into the basement kitchen and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. His clothes, his wife noticed with irritation, were creased and crumpled, giving him something of a dishevelled appearance.
‘You’ve had a nap, I see,’ said Mrs Masters with a scornful look, her hands perched on either side of her ample hips. ‘You’d better give those clothes a quick press before the major sees you, and no wonder those eyes of yours are puffy for, unless I’m mistaken, there’s the smell of whisky on your breath, Jack Masters.’
‘Oh, don’t give on so, woman,’ said the manservant, though the abruptness of his words was softened somewhat by being uttered with affection and a twinkle of the eye. ‘At his beck and call night and day, I am, as well you know. If I take a moment to rest my eyes when I get the chance, what of it?’
‘There are them here that have to work their fingers to the bone whether the major is here or not,’ grumbled Mrs Masters. ‘The dinner won’t cook itself.’
‘Well, I’m here now, and no doubt you’ve got a list of things for me to do as long as your arm to keep me busy,’ said her husband, straightening his clothes with the aid of a small piece of mirror attached to the wall on one side of the fireplace. ‘So the major’s still holed up with his lordship, is he?’
‘As far as I know; least he’s not returned,’ said his wife, stirring a sauce vigorously in a saucepan on the stove. Satisfied that there were no lumps, and that the liquid would not burn or spoil, she turned around and stared at him. ‘Well, Jack Masters, while you were busy sleeping in the land of Nod, we had a visitor.’
‘Oh?’ A look of anxiety passed across her husband’s face. ‘I didn’t hear the doorbell.’ A sudden thought struck him. ‘Don’t tell me you opened the door, not dressed in your pinny?’ He stared with distaste at the garment in question, uncomfortably aware that it was liberally decorated with a smattering of flour.
‘Course I didn’t,’ said his wife. ‘Do you think I’d have left you sleeping in your bed when there was someone at the door? No, I’d have thrown a jug of water over you if need be.’ She came a step or two towards him, lowering her voice as she did so. ‘When I said a visitor, I meant as how it was a secret one, one who didn’t want to be seen.’
‘You’re not saying there’s been another one of those damned letters?’ demanded her husband.
Mrs Masters nodded. ‘Found it in the passage I did, same as last time. I’ve propped it there on the mantelpiece, behind the candlestick. You can take it in to the major when he gets back.’
‘If it’s what I think it is, I’ve a good mind to throw it on to the fire and be done with it,’ said her husband bitterly.
Mrs Masters gave him a look and hurriedly took the envelope from the mantelpiece, clutching it to her bosom as if she feared for its fate.
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Wouldn’t I?’ said her husband. ‘Mol, you should have seen his face. I’ve been thinking and thinking about that first letter and the more I think about it the more I don’t like it. Something’s not right and I mean to find out what it’s all about.’
‘You’d do better to keep your great nose out of it, Jack,’ admonished his wife, though he noticed that she now held the letter slightly away from her as if she half shared his misgivings. ‘It’s no business of ours what this letter’s about.’
She was holding the envelope by one corner when her husband decided to make his move. With one swift movement, he had torn it from her grasp. Taken unawares, his wife could only utter a surprised exclamation as he ran to the stove. The kettle was boiling merrily, for it had been Mrs Masters’ intention to make a pot of tea. Thrusting a flannel over the handle, the manservant removed it from the stove and held the envelope above the spout.
‘You’re never going to steam that letter open?’ exclaimed Mrs Masters. ‘Jack, how could you? Whatever would the major say if he knew you was reading his private letters?’
‘He’ll never know unless you let on,’ replied her husband rather dismissively. ‘I’ve told you before, there’s something not quite right about all this. And besides, I don’t like the thought of people creeping about the garden, spying on us when our backs are turned.’
‘Don’t,’ cried Mrs Masters with a shudder, as if she felt a sudden chill.
‘There we are,’ said Masters, a note of satisfaction in his voice. ‘It’s come clean away. Wasn’t stuck down proper, if you ask me. Now, let’s see what this letter says, shall we?’
Rather gingerly, he removed the letter from the envelope. It consisted of a single sheet of paper folded in half. He threw a quick glance at the door, as if he feared the major might appear in the doorway and catch him in the act of reading his personal correspondence. This was highly unlikely as the major seldom ventured to the basement, which he considered to be his servants’ domain. Reassuring himself that the major was not standing there, Masters unfolded the paper, surprised to find that he was trembling slightly in anticipation of its contents.
Initially he felt a stab of disappointment, for the letter was very brief, one sentence at the most. He read the words and at first they made no sense at all; he could not understand their meaning. It was almost as if he were a child again, learning to read. One word above all others seemed to jump out at him. Yet he could hardly comprehend it, for it was too ludicrous for such a word to be written in a letter to the major. He stared at the letter stupidly, reading the sentence to himself again and again under his breath, his eyes growing larger with every recital until the meaning became clear.
‘What is it?’ cried his wife. ‘What does it say?’
For all her admonishment, she had been studying her husband’s face closely, trying to ascertain the contents of the letter from his reaction to reading it. With something akin to alarm, she had witnessed his mouth fall open and the colour disappear from his cheeks.
‘Nothing,’ said her husband abruptly, screwing up the letter in his hand so that it resembled only a scrunched up ball. ‘Nothing at all.’ And with that he flung it into the fire. He did not glance at his wife even briefly. Instead, he turned on his heel and left the room. Mrs Masters was left standing open mouthed, staring at her husband’s retreating back. When the door slammed to behind him, she allowed her eyes to drift back to the fire and watched with fascination as the flames licked and curled around the letter, blackening its edges and shrivelling it up until it matched her husband’s words and became nothing at all.
Daphne Spittlehouse stared in to the middle distance. A book lay open on the table in front of her, yet she had barely glanced at it; certainly she did not recollect having turned a page. If someone had cared to ask her, she would not have been able to say how long she had been sitting in that same position. With a start, however, she was returned sharply to the present by the sound of a rubber date stamp in use, its noise magnified in the quietness of the otherwise silent room. She looked up sharply and met the curious gaze of Miss Warren, who was at that very moment administering the date stamp, recording the date of return in a book being withdrawn by a youth.
The major’s sister was sitting in a small branch library in Bichester, a purpose-built structure of fairly modest proportions, consisting of one large room, one half of which
had been given over to a reading room of sorts, and the other dedicated to the main library. The latter consisted of row upon row of books on a multitude of subjects, with apparently little thought given to subject matter, for books on history rubbed shoulders quite happily with romantic novels and books on medicine, much to the chagrin of Miss Warren, the new librarian, who was trying desperately to instigate a proper system. On her arrival it had become patently clear that the previous incumbent had returned the books willy-nilly to the shelves as the mood had taken her, and she had wondered how anyone had managed to find the book they were seeking or, perhaps more surprisingly, why there had been so few complaints. Miss Warren was resolved to rectify the position, though it was a mammoth task.
Daphne put her hand up to the bridge of her nose to shield her face from the librarian’s inquisitive gaze. She wished the library did not boast a central issue desk, for it enabled Miss Warren to survey every part of her kingdom and, unlike her predecessor, to enforce a rigid silence, so that every sigh or rustle of paper was amplified, and could be quashed with one reproving glare.
She had come in to the library to sit and contemplate as she so often did. She could not think at Green Gables, for she found the house stifling with her brother’s presence and her thoughts there became muddled. Few of her acquaintance visited the branch library, so there was little fear of being interrupted or disturbed. It was here, hidden and obscured among predominantly the working classes, that she could surrender to her daydreams, could imagine the life she would have with Archie, stretching out long and inviting before her; a happy existence, populated by laughter and children. Linus did not, of course, feature in this fantasy. She doubted whether her brother would be anything more than a memory best forgotten.
Murder on Bonfire Night Page 8
