She gave a short, sharp laugh. “I am not afraid of that,” she said, and I believed her. The young are never afraid of the right things. That is the failing of youth.
“I am sorry to have missed your governess. I had hoped to speak with her.”
Primrose flapped a hand. “I am not. I would far rather pose for Mama than learn sums or improve my conversational French. I am sorry she is unwell, though. I do not like tummy troubles,” she added, looking for a moment like the child she almost was.
“Tummy? I thought she was abed with a headache.”
“No,” Primrose said, wrinkling her brow. “I am quite certain she said she wanted nothing to eat because she could not keep anything down.”
I pondered this. “Ah, well, perhaps I misunderstood Lalita. I will bid you farewell then. Thank you, Cassandra, for showing me the photograph. It is exceptional.”
Cassandra, who had got engrossed in her work merely waved at me, and Primrose went to lounge upon the sofa in the studio, taking up a French novel the likes of which I was quite certain Miss Thorne would not approve.
I left the studio, and was quite happy to find that no one was about. I glanced up and down the corridors, but I was entirely alone, and I lifted my skirts into my hands and hastened up the stairs. I passed the second floor, certain the governess would not be permitted rooms with the family, and did not stop until I had reached the top floor. I surveyed the long corridor and found that all the doors stood open save one. I crept near, pressing my ear to the door. I listened, but the only sound I heard was the beating of the blood in my ears.
Just as I was about to knock, the door was jerked open and I fell inside the room. Miss Thorne stood over me, dressed in a wrapper and wearing a sober expression. She reached down and offered me a hand which I took gratefully.
“I am sorry to disturb you whilst you are unwell,” I began, but even as I said the words I realised she was not unwell, or at least not physically. There was a tautness to her that I had not seen before, a brittleness to her usually graceful movements.
She gave me the only chair and perched herself upon the edge of the narrow bed. It was a symptom of her distress that she spoke first. The Miss Thorne of old would have waited serenely for me to begin the conversation.
“Why have you come, my lady?”
I paid her the compliment of the truth. “I know Harry Cavendish hopes to make you his wife, and I know you have refused him.”
With this, she burst into tears and I went to sit beside her, offering her my handkerchief. A good cry was often the prelude to frank discussion, so I made no attempt to stifle her sobs. I merely waited and occasionally patted her hand and after awhile her weeping subsided to a few gulping breaths.
“I am s-s-so sorry,” she stammered. “I do not know what came over me.”
“I do,” I said coolly, removing myself back to the chair. “You are in love with Harry Cavendish, but you will not marry him because you are afraid he murdered Freddie.”
She gaped. “How can you know that?”
I gave her a patient smile. “Because I am a woman and I recognise the signs. Miss Cavendish thinks you have designs only upon the estate, but she is entirely wrong. Oh, you are a young woman with a very healthy sense of yourself. You would find it deeply satisfying to rise to the challenge of helping to manage the Peacocks, I think. But the attraction for you is Harry himself.”
“I could do much good,” she temporised. “The children need a school. I know I could persuade Harry to build one.”
“A noble ambition,” I agreed. “But he cannot give you a school if he is not master of the estate, and he cannot be master so long as Jane Cavendish’s child might be a boy.”
Her shoulders trembled for a moment, but with a great effort of will, she mastered her emotion. “Harry’s life is in limbo right now, as is the very future of the estate.”
“And you are in a rather delicate position,” I reasoned out. “If you agree to marry him now, you risk him never owning a hectare of his own should Jane have a son. You would be entirely dependent upon the whims of another, and let us be frank, as the mother of the heir, Jane could turn the pair of you out whenever she chose. She would not, of course,” I added hastily, “but there would always be the shadow of possibility over your heads. Hardly conducive to a happy marriage.”
She lowered her eyes and I went on. “Of course, if you wait until Jane bears a girl to accept him, you will seem mercenary, as if you cared more about the inheritance than the man himself. And over it all must hang the question of how far Harry would go to bring the Peacocks within his grasp.”
“I lie awake at nights, thinking of it,” she said in a dull, flat voice.
“Amongst other things,” I murmured.
She did not blush. “Yes, I meet Harry sometimes. I have let him kiss me, but no more. I am not my grandmother. I know what happens to women who do not guard themselves. And I should never have kissed him. It confuses me.”
“And that confusion has clouded your mind and your judgement,” I finished. “That is why you went to Brisbane, to ask him about making inquiries about Harry.”
“I hated myself for it. But I had heard something of Mr. Brisbane’s reputation, and I knew he could be discreet. I asked him, but he would not make inquiries for me. He said it would not be proper considering your relationship with the Cavendish family.”
Brisbane thought quickly on his feet, I reflected. Telling Miss Thorne that he could not investigate Harry on the grounds that he was already investigating Freddie’s murder would have been impossible. Claiming consanguinity to the subject by way of marriage was the next best thing.
“Yes, well. I am sorry he was not able to ease your mind.”
She spread her hands. “I am left with only my doubts. And even if he were to be proved innocent of the deed, how could I accept him, knowing that I thought him capable of such a thing?”
“My dear Miss Thorne, you are far too hard upon yourself. My husband believes most people are capable of murder with the proper motivation. I could work out a case against you, for example.”
At this she looked aghast. “That is not possible.”
“Isn’t it? Perhaps you wanted to control your grandfather’s estate, perhaps you believe you and your siblings have been cheated of your inheritance. You have great natural beauty. It would not be difficult to inveigle Harry with your charms. The only person who would then stand between the three of you and the estate would be Freddie. And how did Freddie die? By the infected bite of your mistress’ snake. Were you there when Percival bit Freddie? Could you have agitated the little reptile, goading him to bite Freddie? Could you have later offered the weakened Freddie some vicious substance to finish the deed? Of course. And I daresay as a young woman of spirit and imagination, you could think of a dozen ways to have administered the poison.”
The look of horror dawning upon her face would have been all the proof required to her innocence. She put a hand to her neck as if feeling the noose tighten.
“It is wickedness. You cannot believe it.”
“I do not, as it happens,” I told her, smoothing my skirts. “I believe you are wholly innocent of the deed. Of course, I have been wrong about these things before,” I admitted. “More than once, in fact. But your excessive worry over Harry tells me your own conscience is clear. And I can only tell you to compose yourself and go about your regular duties. I believe the truth will be revealed soon, and I will hope as fervently as you do that it will be no impediment to your happiness.”
I rose and went to the door, turning back for a moment. “Miss Thorne, are you the only one who suspects Freddie was murdered?”
She shrugged. “I believe so. I have not heard it spoken of.”
“Then you must be very careful not to betray your suspicions. If Freddie was murdered, then his killer has got away with it so far. He will not like to know that you have your doubts. It could be dangerous to be you.”
With that, I left her,
feeling rather sorry for her and regretting I could not offer her some proof of her beloved’s innocence. The truth was I rather liked Harry for the murder myself. He had the best motive, perfect opportunity, and the competence that such a murderous scheme would require. Freddie’s had not been a murder of flamboyance or extravagance. It had been quietly, methodically ordered, and as such I liked the careful mind of Harry Cavendish for the deed.
I only hoped Miss Thorne would not be too shattered if he was proven guilty, I reflected as I scurried silently through the house. I fled through the garden unseen, and breathed a little more easily when I reached the road. If I were discovered there, I could claim I had tarried to take in the Reverend’s orchids or some beauty along the path and my errand in the attics would never be discovered.
Just then I spotted the familiar butterfly net waving above the shrubbery, and I felt a pang of guilt. I had not visited with Robin in some time, and I wondered how he was taking the news of his friend the White Rajah’s abrupt flight. I followed the bobbing net for a little distance, finally emerging into a clearing where Robin was perched upon a rock.
He nodded toward the rock next to him where he had spread the patterned bandanna handkerchief he usually wore tied about his neck. “Here is a place for you to sit, and I will share the cold tea in my flask, although I ought to be very cross with you.”
“Why?” I asked, heaving myself up onto the perch. I took the cold tea and sipped at it gratefully.
“I was about to capture a common blue Apollo butterfly, Parnassius hardwickii, but you crashed through the bushes and frightened it away.”
“You do have a right to be cross,” I agreed. “I should learn to walk more quietly.”
“It is a good skill,” he said generously. “Mother says the red Indians of America are as silent as panthers when they walk.”
“Are they indeed? Then I should not like to go to America. I do not like to be surprised,” I told him. His eyes widened.
“Not go to America? Are you entirely mad? It is the most wonderful place in the world! I mean to go there when I am finished with the Himalayas. Very little of the continent has been explored, not properly, you see. And I mean to catalogue the species that haven’t yet been discovered.”
“And you can write about them in scientific journals and even name one after yourself,” I put in.
He gave me a patient look. “It is not about the glory,” he said severely. “It is about the knowledge. About being the first person ever to say, ‘I have seen this, and here is what I have observed.’ Observation is the key to scientific accomplishment.”
“Of course,” I murmured. “And with your keenly observant eye, you will have noticed that the White Rajah is gone.”
His expression turned a bit sullen. “He might have said goodbye. I would have thought him past all of that nonsense at his age.”
“What nonsense? Do you mean marriage?”
He nodded. “Lady Eastley is nice enough, I suppose, but he is very old and old men do not need wives.”
“Perhaps he was lonely,” I offered. I could not very well tell the boy the real reason the old villain had eloped with Lucy Eastley, but it galled me to no end to defend him.
“Perhaps,” said Robin slowly, “but he had Chang for company, and he did have callers.”
“Did he?” I asked softly. “Anyone in particular?”
He furrowed his brow. “Dr. Llewellyn went to see him, although I think those were professional calls because Dr. Llewellyn is a medical man,” he said seriously, and I bit my tongue against correcting him.
“Did Harry Cavendish go to see him?” If Harry had gone, in spite of his protestations, it might lend some credence to my theory of Harry as murderer.
“No,” he said. “He spends too much time in our garden, wooing Miss Thorne,” he added, rolling his eyes.
“Oh, you know about that.”
“I am not stupid,” he told me with a certain stiffness. I would have to scramble to make up for the affront.
“Of course not,” I soothed. “I just would have thought romantic matters would have been beneath your notice as a scientist.”
“You would be shocked if you knew how much carrying on happens in this valley,” he told me soberly.
“Really? Is it such a hotbed of iniquity?”
He leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “Mama took photographs of Primrose that were not nice at all. Quite disgusting in fact.”
“You know about the photographs?” I asked.
He stared at me. “You know about the photographs?”
“I saw them in an album,” I told him.
“When? How?” he demanded.
“It does not matter. They have been returned to your parents before they could do any harm.”
He rose, scrabbling together his things.
“Robin, what is the matter?”
When he looked at me, his face was red with anger, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “I have to go.”
Suddenly, with a flash of clarity, I understood. I put a hand to his wrist. “You took the album. You gave it to Freddie, and after he died, you went through his things. That is how you came to have his clasp knife.”
He wrenched his arm from my grasp. “I did not mean to do it. I did not think he would use them to hurt anyone.”
“Did he ask you to take the album and give it to him?”
“He said he just wanted to see the pictures. I did not know he would keep it. I told him it was not his property, but he laughed and said it belonged to him now and I had to keep quiet or my parents would be in terrible trouble, a laughingstock, and my sister would be ruined.”
He was weeping openly now. I put out my hand, but he reared back.
“He did mean to harm your family with the photographs, but he did not have the chance,” I told him. “It is all right, Robin. Your family are simply happy to have them back. You need have no fear or shame.”
He hesitated, dashing the tears away from his face with the back of his hand.
“But I must know, whom did you tell that you gave the album to Freddie? Someone knew, and they harmed him, perhaps to prevent him from hurting your family. Who was it? Was it your parents? Primrose herself? You must tell me. It was your father, wasn’t it?”
“My father would never hurt Freddie,” he shouted. Turning, he disappeared into the dense shrubbery. Giving chase would serve no purpose, I realised. The boy was fleeter than I and knew the valley like the back of his own hand. I should simply have to wait and ponder the best way to approach the Pennyfeathers about their misdeeds.
That evening, we were a solemn group at the dinner table. The peacock dining room was still resplendent, but I felt Brisbane’s absence keenly. The mood was not lightened by Portia’s presence; she had quarrelled with Jane and the pair of them were hardly speaking.
“You will make it up,” I assured her. “Breeding women often say things they do not mean. Think of Nerissa,” I added. Our third eldest sister was notorious for her foul moods when she was carrying.
Portia merely shrugged and the conversation turned to the weather.
“I noticed quite a bit of wind coming off of Kanchenjunga this afternoon,” Plum put in. “Will that affect the growth of the tea plants?”
Harry shrugged. “If it carries too much rain it will, but it is early yet for monsoon. We will hope it is merely a passing storm.”
But the wind rose as we sat over our food, and Jolly came in twice to request permission to secure various shutters and doors against the storm.
“Is it really so bad?” I asked, thinking of my husband.
Jolly gave me a solemn bow of the head. “It is never peaceful when the five brothers of Kanchenjunga quarrel, Memsa Julie.”
“Five brothers?”
“The peaks of the mountain. There are five and they stand together as noble brothers. But sometimes they quarrel, as brothers often do. And when they quarrel, it is the mortal who suffers.”
H
e left us then and I fretted over his words, hating the thought of Brisbane out in the gathering storm and cursing his father and Lucy for a pair of fools.
We withdrew to our rooms and I sat over a book, trying in vain to focus on the words as the rising storm shook the casement shutters. Suddenly, above the noise of the wind came a rhythmic pounding, a banging upon the front door. I rose and took up my dressing gown, emerging from my room to find everyone else gathering in the hall.
“This is most irregular,” Miss Cavendish said. “Harry, go and answer it.”
We followed as Harry went to unlock the great door and when he swung it back upon the hinges there stood a sodden Miss Thorne, so paralysed with cold and wet she could hardly speak.
“I have not yet doused the fire in the drawing room,” Jolly said helpfully, and between them, Harry and Plum managed to get Miss Thorne to a chair before the fire and out of her wet things. Jolly took her oilskin coat and her shoes, but she protested.
“I must go back,” she said through chattering teeth.
“Nonsense,” Miss Cavendish said with her customary brusqueness. “You are soaked through and will catch your death. You must remain here until you are properly warm and dry. It is our duty,” she added, as if to underscore that she would have done as much for anyone abroad on such a night. She signalled Jolly to bring tea and whisky and warm blankets and while he was gone, Harry knelt and began to chafe her feet and hands.
The warmth relaxed her, but only for a minute. She started forward in her chair. “You must find them. They never came back and no one knows what has become of them.”
“Who?” Harry asked, his voice low and soothing.
“The Reverend and Robin,” she said, her voice trembling with fear. “They left before dinner and never came back. You must find them,” she pleaded.
“Where did they go?” Plum asked, his brow furrowed like a proper investigator. I had still not taken up with him the fact that he had gone into my husband’s employ without telling me. But I did not need to confront him, I reminded myself smugly. Father would make enough of a fuss for the both of us.
Dark Road to Darjeeling Page 29
