by Anna Dean
So much is certain.
But, Eliza, this has brought me to a shocking conclusion. You see, after most exhaustive enquiries among the servants – and I might add that there is a veritable army of men employed here in maintaining that exquisite order that Sir Edgar demands in his park and pleasure grounds – none of these men are able to recall seeing a stranger here during that time. So, you see, it seems most likely – though I find this hard to countenance, and nobody else in the household will even acknowledge it to be possible – that it was a man from the house who did the terrible deed. Of course there are the beaters and the servants to consider; but they would have had no weapon. Eliza, it was only the gentlemen who were carrying guns.
It is a shocking conclusion, is it not? But I think it must be braved. What was it that Edward used to say when he was preparing for his debates at Cambridge? ‘Logic is a matter for the head and it is best not to let the heart have anything to do with it.’
And I sincerely hope that Edward would have approved of the logic I applied yesterday in my study of the shrubbery.
After I had closed the door of the hermitage, I followed the gravel path beside its wall. This brought me to the edge of the shrubbery and the ha-ha that divides it from the park. I stopped here and looked about me.
The first thing I noticed was that it would indeed have been impossible for the woman to have been killed by a shot fired from the park side of the ha-ha because the summerhouse itself stands in the way. The fatal shot must have been fired from within the shrubbery.
But, as I looked across into the park, I also saw that the little wooded hill known as Cooper’s Spinney, which is the place where the gentlemen were shooting that day, begins barely two hundred yards away.
Here the parkland ends with a romantic little Greek ruin, which, it seems, Sir Edgar built last summer. It is rather pretty with its white, fresh-looking walls and fallen columns, though it probably has as much of Greece about it as the stable block; for Sir Edgar has never visited Europe, since England has, as I heard him telling the colonel at dinner yesterday, ‘always been enough’ for him. Anyway, this ruin marks the end of the parkland and beyond it is the rougher ground where the game birds thrive.
Now, looking at the spinney, I thought that one of the men might, just possibly, have been able to slip away while the guns and the beaters were all intent upon the sport and, if luck was with him, his absence might not have been noted. I looked carefully at the distance between the spinney and the shrubbery and I am sure that a man running could have covered the ground in a minute – or maybe two.
And could he have crossed the ha-ha?
Well, yes, I think that he might. It is formed of only a moderate ditch – just deep enough to prevent the fence it contains from interrupting the view from the pleasure grounds – and the fence itself is not high. It does not need to be, for Sir Edgar’s park has no deer in it to come marauding in the gardens; there are only sheep and cattle, neither of which are remarkable for their prowess in jumping. Yes, I think a man in shooting dress might scramble down into the ditch and climb the fence without too much difficulty.
In fact, I can say more than that, Eliza. I can say that I am almost sure that someone did just that.
You see, I went and stood beside the ha-ha at the point nearest the hermitage. The point at which it would have been most convenient to cross. And there, sure enough, in the soft mud of the bank, were furrows gouged as if by the skidding heels of boots. And there were marks on the other side too coming down from the park. Someone had crossed there – recently.
So, the question filling my head now is: were all the men of the house out that day? Must they all be equally under suspicion? I must ask Catherine about it.
Which reminds me that I have promised to go with Catherine upon her morning calls; I am to meet her in the morning room at eleven o’clock and it is already just a quarter before the hour. I cannot write much more, but there are yet one or two points that I wish to mention.
First, there is this, rather happier, thought: whoever else might have been a member of that shooting party, Mr Montague was certainly not in it, because he had left Belsfield two days before. So he cannot have been the man who crossed the ha-ha with a gun in his hands, can he?
He cannot have been here on that day…
I have been thinking it over carefully. My information on this matter all comes from dear Mrs Harris and I am almost certain that she said the gatekeeper had been questioned very particularly and that she had said she admitted no strangers that day. A suspicion arises in my mind – this solving of mysteries is very apt to make one suspicious. Is it possible that, either by chance or design, the gatekeeper omitted to mention admitting Mr Montague because he was not a stranger?
I must make my own enquiries about that too.
And now the clock has struck the hour and Catherine will be becoming very impatient; but there is one more thing that I must tell you before I close and it concerns Colonel Walborough.
He is a very strange man. He is large and corpulent and has what I make no doubt our mother would have called a ‘bilious look’. Moreover, he has very large, flat feet and walking does not seem to be easy for him – though I suppose he must be rather more nimble on horseback or he would never have won the high reputation that he has in his profession.
Well, as I was returning from the shrubbery yesterday, I saw a very strange sight. I had just crossed the lawns and come onto the drive in front of the house at a place where it is bounded on either side by a succession of large, high yew bushes. I was amazed to see Colonel Walborough making his way along the drive and, as he passed each bush, peering around it – and into it.
He looked so strange, Eliza! He was perspiring with the effort and he looked rather as a man does at a ball when he has been, by the tyranny of good manners, trapped into a dance against his will.
‘Are you looking for something, Colonel?’ I asked.
‘Ah!’ He came to a standstill on the gravel. ‘Good morning, Miss…er, yes, good morning to ’ee.’
‘Can I help you?’ I said. ‘Have you perhaps lost something?’
‘Oh, no. No, I thank ’ee, but no.’
The colonel, I should say, has a rather strange way of speaking, which it is difficult to do justice to on paper; it is rather like a gallant young fellow of fifty years ago. It suggests to me that he has perhaps not always lived in the best society and has learnt his manners by reading the wrong sort of novels.
He smiled at me and gave an exaggerated bow. ‘I was just looking for that boy,’ he said, ‘that footman. The young one, you know.’
‘Jack?’ I said. ‘I believe all the footmen are in the butler’s pantry cleaning silver at this time in the morning.’
‘Ah, good. Thank ’ee.’
I must have looked as puzzled as I felt because after a moment he added, as if in explanation, ‘Logs. Logs you know, Miss…er…’
‘Logs?’ I said.
‘Yes, logs,’ he said. ‘Gad! My basket is always empty, don’t you know, and I believe it’s that young rascal’s duty to fill it.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said.
And then he made another ill-judged bow and wandered off. But, Eliza, I noticed that he was not walking towards the house. And I do not believe that it was Jack he had been searching for at all. His manner of peering around and into the bushes suggested a search for something that had been deliberately hidden.
Unless, of course, young Jack has taken to playing hide-and-seek with his master’s guests…
Chapter Five
Catherine was not in the morning room when Dido went there. Miss Harris was there with her paints and her drawing board and some hothouse fruits arranged upon a table – and Mr Tom Lomax was at her side, trying very hard to be gallant. As Dido entered he was entreating the lady to paint his likeness and obligingly turning his, undoubtedly handsome, face from side to side so that she might judge for herself from which angle he might be best portrayed.
‘But I will be still,’ he said. ‘I will be as still as these oranges and pineapples and you know it does not matter to me one bit whether the likeness is good or bad, for I only care that you will have to look at me a long while. And I really do not see why this pineapple should be honoured with your attention when it has done nothing but sit upon its dish while I have been labouring this last half hour to entertain you.’
Miss Amelia shook her head helplessly.
‘Come now,’ said Tom, stretching his long body in the chair. ‘Could you not paint a picture of me?’ He picked up a cushion, balanced it upon the back of his chair and threw his head back on it.
Dido studied his pose for several minutes – then crept away unseen.
‘I think,’ she said when she had found Catherine in the drawing room, ‘that Mr Tom Lomax is being very attentive to Miss Harris.’
‘Oh, as to that,’ said Catherine carelessly, ‘I am sure he would happily catch her and her twenty thousand – or her sister for that matter. Indeed, Tom Lomax probably wishes he was a Mohammedan so he could have both girls and all forty thousand pounds. But he is wasting his time, for there is not the least chance of their papa agreeing.’
‘You do not think so?’ said Dido cautiously. ‘You do not think that…well, it might be important to him to keep secret from Mr Harris anything that might be to his disadvantage. Twenty thousand pounds is a great deal of money. A man might go to some lengths to secure it…’ she mused. ‘He might, I mean, go to some lengths to silence anyone who could speak against him and to…well, to appear respectable.’
‘My dear aunt, I have no idea what you are talking about. But I assure you that under no circumstances would Mr Harris consider Tom as a husband for one of his daughters. Tom is penniless, you know. It is well known that he is over his ears in gaming debts, which his father has refused to pay.’
‘Mmm, but he is a good-looking fellow.’
‘Is he? Yes, I suppose he is. And what do you mean by saying that so earnestly?’
‘Just that it is not unknown for a young lady to marry without her papa’s consent. Mr Harris had perhaps better take a little care. And Colonel Walborough too, if, as one must suspect, he has an interest in the matter. A man of forty – and that, I think, is being kind to the colonel – had better take a little care if he finds himself opposed to a handsome fellow of five and twenty.’
‘No, I am sure you need not worry on his account, Aunt. The Harris girls may not be very clever, but neither of them would be so foolish as to give up the colonel and his four thousand a year for Tom Lomax. The colonel may take his pick; he only needs to decide which inflames his passions most: paintings of pineapples, or indifferent concertos.’ She cast a meaningful look in the direction of the piano stool, which was occupied by Miss Sophia Harris: a short, fussy-looking girl who wore her hair looped about her ears in a way that put Dido in mind of a spaniel.
‘Do not be ungrateful,’ said Dido. ‘The music may not be quite polished, but it has the recommendation of allowing us to talk unheard.’ And she looked beyond the instrument to the other end of the long room where a fire was burning and working candles had been lit against the darkness of the day. There, in the circle of warm light, sat the other three ladies, working – nominally at least – upon their embroidery. In fact, Mrs Harris was chiefly employed in relating a long narrative of her own affairs, while Margaret yawned and Lady Montague played with the rings on her fingers with a look of such extreme ennui upon her face that not even the dreadful music and the tedium of Mrs Harris’s conversation could account for.
Dido was arrested by the lady’s look and began to study her with interest. The profile thrown back wearily against the brocade of the sofa was remarkably beautiful. But her expression, her pose, her whole air seemed to suggest that the morning – the day – or perhaps even the whole life – was a blank.
‘How do you like your new mother-in-law?’ she asked Catherine after a moment or two.
Catherine shrugged. ‘Well enough,’ she said calmly. Then a dimple flashed in her cheek. ‘But then you know, Aunt, I am quite liberal in my notions.’
‘Oh? And what does that mean?’ asked Dido. She knew that dimple well; it meant mischief.
‘I had better not tell you, Aunt. You would find it too shocking.’
‘I shall do my best to bear it philosophically, my dear. Please tell me.’
‘Well,’ whispered Catherine leaning close, even though Miss Sophia’s music was now making up in volume what it lacked in fluency, ‘they say that her ladyship has a lover.’
‘Oh yes? Who says it?’
‘People in the village, you know. I understand it is very generally believed among the tradesmen and shopkeepers.’
‘I daresay,’ said Dido sharply, ‘that there are a great many things believed by the tradesmen of Belston, which you and I would do well to give no heed to.’
‘Ah,’ whispered Catherine. ‘But I have my own grounds for suspecting her. In fact, if you were not being so ill-tempered, I could tell you who the gentleman might be!’
‘I have no need to improve my temper, my dear,’ said Dido calmly, ‘because I know that you are quite incapable of not telling me what you suspect.’
‘And I daresay you will give me no peace until I do explain. So I shall tell you: I think it is Mr William Lomax.’
‘What nonsense!’ cried Dido indignantly. Unluckily there was a slight pause in the music just then and her exclamation made everyone turn in her direction.
Catherine giggled.
‘And what grounds do you have for making such a preposterous claim?’ whispered Dido when Miss Sophia had resumed her playing.
‘Well, twice since I have been staying here, she has driven away in his carriage. She says that it is to deal with business.’
‘But you do not believe that it is business she goes about?’
‘My dear aunt, what business has a married woman to deal with? And besides, even if she had, my lady is the last woman in the world to be conscientious about it.’
‘Mmm,’ mused Dido. ‘I wonder.’ She studied the elegant, fashionably dressed figure and the pale face against the dark green brocade. The features were as small and delicate as a girl’s and the lines about the mouth and eyes had more of discontent than age in them. She must have married – and borne her son – very young, for she could not now be very much past forty, and she was perhaps twenty years her husband’s junior.
And Mr Lomax, though he might have a slightly grave air and what Catherine would, no doubt, call a ‘business look’, was a fine figure of a man and had, moreover, a kindly manner and a pleasing consideration of other people’s feelings that must be preferred by any woman of taste to Sir Edgar’s excessive self-importance and that devotion to ancestry which made him seem as much a part of history as the dark old portraits that hung upon his walls…
Oh dear, thought Dido when her musings had reached this point, that is the very worst of gossip: it has a way of being more believable than discretion.
She was going to pursue the subject, but just then the music began to falter a little. ‘Catherine,’ she continued hurriedly, ‘before Miss Sophia exhausts her repertoire, there are other things I need to ask you.’
‘Then ask, my dear aunt. I am quite at your service.’
‘Well, first of all: who exactly was in that shooting party the day before yesterday?’
‘All the men from the house. Sir Edgar, Mr Harris, Colonel Walborough, Tom Lomax and his father. Though I do not believe Mr William Lomax was shooting that day. He rarely does; but he walked out with the others and remained out with them all morning.’
‘And at what time did they return?’
‘At about one o’clock.’
‘I see.’ Dido considere
d in silence for some moments.
‘Excuse me,’ said Catherine abruptly, ‘I will go and order the carriage.’ She got to her feet and hurried away before Dido could stop her. And the reason for her hasty departure was plain: Margaret had detached herself from the group by the fire and was sailing down the room towards them.
Dido would just then have dearly loved to have an hour to herself in which to think over all that she had seen and heard. But instead of being left to the luxury of solitary reflection, she found herself instead condemned to a tête-à-tête with her least favourite sister-in-law, a situation which she knew was not likely to promote amiable feelings on either side.
‘Well?’ demanded Margaret, lowering herself into the chair Catherine had vacated – and setting it creaking under her. ‘What do you think now of this strange affair of Catherine’s? Can you find out whether she has heard from the young man, or when she expects him to come back?’
‘I suppose,’ said Dido guardedly, ‘that only Sir Edgar can tell us when his son will have completed his business and be at liberty to return.’
‘Oh, don’t you give me those excuses! Anyone can see that there has been a falling out and that Sir Edgar, like the gentleman that he is, is covering up for them.’
‘Really, Margaret, since you understand it all so well yourself, I wonder that you need to ask my opinion.’
‘Hmph!’ said Margaret sourly. ‘I hope, Dido, that you are not encouraging Catherine in anything foolish. You must see that she is not likely to get another offer as good as this.’
‘I would never encourage Catherine in anything that was likely to injure her happiness.’
Margaret was driven to be more explicit. ‘You must know that it is very important to me that this marriage takes place. For the boys’ sake.’
‘Oh?’ said Dido with mock innocence. ‘The boys? What boys?’ She knew the answer, of course, but she could not help but be irritated when Margaret spoke of her little sons as if they were the only boys in the world.
Margaret coloured and retaliated sharply. ‘You know what I mean, Dido. Girls who are too choosy over getting a husband have a way of turning into old maids. And I would not have Catherine being a burden on her brothers.’