“We must do something for him!” Lady Wytton said. “You say he is in the Infirmary, Major Vernon?”
“Yes, Mr Harper has him under his care, and Mr Carswell, my colleague, is assisting.”
“I have heard good things about Mr Harper,” said Lady Wytton. “That is a blessing, I’m sure of it.”
“Yes, yes, certainly,” said Wytton. At this point, Lady Wytton excused herself and went to speak to Mrs Hurrell. When they were alone together, Wytton asked, “So you have not fixed on a cause of the fire yet, Major?”
“No,” said Giles. “The evidence does suggest that it was begun deliberately. The watchman, Noakes, had been paid to absent himself that night.”
“Good God! Pierce did not mention that. I suppose the warehouseman – I am sorry, I do not recall the man’s name –”
“Mr Cartwright?”
“That’s the fellow – I suppose he was in trouble. That’s the usual way with these things, isn’t it? The cotton business is a risky one, and it attracts the speculative types, and when things get desperate – well, we are lucky it did not spread, very lucky indeed.”
“Did Mr Pierce tell you where the fire was started?”
“No.”
“It was in an old fireplace in the warehouse, the flue abutting your bank’s upper rooms. That is what is puzzling me, my lord. If the intention had been to burn down the warehouse, then there would have been much easier ways to accomplish it. The room was stacked from floor to rafters with cotton bales, like a well-laid fire in a grate. Why not just set the fire at the foot of them?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Lord Wytton.
“How involved with the day-to-day affairs of the bank are you, my lord, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Not a great deal, I must confess. Mr Pierce is so capable, and I’m not really suited to office life. But I go in once a week to attend to any necessary business.”
“And you have complete confidence in Mr Pierce?”
“Oh yes.”
“How long has he been with the bank?”
“He became a director when my father was still alive. It was after my uncle died. He replaced him as a director. He had been working for us for some time before that, and had amassed sufficient capital to buy my uncle’s share. We are most fortunate to have him – and Fred too, for he is in the same mould. Very accurate and utterly trustworthy.”
“You don’t happen to know why Fred was working there so late that night?”
Wytton shook his head.
“As I said, I don’t have any real knowledge of the day-to-day running of the bank. Fred was diligent – that is all I can tell you.”
“His mother seemed surprised that he was there.”
“Womenfolk do not always have the clearest idea of what business requires,” said Lord Wytton, glancing at his wife who was now talking to Emma and another young man who had come in after the Wyttons. “I see Willoughby is still here. The rumour hereabouts is that he was on his way to Rome.”
“I’m sorry?” said Giles.
“He’s a friend of Arthur Hurrell. Staying with him at the Vicarage – although monastery would be a better name for it, from all I have heard. And a crowd of young Oxford men staying there to sing the virtues of Rome! It’s disgraceful. I am amazed that Sir Morten lets Willoughby tutor those nephews of his. I should not let such a crypto-Catholic near my children, but then again, perhaps Sir Morten is still partial to the old religion. It would not surprise me – there are priest holes in this house, after all!”
“And Arthur Hurrell has the living here?” said Giles.
“Yes. In his father’s gift. I wish I had such discretion in our village. Instead we have Mr Gray, no thanks to the Bishop.”
“Mr Gray seems to have the reputation of a radical,” said Giles.
“He is a red hot one! What has happened to clergymen these days? When I was a boy they were perfectly reasonable people, to whom one could talk about hunting and so forth, but nowadays –” He broke off. “Excuse me, I do not like Willoughby talking to my wife.”
With which he left Giles and went to interrupt the conversation. Seeing him, Willoughby took flight. To Giles’ delight, Emma returned to his side.
“Tell me about Mr Willoughby,” Giles said.
“I know that he looks as if he lives on nothing but weak tea and bread and butter,” said Emma. “But he has caused a great stir at Oxford. I never expected to find him here.”
“Lord Wytton just alleged that he is a crypto-Catholic.”
“One might infer something like that from his preaching, certainly,” said Emma. “And he had a great many of the undergraduates in a sort of rapture.”
“And Mrs Maitland?”
“I was interested, but not moved,” said Emma. “He has a rather quiet, sweet voice, almost womanly. It was an odd experience. Charles did not like it either, but whether that was the natural prejudice of a Salvator’s man against an Oriel man, I don’t know.”
At this moment, Lady Maria joined them, looking somewhat flustered.
“I wish to go into a cupboard and die,” she said. “How am I going to bear this? Mr Hurrell keeps staring at me as if –”
“I’m sure that is not the case,” Emma began. “I think he may be staring at you because he is unused to handsome young women.”
“How was I to know that Mark Hurrell had disgraced himself? He is the only one of them I remember. It was a perfectly innocent enquiry and now I’m sure Sir Morten and Mr Hurrell think I am malicious.”
“No one could think you malicious,” said Emma.
“I could feel it. It went cold as ice all of a sudden. Did you not feel the temperature drop?”
“It is not your fault!” said Emma. “Rather it is the fault of whatever it is Mark Hurrell has done – which would seem to be quite extreme.”
“Perhaps Papa will know,” said Lady Maria. “He generally knows everything.”
“Perhaps it is not something fit for us to know,” said Emma, taking her arm.
“I hope it is not very bad. He was so kind to me – that is why I remember him. But then, the kindest people can turn out to be the most horrible villains – is that not so, Major Vernon?”
Chapter Seven
Dinner passed off without incident, but it was tiresome. The conversation rarely moved beyond the banal. For all the grandeur, there was an undercurrent of restraint, which seemed to subdue even Emma and Lord Rothborough, both of whom were usually fearless social performers. For his part, Giles found himself thinking back to his unsatisfactory conversation with Noakes, as he watched Lord Wytton across the table. Why had the fire been set in that fireplace and not under the cotton bales? Was the real intention to burn down the bank and not the warehouse?
The ladies withdrew, and mercifully there was no concerted move to prolong the male conviviality, despite the excellence of the port. Wytton drank the most, while Arthur Hurrell filled his glass and then pushed it away, as if attempting self-denial. Willoughby did not drink at all. It was a great relief to rejoin the women in the drawing room and find Lady Maria at the piano, playing some lively Mendelssohn.
Standing near him, Arthur Hurrell was listening with interest, and when the piece was finished, he turned to Giles and said with some surprise, “She does play well.”
“Why don’t you ask her to play again?” said Giles, wondering that he had not already gone straight up to her and demanded it. In such circumstances he would not have hesitated. “That would please everyone.” He hoped too that it would please Lady Maria and make her feel forgiven.
“I do not want to be misinterpreted,” Hurrell said, after a moment.
“Ah, but your father has beaten you to it,” Giles said as Sir Morten went up to the piano.
“We are not a musical family,” said Hurrell. “It is a novelty for us to have a good performer in the house. She is –” He broke off. “You must know her quite well, sir. I understand that you and Lord Rothborough are friends?�
�
“I know that she is a charming, intelligent young woman.”
“And is she – is there anyone –?”
“The field is clear, as far as I know,” Giles said. “But I would advise you speak to Lord Rothborough.”
“Yes, yes,” Hurrell said, and moved away to where he might get a better view of Lady Maria. Giles went to sit next to Emma, and together they listened to the music. Lady Maria had chosen to play a long and clever arrangement of famous airs from Handel, and when she had finished, Emma murmured, “She has saved us all from the misery of conversation. But she will be exhausted.”
“You should carry her off to bed. Lord Rothborough might prefer that. Especially as Arthur Hurrell asked me –”
“If the field was clear?”
“How did you know that?” he said.
“I had a hint from Sir Morten at dinner – well, more than a hint. He wants him married. That is why they were asked.”
“I’m not sure Arthur Hurrell is entirely to Lady Maria’s taste,” said Giles, thinking of how he had threatened his nephews.
“No, certainly not. And not to Lord Rothborough’s taste either,” she said, getting up. “I had better intervene. She looks as if she needs to be rescued.”
For Arthur Hurrell had found his courage and was talking to Maria, or rather at her. He towered over her while she sat on the piano stool and it did not look at all comfortable for her. Arthur Hurrell was clearly not a practised flirt. He seemed intent on giving her his latest sermon.
Emma crossed the room, and at the same time Giles looked about for Lord Rothborough. He was not in the room.
He found him sitting in the passageway outside, drinking a glass of water.
“I had a curious little turn while Maria was playing,” he said. “I needed a glass of water and some air.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?” said Giles, sitting down beside him.
“No, I think not,” said Lord Rothborough. “Perhaps the result of a trying evening. I had not suspected matchmaking when I accepted the invitation. It was naive of me.”
“Emma – Mrs Maitland – is rescuing Maria as we speak,” said Giles.
Rothborough smiled at his correction.
“You are a lucky man, Vernon,” he said. “She is –” He broke off with a sigh. “To have such a person in one’s life, a real equal to share the road with – that is something I suppose I will never know. I can only hope that my children...” He smiled, for Maria was coming along, arm in arm with Emma.
“I have excused us,” Emma said.
“We had better go and make our own excuses,” said Lord Rothborough, getting up and kissing Maria. “You played beautifully. I liked your phrasing in the last section of the Handel. You have not done that before. Most effective.”
At that moment a manservant passed them and went back into the drawing room. Lady Maria and Emma had just set off towards their rooms, and Giles and Lord Rothborough were about to go back in, when the servant came out again with Arthur Hurrell hard on his heels. Hurrell seemed to be pushing the manservant from the room.
“Can you not take a simple instruction, Martin?” Hurrell exclaimed to the servant. “Tell him to leave at once!”
“But sir, he says he was asked to come. That the Master asked him.”
“Which you know cannot be true.”
“I don’t know that, sir –”
“Don’t be insolent! Go and tell him to leave!”
“We have done, sir. Mr Lightbody has told him, but he says he will not go until he sees the Master.”
“Where is he?”
“In the great hall, sir.”
Arthur Hurrell hurried on, with the servant just behind him, and went down the stairs to the great hall. Emma and Lady Maria had stopped and turned to see what the commotion was, for he dashed past them, almost tripping over their hems in his hurry.
“Goodness,” murmured Lord Rothborough, and went over to the balustrade that overlooked the hall, and Giles joined him. The same urge clearly took Emma and Lady Maria, for they also went to their side of the balustrade, as if moving to the front of an opera box for a celebrated aria.
A young man, dressed in a brown velvet coat, was sitting at the long refectory table. He got up when Arthur Hurrell came towards him.
“You know you are not welcome here!” Arthur Hurrell shouted at him.
“I know that. But since Papa wrote and asked me to come, I thought it would be –”
“You are lying,” said Arthur. “As you always do.”
“I am not.”
“Show me this letter, then!” Arthur Hurrell demanded.
“I do not have it with me.”
“How extraordinarily convenient. Because it does not exist!”
“Because I might expect the courtesy of being taken at my word!”
“Your word, sir, is worthless! And as for courtesy, you have forsaken any right to that.”
On the landing above, they now exchanged horrified glances. Emma began to steer Maria away, but the girl remained rooted to the spot, even as her father came to her side.
“That is Mark Hurrell, Papa,” she said, in a whisper.
“We had better retire,” said Lord Rothborough. “This is not for our ears.”
And so they began to move away, but the argument still rang out.
“And why on earth would Papa ask you here?” Hurrell demanded. “Tonight of all nights when we have half the county here to dine?”
“I don’t know, but he wrote and I came, as requested. No, as ordered, for it was put in his usual manner. Where is he?”
“You shall not see him.”
“You shall not deny me, Arthur. He wrote to me!”
“You have come here to make trouble, but I shall not allow it. Get out! Or shall I have to throw you out myself?”
“I have an invitation. I shall stay until I see him.”
“No, you shall not!”
Now came the sound of furniture crashing to the floor, and Giles left the others and ran downstairs to see the long bench overturned and Hurrell and his brother clearly on the brink of doing each other violence.
“Gentlemen!” Giles said, attempting to separate them. “This is no way to settle a dispute. Step back from each other and clear your heads!”
“Who are you?” said Mark Hurrell.
“Major Vernon from the Northminster Constabulary.”
“Ah,” said Mark Hurrell and retreated, his palms raised. But Arthur Hurrell glared at Giles, angry at his intervention.
“He is trespassing!” he said. “This man is trespassing.”
Mark Hurrell took another step back and made Giles a slight bow.
“No, sir, I am not. I have called here in vain, that is all. If you might convey to my father that I was here, I would be grateful. Tell him I obeyed his wishes, that is all I ask. Good night.”
He picked up his hat from the table, turned, and walked from the hall. Hurrell went after him a few steps and then thought better of it. The door shut behind Mark Hurrell and Arthur turned back to Giles and said, “Thank you, sir, but this is a family matter. There is no need to mention it to anyone.”
~
Giles had just finished writing a brief note to Emma, when Holt came in.
“So, Holt, I hope you and Bodley and Mrs Patton had an agreeable time downstairs.”
“It was pleasant enough. Good food, certainly. And I learnt a lot about the family,” said Holt. “Would you like to know the ins and outs, sir? I thought you might, what with Mr Mark Hurrell arriving.”
“You know me too well, Holt. So tell me the tale. What did he do?”
“That’s the funny thing. It did not seem so bad to me. He wrote a book they did not like at Oxford, but he did not even put his name to it, so what can be the harm in that?”
“It must be an offensive book.”
“They told me that Sir Morten bought as many copies of it as he could and burnt them all. A hundred of them at least. Thi
nk of that. Like burning money, that is! I mean, how much harm can a book do, in all honesty?”
“Clearly Sir Morten felt strongly about it. Did the servants say anything about Lord and Lady Wytton, their neighbours?”
Holt shook his head.
“Nothing, sir. Shall I take that to the mistress?” he said, indicating the note to Emma.
“If you would, Holt,” said Giles, amused at Holt calling Emma ‘mistress’ already. They had been worried that Holt and his bride would look for work elsewhere, but Holt had pronounced himself perfectly content to remain in his service if they could find a post for the future Mrs Holt. Given that she was a professed cook, trained in the kitchens at Holbroke, this request was easily accommodated, although Giles worried that the costs of their new household might prove excessive if she continued to cook in the style of Holbroke. He consoled himself with the thought that Emma would surely, with her exquisite tact and practical economy, keep things in check.
Holt took the note, and said, “And the house in the precincts, sir, Rooke Court – is that settled? Mrs Patton was saying it was as good as, but –”
“Yes, and here is another letter, for Sir Morten, telling him I will take it,” said Giles. “Though we may have to rough it there for a while. It’s not in a good state.”
“It’s a fine address,” said Holt. “That is the main thing. Will that be all for tonight, sir?”
“Yes, thank you, Holt.”
Holt carried off his letters.
Giles reflected for a moment, wishing he could have gone in person to Emma, and sat with her to talk over the events of the evening; or better yet, joined her in bed. Still, it was only a matter of six weeks until such pleasures would be his to enjoy.
Chapter Eight
“We have been asked to stay on,” said Emma the next morning.
“I cannot, it’s impossible,” Giles said. “I have to –”
“No, not you. Just Maria and me,” said Emma. “Mrs Hurrell begged us. She wants us to help with a feast for the local children. She declared herself out of her depth with it. At least that is the pretext. I suppose this is matchmaking.”
The Echo at Rooke Court Page 6