by Michael Cox
Whats the matter? I asked, anxiously.
Why, Ive just remembered what day it is.
The 31st of December?
Exactly, he replied. And so I wish you every good wish for the coming new year of 1877, in the confident hope that all our endeavours will be crowned with success, and that all the dry bones will be fleshed with Truth at last. And now, my dear, may I accompany you back to the house? Its growing dark, and its perhaps best that you dont go alone.
24
Snow and Secrets
I
The Night Visitor
WE PARTED, Mr Wraxall and I, at the Entrance Court gates. On our way back from North Lodge, as the evening drew in, the conversation had continued to run on matters connected with the death of Lady Tansors father.
You said, I think, that Mr Carteret was an old friend of Professor Slakes, I remarked.
Indeed scholars both, yet their interests were different. Mr Carterets were of a historical and literary character, whilst my uncles principal passion was for philology and the religious practices of the Ancients, although of course he devoted himself for many years to his great history of the Gentile nations.
I then asked Mr Wraxall whether his work on the Professors papers was proceeding satisfactorily.
Satisfactorily is perhaps not le mot juste, he laughed; but, yes, I believe that I am making some progress, although there is still much to do.
And if you dont mind? may I ask whether the letters from your uncle to Mr Carteret that you took from the Dower House were of any particular interest?
Mr Wraxall, clearly guessing my implication, congratulated me again for asking the right question.
Ive been waiting all afternoon for you to ask about those letters, he said. There were a large number, and it took me most of that night to go through them and put them in order. The majority concerned subjects of mutual scholarly interest. There were two, however, that particularly caught my attention. The first had a curious link with the murder of Phoebus Daunt.
I felt my stomach tighten, and was obliged to look away in confusion.
Mr Wraxall, with a look of concern, enquired whether anything was the matter.
Nothing, thank you, I assured him, whilst knowing that my face spoke otherwise. Please go on.
From Madame, I already knew that the poets father, the Reverend Achilles Daunt, had been appointed Rector of Evenwood through the influence of his second wife, Phoebus Daunts stepmother, who had been a relative of the late Lord Tansors. * Now I learned from Mr Wraxall that he had also been a classical and bibliographic scholar of some repute, celebrated as the compiler of the Bibliotheca Duportiana a complete catalogue of the books held in the Library at Evenwood, to which Mr Carteret had contributed notes on the collections manuscripts.
It appeared that, some time before the attack on Mr Carteret, Dr Daunt had been preparing a translation for publication of Iamblichus an ancient Greek writer whom Mr Thornhaugh had sometimes mentioned in our lessons, but of whose works I was entirely ignorant.
When the Rectors translation was in proof, he had sent it to Professor Slake for his specialist opinion, but had then written again requesting that it should be forwarded to a certain Edward Glapthorn, an employee of the legal firm of Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr, who also had extensive knowledge of Iamblichus. This request was the principal subject of the letter that Mr Wraxall had retrieved from the Dower House.
And here, Miss Gorst, said the barrister, is the link I mentioned. This Glapthorn was the alias of Edward Glyver Phoebus Daunts murderer.
This fact I was already aware of, from the article by Mr Vyse, which Madame had sent me from the London Monthly Review, although I expressed a suitable degree of astonishment on receiving this information.
What is perhaps even more interesting, continued Mr Wraxall, was my uncles opinion of this gentleman for gentleman he was which he expressed in several later letters to Dr Daunt. Although they never met in person, a brief correspondence passed between them, on the subject of the Iamblichus translation, from which my uncle formed a highly favourable impression of Mr Glapthorn or Glyver, or whatever his real name was both as a scholar and as a man, an impression confirmed by Dr Daunt, who had met him on several occasions. To learn, just a year later, that the same person had been responsible for the murder of his friends son came as the most severe shock to my uncle.
Whilst there was no hint in Mr Wraxalls account of exoneration for the crime my father had committed, it nevertheless gave me great comfort, by adding independent weight to Mr Heatheringtons favourable estimation of his character.
You mentioned a second letter, I said, as we were about to go our separate ways.
Yes, replied Mr Wraxall. I found it suggestive.
In what way?
It would appear from my uncles reply to a letter received from his friend that Mr Carteret employed his daughters fluency in the French language, and used her generally as an assistant, in the course of compiling his history of the Duport family, which my uncle was asked to edit and complete after Mr Carterets death.
Puzzled, I asked why this was suggestive.
Only in this, replied Mr Wraxall. My uncle refers to the fact that Mr Carteret and his daughter had been engaged on arranging certain papers relating to Lord Tansors first wife, Lady Laura, who, whilst married to Lord Tansor, spent an extended period abroad, in a strange anticipation of Miss Carterets sojourn on the Continent following the death of Phoebus Daunt.
Abroad? I asked.
Residing principally, it appears, in the Breton city of Rennes. A curious episode. Very curious.
Im afraid I still dont understand, I said.
Well, my dear, replied a smiling Mr Wraxall, neither do I; but all those old instincts of mine tell me that this information is significant in some way, although there, I fear, the matter must rest for the time being, with those other interesting subjects we discussed with Inspector Gully, until the mists eventually begin to clear, as I hope and believe they may, in the course of time.
IT HAD LONG been a Duport tradition, following the death of an eldest son on this day during the time of the Black Death, not to celebrate the passing of the old year, a tradition that my Lady was happy to observe. Dinner on this New Years Eve of 1876 was, in any event, a tedious affair.
There were, of course, no guests present, and I expended little effort in making myself agreeable. My Lady, by contrast, affected a gaily voluble mood, twittering away in a most uncharacteristic manner, triviality succeeding triviality, enumerating all over again the places she intended us to visit during our stay in London, and the people she wished me to meet, at such wearisome length that I thought I would scream.
Mr Randolph was absent his whereabouts unknown whilst his brother sat wrapped in an attitude of sullen abstraction, broken occasionally by peppery interjections and black looks.
Following the receipt of Madames third letter, Mr Perseus was now, of course, the object of the most intense interest to me, although I was careful not to show it. As he sat there, silently eating his dinner, I recalled our recent encounter in the church porch, when he had appeared angered by my repudiation of his attempts to extend the hand of friendship, as he had put it. I regretted that I had not been more receptive to his efforts; but it could not now be helped. Indeed, I drew some encouragement from his display of displeasure, and from his suspicions of my feelings for his brother to which he had subsequently given voice, thinking that these outbursts may have been the consequence, not so much of entrenched pride, but of chagrin that his regard for me had been spurned. I thought, too, of the inscribed copy of Merlin and Nimue that he had given me, a gesture which seemed, on reflection, to have carried more significance than I had realized at the time. Perhaps the task of conquering the affections of Mr Perseus Duport wo
uld not be as difficult as I had first thought, although marriage still appeared an impossibility. At least or so I had begun to persuade myself I now had a little hope that he possessed a receptive heart after all, and that I occupied a small place in it.
And how did you find Mr Wraxall? my Lady asked, as we sat together afterwards in the Drawing-Room.
As you might expect, I replied tartly, without looking up from my study of the carpet.
Really, Alice, she objected, in a disappointed tone, how grumpy youve been this evening. Whatever can be the matter, when we have so much to look forward to? Dont you wish to go to London?
Of course.
So I would hope. It will be good for you.
I say nothing, but snatch up a copy of Mr Tennysons recent play on Queen Mary, * which is lying on a nearby table, and pretend to read; but almost immediately, the pages begin to swim before my exhausted eyes, the book falls from my hands, and I sink back limply in my chair.
Alice! cries Lady Tansor. Are you feeling ill?
At this juncture, hearing the concern in his mammas voice, Mr Perseus, who has been lounging alone on the far side of the room, an unopened copy of Tinsleys Magazine on his lap, leaps to his feet and comes quickly over to us.
All right, Mother, I hear him say, Ill take charge. Now, Miss Gorst, how are you?
A little dizzy, sir, I tell him, but I beg you not to concern yourself. Its nothing, I assure you. A little fatigue, thats all. I didnt sleep well last night.
Nevertheless, he insists, we must get you to your room, and then send for Pordage.
I protest that this is unnecessary, but he brushes aside my objections with brusque concern, and calls out for one of the footmen stationed outside the door. It is only then that I realize that he has taken my hands lightly, but deliberately in his, and is now gently rubbing them. Of course I should have instantly removed them, but I did not; for it gave me a most pleasant sensation of comfort and safety, to feel the warm, white hands of the Duport heir encircling mine.
When I had been put to bed, and after the welcome departure of Dr Pordage (whose clammy hands I had been obliged to endure, in repugnant silence, as he had felt my brow, but who rightly diagnosed the need for a good nights rest), I soon fell deeply asleep.
I WAS AWOKEN suddenly by a movement in the bed. With a start, I sat up.
A curtain had been left partially undrawn, through which thin shafts of pale moonlight fell across the bed. They revealed a recumbent figure beside me.
I call out her name. She opens her eyes, and stares sleepily at me.
Alice, dear, my Lady murmurs. Did I wake you?
I get out of bed to light my candle. She sits up, her long hair hanging loose about her shoulders and back. She seems somehow shrunken and diminished. Then I see why.
The night-gown she is wearing is a mans. Its sleeves fall down over her slim hands, so that only the ends of the nails can be seen; her figure is entirely concealed by its ample folds; and on the left breast, underneath the Duport arms, are embroidered three initials: P.R.D.
The night-gown had been her dead lovers.
I stand, candle in hand, looking at her in disbelief, the shadows cast by the flickering flame playing over her face, as white as the gown she wears.
Where had she kept this intimate relic? Her capacity for concealment amazed me. Then she spoke.
I was unable to sleep. Dreams such strangely vivid dreams of you, dear Alice, and yet not you. So then I had to come up, to assure myself that all was well. But you were asleep so peacefully asleep! And so I thought I would lie down here next to you, just for a very little while; but then I fell asleep myself. Isnt that wonderful! To have fallen so easily into glorious sleep! This bed is so comfortable, more comfortable than my own.
She gave a soft, mirthless laugh, and slowly laid her head back on the pillows.
You must go back to your room, I told her, soothingly, setting the candle down, and sitting on the side of the bed. Come, Ill take you down. Have you forgotten that were to leave for London tomorrow? You must rest.
Rest? Oh, if only I could! But I can never rest. Never.
I held out my hand to her, but she made no movement.
Take it, I said. Youll rest tonight. I promise.
She reaches out, places her hand in mine, and together we make our way down to her apartments although not before I have slipped a small blue-glass bottle of decanted Battleys Drops, supplied by J.M. Proudfoot & Sons, of Market Square, Easton, into the pocket of my robe.
She takes the drops willingly, accepting my assurance that they will help her sleep and do her no harm.
There, I whisper, as I pull the coverlet over her and stroke her hair. Sleep now.
Dear Alice, is all she says, as she closes her eyes.
I sit by the dying embers of the bedroom fire for half an hour, until I am certain that she is fast asleep. Then I take up the candle, and tip-toe into the sitting-room.
II
A Weapon Made of Words
THE KEY TURNED easily in the little brass escutcheon, just as it had done when I had first unlocked the secret cupboard behind the portrait of Anthony Duport. As I reached inside, the intimidating, black-bearded face of Phoebus Daunt, frozen by the photographers art, stared back at me from the shadowed recess.
As quickly as I could, hands shaking, and nervously listening out for any sound from the adjoining bed-chamber, I undid the ribbon securing the first bundle of letters, took it over to the table on which I had placed my candle, and began to read.
The letters were all arranged in chronological order. The first, written in November 1852 from Daunts London house in Mecklenburgh Square, contained a lengthy account of the Duke of Wellingtons funeral. Succeeding letters, similarly, offered nothing of interest or significance, except to substantiate the remarkable mutual affection that had existed between the writer and Miss Carteret, whom he constantly addressed in the tenderest of terms.
The second bundle was equally barren: page after page describing how he was passing the time in Town without her, whom he had seen, where he had dined, what so-and-so had said at the Club, the gratifying reception given to his poems by the critics. Then there would be long passages recounting matters of business undertaken on behalf of Lord Tansor always discharged to the utmost satisfaction of his patron and others describing, at equally tiresome length, various trifling incidents that had befallen him in the course of his travels.
Then, in a letter in the fourth bundle, I found the following short postscript, which I immediately scribbled down in shorthand, on a piece of my Ladys writing-paper:
DEAREST,
In haste. Phas just been here. He is ready, & appears to understand what he must do if you still wish him to carry out yr plan. I continue to have qualms about the business, as I have told you, knowing what Pis capable of but I have been at great pains to make him apprehend that no harm must come to P.S.C. & that we require only the papers. I hope I have succeeded, but cannot be sure, amp; so a degree of risk persists. Send word immediately a single word indeed will suffice Yes, or No. I beg you, be sure to destroy this.
The letter bore the date 21st October 1853 four days before the fatal attack on Mr Paul Stephen Carteret who, I had no doubt, was the person referred to in the postscript by his initials as he entered the Park through the western woods.
I was exultant. At last I had evidence unequivocal, written evidence that incriminated my Lady in a plot to ambush her father, and involved her in its tragic consequences. She had assured Mr Vyse that nothing existed to link her with her fathers death; but she had lied. Here they were, then: words on paper, which, as Mr Vyse had warned her, can have fatal consequences.
The postscript had also revealed that the attack on Mr Carteret had been carried out by one person, the mysterious P, commi
ssioned, it seemed, by Phoebus Daunt acting on Miss Carterets instructions, just as Billy Yapp had been recruited by her agent, Mr Vyse, to kill Mrs Kraus.
The purpose of the conspiracy was also becoming clearer: to obtain certain papers that Mr Carteret had been carrying. Then came a sudden rush of realization.
Mr Carteret must have discovered documents indicating that a legitimate heir might exist who would deny Phoebus Daunt his golden expectations. Was it even possible that he had made this discovery during his work on the history of the Duport family, on which his daughter had assisted him? If so, then the Duport succession might indeed link the deaths of Mr Carteret, Phoebus Daunt, and Mrs Kraus, just as Mr Wraxall and Inspector Gully had suspected.
III
An Encounter in the Fog
MY LADY TOOK breakfast the next morning alone in her private sitting-room, as she sometimes chose to do; I, too, made a solitary repast, downstairs in the Breakfast-Room, disappointed that Mr Perseus had eaten early and then ridden to Easton on estate business.
At a little after ten oclock, under a snow-threatening sky, and chilled by a biting east wind even as we hurried the little way down the front steps, we took our seats in the carriage, drew the rugs over our laps, and set off to catch our train to London.
With us was the new dressing-maid, Violet Allardyce a plump, vacant-looking girl, who stood constantly in awe of both her mistress and me, but who performed her duties efficiently enough, although sometimes not to my satisfaction.
Emily I had by now begun to accustom myself to thinking of her, and calling her in private, by her Christian name, as she had wished me to do was subdued at first, yet not altogether disinclined to converse. Nothing was said by either of us concerning the events of the previous night; and as we approached the terminus, her mood began to lighten. By the time we were nearing Grosvenor Square, she was once more enthusiastically rehearsing her plans for the succeeding days.
