A moment of silence mdk-1

by Anna Dean

  Dido ventured to hope that it was not quite certain that Mr Lomax must be hanged.

  But, bless her soul! It seemed as if he would be. Because she had it on very good authority from her own maid who had spoken to the cook who was the sister of the under-gardener, that the footman – or the gardener’s boy – or someone – had actually heard Tom Lomax in the shrubbery – murdering the young woman! Actually heard him!

  Dido suggested that it was perhaps not quite murder which the boy had heard.

  But it was. Shouting and shooting and the woman crying out pitifully. He heard it all. And now there was Mr Tom in the library and without a doubt he’d be dragged off to the assizes before he could look about him. And the Lord only knew what the poor dear girls would say about it. They were so sensitive and tender-hearted. It was a shocking thing for them to have to hear.

  And with this Mrs Harris hurried away to find ‘the poor dear girls’ so that no one else might have the pleasure of shocking them.

  Left on her own, Dido made her way slowly to the main staircase and down into the hall – which seemed to be tranquil and deserted now. The great clock ticked ponderously in its corner, the black and white tiles shone in testimony of the housemaids’ labours, a fire of logs blazed cheerfully in the high basket grate and on the rug before it Sir Edgar’s favourite spaniel dozed, her paws and nose twitching as she sought out woodcock in her dreams. Opposite the stairs was the door to the library and it was, as she had expected, closed. She hesitated for a moment; reluctant to go away, yet not wanting to be suspected of eavesdropping. And as she stood with her hand upon the newel post, she saw that, after all, the place was not quite deserted.

  A small movement drew her eye to a chair by the fire, a big, old-fashioned chair with a hood to it that all but concealed its occupant. She stepped forward and saw that Mr Harris was sitting there – in a state of great distress.

  He was leaning forward with his hands planted upon his knees and his weather-beaten face had turned to a dangerous purple colour. His mouth was moving frantically, but no sound was coming out of it. He seemed to be experiencing some kind of seizure.

  ‘Mr Harris, are you unwell?’ She hurried to his side. ‘Shall I ring the bell? Shall I send for your man?’

  ‘No.’ He made a great effort to control himself. ‘No, no, I am quite well, thank you, my dear. Just a little overcome, just for a moment.’

  ‘Let me call for help…a glass of wine perhaps.’

  ‘No,’ he said more firmly. ‘No, there is no need at all to distress yourself, Miss Kent. I am only resting for a moment.’ He got to his feet. ‘There is something I must do. A duty. Not pleasant, but it must be done.’

  And with that he put back his portly shoulders, crossed the hall, knocked upon the library door and entered without waiting for an answer from within.

  As the door closed behind him, Dido sank thoughtfully into the hooded chair. Now, what, she wondered, was Mr Harris’s business with Sir Edgar and Tom Lomax? Something unpleasant.

  There were, she thought, two possibilities. Firstly there was the business of how Tom could have been in the shrubbery when everyone had been led to believe that he had not left the spinney. She recollected that, according to Mr Lomax’s account, only Mr Harris had been able to vouch for Tom’s remaining with the shooting party. Was Mr Harris now having to admit that he had not told the truth about that?

  And secondly, if Mrs Harris was to be believed, there were acquaintances her husband had in common with Tom. Was it possible that, through them, he knew of something to Tom’s disadvantage? Something which he now felt it was his duty to communicate to Sir Edgar?

  Dido sank back as far as she could to hide herself in the hooded chair and resolved to wait until the men left the library. Despite what she had just written to Eliza, she could not be uncurious on this subject. Nor could she quite believe that it had no bearing upon the trouble between Catherine and Mr Montague.

  She would wait until the gentlemen emerged. Then she might be able to judge from their behaviour something of what had passed between them.

  But concealment proved difficult for, no sooner had she settled into the chair than the dog woke and came to sit beside her, with a hot, friendly paw placed upon her lap. Catherine, coming down the stairs a moment later, saw immediately that there was someone sitting in the chair. And, rather unfortunately, Catherine seemed to be in a very good temper. She was all smiles and friendliness.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Aunt Dido!’ she cried peering around the hood. ‘I have been looking everywhere for you!’

  ‘Well, now that you know that I am safe, you may leave me in peace to think, may you not? And you can take this dog away with you.’

  ‘There is no need to be so peevish,’ said Catherine, dropping into a chair on the opposite side of the hearth. ‘It is very ungrateful of you, when I have been all morning spreading your fame as a future-gazer. Mrs Harris is particularly pleased with the notion and now she is telling everyone how clever my old aunt is.’

  ‘I am not anybody’s old aunt, Catherine.’ Dido pushed the dog’s paw from her lap, but it was speedily replaced.

  ‘No, perhaps you are not so very old. But you are odd; I am sure people here were beginning to notice your strange ways. But now, you see, it does not matter how odd you seem, because you have remarkable talents and remarkable talents excuse all manner of oddness.’

  ‘I see. If I can predict the future then I am allowed to be poor. I can wear pattens and have a shabby pelisse.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And this is why you are friends with me again! I am not at all sure that I welcome such popularity, Catherine.’

  ‘Upon my word! You are quite determined to quarrel with me this morning.’

  ‘On the contrary, I do not wish to quarrel with anyone. I wish rather to be left alone.’

  ‘But I need to talk to you,’ persisted Catherine.

  ‘What do you wish to talk about?’

  ‘Well, I have been thinking over what you asked me when you first came to Belsfield. Where might Richard have gone? Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dido, wondering what might follow. ‘I remember. Have you thought of where he might be?’

  ‘Yes, I think perhaps I have. Of course everyone believes he has gone to town. But I do not think so. Richard does not like town, you see. When he goes away – as he does when he feels unwell – he likes to be quiet. Somewhere in the countryside. But I could think of no particular place. Nowhere that he had mentioned as somewhere he liked. And then I remembered!’

  ‘Remembered what exactly?’

  ‘Lyme!’

  ‘Lyme?’

  ‘Yes. Once, when he was a little boy of about six years old, he was sent to a tutor at Lyme. He had been ill with scarlet fever and he was sent to Lyme to recover. To a house overlooking the sea. He told me about it. He said it is a beautiful place and the summer he spent there was the happiest summer of his life.’

  ‘I see. And you think perhaps…?’

  ‘No, no I don’t think at all, Aunt! I am sure. Absolutely sure. Richard is at Lyme.’

  ‘I do not see how you can be sure.’

  ‘But I am. I know Richard, you see. You would not understand…’

  ‘No, of course I would not, because I have never loved a man.’

  Catherine looked a little ashamed. ‘I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Aunt Dido.’

  ‘It is of no consequence. But I think your idea is worth considering…’

  ‘We must do a great deal more than consider it. We must go to Lyme.’

  ‘Must we indeed? And how are we to accomplish that? It is more than twenty miles off.’

  ‘Nothing could be easier. Sir Edgar has said he wishes you to see the countryside, has he not?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘And of course you would wish to see Lyme. Everyone goes to Lyme. It shall be a regular exploring party.’

  ‘I am not sure I wish to go exploring just now.’r />
  But Catherine would not be denied and a moment later she was off to ‘talk to Mama about it.’

  Dido sighed. She really was a very wilful, difficult girl!

  Which was, of course, just what Margaret was forever saying and what Dido and Eliza regularly denied. Margaret maintained that it was those three formative years spent with her aunts that had done the damage; she believed – and frequently said – that by the time she had taken control of Catherine at six years old, she had been spoilt beyond hope of correction.

  Maybe she had been spoilt, just a little, the sisters would sometimes admit to each other. But not so very much. And who could help indulging a little lost child who used to open her eyes every morning to ask, ‘Has Mama returned yet?’ It was certainly more than they had been capable of.

  But today Dido was ready to admit – to herself at least – that it might have been better if the girl had not learnt so early the pleasure of getting her own way; nor formed such a determination to believe only what she wished to believe.

  All she could hope was that Catherine’s exploring party would not take them from Belsfield while there were still questions to be answered there.

  It was beginning to seem that the interview in the library had been going on a very long time and Dido was becoming very impatient to know whether a charge of murder had been brought against Tom and whether Mr Harris’s information had told heavily against him. The clock ticked on beside her and she became drowsy. She was dimly aware of someone playing the pianoforte in the drawing room and she was wondering who the musician could be since the performance was much too assured and accomplished to be Miss Sophia’s, when the door opened at last and the three men came out of the library.

  The dog at last dropped its paw from her lap and crept away to hide behind the chair.

  She peered eagerly around the great wooden hood, but, to her surprise, only one of the three was looking at all distressed – and that one was Mr Harris. His colour had improved a little, but he still looked seriously discomposed. Sir Edgar, on the other hand, was smiling benignly. And, as for Tom Lomax, he strode out into the hall looking very pleased with himself indeed.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Sir Edgar, might I speak with you a moment?’ Dido made her way across the hall as Mr Harris hurried off up the stairs and Tom lounged away towards the billiard room.

  Sir Edgar stopped and eyed her gravely. She rather fancied that there was disapproval in his look. ‘Good morning, Miss Kent. How may I help you?’

  ‘I was,’ she said with a look of innocence, ‘I was just wondering whether my young friend Jack had spoken to you. He told me yesterday that he had a rather delicate matter on his mind. I recommended that he should speak with you.’

  ‘Ah! He mentioned the matter to you, did he, Miss Kent?’ There was no mistaking the note of dignified disapproval now: the slight, the very slight, emphasis upon the pronoun, which was intended to remind her of what a humble position she occupied in the great commonwealth of his house.

  ‘He did not give any details, of course,’ Dido assured him.

  ‘I am glad to hear it. I would not recommend that you trouble yourself over the business.’

  ‘So,’ said Dido, rather wondering at her own audacity, ‘his information was of no use to you?’

  Sir Edgar sighed. ‘Well, I would not say that it was of no use. I know now that the young woman was killed after five and twenty past twelve. It seems Mr Tom Lomax was in the shrubbery at that time and saw nothing.’

  ‘So it is true? He was in the shrubbery?’

  ‘Miss Kent, I beg you will not trouble yourself over this matter.’

  ‘I am sorry, Sir Edgar, but it does seem so very odd that he should not have mentioned this circumstance before.’

  Sir Edgar looked so angry for a moment that Dido quaked. But then, all of a sudden, he seemed to relent. He gave his benign smile. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘but Mr Lomax was there upon a private matter – an affair of the heart – you see, Miss Kent. Something he preferred to keep silent about. It seems he and Mr Harris came down together from the spinney to the hermitage. On a rather happier errand than murder.’ He rocked himself ponderously upon his toes. ‘They wanted a quiet talk, you see – about Mr Lomax’s offer for one of Mr Harris’s daughters.’

  Dido remembered Catherine’s words about Tom’s debts, and also the purple colour that had lately been on Mr Harris’s face, and she rather doubted whether such a talk would have been so very quiet.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘And Mr Harris confirmed Mr Lomax’s account?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  So that had been Mr Harris’s mission. Little wonder that he had been distressed, for he could not have liked owning to the conversation. Tom’s audacity in even asking had been an insult. But, it seemed, he was a good, principled man and he had known it was his duty to lift the suspicion of murder – even from a man he disliked.

  ‘So, you see, Miss Kent,’ continued Sir Edgar with great condescension, ‘there is another wedding in sight here at Belsfield. Now that is something pleasanter for you to be thinking about than murder, is it not?’

  ‘A wedding!’ Dido stared in disbelief. ‘Sir Edgar, am I to understand that Mr Harris gave his consent?’

  ‘Oh yes. Both gentlemen were quite clear about that. They both spoke of an agreement having been made.’

  ‘No! No, it is quite impossible,’ said Catherine when she joined her aunt a few moments later in the hall and was told what had happened. ‘They are both lying. They must be. I could sooner believe that Mr Harris shot the woman himself than that he should give his consent for Tom Lomax to marry dear little Sophia or darling Amelia.’

  ‘Well, I mean to ask Mr Tom Lomax about it myself,’ said Dido with determination. ‘I do not care much for Mr Tom. It seems that wherever I turn there he is, smiling his foolish smile and looking altogether too pleased with himself.’

  Resolutely, she turned and made her way across the hall to the gloomy billiard room.

  Tom was alone at the big green table, working away diligently with his cue and still smiling contentedly to himself in between whistling snatches of a coarse popular song.

  ‘I understand,’ said Dido, stepping into the male atmosphere of old cigar smoke and brandy, ‘that congratulations are the order of the day, Mr Lomax.’

  Tom’s cue scraped the table and he cursed as balls clattered about in all directions. ‘I beg your pardon?’ He turned, cue in hand, looking wary.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry!’ cried Dido clapping her hand to her mouth in mock innocence. ‘Is it meant to be a secret? But Sir Edgar just mentioned to me the subject of your talk with Mr Harris, and I was so delighted! Another wedding! I do so love to hear of weddings, and marriage does seem to be quite the fashion at Belsfield just now. So lovely!’

  ‘Well…’ Tom ran a finger round his cravat. ‘We have not yet made the engagement public. So, perhaps if you would not mind, well…not mentioning it for a little while… I am sure you understand how it is, Miss…er…Kent.’

  ‘Oh! A secret engagement! How delightful!’ Dido clasped her hands together – and began to wonder whether she might not be overplaying the part of silly spinster. But Tom seemed to suspect nothing.

  He made a great effort to be gallant. He laid down his billiard cue, took Dido’s hand and bowed over it. ‘It shall be our secret for now, shall it, Miss Kent? I am sure I can rely upon you not to betray us.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ simpered Dido. ‘I shall not breathe a word.’ She started for the door and then turned back. Tom was rubbing chalk onto the end of his cue and frowning at the confusion on the table. ‘There is just one question I cannot help asking, Mr Lomax. I am sure you will not mind.’

  ‘Yes?’ he said with an effort at patience.

  ‘Which of the Misses Harris is it that you are in love with?’

  ‘Well, as to that… I mean I cannot, at the moment…’ He faltered to a standstill as he saw that the smile spreading on Dido�
��s face was neither silly nor vague.

  ‘It is rather strange, is it not,’ she said, ‘to be unsure of the name of the lady to whom you are engaged?’

  …Well, Eliza, I have made an enemy, I do not doubt. But I dislike Tom Lomax too much to care whether or not I have his good opinion. I am quite sure now that he was lying about his reason for being in the shrubbery. But if he was lying, then so was Mr Harris – which seems altogether much more surprising. Unlikely as such an idea seems, I cannot escape the conclusion that Tom and Mr Harris are confederates in some mystery. But how does it relate to the death of Miss Wallis? Or is there more than one mystery carrying on in this house? I begin to think that there must be and that I am surrounded by a great confusion of guilt and deceit.

  Oh, Eliza! It is the little things that trouble me most. Things like the hiding of the dog behind my chair when Sir Edgar came out of the library; the game of football which Mrs Potter’s Kate saw carrying on at Tudor House; Catherine’s account of Mr Montague’s headaches. And out of all these little things is building a picture which I do not like to contemplate.

  You see, I know, by Mrs Holmes’ account, that Mr Montague is anxious to please his father. And I think she falls short of the truth. Despite her denial, Eliza, I believe that the poor young man does indeed fear him. Because Sir Edgar is a bully. I am sure that he is – for why else would his own dog flee from him? Why else is his young footman afraid to speak to him even when he has important information to give? Why do the villagers dislike him? Yes, I make no doubt that Sir Edgar is a bully, a bully who does not like his son. Why he should have taken such a dislike to him I cannot understand, unless he perceives him as being weak. But the question that torments me is this: under such disapproval at home, what might a young man be driven to do?