“But he chose not to tell you where he was going?”
“No, sir. I asked him if he’d be back for the funeral, and he said he didn’t know. He said he probably wouldn’t be wanted. I suppose he had had another run-in with his father. I told him how sorry I was about Mr Hurrell, and that I hoped it would be better with his father again after it, for it’s too great a thing for them to stay cold to each other, and it all ought to end now. So he said he wished it could be so, with all his heart, but it could never be. He said it was better he was gone now and that was that.” She sighed. “I wish he had not gone. It would be better to stay and brave it out, for it only makes him look as if –”
“Yes?”
“Well, why are you here looking for him, if you don’t think he was behind it? But I tell you, sir, there is no sweeter soul in the world than Mr Mark and he would never have done that to his own brother, never!”
~
Giles sent Coxe back to Northminster and went again to call at Hurrell Place.
On this occasion, Sir Morten saw Giles in his library, where the books were crammed up on impossibly high shelves as if they were never meant to be fetched down.
“He has left the neighbourhood?” said Sir Morten.
“So it seems. I understand he came to see you on Saturday evening. At least he said that was his intention. Did you receive him?”
“I did,” said Sir Morten after a moment. “I thought, given the circumstances, that I should.”
“He did not give any indication that he was going to leave?”
“No. I should have advised him strongly against it had he done so. His removing himself will only fuel the rumours which are already, unfortunately, surrounding this house – if they are rumours. His departure –” He broke off and took a deep breath. “There can be no rest for me,” he said. “I have lost everything. It is the hardest blow. All my children dead or as good as dead to me, for the longer you stay here, sir, I can only see one outcome – that Mark will be found to be culpable.”
“That may not be the case,” said Giles. “Things are still unclear.”
“But why else would he run, like a coward? Why else? If he is guilty, then –” He threw up his hands. “Forgive me. This is a trying time for me. I ought not to give in to despair. I should trust in you and in justice, should I not, Major Vernon? It may be that ruin is not absolutely upon my house after all.”
At this moment a door in the corner of the room opened and a footman in his shirtsleeves came in, carrying a bucket. He froze on the spot seeing that room was occupied.
“What is the meaning of this?” exclaimed Sir Morten. “How dare you! How many times must it be said? That door is to be kept closed at all times!”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the footman. “Mr Lightbody did not say so, and I saw him use it himself only yesterday, sir, and –”
“Be quiet! Do you think I want your excuses, boy?”
“No, sir,” said the footman.
“Then get out! If you have business in here, come through the door in the hall and knock! Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Out then, at once!”
The footman departed in some haste.
“I ought to have had that door bricked up years ago,” said Sir Morten, going to the door and turning the key. He put the key into his pocket. “It creates a noxious draft. I think I can ascribe most of my rheumatic troubles to that draft and the passageway beyond it. And besides, it is one of those wretched conduits that was supposedly created for the convenience of masters but really does nothing but allow servants to take liberties. They will use this room, my private room, mind, sir, as a turnpike highway instead of going the way they ought! No, it must be bricked up, although it will be a great inconvenience to me! I imagine your excellent bride will see to such comforts for you in Rooke Court without your even having to think of them!”
“I think so,” said Giles.
“She is a delightful woman. You are to be congratulated. Does she have any money of her own?”
The bluntness of this question and the turn of the subject surprised Giles, but he managed to answer, “Only a little.”
“She has the air of a woman who ought to have great fortune.”
“She has no interest in that, fortunately – otherwise she would not take a threadbare husband such as myself.”
“You are marrying entirely to please yourselves, then?”
“We are of an age when we may do so. Our families are happy enough with the arrangement, though.”
“And she is not beyond childbearing, I would say.”
“That is not something we have –”
“But you ought, Major Vernon, you ought. I wish to God I had remarried when I could. I let sentiment guide me instead of common sense. If I had done so then I might have some shred of consolation in these dire circumstances. A daughter left to see to my comfort, another son to take my name...” He shook his head and sighed.
“While we are on the question of engagements,” Giles said, “might I ask you about the understanding between Miss Wytton and your late son? What was the nature of it?”
Sir Morten thought for a moment.
“It would have been an acceptable match. At one time it seemed likely, but my son, sensibly, began to see that the young woman was perhaps not worthy of the honour he had offered her. Time has proved him right. He was right to be cautious. She is not –”
“Yes?”
“I do not like to speak unkindly of her, but she is not perhaps as stable as one might wish. There is an element of flightiness, a lack of proper seriousness about her. It has grown over the years. She was inclined to flirt with my other sons, with Mark in particular. Arthur told me something had happened that made him consider his obligations to her to be at an end. That Mark had – well, you gather my meaning. Unfortunately it does not surprise me. He has no scruples whatsoever.”
“Arthur implied an actual seduction had taken place?”
“Yes, Major, that was my understanding. As I said, Mark has no scruples.”
“Did you not think, on hearing it, that they ought to have been obliged to marry?” Giles said.
“They both denied anything improper had taken place,” said Sir Morten.
“To your face, sir? I assume you questioned Mark about it.”
“I did not. Arthur would not have lied to me about such a grave matter, and I knew I would only have got lies from Mark.”
“So you considered this enough to release Arthur from his obligations to Miss Wytton?”
“Certainly.”
“You will excuse me, but I do not understand why no formal break was made. Miss Wytton seems to have laboured under the expectation that at any time the engagement would be announced.”
“It was clear that it was over. She has been extremely foolish about it, but both families are clear that there was no obligation. Arthur was free to look elsewhere, and he did. Indeed, the evening you were here with Mrs Maitland, he confessed to me that he admired Lady Maria Haraald and intended to pursue the matter further. But that is now –” He broke off and turned away, overcome by emotion. “If you will excuse me.”
Giles left him and spent a few minutes in the great hall making notes, wondering a little at the father so staunchly believing one son and not the other. He obviously had no real wish to accept Margaret Wytton as a daughter-in-law and had been happy to accept a blackening of her character in order to allow Arthur to be released from his obligation to her.
Just as he was leaving, a carriage drew up with Lady Wytton in. Seeing him, she put down the window, and he went to speak to her as her footman went to enquire of the butler. She was dressed in sympathetic grey and in her lap was a large basket of flowers.
“I came to see Mrs Hurrell,” she said, and then added in a confidential whisper, “I do think she has a wretched life here. Sir Morten can be so difficult –” She broke off, seeing her footman return with the butler’s answer. �
��Is she still not receiving, Patrick?”
“No, my lady.”
“Well, give these to her,” she said. The footman took the basket and went to deliver it. “Can I drive you anywhere, Major Vernon?”
“That would be kind. I was just on my way back to The Lamb, but I have a few questions for you, if you do not mind.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Sir Morten can be difficult, you were saying?” he ventured as they drove away. She again had the look of wishing to confide in him.
“Sir Morten is a tyrant. Is it wicked to say that in such circumstances?” She plucked off a petal that had fallen onto her skirts. “And Mrs Hurrell has a wretched time. He treats her as if she is nothing when she is everything. She runs that great place for him and he gives her nothing. A little pin money, but not nearly as much as she should get. If I were her, well, I don’t know what I should do. I suppose her expectations for her boys keeps her there. I suppose – and this is wicked of me to say so, but now Mr Hurrell is dead, and there is only Mark left, then little Morten is almost the heir. And if something were to happen to Mark – and perhaps it might, from what I have heard... but I should not say that, should I?”
“You mean he is being spoken of as Mr Hurrell’s murderer?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. My husband is convinced of it, given how bad the quarrels have been between them all these years. He said that it did not surprise him one bit that Mark would do such a thing, especially since he seems to have lost his reason anyway when he published that book. That does happen, does it not, that people go mad and murder people?”
“Sometimes yes, regrettably.”
“I hope it is not him,” Lady Wytton said. “I have only met him once or twice, and he seemed extremely charming to me. But perhaps murderers may be charming? How does one ever know?” She sighed. “Oh, how wretched, wretched all this is! Poor Mr Pierce and now Mr Hurrell. But I hope you do not have to hang Mark Hurrell, Major Vernon, and that you will find out that it is someone else entirely. Someone I do not know.”
“Unfortunately I can promise nothing,” Giles said.
“No, you cannot. And we are lucky to have you here. I have read of your escapades in The Bugle.”
“Might I ask you something rather delicate, Lady Wytton, about your sister-in-law and Mark Hurrell?”
“Yes?”
“I have been told that there was some impropriety discovered between them, enough to make Arthur Hurrell consider the engagement at an end.”
Lady Wytton gave a little gasp.
“Between Mark and Margaret?” she said. “Oh no, no, never. Who said such a thing to you, Major Vernon? It is horrible that anyone would say that of Margaret. Her devotion to Arthur Hurrell – oh, if you could see her now! I have been thinking of sending for your Mr Carswell; she seems sick with grief, or worse. No, no, that is a horrible lie and whoever put such a lie about should be ashamed of themselves. Who told you that?”
“I’m afraid I cannot say,” said Giles.
“Oh, that is bad. Edward will be furious if he hears that. His manner – well, I know he is not polished, but he does love her dearly in his own way and an insult like that would be a dreadful thing for him. Oh, I wish you had not told me that! Whatever shall I do now?”
“I’m sorry to have made you uncomfortable,” said Giles.
“She says she wants to be buried with him,” Lady Wytton went on. “That she will be dead within the year from grief. And as for anything at all between her and Mark – no – I’m sure of it. In fact, she is certain that he is the culprit. She was saying so only last night! You would never accuse a man you loved of murder, would you?”
Chapter Twenty-one
Felix was not disturbed until he was writing up his notes, when the duty constable came downstairs with a message for him. It was an unsealed paper in a familiar hand. Felix read it, pulled on his coat and went upstairs. The footman who had brought the message was waiting in the hall.
“Any answer, sir?” the footman said.
“I’ll come back with you now,” said Felix.
It was only a few minutes’ walk to Lord Rothborough’s house in the Minster Precincts, but a torpid heat had built up after the rain, and it was pleasant to be ushered into a cool hallway. James Bodley was there and led him upstairs to the shuttered drawing room on the first floor.
“I’m glad you could come so promptly, sir,” said Bodley. “The fact is he’s not himself at all.”
“I gathered that from his message. What has happened, Bodley? I thought you were going straight to Holbroke with her Ladyship,” Felix said.
“Let him tell you, sir,” said Bodley, opening the door to the gloomy drawing room.
Lord Rothborough, uncharacteristically in his shirtsleeves, was sitting in the far corner on a sofa pushed to the wall. There was a litter of papers about him, which was as Felix would have expected, but it was striking that he did not seem to be engaged upon them. Rather he was gazing out through the chink in one of the shutters, so that the light caught his introspection and his stillness, as if he were his own portrait bust.
“Master Felix, my lord,” said Bodley.
Lord Rothborough turned and rose at the sound of Bodley’s voice. He came down the room smiling, and embraced Felix.
“Thank you for coming, my boy,” he said. “I hope I didn’t take you from anything important.”
“No, I had just finished a post-mortem,” Felix said.
Lord Rothborough gave a brief laugh at that. “And that was what I wanted from you!” he said.
“Sir?” said Felix.
“Here,” said Lord Rothborough, taking a paper from his pocket. “Tell me what I am to make of this.”
Felix studied it. It was a sheet of writing paper, embossed with the words ‘Villa Albinia, Firenze.’ Written below was the following:
Lady Rothborough begs to inform Lord Rothborough that she will remain in Florence indefinitely, on the advice of her medical attendant.
“It was waiting for me at the hotel at Dover. After all my efforts.” He shook his head. “She did not even take the trouble to write it. That is not her hand, nor Augusta’s.”
“Who is her doctor?”
“Some Italian fellow. I’m sure he does not want her to return, for the sake of his income, so he will tell her anything she wishes to hear. And she never hears anything she does not wish to hear! She is so used to getting her own way in everything, that everything must bend to her will, no matter how unreasonable her demand! And this – this will hurt everyone, including my lady in the end, but will she ever admit it? No!” He flung himself down on the sofa. “Does she want to see her daughters married? No, not if it inconveniences her, not if it means being civil to me in public for the briefest space. How can she be so stubborn? Does she feel nothing for them? And poor Augusta – I must get her back here. She cannot stay with her. She is the most suggestible of all of them, and I know that she will not hesitate to turn her against me.”
“But Augusta does still write?” said Felix, sitting down beside him.
“Yes, yes, the most charming, dutiful letters, but there is an absence in them. I feel I am losing her. That is the worst of it. My lady may stay where she likes and do as she pleases, but she shall not have Augusta!”
“Then you should go and bring her back,” Felix said.
“It seems I shall have to,” said Lord Rothborough. “And pray she will come with me. For she will not like to desert her mother, and my lady will play every trick to keep her.” He sighed.
“Do you not have the right of custody under the law?” said Felix. “Given that this amounts to desertion and Augusta is not yet of age?”
“Yes, but I cannot do that to the girls, I cannot revile their mother publicly. No, this must be managed discreetly. Augusta must make her choice freely.”
“If she sees you as you are now,” Felix said, “I’m sure it will be easy for her. And she will want to be with her sisters.”
&
nbsp; Lord Rothborough smiled at that.
“It is a pity we do not have a handsome prospective spouse to lure her home with. I should take Arthur Hurrell with me. He might suit Augusta, and my lady could find no fault with that rent roll or lineage.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Felix said. “He’s been murdered. The post-mortem that I –”
“Good God,” said Lord Rothborough. “When did this happen?”
“Friday. He was not discovered until the next morning. He had been stabbed several times with an arrow and pushed down a hillside.”
“An arrow?” said Lord Rothborough. “But now I think of it, the longbow was something of a tradition in that family. Do you and Major Vernon have any indication of who is responsible?”
“It’s still unclear, but Mark Hurrell, the younger brother –”
“Yes, yes, I know the fellow.”
“He may be our man.”
“No, surely not?” said Lord Rothborough. He leant back on the sofa and rubbed his face. “Well, I hope for his sake you are wrong for once, but you and Vernon have an uncanny knack of getting to the truth in these matters, and there was certainly no love lost between those brothers. I saw that for myself. But oh, dear Heaven, that is a miserable piece of news! What a terrible thing to happen in such a fine old family! Have you anything cheerful for me? Tell me, how is my beautiful ward? At least I can console myself with your happiness.”
“She is very well,” Felix managed to say.
“Then I ought to let you go home to her and not keep you here listening to my lamentations.”
“Won’t you come and dine with us?” Felix said.
Lord Rothborough shook his head, and reached for one of the papers on the table.
“I’m going to Holbroke shortly. And I have a great deal to do here first. It has been hinted to me that there may be a seat for me in the shadow cabinet again if I check my wings.”
“You, sir?” Felix could not help saying. “Check your wings? Who said that to you?”
The Echo at Rooke Court Page 16