by Anna Dean
Could this be the reason for the hidden picture and the withholding of the family name? No, it could not of course have been a reason for the naming, for the child’s affliction would not have shown itself until he was a few years old. No, I think my first surmise is sound and Sir Edgar does indeed doubt his paternity. For there is still my lady’s physic to be considered.
You have my thoughts just as they arise, Eliza. I do not know what I write – nor what I think. But it is a great relief to write to you and I sincerely hope that you will not be so very unreasonable as to expect sense from me.
One source of distress is that I believe I have misjudged Catherine. I think that her affection for Mr Montague goes a good deal deeper than I have thought. You see, she was so very upset by the old gentleman’s words this afternoon, struck almost senseless by them, in fact. And, lately, Eliza, I have begun to wonder whether I might not have been too hasty in thinking her only slightly acquainted with Mr Montague; for one might perhaps become rather well acquainted with a man in a short time – if there was a very remarkable coincidence of temperament and the time was passed in rational converse on subjects that were of interest to both, rather than in the idle chatter of the ballroom – or card table…
Well, that is all quite by the by; the material point is that Catherine is now suffering a good deal and I have persuaded her to go to her bed.
So now I have a little time for quiet reflection here in the inn parlour, for the gentlemen have gone about business of their own – in the tap room or stables, I suppose – and I am sitting here in very companionable silence with the Misses Harris. The candles have been lit and the shutters closed and the fire is roaring in the chimney with the wind that is blowing in from the sea, and altogether we are very cosy here – with the occasional sound of wheels and horses outside to remind us that other folk are still abroad and make us glad that we are at rest for the night. Miss Sophia and I are writing our letters while Miss Harris is engaged upon her drawing – which, by the by, is vastly improved. Despite her efforts to conceal it, I contrived a peep just now. The giant sheep is gone and the perspective is very good and, all in all – as well as one can judge of such an incomplete performance – it promises to be a very fine picture indeed. How very strange!
It seems that I must amend my opinion of her as an artist – though not as a companion. I cannot say that I find either of them winning upon my affections. In the absence of the gentlemen not even Miss Sophia has anything much to say. And I am beginning to suspect that they are both naturally of a rather taciturn disposition and that Miss Sophia only exerts herself into chattering emphasis because she mistakenly believes it is becoming. Why do young women think that they must put on such airs to catch husbands? Were we ever such fools, Eliza? Well, well, I suppose we were, and I am allowing myself to wander quite off the point.
Perhaps when Mr Montague absents himself from home it is not entirely a matter of free choice. Perhaps the establishment at Hopton Cresswell has been formed as a place of concealment when his behaviour is disturbed. Exiled from his family, cut off from equal society, might a lonely, impressionable young man not all too easily form an unsuitable attachment?
And Mr Pollard was once Mr Montague’s tutor. Or so it would seem by the old gentleman’s description. And that accords well with him being now ‘a university man’, as the ostler described him. Catherine said that he looked like a professional man and his profession is no doubt the Church, for I am sure I remember Edward telling me once that only clergymen can hold posts at the university.
So what was his mission at the ball? I will not fall into the common modern cant of deriding all clergy; like the dutiful daughter of a clergyman that I am, I shall take it as an article of faith that a man so ordained must have had an honourable motive. Did he come to urge Mr Montague to confess his sins?
But why did he not speak? How could Mr Montague have guessed his meaning by a look? I keep coming back to that silence in the ballroom. I feel that if I could but understand that then I would have the key that unlocks all this mystery.
I am sorry for this rambling talk, Eliza. But I feel that there is an answer here in all this, and I am too stupid to find it.
I keep trying to remember everything that Charles and Edward used to tell us about the rules of argument and debate when they were at Cambridge and I heartily wish that my own education had had a little more logic in it and rather less playing of disastrously bad scales upon the spinet.
But then, to be fair upon our poor mother, I do not suppose that the solving of mysteries or the detection of murderers was much in her mind when she devised our schooling.
However, I may lay claim to one fairly rational thought today and that concerns Mr Harris and Tom Lomax – and their visit to the shrubbery. I am almost sure that they are both lying about it. Why are they lying? Well, Mr Harris is a member of the family and might easily be persuaded to hold his tongue about anything that he saw that day. And Tom? Well, might he not very easily be bribed into silence? Do you see my meaning? Perhaps the fortune which he looks forward to does not come from marriage.
Distasteful as any interview with Mr Tom Lomax must be, I rather think that I shall be forced to contrive another tête-à-tête with him and see what I may discover.
I am sorry, Eliza, I will have to break off my letter in a moment. The gentlemen have returned and… Now that is very strange indeed!
Eliza, I am sure I am not mistaken. When the door opened just now, Miss Harris changed the picture on her drawing board. I am sure she did it. She pulled out another paper from underneath and placed it over the drawing she was working on. I shall drop my sand shaker and try to steal a look at the drawing board as I retrieve it…
Yes! I was right. The monstrous sheep is back!
Now here is another mystery. Why should a woman who can draw very well pretend incompetence? And now I remember something else… But I must stop now; Tom Lomax is moving this way…
Dido was abroad the next morning before anyone else from the Belsfield party had stirred from their beds. She was able not only to take a long, thoughtful walk on the Cobb – where the beauty of white-capped waves dancing under the first narrow beams of sunlight did little to soothe her troubled mind – but also to take a little wander about the village and the church.
She turned back towards the inn, sunk even deeper in thought than when she left it and, a little way from its door, she met with Sophia Harris, who was also returning from a solitary walk. Miss Sophia had a remarkably serious look upon her face and she was lacking the fussy curls about her ears. Her hair was simply dressed in a tight, uncompromising knot at the back of her head. To Dido’s mind, it improved her appearance considerably.
Together the two women made their way along the narrow street where yawning housemaids were washing doorsteps and clattering pails, and errand boys were hurrying past with baskets of bread and pitchers of milk.
They were engaged first in exclaiming upon the beauty of the morning and the place. And then Dido took the opportunity of adding, ‘I shall be pleased to see your sister’s drawings of Lyme when they are finished. She draws extremely well.’
‘Does she?’ said Sophia in some confusion. ‘That is… Yes, I think that she does. But I am her sister, so I don’t doubt that I am prejudiced.’
‘I cannot but notice, however,’ said Dido cautiously, ‘that her performance is somewhat…variable. But perhaps it makes her nervous to be observed at her work?’
‘Yes, yes I suppose that it does.’
They walked on a little way. Dido tried to read her companion’s feelings from her face – but could not make them out: her lips were tightly compressed and two little lines above her nose puckered her brow. ‘It is quite remarkable, is it not,’ continued Dido, ‘how the presence of another person can distract us? It can quite spoil the execution of a drawing – or a piece of music.’
Sophia stopped and gave her a long look, then she turned and walked on. ‘Yes,’ she said. �
�Perhaps it can.’
Dido was sure she had hit upon something. She hurried after her. ‘On the morning before yesterday,’ she said, ‘while I was in the hall at Belsfield, I heard someone playing in the drawing room so exquisitely that I wondered who it could be. Afterwards, when I came into the drawing room, I found that it was you who was sitting at the pianoforte. Miss Sophia, I hope you will forgive me for saying that you play much better when you are alone.’
‘Thank you, Miss Kent. It is no doubt, as you remarked, the distraction of being observed which sometimes injures my performance.’ And she walked on as quickly as she might to the inn door.
As they stepped into the smoky warmth of the inn’s dark little hall, Sophia took off her bonnet hurriedly. ‘If you will excuse me now,’ she said, ‘I will return to my sister. She is a little distressed at present.’ She started up the stairs, but then she stopped. The morning sunlight coming in through a little landing window caught her face, which was tinged with colour from her walk. She looked lively and intelligent. ‘The fact is, Miss Kent, Colonel Walborough made a proposal of marriage to Amelia yesterday evening.’ She gave a little grimace. ‘It seems,’ she said, ‘that the colonel is more musical than he is artistic.’
With that she ran away up the stairs, leaving Dido alone in the hall.
She took off her bonnet slowly and stood for several minutes running its ribbons thoughtfully through her fingers, but could find no way of accounting for Miss Sophia’s last, strange remark. With a little shake of her head, she opened the door and went into the parlour. She had hoped to find the room empty and to be able to think in peace there until breakfast was ready, but she was disappointed. Tom Lomax was lounging upon a bench, reading a newspaper.
‘Miss Kent,’ he cried as she entered. ‘I believe you never sleep! Now, what are you busy about so early in the day?’
Dido smiled serenely. ‘Why, I am just poking about,’ she replied. ‘In the way that I do, Mr Lomax.’
‘And what do you hope to discover here at Lyme?’
She sat herself down beside the newly lit fire and considered as she gazed into the flames, which were burning white and blue as they consumed the salty sticks of driftwood. No better opportunity to confront Mr Tom might appear and she decided to make the best of this chance meeting. ‘One thing I hope to discover, Mr Lomax,’ she began slowly, raising her eyes to his, ‘is why you were in the shrubbery on the day that young woman was killed.’
Tom folded his newspaper and sat up, looking extremely wary. ‘You know the answer to that,’ he said.
‘I know the answer which you gave to Sir Edgar.’ Tom said nothing. ‘But,’ she went on, ‘in your own inimitable words, that explanation “will not do.” Come, Mr Lomax, we both know that it “will not do at all.”’
‘Sir Edgar was quite satisfied with it,’ said Tom sulkily, rubbing a finger across his bristling cheek.
‘He was, but I cannot say that his satisfaction is a great credit to his understanding. For it is clear – clear even to a woman – that you are not engaged to either of the Misses Harris. Neither of the ladies seems to know anything of the business and, since you cannot even remember which of them has been so fortunate as to win your devotion…’ Dido finished with a smile and a shrug.
‘I do not think, Miss Kent, that it is any concern of yours whether I am engaged or not.’
‘But, you see, it is. I am very concerned that you seem to be lying. For when a life has been taken, I believe it is the duty of us all to ensure that justice is done.’
Tom shifted on his bench and gave a strange smile – though whether it was intended to charm or to threaten she could not quite determine. ‘And have you decided that I killed that woman?’
Dido continued her level stare. ‘Did you?’ she said.
‘No!’ His face was red. ‘I don’t even know who she was.’
‘Then you will not mind telling me – or telling the magistrates – the real reason for your presence in the shrubbery that day.’
He gave a kind of snort and kicked furiously at the leg of his bench. ‘You had better ask Harris about it,’ he said. ‘For what you don’t understand is that there are a great many things beside murder which a gentleman might wish to conceal.’
‘I do not doubt it, Mr Lomax. But I think that to clear himself of the suspicion of murder a gentleman might own to most secrets.’
‘You really are the most insufferable, interfering woman I ever met!’ cried Tom furiously. He jumped up from the bench, paced to the window then back to the fireside and stood before her on the hearth rug, talking vehemently. ‘But it is not me, it is Harris who most wants secrecy in this case. And though you do not seem to mind stirring up trouble for me, I think you might regret the embarrassment you will bring on John Harris – and on his womenfolk – with your infernal questions.’
That made Dido hesitate. But it was only for a moment. ‘If you would but tell me the facts of the case, Mr Lomax.’
‘And if I do not then I suppose you will go running to the magistrates bleating about me not being engaged?’
‘Yes, I will.’
He strode back to the window, kicking the bench out of the way as he went. He leant upon the window sill and stared out into the yard.
‘Mr Lomax, I believe it will not be long before our friends join us. And if I have not received some assurance from you before we return to Belsfield…’ She left the broken sentence to hang in the air of the little parlour.
‘Very well, I shall tell you what my business was in the shrubbery,’ he said violently. ‘And you will not like what you hear. But remember you pressed me to tell you. It is not me that chooses to relate such details to a respectable spinster.’ (There was a sneer in that.) ‘Harris and I went to the hermitage to talk. He was too afraid of being overheard to transact our business in the spinney. And I was not lying: we went to talk about me marrying one of the girls. And it is true that he and I came to an agreement.’
‘Indeed? I think it must have been a rather unusual agreement.’
‘Perhaps it was.’ He turned to face her, which put her at rather a disadvantage for the morning sun was behind him and, though he could watch her face, he was nothing to her but a tall dark figure against the brightness and she could make out nothing of his expressions. ‘The agreement was that he would not oppose me marrying either of his daughters. But I did not fix on either of them. In fact,’ he added with a heavy attempt at humour, ‘I was gentleman enough to say that I would wait for Colonel Walborough to take his pick and pay my addresses to the one that was left.’
‘How very generous of you! But what interests me, Mr Lomax, is how you persuaded Mr Harris to this arrangement. What was he to get in return for his consent to the marriage of his daughter to a man so deep in debt that even the village apothecary is refusing his business?’
That hit home. The dark figure looming against the shining squares of the window started visibly and when he spoke again his voice was choking with fury. ‘He is to get my silence, Miss Kent. That is what he is to get – and very valuable it is to him.’
‘Yes?’ said Dido calmly. ‘Your silence on what subject?’
‘On the subject of his marriage.’
‘I see,’ said Dido, taking great care that neither her face nor her voice should betray the shock which he hoped to detect. ‘Now, I wonder what you have to tell on that subject. It is nothing to do, I am sure, with Mrs Harris’s low origins, for all the world must know of those since she talks so freely of them herself.’
‘Ah,’ said Tom with relish. ‘All the world knows that John Harris’s present lady was nurse to his first wife, but what no one else in England knows is that she was still no more than a nurse when Miss Amelia was born. And that was a month before her patient died. Now, what do you say to that?’
‘One of your acquaintance in India has informed you of this, I suppose?’
‘More than one, as it happens; bad news has a way of travelling. And there is nothing
to be gained by trying to doubt my word, Miss Kent, for Harris has admitted to the business himself – or as good as done so, for he has not denied it.’
Dido did not doubt its truth, nor could she doubt that Mr Harris would be anxious to keep it hidden – for the sake of his wife’s reputation. She became aware that Tom was watching her closely and she did not doubt that he was smiling. Indeed, when he spoke again she could actually hear the smile in his words even though the sun was still dazzling her too much to see his face.
‘So you see, Miss Kent, if you broadcast your suspicions about me, you would do no good at all and you would be the means of destroying the Harrises’ respectability. Is that what you wish to do?’
He knew that it was not. He knew that she would not now speak out about her suspicions. In short, he was sure that he had got the better of her. He really was the most horrible, provoking man!
‘No,’ she said, standing up. ‘That is not what I wish to do. All I wish to do is to find out who killed that woman, and to discover why Mr Montague has absented himself from his father’s house.’ She walked to the door, but there she hesitated. ‘Though I believe I have just acquired a new purpose,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘I think I now also intend to put a stop to your selfish plans. Good morning, Mr Lomax.’
Chapter Sixteen
…And so, Eliza, here I am back at Belsfield, and I have just received a piece of news which I had hoped very much not to hear.
There was a note awaiting me when we returned this afternoon, brought by Jenny, the housemaid. Here is what it says:
Deer Madam,
Mary that is made at the crown aks me to rite My Kate sys Mr Blaglog is a torl yung genlman he has big brown eys and a vere plesunt smile
Yor servent Eliz. Potter (Mrs)
PS she is a vere trothful chile and wos 2 yers at Sundy Scol