Danger at Thatcham Hall

by Frances Evesham

  Olivia’s hopes and dreams crashed to dust at her feet. For a moment she feared she would faint, but she wouldn’t give in to the terrible disappointment. The only thing that mattered was proving Mr. Roberts’ innocence.

  General Mason, a pot of coffee at his elbow, listened to her story in silence. He thought long and hard, scratching his beard. He checked the door to make sure no one was within earshot, before pouring two cups of coffee and beginning the story.

  He twirled a greying moustache with one hand. “Major Roberts came back after the war, as you know, and recovered from his wounds. He was a lucky man—few enough escaped alive. Cut down and captured by the enemy along with the rest of the officers. The disgrace of it all affected them—to be still alive when every last enlisted man died, then imprisoned in the most squalid—” The general broke off and cleared his throat. “No need to worry a young lady with that sort of talk. And the duel, of course, that made matters worse.” He poured more, rapidly cooling, coffee into the cups.

  Olivia’s hand trembled so hard she splashed liquid on the oak desk. “Please, tell me. I have to know everything.”

  “Well, after a spell in hospital in England, Major Roberts was discharged. No use to the army with that leg of his, I’m afraid. Anyway, one afternoon, quite by chance, he bumped into Major Lovell in the street. Dreadful coincidence. Bad show. Still, that’s what happened and right there and then, he issued a challenge to Lovell. Said the man caused the death of young Benjamin—now, what was the fellow’s name—Benjamin Clark, Caxton, something like that?”

  There was a lump of lead in Olivia’s chest. Her voice was a whisper. “Caxton?”

  “Caxton, that’s the name. Now, where was I? Accused a fellow officer so he had to challenge the man to a duel. Against the law, you know. Good job they kept it quiet. I only heard about it months later, or I’d have had to do something.”

  The general sipped coffee, his moustache resting on the ledge of the cup. “Fact of the matter was, or so the version I heard went, no knowing if it’s true or not.” Olivia willed him to come to the point. “Young Lovell fired before time, caught Roberts in the shoulder. Dreadful business. That’s what they say. No one admits to being there, though there must have been seconds for ’em both, as well as a doctor. But, you may not know this, m’dear, you can be hanged for duelling. Yes,” he nodded, “thought you’d be shocked. So it was all hushed up, and young Lovell escaped being cashiered, though plenty thought he should be.”

  The general wiped his hand over his moustache and heaved himself up from his chair. “Now, why was it you wanted to know? Can’t for the life of me remember, young lady.”

  Olivia left the interview with General Mason, shaking with horror. She now knew the truth of the terrible events in Kabul. The heat and dust, the sun beating down on the army as it galloped to certain death through the narrow passage, the enemy firing from either side.

  Hardly a single man remained to tell of the ignominious flight from the Afghan warriors. No wonder Mr. Roberts hated to speak of it. No wonder he was engulfed with rage at the memory.

  Olivia gathered her wits. She was no further forward. In fact, her worst fears were confirmed. Mr. Roberts had the best of motives for killing Major Lovell. She must never tell a soul.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Nelson drew close to the edge of the woods where the trees met the level green sward of the water meadows. Someone was there. He heard voices, but could see no one through the thicket. He let the leaf mould deaden his footsteps, stopping when a break in the trees afforded a glimpse of Miss Dainty a hundred yards ahead, walking with Theodore.

  He’d meant to visit Grandmother Caxton alone, because she knew everything about the Hall. Miss Dainty’s presence confused things. Before he could step back into the shade of the woodland, she turned. It was too late. She’d seen him.

  “Mr. Roberts, thank heaven you’ve been allowed out. We feared Hugh would keep you under lock and key, even though he says he believes you to be innocent.”

  “He said so?” Nelson was surprised. Lord Thatcham was no gossip.

  “Oh, not to me. I overheard him speaking to Philomena—Lady Thatcham, I mean. He asked what she thought, and she said she had no idea what had been going on, that you seem a trustworthy person despite circumstances appearing to go against you.” Miss Dainty tossed her head, prettily. “I must say, it is quite unlike Philomena to have nothing else to say.”

  Behind the chatter, Nelson detected signs of strain. The rosy tint in her cheeks, so great a part of her allure, had faded, leaving them pale. Tiny lines had appeared overnight around mouth and eyes. She shrugged. “I wish Miss Martin hadn’t gone to London, today.”

  Nelson hid a smile. Miss Dainty wasn’t the only one to miss her friend.

  “I asked Theodore to come with me, for Hugh’s forbidden me to walk alone on the estate until the villain who murdered Maj-Major Lovell is discovered.” The determined voice wavered. Miss Dainty tossed her head and managed an unconvincing smile. “We were planning to visit the spot where Miss Martin had her accident. We thought we might find clues to what happened.”

  “Too late, I’m afraid. The same idea occurred to me. I scoured the area and found but one item that might be considered a clue.” Nelson held out his hand, the military button exposed on the palm.

  The effect was immediate. Miss Dainty gasped. Even Theodore leaned forward, eyes wide, fixed on the button. Nelson flipped it in the air and caught it again.

  “But, what does it mean?” Miss Dainty frowned. “It’s not your button, is it?”

  “No. It tells me that a brother officer was here, in the woods. It may not mean anything. It could have been dropped at any time.”

  Miss Dainty’s brow creased. She took a breath as though about to speak but Nelson slipped the button back in his pocket and walked on. A few moments took them to the cottage where a trickle of smoke rose from the chimney. Grandmother Caxton poked her nose out of the door and beckoned them inside, arthritic hands crooked. A harsh croak from the trees made Miss Dainty jump. The woman cackled. “Crows, that’s all, my dears. Now, come inside. I’ve heard of some strange doings up at the Hall.”

  The room showed signs of recent visitors. A half empty tin cup sat on the table. The woman whisked it away, but not before Nelson caught a glimpse of an inch of brown sludge in the bottom. A smile curled his lips. He waited for Grandmother Caxton to sit, but she was intent on tidying the tiny room. She offered a cup of her green tea. Nelson drained it in one gulp and waited. Gradually, he relaxed. The ache in his leg eased. It was almost gone. His mind seemed suddenly crystal clear.

  With a besom of willow branches tied together, the woman swept a litter of ashes out of the door. “You’ve caught me at my cleaning, my dears.”

  Miss Dainty sipped her tea. “We need your help. You see, one of the guests at the hall last night has been killed. Well, murdered.” She bit her lip and swallowed. “Mr. Roberts has been accused.”

  She poked his chest with a bony finger. “I warned you, young man.”

  Miss Dainty looked from one to the other. “Can you help?”

  “Why would I do that?” Grandmother Caxton’s little eyes blinked at Nelson in a stare that made his skin crawl. Glad of the calming effects of the tea, he waited.

  Miss Dainty, apparently quite unaware of the woman’s set lips and narrowed eyes, talked on. “Oh, well, because it’s quite unfair. Mr. Roberts would never dream of killing anyone—well, apart from in the war, of course.”

  The woman’s voice dropped to a whisper. “So, killing your fellow men to further a country’s greed for land isn’t a crime.”

  Miss Dainty’s brow furrowed, as though she was perplexed. “Well, no, of course not. Mr. Roberts fought for Queen and Country, you know.”

  “I know that very well.”

  Nelson couldn’t stand those little black eyes for one moment longer. They seemed to see into his soul. He stumbled to his feet, one leg crashing against the table.
A tin cup toppled, rolling to the edge. A trail of green liquid crawled across the table as the cup spun, catching the light. At last it fell, slowly, clattering to the floor.

  Miss Dainty ran across the room, grasped a cloth from the water bucket in the corner and mopped up the tea. “Come, Grandmother,” she said. “Tell us if you know anything that will help us prove Mr. Roberts is innocent, for we all know he didn’t kill the major.”

  Grandmother Caxton lowered herself into a chair, crumpling as though exhausted. “There are things here, my dear, you wouldn’t wish to know about.” Her eyes narrowed. She peered once more at Nelson then nodded. “I’ll tell you a little.”

  Miss Dainty drained the rest of her tea and put the cup back on the table with a click. She walked around the room, restless. “Now, if your story concerns nonsense about a curse on Thatcham Hall, I can assure you we’ll take no notice. Such stories abound in old houses.”

  The woman spoke again. “Very well, I won’t trouble you with old stories. You know better than an old woman like me, don’t you?”

  Miss Dainty’s hands were clenched tightly together. She seemed to be waiting, wondering if Grandmother Caxton was about to let out a secret.

  The old woman’s voice softened. “But I’ll tell you what happened to my grandson.”

  “Theodore?”

  She shook her head, strands of grey hair floating across her face. “No, not Theodore. His older brother, Benjamin.”

  Miss Dainty interrupted. “There’s no need to distress yourself. Let me tell them.”

  The woman shrugged. “You may say the words, my dear, but it doesn’t take away the pain in my heart.” Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears.

  Miss Dainty took the wrinkled hand and held it between her own. “Theodore had an older brother who was in the army. He died in Kabul.”

  Nelson shivered. He hadn’t known. “I was there.” His voice grated harshly. This visit was making matters worse, not better. “I was an officer.” He closed tired eyes for a moment, trying to black out the scenes of carnage. “We officers didn’t do well by our men. We were taken as hostages by the enemy, leaving the men to fend for themselves.”

  Miss Dainty leaned across the table, her eyes enormous. “Not you, I’m sure?”

  He shook his head. At least he wasn’t such a scoundrel as that. “No, I didn’t hide, but others did.”

  Miss Dainty’s voice was a whisper. “Major Lovell?”

  Nelson’s head ached. He’d already frightened Miss Martin with the story. He must take care not to treat this far less courageous young lady to the full force of his anger. He wouldn’t describe the thunder of hooves as the platoon rode in file across the barren, dusty desert towards the supply centre, the deafening thuds of gunfire from the hills around or the metallic taste of terror. He scrubbed at his face with one hand, trying to clear his head, and took another gulp of green tea.

  After a moment, he felt calm enough to tell the tale. “Yes, Major Lovell was at the front of the column as we rode. We were ambushed.”

  Miss Dainty watched, lips slightly open, eyes wide with horror. Grandmother Caxton’s head moved, just a fraction, encouraging. Her steady gaze told Nelson she already knew the story.

  “We’d tried to warn the colonel, but he was a stubborn man.” Miss Dainty’s eyes had grown enormous in an ashen face. She trembled, as though fearing what Nelson would say, but he could not stop now. He had to tell the truth. “Lovell was the colonel’s aide-de-camp and had his ear. He persuaded the commander the way was clear. He said the scouts had seen no sign of the Afghans. As though they would allow us to see them! We were foreigners in their country. How could we hope to defeat them, except by careful planning and execution? There was no plan. He’d sent scouts to the wrong place.”

  Nelson shuddered, revulsion sour in his throat. “The bodies of young soldiers fell all around us. Lovell’s horse was hit in the chest, stumbled and fell. The major should have been a dead man. We were nowhere near enough to help. Then, a young soldier galloped past.”

  Nelson’s hands gripped an empty cup, twisting the tin handle out of shape. “The boy hesitated, stopping to aid a fallen officer, thinking nothing of his own safety. Lovell staggered up, lurched over and forced the lad from the horse even as the boy bent down to take the major’s arm. Lovell leaped into the saddle and galloped back through the gates, retreating to the safety of the fort. The lad’s only reward for heroism was to die in the dust, an easy target for the enemy.”

  As Nelson finished the story, head bowed, silence fell in the dark cottage. He looked up in time to see Miss Dainty wipe away tears. Grandmother Caxton nodded, fingers working at the heavy cotton of her dress. “That was my boy,” she whispered. “My Benjamin.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Olivia found Violet at the train station, shivering in the yellow gloom that had hardly lifted all day. There were only seconds to spare before catching the train.

  “Did you find Mr. Mellow’s office?”

  “Yes, miss.” Violet fiddled with strands of hair and shuffled her feet.

  “And you gave my message?”

  The maid nodded, eyes downcast.

  “Well, then, thank you. I will write to confirm dates and times.”

  The maid seemed oddly reticent, for one who’d successfully undertaken a difficult task in an unfamiliar city. Olivia was puzzled. It was a pity Violet had to travel in third class, some carriages away. She’d like to get to the bottom of the girl’s unease.

  The journey to Thatcham Hall passed quickly. For once, Olivia was pleased to see overcast, grey skies and feel the splash of honest rain on her face, after the stifling, airless capital city. She took deep breaths, filling both lungs with clean, fresh air.

  Violet inspected Olivia’s outdoor clothes, crinkling her nose in disgust as she brushed black London mud, wet straw, and damp cigarette ends from the hem of the coat. “Miss, I have to tell you something.”

  “Yes? What is it?” Violet continued to brush. “Come, Violet. Why are you behaving so oddly? You’ve hardly spoken a word since we returned.”

  “Please, don’t be angry.”

  The maid must be as tired as she after a difficult day. “I think you have been privy to enough of my business to deserve a little mercy. Have you torn the coat, or done something even more wicked?”

  Violet didn’t smile. “I have a confession.” The cold hand of anxiety touched Olivia’s heart. The maid wiped the back of her hand across her nose. “When I spoke to Mr. Mellow, Miss, I accidentally let slip…I mean, I sort of mentioned—”

  Olivia relaxed. Whatever Violet had said to the publisher could have nothing to do with Mr. Roberts. “Come on, don’t leave me in suspense. Did you make another appointment for us to meet?”

  “I’m afraid not, miss.”

  “No? Well, no matter, I’ll write at once.”

  The girl fidgeted. “Well, I may have accidentally mentioned that you were Miss Martin.”

  “Oh, is that all? Why, the gentleman knows my name is Martin. Why should that be a problem? I think all the troubles at the Hall have made you over-careful, Violet.”

  “I said you were Miss Martin.”

  “Miss Martin. Oh.” As the words sank in, Olivia’s legs threatened to give way. She fumbled for a chair.

  “He said it would be unsuitable to put a lady’s work on the list. It would displease the regular clients and be bad for business. Oh, miss, I’m so sorry. Please don’t be angry. I didn’t mean to let it slip.”

  Olivia forced a smile on to icy lips as she waved Violet away. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. After all, he’d find out as soon as we met.”

  Alone, she slumped in the chair, head in hands, waiting for the relief of tears. None came. If only she’d visited Mr. Mellow in person, she could have persuaded him to let her play, she knew she could.

  She hammered clenched fists on the dressing table, rattling pots and brushes. It was all Mr. Roberts’ fault; he’d ruined everything. How
dare he take liberties, kissing an unmarried lady in the garden and then frightening her with talk of war and death?

  In spite of that, she’d tried to help him—given up everything to prove him innocent of murder and all she’d found was more evidence pointing to his guilt. Now, she’d lost the only chance of escaping a long, miserable life as a governess.

  She’d find the man this very minute and tell him just what she thought.

  Blinded by furious tears, Olivia stumbled through the passages of the Hall in search of Mr. Roberts, mind racing to compose a suitably cutting, angry speech.

  He was nowhere to be seen. Miss Dainty seemed also to have disappeared. Olivia’s anger ebbed. Where could they be? Surely they hadn’t gone off together, alone, unchaperoned? Miss Dainty knew better than to allow such a breach of good manners, even if Mr. Roberts, as Olivia knew only too well, did not.

  Olivia stopped, suddenly exhausted, at the door of Lord Thatcham’s private library. She’d never been invited in, but she couldn’t resist a quick peep. She’d spent many happy hours reading Papa’s books. Surely, no one would mind if she spent a few minutes alone, surrounded by the smell of leather, running fingers over smooth bookbindings and soothing a troubled spirit with the words of Austen and Dickens.

  Olivia turned the door handle and the heavy oak slid open without a sound. She breathed in the calming, musty scent of old books, slipped a Moroccan-bound volume from a shelf, settled in a vast armchair, and began to read.

  She read the first page of The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit four times. Despite Mr. Dickens’ skill with words, nothing would stick in her memory. Olivia’s thoughts would not be still but bamboozled her with images of her future, suitably and dully dressed as a governess, hair scraped neatly back in a tight bun, endlessly scratching letters on a board for a bored child.

  She tried once more to read. Now, Mr. Roberts’ face, white with strain as Olivia had seen it last, floated in the air, blinding her. It was no use. She closed the book with a snap and turned to gaze out the window.