by Issy Brooke
“Fresh air is supposed to cure all things,” she rasped at Adelia as her daughter-in-law took a seat alongside her. “But I rather favour spirits. My son,” she added with annoyance, “claims that in fact alcohol will suppress my body’s natural strength and prolong my illness. And perhaps it will, but if I am drunk I will not care, so I cannot see what the problem is.”
Adelia smiled and patted Grace’s hand.
“I am not an invalid,” Grace snapped. Then she sighed heavily. “Though I feel like one. Ugh. Tell me interesting things to lift me out of my cloud. How is Lady Beaconberg?”
“She is an endless stream of spiteful comments.”
“How perfectly dreary. If I were not ill, I would visit and then we should see who could be the most cutting.”
“You would win. It is hardly a fair fight.”
“Only because I have the advantage of age, and at the moment, my age is doing me no other favours – blast it!” Grace coughed and sipped at some warm drink to ease her throat. “Honey,” she told Adelia. “Mead would be just as good, would it not? But no. I am told that it has to be honey and lemon and there is not nearly enough sugar in this thing.”
“Grace, I want to talk to you about something serious.”
“The death?”
“Ah – no. It’s about Mary.”
That changed Grace’s attitude instantly from one of studied indolence to pure and genuine concern. “Tell me everything.”
“I do not think she is sleepwalking.”
“She has been seen. Did you yourself not see her?”
“Yes. She was walking as if asleep but I think that she was not.”
Grace gripped the glass of honey and lemon, and said, “Why would she pretend? She is not that sort of girl.”
“We forget, don’t we, that she is not a girl at all,” Adelia replied. “She is a grown woman in charge of a household and married, with all the knowledge that such a relationship brings. She has not been a delicate little girl for many years.”
“What are you suggesting?” Grace said, narrowing her eyes.
Adelia did not want to voice it. She could not voice it. She wanted to hear it from Grace, as if that would make things better. And, at the same time, she could not bear to hear it from Grace because that would make things real. So she kept her dreadful suspicion to herself and merely shook her head.
Grace sat back and gazed over the lawns. “How exciting for her,” she said in a low voice.
Adelia was shocked. “Exciting? Speak to me plainly! What exactly do you mean?”
But Grace did not say what Adelia both expected and feared. “She always was a girl who craved adventure.”
“No, she didn’t,” Adelia said. “She never has. It is Mary we are talking of, not Lottie.” Charlotte was daughter number six of the seven children Adelia had had. Perhaps the cold was muddling up Grace’s memory, Adelia thought kindly.
“Lottie does not crave adventure, only parties, which are safe ways to feel as if one is having an exciting life. But think of the books that Mary reads!”
“About Romani and travelling folk? That is only because of her good nature in wanting to help those less fortunate than ourselves.”
“I do not think they consider themselves to be less than us. And I do not think she reads those books out of Christian charity, Adelia.”
“I must speak to her,” Adelia said, and her stomach turned over at the thought.
Grace muttered something incomprehensible and sipped at her unpalatable drink. Adelia let her eyes close and began to think of the evening meal which she would be enjoying later back at Dovewood, because even that was better than the idea of confronting her daughter about possible indiscretions.
“Mary,” said Grace, and Adelia started forward, unaware that she was already drifting off. But Grace was not beginning a new conversation. She was greeting Mary who had appeared on the terrace looking fresh and not at all like a woman who was spending half her night running around outside.
“Mama, how lovely to see you!”
There followed a few minutes of polite catch-up centring around the topic of how Lady Beaconberg was coping. Then Mary asked about Elizabeth, and Adelia remembered the young man who had accosted her in the coach on the way to Dovewood. Rowlandson, who had expected to find Mary in the coach, not Adelia.
She mentioned it to Mary who went very quiet for a moment.
“Did you know that Elizabeth Parr and this so-called gentleman have some kind of understanding?” Grace demanded.
Mary bit at her lower lip. “It’s not quite an understanding.”
“And he’s not quite a gentleman, is he?” Adelia said.
“Rowlandson? He’s ranked well enough. Trade, but I have heard nothing bad against him.”
“Is he ranked well enough for Lady Beaconberg?”
“Oh good heavens – no!” Mary shook her head. “And believe me, I have told Elizabeth she must not lead the poor man on. I have impressed this upon her many times. Truly, I think he is the foolish one to even think he could pursue her.”
“So it is nothing more than a silly infatuation from afar?” Adelia asked.
“Nothing more. I am certain of it, and I have not encouraged it.”
“Yet she ought to be careful. Mud may stick whether one intends it to or not, and from what I hear, she is already gaining a reputation as one who is less than steady.”
“Well, mama, the sooner you can get her married off, then, the better,” Mary said.
Grace snorted and Adelia said, “That’s hardly likely now, under the circumstances. She is in mourning for her father.”
“Yes, but she need not spend years about it. Not these days.”
“I am not sure how long she’ll spend grieving but that is not up to us to dictate.” And that delay worried Adelia. She could not easily continue to parade a line of suitors in front of Miss Parr at Dovewood, not for a while, and meanwhile the girl could continue her meetings with Rowlandson. Anything could happen.
Those secret meetings had to be stopped before the girl ended up bringing shame to herself and the whole family.
Further speculation was prevented by the entrance of Sibyl and her three boys who shouted and laughed and romped around, completely ignoring the entreaties of their mother, and brought joy to Grace, Mary and Adelia. Judging by Sibyl’s face, she’d not tasted joy for about a decade. But she sat herself silently in a corner and let herself be ignored by everyone, and seemed to resent every moment of her self-imposed isolation while doing absolutely nothing to change the situation.
It was a wrench when at last Adelia had to get to her feet, take her leave, and return to Dovewood for the evening.
ELIZABETH WAS ON ADELIA’S mind as she approached the house, and she went off in search of her as she had a scant hour free before she had to change for dinner. All the servants were taking even more pains than usual to go about their tasks silently and, in preference, invisibly, and Adelia struggled to find someone to help her locate the daughter of the house. She eventually tracked her down in the library.
It was replete with the memories of Lord Beaconberg. As Adelia peered in, she saw Elizabeth sitting in a leather chair, her shoulders bent and her face hidden in her hands. Adelia recognised the girl was having a private moment of mourning, and decided not to disturb her, but as she pulled the door closed again, it squeaked.
Elizabeth jumped up and said, “Lady Calaway?”
“Forgive me! I did not mean to intrude and I’ll leave you in peace.”
“Peace? Peace?” the girl spat out. She sounded angry rather than upset.
Adelia hesitated. She remained by the door, her hand on the handle, and said, “Miss Parr, is there anything I can do? I am happy to sit with you if you wish for company, or we could take a walk around the garden if you would prefer.”
“You can’t give me what I really wish for.”
“No one can bring back the dead.”
“Oh!” Elizabeth said with a
disparaging little noise. “I’m not upset about father. Well, I am, of course, but ...”
“This is about Francis Rowlandson, is it not?” Adelia said.
“Hush! Keep your voice down!” Elizabeth cried in a panic, paying no heed to the volume of her own words.
Adelia stepped fully into the library and approached the tear-stained Elizabeth. “For his sake as much as your own, all contact must be broken off, you know,” she said as gently as she could, knowing even as she spoke that Elizabeth would disregard everything.
Elizabeth didn’t even bother to reply.
“I know that you have an understanding between you,” Adelia pressed on.
Again the silence told her everything she needed to know.
“And naturally your mother would disagree utterly with it. There cannot possibly be a match made between you and this Francis Rowlandson.”
“Of course I disagree with it! I oppose such nonsense utterly!”
Adelia froze and stared at Elizabeth, whose already-pale face seemed to go even whiter, with a bluish tint spreading around her lips. She was holding her breath in fear as her mother Lady Beaconberg swept into the room, elbowing Adelia out of the way as she came through the door. She planted herself dramatically in the centre of the red and orange rug, with her hands on her hips and her chin thrown up at a high angle.
Elizabeth mirrored the pose.
“Mother...”
“That a daughter of mine should entertain such fancy. To you it is a game, but the future of the family rests on your making of a suitable match. I am speaking of the very lives of future generations, Elizabeth. Do you want them to look back to you, when they are studying their ancestry, with love and gratitude in their hearts? Or bitterness that you debased yourself, robbing them of their potential inheritances? What a selfish and spiteful little madam I have raised! How hurtful you are!”
Adelia bit her lip. She would not have put it in such strident terms herself, yet she could not help but agree with the general underlying meaning of Lady Beaconberg’s argument.
Elizabeth could not outface her mother. She looked at the floor and quivered. No doubt she was seething with things she wanted to say but could not. Many a young woman had been locked in her room for less than this, and Adelia could hardly step in to prevent that.
Lady Beaconberg’s voice dropped to an angry growl. “But not everyone in this place disagreed with it, did they?”
Adelia opened her mouth to protest that although she had suspected the dalliance, she had repeatedly counselled Elizabeth to break it off.
But it was not about Adelia at all.
Before she could actually speak, Lady Beaconberg went on. “He didn’t disagree, did he? On the contrary, he was even planning your elopement!”
Adelia blurted out, “Rowlandson?”
Lady Beaconberg turned to her with a scornful laugh. “That good-for-nothing? Heavens, no. I am speaking of our dearly departed.” Her voice dripped with malice and sarcasm. “I am speaking of my loyal husband, Talbot.”
She whirled around and clicked her fingers as she left the room. Elizabeth scurried after her as ordered, shooting Adelia a look of pure hatred.
This was not my fault, Adelia thought, watching them go. But I have seen another side to Lady Beaconberg now – who knew that she had more sides than a dice! Well, she clearly does. And one of those sides despises her late husband.
And then Adelia wondered, for how long has she known about this secret of her daughter’s?
For if she has known for some time that her own husband was helping to arrange her daughter’s elopement – depriving her of the huge wedding, the chances of climbing higher in society, of everything she had worked for ... well, there was a motive for his death indeed. And yes, all of Lady Beaconberg’s grief could indeed be faked, and the request for Theodore to look into it a mere misdirection.
Adelia rubbed her temples. She was still missing something in the picture. For this did not add up – yet.
Eleven
The mention of the prizewinning horse, Golden Meadow, had plagued Theodore and he decided to call at the racing stables rather than returning to the Grey House when he left York. He wasn’t overly concerned by the intrusion of the reporter, as he had been infrequently plagued by them after the events at Mondial Castle and he knew they were bound to converge on him after the death of Lord Beaconberg; he was only surprised that they had taken so long. He put Horatio Dobson out of his mind and went on the hunt for a willing cabbie to take him most of the way to the stables instead. There were trains and branch lines but he did not have Adelia’s enthusiasm for railway journeys, preferring instead to be in an enclosed private space of his own, with the power to change direction at will. A train was so frighteningly inevitable about its purpose and its destination. He liked certainty and routine, but he liked to control those things himself. He did not like to give up his control to a large metal beast.
Such fanciful things were running through his mind as he half-dozed on the journey to the stables. He had put all thoughts of the accident, the death, and the plant matter far out of his mind, letting the hidden parts of his brain do the hard work. He had been reading a lot of the emerging work of the doctors Freud and Fliess, and was rather taken with their ideas around the competing parts of the brain and personality. He let his mind wander and throw together whatever associations it cared to come up with, although as he dropped in and out of sleep, he found that he was mostly thinking of food and the evening’s forthcoming dinner, hoping that it would not be game again.
The cab pulling up jerked him out of a slumbering meditation upon his favourite fish, and he was half out of the door before he noticed that they were not quite arrived at the stables; they had paused on the road to allow a carriage to go ahead of them from an adjoining road at a junction. The window flipped open and a man in a smart suit poked his head out.
“Lord Calaway! Just the man!”
“Inspector Benn. What a pleasure to meet you in daylight.” Rather than in the chaos and melee of a country house at night, which was how they had first met, at the announcement of Lord Beaconberg’s death.
Inspector Benn picked his way carefully out of the carriage and shook Theodore’s hand as if they were in a dining room, rather than the middle of a dusty track. He then, to Theodore’s amusement, tried to subtly wipe his hand with a bright white pocket-handkerchief, keeping his movements out of the way while he spoke to Theodore.
“I am glad to have caught you here,” Inspector Benn went on. “I would like to thank you for your input regarding this case.”
“Case? So, it is a case now, is it?” Everyone seemed determined to label it as such.
“It is, perhaps, or it appears to be, at least in some elements, though I hesitate to attach anything definite to it yet.”
So was it or was it not a case? Theodore raised his eyebrows politely and waited for Inspector Benn to tell him why he was so pleased to have met him.
“Ah – yes – I suppose in some regards it is a case, and for that I must thank you, as I understand that it was your idea to look more closely at the body of the, um, unfortunate man, and also the reins of the carriage. Very astute. Very. Of course, you are something of an amateur detective, are you not? Ordinarily I would not hold with members of the public getting involved – except, that is to say, in the normal course of things, which is, that, of course, when we turn up to ask questions, we do expect them to be involved fully. Where was I? Oh yes! Thank you, sir.”
Theodore smiled. “You are most welcome. If I might be of any other assistance, please do not hesitate to ask. I am staying at the Grey House.”
“Might I ask where you are bound now?”
“To the stables. I had a fancy to see Sir Arthur.” Theodore hadn’t been sure whether to reveal to the Inspector that he was still investigating in his own small way, but that issue was suddenly resolved for him when the Inspector spoke again.
The Inspector said, in a lower voice
than before, “Then might I beg one more indulgence from you, sir? You know Sir Arthur. We, too, are bound on a journey to see the man and hopefully ask him a few questions about this and about that. Now, he is a titled man, and though not so very high, still I rather think he might speak more willingly to yourself than to me – a mere policeman.”
“I should be delighted. Lead the way and I shall instruct my man to follow behind. Or we can walk the last quarter-mile together perhaps?”
Inspector Benn shuddered. “I prefer to be driven.” He hopped up into the carriage and closed the door, and made the window fast before they set off, in spite of the heat. No doubt he wanted to stop dust getting into the compartment.
Theodore settled back in his own cab and they continued on. The Inspector’s request was understandable. The new police, replacing the old system of local watches, had been around for at least half a century now in most areas of the country but they were still considered to be staffed by the lower orders and to exist only for the control and containment of the very same lower orders. The ranks were drawn from bright young working men who were happy to work long hours on their feet for little pay and the daily prospect of violence and abuse, and most of the officers except for the commissioners at the very top were the best men of the ranks who had worked their way up. As such, their involvement with the upper middle classes and aristocracy was minimal.
The rich felt that their wealth was protection enough, and saw little reason to justify any of their doings to the lowly police force.
That said, Theodore reflected that a man like Sir Arthur was far less likely to treat Inspector Benn with condescension and dismissal, and he was proved right when they both arrived in the stable-yard. The same young man as before, Douglas Mackie, went to fetch Sir Arthur, who emerged from a tack room jacketless and with his shirt sleeves rolled up, a block of yellow saddle soap in his hand.
