The Lovegrove Hermit

by Rosemary Craddock

  In the drawing-room the atmosphere was no better. When the gentlemen joined us I saw Louisa Thorpe pointedly draw aside her skirts to indicate to George that he was to sit beside her on the sofa. Instead he sat down by me.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘I thought you enjoyed Mrs Thorpe’s company.’

  ‘Not any more,’ he muttered. ‘I was never so deceived about anyone in my life.’

  ‘I tried to warn you,’ I said softly, ‘but you wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘I wish I had. You always had plenty of good sense, Charlotte.’

  ‘But what has happened to make you change your mind?’

  ‘I can’t tell you – at least not yet. But that woman is utterly depraved. She disgusts me. I can hardly bear to be in the same room with her. We must go home as soon as possible.’

  Although I was glad to hear it, I knew I would not leave Lovegrove without a pang of regret.

  ‘George,’ I said, ‘would you mind greatly if Elinor came home with us? Sophie is quite happy to have her company for a few weeks.’

  ‘Elinor?’ He sounded as though he was trying to remember who she was. ‘A quiet, plain girl. No, she’d be no bother. Whatever you please. Better ask her father. Don’t suppose her stepmother cares what happens to her.’

  ‘That was the impression I got. Elinor had a dreadful shock this morning and needs a change of scene. These are not the best surroundings for a sensitive girl.’

  ‘Indeed they are not. I’ll be glad to get Sophie away. I’m never going to bring her here again – at least, not while that woman is visiting.’

  I was about to get up in order to ask Sir Ralph’s permission to invite Elinor to Fairfield when George caught me by the arm and pulled me back down again.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ he hissed. ‘If you move from here that woman will take your place – she keeps trying to catch my eye, confound her.’

  ‘So she obviously doesn’t know why you have changed your mind about her. Did you see or hear something?’

  ‘Yes – I’ll tell you later. You ought to know, though it’s scarcely fit for a lady’s ears.’

  I was extremely intrigued and began to make wild conjectures but George had obviously witnessed some incident that he could tell me about only in absolute privacy.

  Towards nine o’clock Rowland arrived, still in riding clothes. He said he had already dined at the Unicorn.

  ‘It’s all over the town, you know – all sorts of mad rumours flying about.’

  ‘What sort of rumours?’ enquired Lady Denby.

  ‘Oh – Sir Ralph shot the hermit thinking he was a poacher; the hermit got shot when he tried to intervene in a duel – I can’t imagine who they thought had been fighting one – and most idiotic of all, he’d been shot by a jealous mistress.’

  ‘I hope you did your best to counteract such pernicious nonsense,’ said his mother.

  ‘They’ll find out soon enough when the results of the inquest are published.’

  The inquest was a disagreeable experience which I did my best to forget afterwards, so my recollections remained hazy. It was held in the Assembly Room at the Unicorn, which was not used in summer and had a stale and shabby atmosphere. I was aware from the first of an antagonism between the coroner and Colonel Hartley. It was decidedly one-sided but I could not help wondering if the former – a fussy, pedantic, self-important attorney – might be jealous of the local military hero with his air of quiet authority and his clear, concise manner of speaking. Coroner Bailey was, after all, no more than a provincial lawyer with a limited knowledge of the greater world. He was quick to dismiss the Colonel’s opinions as prejudiced because he had been a friend of the deceased.

  Colonel Hartley gave evidence of the hermit’s true identify, emphasizing his brave conduct in the army and explaining that ‘some unfortunate experiences in Spain’ had induced him to give up his military career and pursue a humble civilian life under another name, eventually withdrawing from the world in his role as hermit at Lovegrove. He said he had communicated news of James Rushworth’s death to his closest relative, an uncle who owned a considerable property in Devonshire.

  He then produced our sketch, pointing out how awkward it would have been for a right-handed man to shoot himself in such a fashion but the coroner gave it only a cursory glance. ‘You showed me this before – it proves nothing.’

  The Colonel had to concede, when questioned, that the dead man had been of a melancholy disposition though he qualified that by saying he had been more tranquil of late. Then, when pressed further, he was forced to admit that James Rushworth had told him of a previous attempt at shooting himself.

  The fact that the eventual deed had been carried out by the left hand rather than the right, and in a different manner from that originally attempted, was dismissed as of no importance. Colonel Hartley could have been mistaken; he could not prove the man was right-handed and some people can use the left hand as easily as the right.

  I was obliged to give evidence as I had discovered the body. Elinor had been passed over as unfit to appear and unable to describe what she saw as she only caught the merest glimpse of the tragic scene.

  I was asked if I knew the deceased and I stated that I had had two short conversations with him, the latter of which was on the evening before his death. I pointed out that he had seemed quite cheerful on that occasion and was looking forward to a bottle of wine with his supper – a gift of unknown origin, it appeared later.

  This seemed to make no impression at all. The local tradesmen on the jury looked glum and restless and were obviously eager to get back to their daily occupations.

  ‘Why would anyone wish to shoot this man when no one even knew his identity?’ demanded the coroner, who rapidly guided the jury towards the conclusion he desired. They wasted no time in bringing in a verdict of suicide.

  The funeral followed, which of course could not be a religious one, nor could the hermit be buried in consecrated ground. Colonel Hartley paid for an expensive coffin and planned to remove the deceased to his own estate and bury him in the grounds but Lady Denby objected strongly.

  ‘He is my hermit; this is where he lived; this is where he died and this is where he should be buried.’

  She then suggested an idea that was so appropriate that everyone, even the Colonel, agreed that it was the best course to follow.

  ‘The nave of the old priory church has a crypt beneath. If the poor man was buried there he would be in consecrated ground.’

  Some of the flagstones in the nave were duly removed so that the coffin could be lowered into the dank underground chamber. Lady Denby ignored the tradition that ladies do not attend funerals by declaring that this was not a real funeral as no clergy were present and the Prayer Book could not be used. She decided that there ought to be some sort of ceremony, which she interpreted as a flowery oration composed by herself, accompanied by a scattering of rose petals flung with a dramatic gesture into the open grave.

  Colonel Hartley stood at a distance, head bowed. I took up a position in the shadow of an archway, making myself as inconspicuous as possible. As I was the last person – with the exception of the murderer – to see the hermit alive and one of the first to find him dead I thought I should be there. At the back of my mind was a stronger feeling that I wished to support Colonel Hartley.

  Lady Denby led Sir Ralph and the other men of the party back to the house but the Colonel stayed behind. He approached the grave and watched as two of the gardeners replaced the flagstones. Waiting until he was alone, apart from Sam Bates, who stood at a discreet distance, I slipped out of the shadows and went to his side. He looked surprised but then smiled.

  ‘Thank goodness it’s you,’ he said, ‘and not Lady Denby with her histrionics.’

  ‘It would have been funny if it wasn’t so desperately sad.’

  ‘He deserved better. I’m determined to find out who killed him and bring the guilty one to justice. That’s why I insisted on paying for a good coff
in. One day he’ll be removed to a proper grave in a churchyard and have a real funeral.’ He brought out of his pocket a worn and tattered copy of the Book of Common Prayer.

  ‘Chaplains were often in short supply when we were campaigning. It was sometimes my duty to read part of the burial service over the graves of some poor fellows. I thought I’d do that now, if you’d like to stay.’

  I think it was one of the most moving experiences of my life. When he had finished I could not speak.

  ‘There is no more to be done,’ he said, putting his book away. ‘I must go.’ He turned to me, saw my distress and put his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  I nodded, longing for him to put his arm round me but he let me go.

  ‘I’ll walk with you back to the house,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no need – I can see someone who may need my company,’ I said, my voice unsteady. I had observed a small, huddled figure sitting with her back to the wall and her knees drawn up like a statue of grief on a monument.

  ‘Ah, Miss Denby, poor girl! Yes, you must go to her. I will see you again soon, I hope, before you go home. Goodbye.’

  His last words struck a chill but I had more immediate concerns. I was about to ask Elinor what she was doing there and then realized it was a foolish question. She was red-eyed with weeping.

  ‘You’ll think I do nothing but cry,’ she gulped, ‘but I had to be here. My stepmother made a fool of herself as usual but Colonel Hartley – he did exactly the right thing. It meant more than a church funeral. It’s what my friend would have wanted.’

  ‘Of course, you know now who he was.’ It occurred to me that the little she had heard of Rushworth’s background would give him an additional air of romance and gallantry.

  ‘Yes, and I mean to find out more. I’m ready to go back now. Do you mind if I walk with you?’

  That evening Elinor appeared at dinner for the first time since before the shooting.

  ‘Well, look who’s here!’ cried Rowland. ‘The return of the prodigal.’

  ‘I haven’t been wasting my substance in riotous living,’ she retorted waspishly, ‘unlike some I could mention. And I don’t like veal.’

  ‘Veal?’ Rowland looked bewildered.

  ‘Fatted calf,’ I murmured.

  ‘Oh that! No, I suppose weak gruel is more in your line.’

  ‘Take it easy, Rowland,’ Sir Ralph admonished him, ‘the poor girl’s had a bad time.’

  ‘More than you can imagine,’ said Rowland.

  ‘What does that mean?’ demanded Lady Denby.

  ‘Oh, nothing in particular. I thought she was making heavy weather of the whole thing. Anyone would think she was a sorrowing widow instead of just having a shock at discovering a suicide.’

  That was a little too near the truth to be comfortable and the remark was not lost on Elinor, but no one else seemed to take it for more than its face value.

  ‘What she experienced was quite bad enough,’ said Sir Ralph, ‘especially for a girl with delicate nerves.’

  ‘She has nerves!’ cried Lady Denby. ‘What about my nerves, pray? I haven’t been able to write a word since this dreadful thing happened. If you have any sense, Elinor, you will return to everyday life and keep yourself occupied. You haven’t touched the piano for days. You must play for us this evening. You really are quite a competent pianist and you must keep in practice or you will lose your ability.’

  Elinor did indeed play for us that evening but not before I heard a brief exchange in undertones between Rowland and her.

  ‘You go too far,’ she hissed. ‘Take care what you say or you’ll regret it.’

  ‘So would you!’

  ‘Would I? I don’t really care any more and I’m leaving here soon anyway.’

  Rowland looked decidedly uneasy.

  ‘D’you think she’ll be fit to travel if we leave the day after tomorrow?’ whispered George, who as usual, now, was sitting beside me on the sofa. I still had no idea why he had broken off with Mrs Thorpe. On the only occasion I had been able to speak to him alone he said he didn’t wish to talk about it as the subject was too painful, and he was having second thoughts about telling me something so disgusting. Naturally I was even more curious.

  ‘I’m sure Elinor is longing to escape from here,’ I said. ‘Sophie wants to go home and I know you are desperate to get away.’

  ‘So are you, I’m sure.’

  I did not answer. True, I longed to leave Lovegrove and its unattractive residents but there was one person I feared I might never see again. George noticed my reluctance.

  ‘Don’t tell me you like it here? It was all very fine at first but things have not turned out well and there is no longer anything to keep us.’

  ‘True,’ I said, ‘we really must go.’

  Elinor had been playing some rather slow, melancholy piece. It sounded like something from a requiem mass.

  ‘Oh, do play something more cheerful, Elinor,’ cried Lady Denby, interrupting her performance. ‘That’s far too gloomy. You are making us all depressed – yourself included. Find something light and cheerful to entertain us.’

  ‘You’ll find some of my French songs there,’ suggested Louisa Thorpe, ‘and if you play one or two of those and I sing, I guarantee I can lift everyone’s spirits.’

  In response Elinor slammed the piano shut and ran from the room.

  ‘Well, really!’ exclaimed Lady Denby. ‘What can have provoked that outburst?’

  ‘That girl has a temper – it needs dealing with,’ observed Mrs Thorpe.

  ‘Double double, toil and trouble,’ muttered George. ‘What a pair of witches! I feel sorry for that poor girl. She’ll be better off with us.’

  But matters took an unexpected turn. Next morning Elinor was missing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was Elinor’s maid who reported that her mistress was not in her room when she went to wake her in the morning. As her bed had been slept in, it was concluded that she had gone out very early. She had not taken anything with her in the way of luggage but, judging from clothes that were missing, had just put on a dress, bonnet, and shawl as she would for any day’s outing.

  ‘No, the young lady wasn’t carrying anything,’ said one of the gardeners who had seen her leave, ‘only one of those little reticule things. I thought it was strange as it was early so I went over and asked if there was anything I could help her with. “No, thank you,” she said, “I’m just going out for a few hours!”’

  A similar report was given by the lodge-keeper who found the bell being rung at half past six by Miss Denby wanting the gate opened. He had also found it odd that the young lady was going out on her own at such an hour but ‘the gentry sometimes did eccentric things.’

  ‘Idiots!’ cried Lady Denby. ‘Why didn’t they stop her or at least come straight to us and tell us?’

  The house was soon in uproar. Sir Ralph sent two menservants out to look for his errant daughter and then, on a hint that she had started to walk to Ashdale and had then been picked up by the carrier’s cart, he drove out in the same direction in the gig.

  All was to no avail. On reaching the town Elinor seemed to have vanished. It was market day and the streets were crowded. She was a small, inconspicuous figure, plainly dressed, and no one remembered having seen her. I might perhaps have provided a sketch but Sir Ralph took off in a great hurry despite his wife’s assurances that Elinor would be perfectly all right and if she wasn’t she would have brought it on herself. Sir Ralph, however, was haunted by all the imagined horrors that could befall an innocent girl in an English country town on market day.

  I was anxious about Elinor but not greatly perturbed. I was more concerned about her state of mind than about the possibilities of abduction, assault and murder. Several more servants were despatched after Sir Ralph to help him in his search and the house was left in chaos. The family and guests were dispersed, most of them trying to avoid Lady Denby. Luncheon consiste
d of a cold collation set out in the dining room for everyone to help himself. It was then I saw George.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I asked. ‘I’ve looked everywhere for you. What are we to do about leaving tomorrow if Elinor has disappeared? We can’t very well go without her.’

  ‘I know,’ he said gloomily, ‘I’ve sent someone into Ashdale to cancel the post-chaise. I sometimes think we are doomed to stay on here.’

  ‘Doomed?’ cried a throaty female voice. ‘Oh come, Mr Tyler, surely it isn’t as bad as that.’

  He scarcely suppressed a groan.

  ‘Anyone would think you’ve been avoiding me,’ she continued, tapping him playfully on the shoulder with her fan. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to escape from me!’

  She sat down beside him and at once he pushed his plate away, excused himself and left the room.

  ‘Whatever is the matter with your brother?’ she asked me. ‘He’s been trying to avoid me for the last few days. I don’t know what I’ve said or done to upset him.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ I told her. ‘Whatever it is, he hasn’t confided in me.’

  ‘So there is something. I thought so! I must have a word with him privately.’

  ‘Are you sure that would be wise? George can be very stubborn at times. Once he has made up his mind nothing can make him budge.’

  ‘I can but try. I can usually cajole any man out of a fit of the sulks and I’m sure that’s all it is. But are you all determined on leaving tomorrow?’

  ‘That is certainly what we planned but Elinor’s disappearance has made our arrangements very uncertain. We have postponed our departure.’

  She seemed delighted. ‘Oh, I am so glad. This house will seem so lifeless without you all, especially since this disagreeable business of the suicide – to say nothing of that silly girl’s behaviour. What can she be thinking of?’

  ‘She is very unhappy.’

  ‘Really? I can’t think why; a lovely ancient house to live in, a rich indulgent father, a literary genius for a stepmother – what more could she possibly want?’