by Anna Dean
Outside, she was further cheered by the fresh smell of wet leaves and the singing of a blackbird – and by meeting William Lomax who was just alighting from his carriage in the drive.
He, too, feared that she would have rather a wet walk.
‘But, Mr Lomax,’ she said, laughing, ‘a wet walk is much to be preferred to being confined any longer in the drawing room.’
‘Ah,’ he replied with a kindly smile and immediate sympathy. ‘Too much Speculation?’
‘Oh no. After two days of rain, we are all grown too irritable to even speculate.’
‘And you will soon be reduced to Snap?’
‘Quite so!’
‘Then I sincerely hope that your walk will refresh you.’ He bowed and walked into the house.
Dido continued happily on her way, noticing as she did so that his carriage was a small post-chaise with yellow wheels. But then, she thought, what of that? There must be hundreds of such carriages in the world.
‘I thought you would come back,’ said Annie Holmes bluntly.
‘And why did you think that?’
‘Because you thought I was lying when I said I’d not seen Mr Montague since the day after the ball.’
‘And were you lying?’
The woman smiled, as if she was amused to have her honesty met with equal honesty. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘I was not lying.’
Well, perhaps you were and perhaps you weren’t, thought Dido, but you are certainly hiding something. You know something about Mr Montague. But how to find it out?
Mrs Holmes was remarkably sure of herself. She did not behave like a servant. She was a pretty little woman with a dimpled chin and, sitting now beside the hearth in the little kitchen-parlour of the gatehouse with her hands demurely clasped in the lap of her black dress, she had rather the air of a gentlewoman receiving a morning call. And her home did seem remarkably comfortable. The firelight was dancing on two copper pans above the hearth and on the polished wood of a good, solid table and chest; there was a cream jug on the window sill filled with sprays of red leaves. And Dido noticed that the candle in its pewter stand upon the mantelshelf was made of wax, not cheap tallow.
The little girl was sitting beside her mother – and trying to make the china doll eat bread and milk from her bowl.
‘Mr Montague has, I believe, gone to town on business of his father’s?’ said Dido cautiously.
‘Yes, miss, that is what I heard.’
‘Do you know – did he happen to mention that morning – what that business might be?’
‘No, he did not.’ But as she said that she turned away and began to chide the child for spilling milk on her pinafore. ‘Eat it up now, Susan. It’s for you, not the dolly.’
‘Did he say anything else to you?’ persisted Dido.
There was a sigh. ‘He said that he expected to be gone a long while and…’
‘And?’
Another sigh, then Mrs Holmes turned away from the child and her bright blue eyes met Dido’s gaze. ‘He said that…there was trouble between him and his father.’
‘I see.’ Dido held her eyes. Colour was creeping up her cheeks. ‘And did it surprise you, Mrs Holmes, that Mr Montague should confide in you in that way?’
There was silence for a moment, broken only by the ringing of Susan’s spoon in her bowl and the bubbling of the black kettle on the hearth.
‘No, miss,’ came the reply at last, spoken very quietly. ‘No, it did not surprise me. I have known Mr Montague all his life and he has always been a good friend to me.’ There was a pause. ‘And I hope that, in my way, I have been a friend to him.’
‘A friend to whom he can speak without reserve?’
‘Yes, miss. We were children together here at Belsfield, you see, because my father used to be Sir Edgar’s head gardener. And Mr Montague was always a kind-hearted boy.’
Dido smiled. ‘I understand,’ she said. Then after a moment’s thought she added, ‘Since you are so well acquainted with Mr Montague, I wonder if you would be so kind as to tell me a little about him. What kind of a young man is he? You see,’ she added confidingly, ‘I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting him and it seems as if my visit may end before he returns. And since my favourite niece is engaged to him…I would particularly like to be able to tell my sister a little about the young man. She worries so about Catherine!’
Annie’s blue eyes were wary; her fingers wove together tightly in her lap. ‘I would have thought, miss, you could learn more from his ma and pa.’
‘But someone of nearly the same age… Someone who has grown up beside him…’
‘I’m sorry, miss,’ came the firm reply. ‘It’s not my place to speak about him.’
‘Ah well,’ said Dido, drawing her pelisse around her as if preparing to leave, ‘it is a shame. I had so wanted to have something good to write in my letter to my sister, something to mitigate the very unpleasant impression she has at present of the young man.’
That shot hit home. ‘And why,’ asked Mrs Holmes sharply, ‘would your sister think badly of him?’
‘Well, because of the way he has behaved, of course. He has been so very thoughtless. Leaving my niece alone on the very day after their engagement is announced – and staying away without any word sent of when he is to come home.’
‘But that was his pa’s doing. He sent him away.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Truly, miss, if Sir Edgar said go, then Rich— Mr Montague, he’d go. And ask no questions about it. He’d do anything to please his pa. That always was his way.’
Ah! thought Dido, at last I am hearing something to the point about young Richard. ‘Do you mean that Mr Montague is afraid of his father?’ she asked.
Annie looked confused. ‘Not exactly afraid,’ she said quickly. ‘He’s just always wanted to make Sir Edgar proud of him, that’s all. And he never could quite manage it. Never. Not clever enough with his books. Not brave enough about riding his pony. It was always the same. I’ve always thought it was because—’ She recollected herself and stopped.
‘What is it that you think?’
‘No, miss,’ said Mrs Holmes with a shake of the head that dislodged a bright curl from her cap. ‘It’s not for me to talk about it. That was hardly fair just now; you tricked me into speaking out. But I hope you will be good enough not to tell anyone what I’ve said.’
‘Of course I will not. Anything you say is quite between ourselves.’ She waited, hoping that this would be enough encouragement to make her go on. But the young woman was in control of herself now and resolutely held her peace, her eyes cast down upon her clasped hands. ‘I believe you were going to tell me why it was so hard for Mr Montague to please his father.’
Mrs Holmes’ cheeks burnt red and she shook her head again. ‘No, miss, I can’t say. In every family there are secrets, things no one talks about.’
Such an opening! Such an invitation for further questions! But looking at the head bowed in the firelight, Dido recollected that, for all her strange, dainty ways, Annie Holmes was a servant and a dependent of the Montague family. It would be unpardonable to force a confidence from her. Reluctantly, she stood up to go.
Mrs Holmes followed her to the door, but at the moment of parting, as they stood together upon the step, blinking in the sudden light of the sun, she turned up a troubled face and said suddenly and all in a rush, ‘Miss, I’d be as glad as you to know what the trouble is with R— Mr Montague and I’m truly sorry I can’t say more – it wouldn’t be right. But I will say this – it’s not so difficult to figure out why Sir Edgar has always been hard on him, miss. If you were to go up into the gallery at the great house and just look about you, I think you might begin to understand it.’
And then she made her bob and closed the door before Dido could recover from her surprise and ask another question.
* * *
Dido walked slowly down the wet drive towards the house. The sun was beginning to break through in bright, sharp ray
s and blackbirds were busy in the laurels, shaking down little showers of water from the overburdened leaves. She had a great deal to think about: that comfortable little parlour, Mrs Holmes’ assured manner, her way of speaking of Mr Montague… But she had liked the woman. There had seemed to be an appealing honesty about her… No, not honesty exactly, rather a desire to be honest. She had wanted to say more than she dared.
And what was it that she was supposed to discover in the gallery? What was there besides all those old Sir Edgars peering out of their dingy brown paint?
But at least she felt nearer to understanding Mr Montague himself. A nervous young man, lacking in confidence and standing in awe of his father. Perhaps Margaret was right and Catherine’s affection for him was founded on the certainty that he would be easily managed.
She had now reached the steps that led to the front door and there was Catherine herself running down to meet her with a look of great excitement on her face. Clearly something so momentous had occurred as to make her forget, for a while at least, her great displeasure with her aunt.
‘Aunt Dido,’ she cried, ‘I have been looking everywhere for you. Where have you been?’
‘Just talking to the gatekeeper.’
Catherine frowned. ‘I don’t admire your taste in company! But listen, Sir Edgar has just told me the strangest thing! One of the footmen has told him that he heard a man talking in the shrubbery on Monday – at about twelve o’clock – which is about the time when they think that woman was killed.’
‘Indeed? That is very interesting.’
‘It seems the footman had been sent out with a message for the gardener and he went down onto the lower lawn looking for him. And he heard a voice talking quietly within the shrubbery. He could not see, of course, because the hedge was in the way. But he heard the voice clearly and he is sure it was—’
‘Mr Tom Lomax.’
Catherine stared. ‘Aunt! How could you possibly know that? For I had it from Sir Edgar not five minutes ago and he had but that moment finished speaking to the boy.’
‘Oh,’ said Dido lightly. ‘It was just a moment of premonition. I have them sometimes.’
‘Do you?’ said Catherine eyeing her with a mixture of disbelief and amazement. ‘I have never heard of them before.’
Chapter Ten
…Well, Eliza, you will remember that I always did rather favour Mr Tom for a murderer. I am not certain what Mrs Harris would say about his eyebrows and his chin but there is certainly that in his smile which makes me think him insincere and quite capable not only of betraying a woman but of disposing of her ruthlessly if she threatened his plans for a comfortable future…
But I hardly know what I write. Of course, in sober truth, it would be shocking to discover that one was sharing a house with such a villain. And my best comfort is that if the guilt does indeed lie in that quarter then it is no business of mine, for it would seem to be quite unconcerned with Catherine’s affair and the woman’s living in the same house as the one that Mr Montague’s visitor stayed in is no more than a strange coincidence. It is not for me to consider how the deed might have been accomplished or how Tom contrived to leave the shooting party unobserved, any more than it is my business to dwell upon what will become of him now.
So I am instead employing my mind with the riddle Mrs Holmes has set for me. I am at present in the gallery, sitting with my writing desk upon the window seat, and hoping that this long stretch of beautifully polished floorboards, these squares of light thrown in by the late afternoon sun and these ranks of long-dead Montagues in their gilded frames, may somehow suggest a solution to my struggling brain. I regret to inform you that there has, so far, been no startling burst of understanding. But it is a pleasant place to sit, except for the sensation of being very much watched. My framed companions have, in general, a rather forbidding look. It is strange to consider that these sombre ladies in their stiff bodices and farthingales were the giggling young misses of their day – and that these frowning fellows with padded breeches and pointed beards were, no doubt, the gallant young men about whom they giggled.
I have found a portrait of Sir Edgar – the present Sir Edgar – painted, I rather think, to mark his coming of age. There are no lines upon his face, but he seems to have changed in little else – at one and twenty he had already that same air of importance and extreme weightiness. There is also a picture of his father at a similar age and wearing a similar expression of self-importance beneath his periwig. And one of his father. And so on along a whole line of Sir Edgars, darkening with age down the gallery and wearing more and more preposterous outfits. Which all makes me think that the painting of such pictures upon reaching manhood is a tradition in the family and I am rather surprised to discover that there was no portrait of Mr Montague done two years ago when he was one and twenty. Indeed, now that I consider the matter, I realise that the only picture I have seen of him is that miniature he gave to Catherine and which she carries in her great-grandmother’s silver locket.
Which, I suppose, might be a proof of his father’s disfavour, but does not supply the explanation of it which Mrs Holmes seemed to promise. And, in short, I am at a loss…
Dido paused, realising that she was no longer alone in the gallery. A figure was walking towards her from the head of the stairs.
‘Good afternoon, Lady Montague,’ she said, politely putting aside her writing desk and standing up. ‘I have been enjoying your remarkably fine collection of paintings.’
The lady stopped abruptly at the sound of her voice and pulled her shawl about her arms. ‘Oh,’ she said and looked about at the walls as if she had never noticed the portraits hanging there before. ‘Yes, they are very pretty, are they not?’ She smiled vaguely. ‘Sir Edgar says there is not another collection to compare with it in the land.’
Dido regarded the lady sidelong. The sunlight pouring through the high window showed that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes red – maybe she was distressed – or maybe she had been drinking wine. One damp little curl clung to her brow. She looked brittle and frail in the bright light; but their late encounter over the medicine had made Dido wary of her. However, she thought that maybe she would just try to probe a little… Just a question or two…
‘I have been looking for one picture in particular,’ she began.
‘Oh,’ said the lady languidly, ‘I daresay there are a great many that are worth your attention, Miss Kent. That man sitting on his horse there.’ She gestured wearily. ‘I believe he is generally reckoned to be very well done. And this lady with pearls in her hair was painted by an artist who is famous – but I am afraid I do not recollect his name.’ She half turned as if she would walk away.
‘Yes,’ persisted Dido, ‘but there seems to be just one portrait missing. I have not been able to find any representation of your son.’
There was a long pause. The sun from the window shone in on Dido’s back; she began to feel hot and uncomfortable. The lady lowered her head and pursed her lips. ‘You are quite mistaken, Miss Kent,’ she said quietly at last. ‘There is not one painting missing from this gallery.’
‘Is there not?’
‘No, there are about four thousand missing.’
‘Four thousand?’ cried Dido, thoroughly confused and discomfited. ‘I am afraid I do not quite understand.’
My lady raised her eyes and there was in them the same impenetrable coldness as Dido had seen there before. ‘Do you not?’ she said placidly. ‘And yet it is quite simple. My husband’s ancestor, the first Sir Edgar, was given his estates and title by Queen Elizabeth in 1582. Since then, Miss Kent, there have been twelve generations of Montagues.’
She stopped as if her explanation were complete, but Dido continued to stare blankly. Her ladyship smiled mockingly. ‘My dear Miss Kent, have you never considered that everyone has two parents, four grandparents, eight great-grandparents, and so on.’ Dido, who hated even the simplest sums, had indeed never considered such a calculation before and, now
that it was forced upon her, her head began to ache with the extraordinary arithmetic it involved. ‘If you continue the reckoning over twelve generations,’ said her ladyship, ‘I believe you will find that the number of ancestors that should be represented here is exactly four thousand and ninety six.’ She raised her hand in the same weary gesture. ‘But here there are only a few Sir Edgars and their wives.’ Her eyes swept over Dido in chilling triumph. She turned to go. ‘I say again, Miss Kent, that there is not only one portrait missing from this gallery.’
Left alone in the sunny gallery with the solemnly watching ancestors, Dido was torn between amazement that her ladyship should have accomplished such strange computations, chagrin at the way in which she had been distracted from her own enquiries and admiration for the way in which that distraction had been accomplished.
And the end of it all was a growing certainty that her ladyship’s languid manner was only put on to shield herself – though precisely what she wished to shield herself from was much harder to determine.
It was about an hour later, as she was in her room, pondering upon my lady’s strange behaviour and getting ready for a walk in the grounds, that Dido’s attention was claimed by a commotion that was carrying on in the lower part of the house. There was a great deal of running upon the stairs, doors opening and banging closed again, chattering voices raised almost to a shout and then suddenly silenced.
She opened her door and walked to the head of the stairs. The disturbance seemed to be in the entrance hall and upon the main staircase. She started down the steps towards it – and almost immediately ran against Mrs Harris: her pink and white face very flushed and her grey-brown hair falling down out of her cap. It was a fortunate encounter. Dido could not have met with anyone with more to say about recent events – or one who was more likely to tell what she knew.
For the long and the short of it was that Sir Edgar was shut up with Mr Tom Lomax in the library and it seemed likely that the constable was to come and bear him off to the gaol. Mr Tom Lomax! Who would have thought it? Mr Tom who seemed such a pleasant lively young man – though a little bit too free, perhaps, in the way he spoke; but he was very young and you had to pardon him for that and, to be sure, you wouldn’t want to see him hanged for it, would you? Though, by the by, Mr Harris had never thought very highly of the young man, which was probably on account of the acquaintances he kept. People out in India that he had known, and Mr Harris had known too and had no great opinion of them. But still! Murder!