Death at Dawn

by Caro Peacock

  ‘I will not tolerate it, Mr Hall. The servants are under our protection. A word must be said.’

  ‘He won’t take it well.’

  ‘I am almost past caring how he takes it. I had Abigail in tears this morning too. She said Lord Kilkeel swore at her most vilely when he found her in his room. She’d gone in there to clean and make the bed, and he told her nobody was to set foot in there, for any reason, without his express permission. The poor girl was so terrified she’s been quite useless since. And now the other one and Simon. If you won’t speak to him about the two of them, then I shall. And if I lose my position through it, there are others.’

  The butler said yes, he’d speak to him as soon as he had the opportunity. I could see Mrs Quivering didn’t quite believe him, but they parted on civil terms and she went back to her lists.

  Towards the end of the afternoon, I grew tired of having to draw musical staves with Mrs Quivering’s knobble-edged ruler and went up to the schoolroom for a better one. I found Charles and James arguing, Henrietta sulking and Betty so worn out with having to cope with them on her own that it was the least I could do to give her an hour’s relief by taking them for a walk in the grounds. We went out by a side entrance because they were in their plain schoolroom clothes and not fit for being seen by company. With that in mind, I guided them quickly towards the flower garden, for the protection of its high beech hedges.

  ‘Celia? Celia, where are you?’

  Stephen’s voice came from the other side of the hedge. Henrietta stopped. I whispered to her to go on, but she put her eye to the hedge.

  ‘He’s with Mr Brighton,’ she said in a loud whisper.

  I caught Henrietta by the arm and fairly dragged her along a gravel path to the safety of a little ornamental orchard behind the flower garden, with the boys following. It was a pleasant acre of old apple and pear trees with a thatched wooden summerhouse in the middle, too far from the house to be much used by adults. Once we were safely there, I helped Henrietta tuck her skirts up to the knee and encouraged them to play hide and seek. Soon they were absorbed in their game and I sat on the bench in the summerhouse, still uneasy at having come so close to Mr Brighton, even more so in case Kilkeel came to join him.

  ‘Elizabeth.’

  Celia’s whisper, from behind me. I spun round but couldn’t see her until she hissed my name again. One alarmed eye and a swathe of red-gold hair showed in a gap between the planks that made up the back wall of the summerhouse.

  ‘Miss Mandeville, what in the world are you doing there? Your brother’s looking for you.’

  ‘I know. Would you please keep the children here long enough for them to get tired of looking for me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because my stepfather wants me to be pleasant to Mr Brighton.’

  She said the name with such scorn and anger that I half expected it to scorch the planks between us.

  ‘But why should you be …?’

  I was puzzled. She had no reason, as far as I knew, to share my abhorrence of the man.

  ‘Haven’t you understood anything? He’s the reason why Philip must take me away.’

  ‘You mean your stepfather wants you to marry that …’

  ‘Shh. Yes.’

  My voice must have risen in surprise. Luckily, it was masked by Henrietta’s shriek of triumph as she discovered James hiding behind a pear tree.

  ‘My turn to hide. My turn to hide.’

  The boys closed their eyes. Charles started counting.

  ‘One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight …’

  ‘I’ve been trying to keep away from him all afternoon,’ Celia whispered. ‘He must surely get tired soon.’

  ‘Eighty-seven, seventy-nine …’

  ‘You’re not counting properly,’ Henrietta protested.

  She was plunging round among the trees, looking for a hiding place. Then she changed direction and came running towards the summerhouse.

  ‘No, don’t let her,’ Celia hissed through the planks.

  I stood up, but too late to intercept Henrietta as she ran behind the summerhouse.

  ‘I’ve found Celia. I’ve found Celia.’

  ‘Go away you little pest.’

  But Henrietta’s voice must have carried over the hedges. Stephen called from some way off in the flower garden, ‘Celia?’ Two pairs of footsteps sounded on the gravel path, one quick, one slow and heavy.

  ‘Go to them,’ Celia said to me. From her voice, she was near to tears. ‘Tell them she’s lying and I’m not here.’

  By then I was in a fair panic myself.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Mr Brighton saw me at the stables dressed as a boy. Supposing he guesses?’

  A gasp from behind the planks, then silence apart from Henrietta’s capering steps on the grass. Stephen appeared at the gap in the hedge. I sat down again, curling into the darkest corner of the summerhouse. As he came striding in our direction I stayed where I was, determined that Celia must solve her own problem for once.

  ‘Celia, are you there?’ he called.

  Celia came out from behind the summerhouse looking far cooler than I’d expected, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear.

  ‘You’re too hot, Henrietta. You’ll make yourself ill.’

  Her voice was cool too, but she threw me a glance of pure terror. As far as I could tell, Stephen hadn’t noticed me in the summerhouse.

  ‘Celia, where have you been? We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

  ‘Here, with the children,’ Celia said. ‘But Henrietta’s made herself over-excited running about. I’m taking her back to the house to lie down.’

  ‘Can’t Betty or Miss Lock see to them?’ Stephen protested.

  But Celia took a firm grip of her half-sister’s hand and began walking towards the hedge. She was almost there when Mr Brighton arrived, flushed of face but gorgeously dressed in pale green cut-away coat with green-and-pink striped waistcoat. He stood staring at Celia like an actor unsure of his cue. Anything less like an ardent suitor I’d never seen.

  ‘Charles, James, come here,’ Celia said, ignoring him entirely.

  She collected the boys and shepherded the three children straight past Mr Brighton as if he were no more than another apple tree. When they’d disappeared, he prodded his walking cane into the grass a few times with a vacant look, then his hand went to the pocket in his coat-tail, the gold box came out and his little finger carefully applied pink balm to his full lower lip. He seemed lost. Stephen had to escort him away in the end, much as Celia had done with the children.

  I stayed in the summerhouse, surprised by her resourcefulness and weak with relief at not having come face to face with Mr Brighton. Something about him was nagging at my mind – something apart from what had happened in the stables. When I saw the vacant expression on his face, a kind of half-recognition had come to me, as if I’d seen that look before a long time ago, though where and when I couldn’t say. I remained there for some time. It was cool and restful and I was in no hurry to return to all the complications inside the house. I think I must have fallen into a half doze, because I didn’t hear the footsteps coming back on the gravel path until they were almost at the hedge. They were male steps, but rather uncertain, as if the person didn’t know what he’d find on the other side. I hoped it was simply a guest taking a stroll and started to stand up, intending to say a polite good afternoon and leave. But it wasn’t a guest. Stephen Mandeville was standing in front of me.

  ‘Miss Lock, I was hoping you’d still be here. No, please, sit down.’

  So he’d seen me after all. He seemed weary, dark hair disordered, shadows under his eyes. There was nothing for it but to sit down again. He settled himself on the far side of the bench, with a respectable distance between us. I waited, heart thumping. It was in my mind that Mr Brighton might have told him about seeing me at the stables.

  ‘I’m very glad to find you on good terms with my sister,’ he
said. ‘I was right to think she’d find you sympathetic.’

  His voice was low and gentle, no hint of accusation in it.

  ‘Miss Mandeville is very kind. I fear I’m not as much help as I should like to be with her sketching.’

  I looked down at our feet – his polished brown boots, my serviceable black – just as a governess should. In fact, I was feeling too guilty to meet his eyes. Here he was, showing concern for a sister, just as I’d hope Tom would do for me, and I was helping her deceive him.

  ‘My sister knows no more about sketching than my spaniel does, and cares even less.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m not blaming you in any way, Miss Lock. I suggested you should make a friend of Celia, after all. But we’ve always been close and I sense sometimes when things are not well with her. Have you a brother, Miss Lock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I looked up at him and away again.

  ‘You’ll understand what I mean, then. I hope I’m wrong, but I sense Celia may be contemplating a step that might be very harmful for her.’

  ‘Harmful?’

  ‘A young woman’s reputation is easily harmed. My sister is the most warm-hearted girl in the world but, to be frank, without much forethought.’

  ‘Then I’ll be frank as well,’ I said. I looked him in the eyes now, not even trying to talk like a governess but doing my best for both of them. ‘The most important decision a woman makes is who she’ll marry. Shouldn’t she follow her own wishes?’

  ‘It’s not always as simple as that, is it, Miss Lock? Especially when families of some note are involved.’

  I was on the point of replying sharply that note or no note, it made no difference to the heart. What silenced me was the thought that he might be thinking of his own mother who had married once for love and once for money. He let the silence draw out for a while.

  ‘I’m not asking you to betray a confidence, Miss Lock. I can only hope if you knew that Celia were on the point of doing something really unwise, you’d give a hint to me. In that case, I might be able to convince her to draw back before things went too far and came to other ears.’

  The meaning was plain – Sir Herbert’s ears.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You’ll keep that in mind, Miss Lock?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I shall.’

  He stood up, gave me a brief nod as if something important had been agreed and walked away through the gap in the hedge.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I waited in the summerhouse until I thought family and guests would be dressing for dinner, then slipped in at the side entrance and returned to my copying. Near midnight, Mrs Quivering found me there and insisted I must go to bed. Crotchets and quavers danced behind my eyes all night and by six o’clock in the morning I was back at work. Mrs Quivering rewarded me with a cup of chocolate and warm sweet rolls for breakfast.

  ‘Just like Lady Mandeville has. Shall we be ready in time? The musicians are supposed to be arriving by midday.’

  Soon after midday, she put her head round the door.

  ‘They’ve arrived and they’re eating. Then they want to start rehearsing in the damask drawing room.’

  ‘I’m just finishing. I’ll take them in.’

  There was still a page of the second trumpet part to do, but in my experience, musicians were not readily torn away from free food. I finished the page, blotted it and carried the whole pile of parts to the damask drawing room. It was one of the largest and most pleasant rooms in the house, with wide windows looking on to the terrace, white-painted wall panels, blue damask curtains and upholstery and a beautiful plaster ceiling with a design of musical instruments and swags of olive leaves against a pale blue background. When I arrived servants were putting out rows of chairs on the blue-and-gold carpet and the musicians were trickling in with music stands and cases. I asked a flautist where I might find their director.

  ‘Just coming in, ma’am.’

  A dapper little figure came through the doorway, dark hair shining in the sun like a cap of patent leather.

  ‘Mr Suter,’ the flautist started saying, ‘there’s a lady –’

  But he got no further because Daniel Suter and I were embracing like long-lost sister and brother and my carefully copied parts had gone flying all over the carpet. Indecorous, certainly, and goodness knows what Mrs Quivering would have said, but he had been part of my life as long as I could remember and dearer to me than almost all of my relatives by blood.

  ‘What a miracle,’ I said, when I got my breath back. ‘What a coincidence.’

  ‘Miraculous I may be, child, but I disdain mere coincidence. Kennedy gave me your message two days ago. I’d been in France until then.’

  ‘But how did you manage to be here with the orchestra?’

  ‘An acquaintance of mine had accepted, but was more than happy to pass on the honour when I helped him to three days of more congenial work.’ Then his smile faded. ‘Forgive me child, running on like this. Your father …’

  ‘I want so much to talk to you.’

  ‘And I to you, child. But what are you doing here?’

  I knelt down and began gathering the scattered parts.

  ‘I’m the governess.’

  ‘Why in the world?’

  ‘I can’t tell you now. May we meet later?’

  ‘Later, when I’ve come all this way to find you? Not at all.’

  ‘But your rehearsal …’

  I handed him the score. He looked through the first few pages, eyebrows raised. They were fine, expressive eyebrows. Some people joked that he could direct an orchestra with them alone. They came together as his forehead pinched in artistic pain, rose again in amusement as he flipped to the last few pages.

  ‘Ah, child, the sacrifice I have made for you.’ He called out a name and tossed the score across the room to one of the other musicians, who caught it neatly. ‘Take them through it,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll encounter anything you haven’t met a hundred times before. Sir Herbert informs me that he has no liking for pianissimo – or indeed any other fancy foreign issimo – so kindly keep that in mind.’

  The other musician smiled, clearly used to Daniel. He took the rest of the parts from me and dumped them on the pianoforte.

  ‘Now, my dear lady, let us wander in the garden.’

  ‘People might see us.’

  ‘Am I such a disgrace?’

  ‘Guests, I mean. Governesses do not mix with them.’

  ‘Judging from what I’ve seen and heard of Sir Herbert, you may be wise in scorning his guests.’

  ‘Please be serious. I should be dismissed if I were seen walking with you.’

  ‘Where is the spirit of Figaro? But very well, we shall hide ourselves among the vegetables.’

  ‘Vegetables?’

  ‘There must surely be an honest vegetable garden where guests don’t go.’

  Half a dozen gardeners were at work behind the warm brick walls when we got there, but they hardly looked up from their hoeing. We walked along gravel paths between borders of parsley, oregano and marjoram, alive with butterflies. Daniel Suter offered me his arm in a kind of courtly parody of a lady and gentleman strolling, but it was a good firm arm, and I was glad to keep hold of it.

  ‘My dear, why did you run away? All of your father’s friends will help you. There was no need for this servitude.’

  ‘I want to know who killed my father.’

  ‘What have they told you?’

  ‘They? Nobody’s told me anything, except one man, and I don’t know how far to believe him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A man who calls himself Mr Blackstone.’

  I felt his arm go tense under mine. We’d come to the end of our path, facing the wall, and had to choose right or left. There were beans growing on strings up the wall, their red and white flowers just opening and fat furry bees blundering round them. Daniel stood, apparently staring at the bees, but I guessed he was not seeing them. />
  ‘So what do you know?’ I asked him.

  ‘Child, please leave it be. I’d give my own life, if I could, to bring your father back to you. But since I can’t …’

  ‘Since you can’t, at least do this for him. You know very well he wasn’t killed in a duel, don’t you?’

  He gave the faintest of nods, slight as the movement of a bean leaf under the weight of a bee.

  ‘What else do you know?’ I said.

  ‘Very little. I’m sorry to say he’d been dead two weeks before I even heard about it. A few days after he left Paris, I went to Lyon. Somebody wrote to me there …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A friend.’ He mentioned a name that meant nothing to me. ‘He said he’d been shot, no more.’

  We started walking again, turning left between beds of lettuces and chicory. I told him everything that had happened to me, from the time I left my aunt’s house. When I came to how I was almost carried off by Lord Kilkeel and Mr Trumper, he said, ‘Damn them!’ so loudly that a couple of gardeners raised their heads from weeding.

  ‘You know them?’

  ‘The man Trumper, I think, yes. But go on.’

  It took us three complete tours of the garden. Several times he stopped and looked at me as if he couldn’t believe what I was saying, then shook his head and walked on. I stopped before I came to Mr Brighton’s arrival and the incident in the loosebox. I couldn’t quite bring myself to talk about that.

  ‘So Blackstone sent you here?’ he said at the end.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He had no right.’

  ‘He had my father’s ring.’

  I brought it out, untied the ribbon and put it into his hand. He held it for a while, then gave it back to me.

  ‘Blackstone gave you this? How did he get it?’

  ‘He said he bought it from the people in the morgue. He wanted to keep it, but I took it from him. He wears a ring like it. Who is he? Did he have some kind of power over my father?’

  ‘No.’ He sounded angry, then, more gently, ‘He had no kind of power over your father. But Blackstone is a man involved in many wild schemes, always has been. I think your father may unwittingly have been caught up in one of them.’