by May Burnett
Was there a way to preserve her anonymity? The widow’s weeds and veil were too noticeable, and too elegant. If she were a farmer’s wife, however, or a servant … she still had the red wig. It was of good quality, made of real hair, and had originally served for a Queen Bess costume. That was not a character she could resume here, but how effective a disguise could she achieve with the materials at hand? Finding out was as good a way as any other to pass the time.
Chapter 6
Hendrickson was already in the Common Room when Jonathan came down just before four, after a welcome bath, shave and change of clothes. The investigator had chosen a table in the corner, from whence they could see both doors, and would not easily be overheard. He was dressed modestly, like a small trader or prosperous farmer, and his bulky form looked natural enough among the rough-hewn wooden tables and chairs. There were eight such tables, each big enough to seat ten. The spacious room was nearly empty at this hour.
Jonathan ordered a simple meal and ale, and looked expectantly at the investigator, who was carefully scrutinizing his features in turn. “I’m trying to make out a resemblance, Sir, now that I’ve seen two of the ladies close up,“ Hendrickson said, “but I still cannot tell for sure. You have brown hair, and so has Mrs. Prudence, although a lighter shade. Your eyes are blue, like Miss Patience, but then her hair is blond.”
“We haven’t any blondes in the family,” Jonathan said, “but I don’t have many relatives left for a comparison. What about Charity?”
“I cannot say from personal observation, as I only saw her veiled, and in the dark. For all I know it may have been an entirely different woman. But several people have told me that her hair was a dark brown, not unlike yours, Sir.”
“So on the basis of appearance, Prudence and Charity would be the front-runners.”
“But then there’s also size and general conformation. Miss Patience is easily the tallest, almost your own size, and slim like yourself. Mrs. Prudence is a head shorter and has, well, rather generous curves. I am told that Miss Charity was in between the other two in size and form.”
“That is no help at all,” Jonathan said, “my sister Emily is also shorter than I, and somewhat well-padded.”
The barmaid put their ales on the table, and by common accord they fell silent. She was a buxom blonde, unlike any of the ladies they were discussing, and winked at Jonathan as she left.
“To sum up, neither of the two looks particularly like you, Sir. Let us hope you may discern a resemblance to your other sister, whom I do not have the honour of knowing, or to your late parents.”
“What have you found out since your last report?”
“The heirs of Lobbock Manor, the property I described to you, Sir, are so eager to sell that I expect you could further depress the price quite easily. Had I the money, I would take advantage of them myself. The place belonged to a Sir Jasper Lobbock, a widower without children. He left it to his three nieces and one nephew, the children of the local Vicar, Dr Selbington. The vicar’s first wife was Lobbock’s younger sister.
“Are they still minors? A trustee should not sell at such a low price as you are suggesting.”
“No, they are all in their twenties, although Dr Selbington and his second wife have five younger children as well. The oldest son, Paul Selbington, conducts negotiations on behalf of all four heirs. He is a scholar and maintains himself by tutoring well-born boys for university. That does not pay nearly enough to buy out his sisters, who need the money to increase their dowries. I understand they only have two thousand each. Selling Lobbock Manor should more than double the amount and substantially increase their prospects.”
“Hm. They might do better to keep the place and live on the income from the saw mill and hog farm. It has to be an easier living than tutoring lazy boys in Latin and Greek.”
“Whatever their reasons for selling, I have set up an inspection of the property for you tomorrow morning, at nine. Paul Selbington will pick you up here at the inn with a gig.”
Jonathan pursed his lips. That was going ahead rather fast, just as though he were actually going to buy the place. “If I don’t like or buy it, it will look strange to linger. A less urgent appointment might have been better.”
“They want to move ahead with the sale as soon as may be. It was all I could do to prevent them from being here now, by pointing out that travellers are often delayed.”
“Very well; I suppose I can pretend to think it over, though it is not my usual style. Since these Selbingtons are sure to know the Spalding family, I may be able to draw useful information out of the young man tomorrow.”
“Not only do the Selbingtons dine with the Spaldings almost weekly, the house in which Mrs. Charity hides is actually part of the Lobbock estate. It is not two minutes away from this inn, and abuts onto the main estate from a gate in the back garden. A former owner bought it for his mistress and had the gate installed in the wall.”
“So the Selbingtons must know that she’s living there? Will I be able to inspect it also?”
“No, they are not offering the house with the rest of the property. I imagine they want to refurbish it with the money from the sale, it has been empty for six years and is in poor condition.”
Jonathan felt a strong impulse to get up immediately and look at this house with its scandalous past and mysterious denizen.
The maid arrived with a large tray of viands at just that moment, and hunger won out over curiosity. The food was surprisingly tasty. The Red Boar was the kind of unpretentious but solid inn Jonathan had frequented in his student days, and he still felt perfectly comfortable in such surroundings. More comfortable than he would feel in his Mayfair house, even when the crocodile-footed sofas and leering jackal gods had been banished to the attics.
“From your description,” he said presently, ”the Lobbock estate must be right next to this little town? What other estates are there in the neighbourhood?”
“Only four big ones, Lobbock Manor and Spalding Hall, and then about two miles away there is Adlingham, a much larger place belonging to Lord Pell. The Marquess is hardly ever in residence, since it is only one of many estates he owns.”
Lady Amberley’s brother, that would be. Jonathan did not mention that he expected to stay with Lord Pell’s sister in June. “That makes three, what about the last one?”
“That would be Ranebrink, the second largest after Adlingham. It belongs to Lord Minton, a baron, who lives there with his family whenever Parliament is not in session. He is also Justice of the Peace. Lord and Lady Minton are the social leaders of this community, followed by Lobbock, before he died, and the Spaldings at a considerable distance because their fortune derives from the munitions trade.”
Jonathan thought it over. From the sound of it, there were no eligible gentlemen of marriageable age at any of these estates, excepting Lord Pell, who would hardly look to the neighbours of this minor estate when he decided to marry. Could that circumstance explain why Prudence had married young Spalding, and Patience was still single?
“Since you are now here to take matters into your own hands, Sir, I will be leaving in the morning,” Hendrickson said. “I hope you are satisfied with my efforts.”
“I would prefer you to stay on a while longer. I suspect that further investigation may yet be necessary.”
“I wish I had known that earlier,” Hendrickson said regretfully, “I have undertaken another commission in this area, since I knew I was travelling in this direction, which I cannot put off any longer. It should only take me some four days, and afterwards I could be at your service once again.”
“Very well,” Jonathan said, slightly annoyed but trying to hide his reaction, “come back here when you are done, and don’t accept any other commissions, until we know what else may be necessary.”
By the time the meal was concluded, Jonathan itched for a brisk walk. He had been closed up in the coach for much too long.
Hendrickson willingly agreed to show him the ho
use in which Charity was hiding. The place proved to be the last building of a narrow lane, broad and squat, set in a garden with untended bushes and trees, and a lawn that had not been cut in years. The house looked empty, abandoned, with all curtains drawn. It had been painted a golden yellow at one time, but the paint and plaster were crumbling and the roof tiles in urgent need of repair. An ominous dark spot in the foundations told Jonathan that it would make little sense to restore the house. It must be unpleasantly humid inside, and any prolonged stay might lead to consumption. Even if Charity Randolph was not his twin, she should not live in such a ruin.
The only cheerful touch was supplied by swallows nesting under the eaves, their small bodies swiftly shooting through the air. His mother had always said that swallows brought good luck to a house, but at the thought of staying there for even a day, Jonathan had to suppress an involuntary shudder.
“It looks completely uninhabited,” he said to Hendrickson. “Are you sure that the woman is staying here?”
“Can you think of a better hiding place? Look at the entrance, facing sideways, where even the closest neighbours cannot see who is coming and going. Those chestnut trees give additional cover. I only found the place by merest chance, as I was following Mrs. Prudence, wondering where she was going with a woven basket in her hands. The basket was much lighter when she came out again. As far as I know the rest of the town is unaware of Mrs. Randolph’s presence, though of course the Spaldings and some of the Selbingtons have to know.”
“Then how do you know who is staying there? They could be hiding anyone.”
“I eavesdropped on a conversation between Mrs. Prudence and Miss Patience. They referred to the mysterious hideaway as Cherry, which I deduced to be a nickname for Charity. They call each other Prune and Patch, by the way.”
Jonathan had to smile. “Prune, Cherry and Patch? Not what their adoptive parents had in mind at all. But children rarely turn out the way one expects, I daresay.”
Had one of the curtains just moved? Jonathan cast a last lingering look on the desolate windows. Impossible to be sure.
“Further along this lane, Sir, is the main entrance to Lobbock Manor. We can go that way, so you get a feel for the neighbourhood.”
“Very well. Lead on.”
Chapter 7
They returned to the inn. Hendrickson reserved a room for the day of his return, and took his leave of his patron, after pocketing his payment for the time already spent on the case.
Jonathan felt strongly disinclined to return to his room, and decided to walk a while longer. There would be daylight for several hours yet at this season.
Without thinking about it, his feet carried him back to the small house in which Charity Randolph supposedly hid. As before, all was silent and desolate; not even the swallows were visible this time. Feeling like a fool after staring at the house for several minutes, he went on once again towards Lobbock Manor. The estate was enclosed by a man-high wall, crumbling in places. The broad entrance was secured by two bricked pillars and a wrought iron gate, through which a stand of oaks was visible. The house itself must be set further back from the road. Weeds were beginning to encroach on the borders of the drive.
He continued onwards for another twenty minutes along the wall, without finding another gate or hole in it. The landscape on the other side of the lane was pretty enough, paddocks and orchards and some vegetable fields. There were hills visible in the distance. Birds were chirping and bees were collecting pollen; an erratic yellow butterfly approached to sit on his sleeve for a moment. The air was fresh and clean.
Eventually Jonathan reached a point where the wall and the lane parted ways, and he saw only open fields and farms before him. Sheep were grazing and a distant cow lowed in a most bucolic manner. He turned back, deciding to explore the other exit roads of Bellington before turning in for an early night.
Since leaving the outskirts of the town he had not seen a single soul on the lane, although there had been a few workers in the fields and gardens Jonathan had passed. On the way back, however, he met a woman walking slowly in the direction he had been going. A young redhead in a modest white cotton frock, with a white linen bonnet covering the top of her vivid corkscrew curls.
It seemed only polite to stop and greet this lone wanderer. Jonathan doffed his hat and saluted her as he would a lady, though from her attire she was probably the wife of a freehold farmer or artisan.
“Good afternoon, ma’am.”
“Good afternoon, Sir.” She answered readily enough, in a surprisingly cultured voice, yet stared at him intently, as though suspecting him of designs on her person.
He frowned, slightly offended. Jonathan was not accustomed to raising fear and alarm in female breasts. Quite the contrary, according to his mistresses.
And these female breasts, though almost completely covered by the gown and a simple cotton fichu, were something very special. He had rarely seen a woman who put him so immediately in mind of the word ‘beddable’, though he could not for the life of him have pointed to the exact reason. Jonathan had never been especially fond of red hair, though he did not hold it in aversion. The woman’s face and features were unremarkable, but expressive; the nose slightly snub, and the long-lashed eyes a clear hazel. Was it those lush lips, begging for a kiss?
Perhaps she was right to be alarmed, if she knew her strong effect on men; after all, he was a stranger, with nobody else in sight.
“Ma’am, can you tell me where this lane leads? I saw only farms and fields at the other side of this estate.”
“There is a hamlet called Rystead about three miles further on. Few people go there, excepting those who live in the place.”
“Are you going to Rystead yourself, Ma’am? If so, maybe you would accept my escort.” He might as well milk this attractive young woman of any local information he could use.
“No, I was merely taking the air, and about to turn back to Bellington. But I fear we have not been introduced, Sir.”
It amused him that she spoke like a lady, and looked at him challengingly from those remarkable hazel eyes.
“Jonathan Durwent, at your service. I fear there is nobody here who could do the honours.”
“I will overlook in under the circumstances. My own name …” she hesitated for a moment, no doubt wondering if giving her name to as stranger was wise, “is Sophia; Mrs. Sophia Jones.”
Of course a woman this attractive would be long married. “Does your husband, Mr. Jones, also reside in Bellington?”
“Alas,” she said with a sigh, “my poor Tom was impressed by the Navy, and I do not know when I’ll see him again, if ever.”
“My condolences.” So, no husband around. Was she a local strumpet, or if not, available for dalliance? Jonathan felt an involuntary stirring of his body, and sternly reminded himself that he was here for a completely different purpose.
They had been standing, but she now turned back towards the town, and he slowly walked at her side.
“I am new to this place,” he told her, “and would appreciate anything you could tell me about Bellington, its principal families, and commerce.”
“Commerce? There is little enough of that. About halfway to Norwich you can find the munitions works that used to belong to Sir Charles Spalding, but he sold it some years ago to a family in Norwich. Then there is farming, and gardening, four shops, the livery stable, and the inn. I presume you are staying there?”
He acknowledged that this was so.
“Why this interest in our unremarkable town?”
“I am thinking to buy the Lobbock estate, and will be looking at it tomorrow. Any additional information on Bellington will make the decision easier.”
She threw a glance at the wall to their left hand. “It is a big place. I have heard the eldest children of the Vicar own it now. If you buy it, will you live there yourself?”
“It is too early to say,” he evaded her question. “Have you always lived in this area? Your speech belies th
e simple dress you wear.”
“I was born a lady, but am fallen on hard times,” she declared with a dramatic gesture of her beautifully rounded arms. Her hands were bare, and they were indeed a lady’s hands, soft and without calluses. The nails were polished and buffed, and perfectly oval. Those hard times could not yet have had much of an impact.
Her lips, when she spoke, were luscious as fresh raspberries. He had to restrain himself from asking for a taste. “I am sorry to hear it,” he said gravely. “How do you pass the time until your husband is released by the Navy? Do you have children to keep you company in these difficult days?”
“I help my grandmother with her soap-making business,” she said. “And no, to my regret I have no children, nor will have any, till my Tom comes back.”
“How long has he been gone? Or is it indiscreet to ask?”
“Two long years.” She sighed again. “How long do you think the Navy is like to keep him?”
“Longer than two years, I fear. It takes time for a landlubber to become an able seaman, and they hate to lose those.”
She nibbled on her lips. He could not tear his gaze from the sight. Her teeth were white and regular. “Life is hard,” she said.
“If there is anything I can do to make it less hard, or to make the time pass faster –,” Jonathan broke off, appalled at himself. What was he doing? He was not in Bellington to have a fling with a luscious redhead, even if she was more than mortal flesh could resist.
She looked up at him from under her long lashes, frowning enchantingly. Her lashes and brows were almost black, in stark but attractive contrast to the red curls. “Sir, I will pretend that I did not hear what you just said. Remember that we are complete strangers, and have just met.”
“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to insult you, Mrs. Jones.”
“Whatever you may think, I am a respectable woman, Sir.”
