The Echo at Rooke Court

by Harriet Smart

  She flung her hand out towards the door.

  “With pleasure, ma’am!” said Felix, and left.

  Jacob was laying out his evening clothes. Felix, still clad only in his towel, lit a cheroot and sat down on the window seat trying to calm himself.

  “Will that be all, sir?” Jacob said.

  Felix wondered how much Jacob had overheard and how long it would be before the quarrel between the young master and mistress would be the talk of all those unknown servants. The thought of that was appalling to him and he wondered if he should tell Jacob to keep quiet on the matter. But he decided that would only draw attention to it, so he dismissed him without another word and sat for some minutes smoking his cheroot, and not enjoying it in the least. He hauled himself into his evening clothes and found that Jacob had put out another of the handkerchiefs Sukey had made for him, this one not Turkey red, but embroidered with a heart. He did not put it in his pocket, but under his pillow, remembering how at least on that issue they had not quarrelled. They might have disagreed about everything else but never that. Why on earth did Eleanor find the idea so repulsive? He could not begin to understand it.

  His only hope was that a good dose of abstinence would bring her round to his point of view. He knew she would not enjoy it, just as he would not. The only question that remained was who would give way first.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Although she was a frequent correspondent, a letter from Emma was always something to delight in.

  The sight of an envelope addressed in that familiar hand, sealed in blue, the pattern pressed in the seal from the ring he had given her, always lifted his spirits. Giles had snatched this one up on his return from Raythorpe and tucked it into his waistcoat, saving the pleasure of it for when he had the time to fully appreciate it. That time had come, as he sat alone in his room in The Black Bull in the comfort of his dressing gown.

  Hurrell Place, Tuesday

  My Dear,

  He could not resist rubbing that familiar salutation with his fingertip. As ever, she had underlined it for emphasis.

  The grandeur of my bedroom has been matched by the generosity of my host with candles. I am sitting up at eleven at night, in a blaze worthy of a ballroom. But with no company – I have seen my charge to her bed. You may be sure she has exhausted herself in the acquittal of her duty for the village children’s feast, and I must say I do not think my own performance was in any way deficient. We came to the conclusion, just now, in our counterpane conference, that Mrs Edward Hurrell would have been lost without us. She is a sweet, kind woman but the vicissitudes of such an occasion were beyond her. She does not have the instincts of a chatelaine although she is that, de facto, in the absence of a Lady Hurrell, or perhaps even a Mrs Arthur – if that were to happen, and on further observation I am not convinced that it will, despite the strenuous efforts of Sir Morten. (Or perhaps not strenuous enough. One would have thought that given the size of the estate and the title, more attention would have been paid to the matter a little earlier, surely? But then I think of Charles and I wonder when would be the moment to interfere. Perhaps in the normal course of things we do not need such encouragement. People are better at managing these things for themselves and it is usually too much haste rather than too much leisure that is the problem.)

  We were assisted today by a pair of pleasant young Oxford men, Mr Stapleford and Mr Powell. They are staying at the Rectory, on a sort of reading party with Mr Willoughby and Mr Hurrell. It all is rather a hot-house. Mr Powell, a touch robuster than his companions and certainly Mr Willoughby, seemed glad to be released from his books and made to be useful in the matter of running races, quoits, greasy poles and the grand tug of war. Perhaps he was inspired by a sudden admiration for Lady Maria? He was certainly more obviously attentive than the others, which I found surprising – what have our young men become? Mr Hurrell did nothing in the way of wooing, and although he was the clergyman supervising the feast, he seemed out of humour to be there. One child told me the sports at Mr Gray’s were far more the thing, although the tea was deficient in comparison to that of Hurrell Place.

  Maria is of the opinion that Mr Hurrell has a cold heart. I’m inclined to agree with her, even at such a slight acquaintance. She has the conviction of passionate youth and one cannot help warming to that, as to a good fire. She has confided a great deal to me, and she will not mind me speaking of it to you. She is afraid that when Lady Rothborough returns she will be forced to choose which parent she must go to, because it seems most unlikely that the Rothboroughs will ever be able to live under the same roof again for long. The détente that had been achieved has finally been broken by her remaining so long in Italy. Her doctors thought it perfectly safe for her to return, but she chose to stay. Although poor Maria is under no illusions about the nature of her parents’ marriage, she is suffering from all the pain this final break has brought. She is longing for her own establishment, for then she will not have to take a side, but the prospect of marriage is daunting after such an example. Her sister Charlotte has been labouring under the same disadvantage, though I must say Lord Dunbar does not sound like a reasonable man, but I only have Maria’s account of him. Given Lord R has approved the match, he cannot be as abrasive as she suggests. I think it is the fear of losing a dear sister to marriage, and all that will mean.

  After the sports were done we had another small adventure. Maria and I took ourselves off into the magnificent groves of trees that you so admired. It is really the pleasantest thing imaginable – if I were the mistress of the house I should never go anywhere else to walk. We thought we might find some autumn crocuses and wild cyclamen but we did not have a great deal of success – it is still too early.

  However, we did come upon a picturesque huntsman who turned out to be none other than the wicked Mark Hurrell of the previous evening. He was wearing a countryman’s smock and a broad hat with pheasant feathers in it, and carried a longbow and arrow by which means he had just brought down a hind. This was almost too theatrical to be believed, or at least worthy of a mezzotint. It is apparently the family custom to hunt game with the bow and arrow. Whether or not, given the quarrel with his father, he ought to be taking down game in the park, is another matter, and he was a little uneasy to be caught by us, red-handed so to speak. The hind was a beauty and there was probably a bereft fawn not far away, which Maria did not fail to point out. He excused himself by saying it was not for sport that he had brought her down – he had wanted meat for his own table and to repay some kindnesses amongst the villagers. Prettily said, and he was readily forgiven by Maria. We did not speak long. He had the decency to know that he ought not to be talking to us at all, but I sensed that Maria and he would have stood there until dusk came on. Five years since she last spoke to him, and they were talking as if it were the day before. What that means – well, I leave the question with you, for I know you like such puzzles.

  By the time you read this, I will be at Holbroke.

  Your own,

  E. Maitland

  Chapter Fourteen

  Three days later, on Saturday morning, Giles received a visit from Carswell in his office.

  “It’s calico, soaked in a mixture of lard and lamp oil,” Carswell said, laying a cotton ribbon on the table. “It took some time to work out the exact proportions but I managed to make a duplicate.”

  Giles took up the strip and examined it.

  “And the one I found at the warehouse is an exact match for those I took from the forge?”

  “Without a doubt,” Carswell said. “The same cloth soaked in the same mixture. The same batch.”

  “And how do they burn?”

  “Efficiently. Steady and hot.”

  “So an excellent tool.”

  “Yes; as I said, ingenious.”

  “She’s a clever woman,” Giles said, thinking of how her family and acquaintances had considered her strange. Did that mean a bold, creative mind, not at all trammelled by expectations of how a w
oman of her class should behave?

  “Mrs Braithwaite, you mean?”

  “We have to suppose that her hand is at work here. Why else would she go missing from a loving family? I have not been able to find any reason for her going. So unless it is on some criminal enterprise, and the fact she has not yet come back –”

  “There is no sign of her in the city?”

  Giles shook his head.

  “It’s frustrating. Our last possible sighting was of a woman broadly similar in description taking the Axworth Stage on the morning after she had dealings with Noakes. I’ve sent Coxe to Axworth this morning. He may be able to pick up the scent there.”

  “There is a rumour of Indian cholera in Axworth,” Carswell said. “Mr Harper told me the other day. He thinks we should be considering our options here.”

  “We haven’t had an outbreak here for years,” said Giles, “thank God. Caution is probably in order. What does he suggest?”

  “He wanted to talk to you and Captain Lazenby. He had been reading up some continental cases and the opinion seems to be that a policy of quarantine can be quite successful, if enforced properly.”

  “So we should lock the gates and herd everyone back inside the walls?”

  “Not far off. It is the very devil of a thing to control, after all. And what the cause of it is – there is such a difference of opinion, even amongst the most eminent men. Mr Harper advised me to read all I could on the subject, which I have done, but I do not feel much wiser for it.” Carswell grimaced and went over to the window, and looked out at the rain-soaked street. “And now we have a deluge to add to our woes!”

  “That storm last night was impressive, certainly,” said Giles. “I can only hope it will send Mrs Braithwaite back to her hearth and children. Perhaps it will make her think better of her actions.”

  “Is it ever that simple?” said Carswell, with a bitter laugh.

  “No, but it is unusual for a woman to desert her children. Husbands are deserted frequently, of course,” Giles said. “But a child is an anchor and she was regarded as an exemplary mother. It is puzzling why she should take off on such a bizarre endeavour. I have talked to nearly everyone in that village and they have nothing to offer me that could indicate why.”

  “An endeavour at which she singularly failed,” Carswell pointed out. “Assuming she meant to burn down the warehouse –”

  “Or the bank,” Giles said. “I will not rule that out. Especially in the light of Fred Pierce’s behaviour. Speaking of which, the post-mortem – did that reveal anything of interest?”

  Carswell shook his head.

  “Unfortunately not. Oh, and I have called on Dr Walker to see Mr Pierce senior. He is a little calmer but not yet in a state to be interviewed. They are attempting to keep him rested. It is a miserable case, all in all.”

  “You have been industrious,” said Giles. “That’s a ten mile round trip.”

  “I felt in need of the exercise, after my thoroughly futile endeavours to understand cholera,” said Carswell. “And it is just as well I went when I did – it was before the weather turned so filthy.”

  Giles was on the verge of enquiring if all was well at Hawksby, for he had been a little surprised to find Carswell at the office on Saturday, but there was a knock on the door, and Saxon, his chief clerk, came in.

  “I have a young gent here, sir, Mr Stapleford, who would like to see you at once. Says it’s urgent.”

  Giles went out and saw a handsome, well-dressed but sodden young man fretting in the outer office. He caught sight of Giles at the door and said, “Major Vernon?”

  “Yes?”

  “John Stapleford, sir,” he said, putting out his hand. “I have come from Langdon Rectory. It’s about Mr Hurrell. He has been found dead, and I do not think it was an accident.”

  ~

  Stapleford laid out the facts for them as they drove to Langdon in Major Vernon’s carriage.

  “When Mr Hurrell did not appear for Morning Prayer today, my friend Powell and I were alarmed, although Mr Willoughby said we should not be. He supposed he had stayed over at his father’s house.”

  “At Hurrell Place?” said Major Vernon.

  “Yes. It happens often enough that he does, he said, but Powell and I could not help wondering, for all the time we have been here, which is almost a month now, he has never been absent like this from his own church for Morning Prayer. So we decided to go and look for him, or perhaps meet him on his return from the big house.”

  “You say you were alarmed, Mr Stapleford – was there any particular reason for that?” Major Vernon asked.

  “It is the atmosphere that has developed there. A feeling – I cannot define it – but since the great quarrel with his brother, it struck me, at least, that there was something about his not coming back that morning, that was unsettling. Perhaps alarmed is too strong a word, but I had an uncomfortable feeling. Mr Hurrell had been so provoked for the last few days, and – I am sure I am not speaking with hindsight.”

  “Perhaps we should step back a day or two,” Major Vernon. “When did this sense come on you, Mr Stapleford?”

  Stapleford considered for a moment.

  “It has been here the whole time I have been here, now I think of it. It has not been as I thought it would be. Mr Hurrell is not as he was in Oxford, certainly.”

  “And why are you here, Mr Stapleford?” Felix said.

  “Mr Hurrell was a fellow of St Anthony’s, and he was my tutor,” Stapleford said, “but he took over the living at Langdon at Whitsun, and he asked a few of us Anthony’s men to come and join him and Mr Willoughby over the long vacation. We all have certain interests in common, you see, and some of us are preparing to take orders. The intention was to form a community for the summer in order to undertake a period of spiritual purification and reflection, as well as pursuing our scholarly work.”

  “A reading party, in effect?” said Major Vernon.

  “Yes, but without the frivolity and indulgence that those usually entail. Our business is serious – the fate of the established Church – well, perhaps you have read some of Mr Hurrell and Mr Willoughby’s tracts?”

  “Tracts?” Felix said. “No, I’m afraid not. Unless there is one on cholera.”

  “I have heard something of your ambitions,” Major Vernon said mildly. “You feel that the established Church is under attack –”

  “It is not just a matter of feeling, sir,” said Stapleford. “It is a fact. The evangelicals and the dissenters are seducing people away from the established Church with their gaudy emotional –” He broke off. “I am quoting Mr Hurrell,” he added.

  “So he has been your guiding light?” Major Vernon.

  “Quite so, and I don’t know what wickedness it is that has taken him from us at such a time. I cannot yet see God’s hand at work, I am ashamed to say.” He looked across at the Major with damp eyes.

  “You said he quarrelled with his brother? And that was the cause of his being provoked?” Major Vernon said, after a moment. “Can you tell us anything more about that?”

  Stapleford hesitated for a moment.

  “There was a distressing incident on Tuesday night. Powell and I saw something which – well, that was why we were alarmed today. There was violence between them that night.”

  “A fight?”

  “Of sorts. It was after the party for the village children. We had gone for a walk to the village, and Mr Mark Hurrell was sitting in the garden of the inn there – The Hurrell Arms. Powell wanted to go and speak to him – I did not, but Powell insisted and so we went in and talked to him for a little while.”

  “About anything in particular?”

  “About shooting or hunting or some such. I did not pay much attention, nor take much part. I did not want to be seen talking to someone with such a reputation, if I’m honest. Powell was all for sitting and drinking with him, but I managed to dissuade him from that and we left some ten minutes or so later. We turned back towards the
Rectory and then we saw Mr Arthur Hurrell cantering down the street towards us. He passed us with the barest acknowledgement, but it was clear from his expression that something was amiss. We stopped and turned, and saw him dismount and go storming into the garden where Mark Hurrell was still sitting, and they had words, and then –” He broke off. “Then Mr Hurrell struck his brother across the face with his whip.”

  “Just the once?”

  “No, three or four times, at least. I have never seen him in such a state before. He is – was – the mildest, sweetest of men, the first person to move for forgiveness and understanding, and yet – what his brother must have said to drive him to that, I cannot imagine! It was savage. We went down to attempt to intervene but by the time we got to the garden, they were both gone.”

  “And you did not see either of them again that night?”

  Stapleford shook his head.

  “Tell us about this morning,” said Major Vernon. “You were concerned about Arthur Hurrell’s absence and went looking for him, am I right? How did you decide where you should look?”

  “There is a ruined chapel where I know he likes to pray,” said Mr Stapleford. “It is in an area of woodland called the Hermitage. It is a wooded ravine, with a stream running through it. The chapel is a medieval fragment left over from the days before the Dissolution of the Monasteries. It is dedicated to Our Lady and I know that Mr Hurrell had hopes of restoring it to its former glory; but I believe it is on land that does not belong to him. I heard the land there belongs to Mark Hurrell, but that is odd, given he is only the youngest son, and Mr Hurrell is the heir.”

  “So you went to the chapel?”

  “Yes, and we found him – well, not there, but down the slope on the other side of the path. We nearly did not see him. It is only because Powell had his terrier with him. Mr Hurrell had been urging him to give up his dog, as an unsuitable indulgence for a priest in Holy Orders, and Powell would not, and if he had – well, we might never have found him.”