“You mind find it interesting,” he said. “I think you are in it.”
“What?” Now he had her attention. She had swivelled in her chair to face him.
“Who else can this be but you, Miss Wytton?”
There was a young woman, the only daughter of a neighbouring gentleman of ancient pedigree. The baronet, his wife and their daughter Emily lived in great comfort in a charming old house. Naturally, Emily was the intimate of Hal’s sisters. His eldest brother, Richard, reaching that age when a boy becomes a man, began to see her not as the sweet companion of his sisters but as a maiden whose charm, beauty and virtue made her a suitable prospect for a lifetime’s felicity. They became engaged, and Hal found himself dreaming about his brother’s betrothed, and wishing that he might be Emily’s husband instead.
“Does this seem familiar, Miss Wytton?”
She did not answer, so Giles went on reading.
There was some difficulty about setting a date, some misunderstanding about the settlement. The wedding was indefinitely postponed and soon such time passed that Hal, learning more of the world, began to see the imperfections in Emily’s character. He wondered if they were the cause of his brother’s hesitations. Yet he could not be certain if it was his brother’s cooling ardour that had caused her to deteriorate. An apple improperly stored will rot. Emily had not been cherished as she should. Had they wed at the proper time, and had she been given the life that all women long for, that of beloved wife and mother, than perhaps Emily would have thrived, rather than withered into bitterness.
He glanced at Miss Wytton. She was sitting awkwardly, her arms wrapped about her. Her discomfiture was clear. He read on further.
Hal reached this conclusion after a most painful passage in the summer before he was to go up to the University. Emily turned to him for sympathy. Richard had again failed to name a date for the wedding and showed no sign of relinquishing his fellowship. A clergyman and his family had lately been installed in the Rectory that was to have been their married home. In her grief, Emily turned to foolish wiles. She sensed Hal’s weakness, and as delicately as she played the pianoforte, she played upon his feelings. In a few days he was violently in love with her. He was a willing victim, that must be said, and his conduct was without doubt far worse than hers. He made constant excuses for himself, and considered himself powerless as if a disease had stolen over him. This was far from the case. He could and ought to have resisted her foolishness, but –
At this Miss Wytton gave a slight moan and waved at him to stop.
“Perhaps you should tell me what really happened between you?” Giles said.
“Nothing happened. That is all malicious fancy.”
“But Arthur Hurrell did neglect you?” She did not answer. “Come now, you cannot pretend he did not hurt you. I’m not alone in thinking his conduct towards you was abominable. To make you an offer and bind you to him, with all the obligations that implies? When a woman accepts a man, it is a solemn thing – and so it should be for a man.”
“I really don’t want to talk about this,” she said.
“I think we should. The record ought to be set straight. You don’t want people believing you murdered him, surely?”
“Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know. It does seem more and more possible the longer I study you, Miss Wytton. You have what we call form, after all, and you seem to be unperturbed that you have already destroyed several lives. Mrs Braithwaite and Mr Pierce – both died wretched deaths. I was with both of them when they died. Have you ever seen a man who has been burnt to death, Miss Wytton?”
“No,” she said.
“It is not a sight I shall ever forget,” Giles said. “Half his face burnt away. His clever, handsome face. And he died in agony. I have seen many men in dreadful conditions, but this surpassed it. All because you caused that fire to be set.”
“You do not know that was me,” she said.
“Who else was having private conferences with Esther Braithwaite? A woman you knew was a skilled fire-setter, who had successfully brought down an entire farm and burnt a man to death in the process? No one, Miss Wytton, no one but you.”
“You do not know what we spoke of. And you have only the word of a duplicitous servant that she was here at all.”
“Lord, you are heartless,” Giles said. “Mark Hurrell is right. That is exactly what he says of Emily.”
He opened the book again. “Here we are.”
When he realised that she only used him to bring his brother to his senses, when he lay recovering from the dreadful thrashing his brother had given him for his disgraceful impudence, he knew that painful though this was, it was nothing to the injuries she had inflicted upon him. He had been used, and without any hesitation. His feelings, his misery, his pain were nothing to her. The effect was everything. Richard had been provoked, and after he had vented his anger on Hal he had shown her tenderness and affection. He had kissed her and promised to speak to his father about the settlements.
He glanced over at her. She seemed lost in thought.
“But he didn’t, I suppose?” he said. “Speak to Sir Morten?”
“He may have done,” she said at last. “But it would have made no difference. Sir Morten had already decided I was not good enough for Arthur. He changed his mind. I wasn’t up to snuff. I had insufficient quarterings in my bloodline and Arthur could do much better for himself.” She laughed bitterly. “That disgusting old hypocrite! When he made such a spotty match himself! Nobody ever talks about that! The late Lady Hurrell, who was she? Nobody, indeed, nobody at all! A Miss Smith or a Miss Taylor or something insignificant, and she came from nowhere at all. She had no money, no family. Just her fine looks and the clothes she stood up in. My mother told me that old Sir Arthur choked on his mutton and died when he heard what his son had done! Just imagine if Arthur had done that. I should like to see Sir Morten choke on his mutton, and that’s the truth of it. He deserves it.”
“You were treated badly,” said Giles. “It can’t be easy to deal with a family like the Hurrells.”
“No, no, it is not,” Miss Wytton went on. “And I did love Arthur, and he did love me, at least sometimes he did.”
She got up and wandered over to her dressing table, where she began to play with the objects on it, her back to him.
“Is that why you persuaded your brother to make investments in The Stockholm and Malmo Railway Construction Company?” Giles said, gently. “To make you a better prospect? If you had more money, then Sir Morten might find you acceptable?”
There was a long silence.
“It was Arthur who needed money,” she said. “He wanted it for his movement. His father never gave him much. I thought if I made a fortune, then... then I would be irresistible again. After all, who else will marry a woman of seven and twenty, if she does not have a fortune to her name? All I wanted was to be married. That was all. Is that so much to ask?”
She turned back to him, and made a gesture which he knew he was supposed to appreciate as appealing and submissive.
“No, not at all. So in order to achieve this, you persuaded your brother to make these investments?”
“They told us it would not fail. It was a guaranteed return!” she said. “If you want to find who is really responsible, Major Vernon, talk to them! We were duped. They lied to us!”
“But they did not attempt to set fire to the bank, Miss Wytton,” he said. “They did not cause the death of an innocent man by doing so.”
She put up her hands to silence him.
“That was not supposed to happen! If he had just gone home as he should then it would not have happened! No one was supposed to die!” she said. “That was not what we wanted...” Her voice trailed off as she realised she had betrayed too much.
“You just wanted to destroy the evidence, I suppose? That you had begun to steal depositors’ money to cover the losses?”
“That was all my brother’s idea.”
“I may have done,” she said after a moment.
“That is better, Miss Wytton, much better. Now sit down again and think for a moment. Think of the tangle of lies you have caught yourself up in. They will strangle you sooner rather than later unless you start telling the truth.”
She paced about the room for a few minutes, before seizing the back of her chair.
“My brother was desperate,” she said. “He had made such a mess and at that moment it seemed a good idea. After all, we both knew what Esther had done at the Home Farm.”
“And you never thought of mentioning that to anyone? Given that a man died?”
“We thought it better not to,” said Miss Wytton. “She would have hanged for it. It was better not to say. I did not want that on my conscience.” Now she sat down and Giles drew his chair a little closer.
“Do you know why she set that fire?” Giles asked. “Was it because of her sister?”
“Half-sister,” said Miss Wytton. “Ruth.”
“Who worked here, for your parents?”
“Yes, for a while. Until she left.”
“Until she was dismissed in disgrace. What did she do, Miss Wytton?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try and remember, please.”
“She took some of my mother’s things,” Miss Wytton said after a moment, and then added, “or so everybody thought.”
“And why was that?”
“Because the housekeeper found them in her box.”
“But she denied stealing them?”
Miss Wytton shook her head. “She let them all think it was her, when –”
“When someone else put them there?” Giles said. “Someone who could easily take things from Lady Wytton’s dressing room. A member of the family, perhaps?”
There was a silence, and then Miss Wytton burst out: “She needed to be taught a lesson! She had no respect. Esther was the same. Always behaving as if they were as good as us – no, as if they were better, and always speaking out of turn, as if they were somebodies and not nobodies! Esther used to come up to the park to see Ruth, and I would see them sitting together, laughing, having all their silly little secrets. They said things to me –” She shook her head. “They said such horrible things to me!”
“Yet Ruth did not betray you?”
“No,” said Miss Wytton. “And that was why Esther set the fire at the Home Farm. She wanted to hurt us all. I think she wanted to burn the house down and kill me. And I could not say what I knew because it would have come out that I was the one who had put my mother’s precious point de Venise collar in Ruth’s box.” She began to cry, and with some sincerity. It was as if she regretted this transgression far more than all her others.
“How did you make Esther agree to set the fire at the bank?”
“I told her I would tell the family of the man who died. That was enough. She said she knew her sins would catch up with her. She took the money I gave her, and said, oh so prettily, that she hoped I’d be half as happy with Mr Hurrell as she’d been with her blacksmith, because she said she’d known Paradise and now she could go to Hell for eternity because she had that in her heart! The bitch. She knew Arthur was never going to marry me. She was mocking me! Even then.”
She broke down utterly, and Giles sat making notes until she was done crying.
“Did you kill Arthur?” Giles asked, at length.
“No,” she said with a great sniff. “No, I did not. But sometimes I wish I had! He deserved it.”
“You visited Mark Hurrell on the morning Arthur was murdered?” She nodded. “It would have been an easy matter to make a detour through the Hermitage woods to the ruined chapel.”
“I did think of going to see him,” she said, swallowing her sobs and drying her tears. “But the weather was very uncertain and I went straight to Mark. I did not feel strong enough to see Arthur. He was always so sharp with me, especially if I interrupted his devotions. And what would have been the point? There is only so much of that sort of thing one can bear.”
“Were you alone?”
“No, Agnes was with me. We arrived at the Hermitage just as Sir Morten was leaving.”
“Did you see Sir Morten leave?” said Giles.
“Yes, but he did not see us. He went storming off, which was no surprise, for Mark always puts him in a passion.”
“And which way did he go?”
“Along the path towards the Chapel. That is the quickest way back to Hurrell Place.”
“And this was before the rain started?”
“Definitely,” said Miss Wytton.
“And you stayed with Mark Hurrell for how long?”
“Quite a while, for the rain started and so there was no point leaving until it cleared. Mark was in a wretched state. Sir Morten had given him a terrible lecture, and then he had taken laudanum and gone back to his bed, so I sat and read something Mark had been writing – the lives of the early Celtic saints. Such horrible stories, and all written as if he thinks miracles are nonsense. I think he means to shock people again.”
There was a knock on the door, and Lady Wytton called out, “Shall I unlock the door now, Major Vernon? Captain Lazenby is downstairs and asking for Margaret.”
Giles went to the door and said, “Yes, if you would, Lady Wytton.” He turned back to Miss Wytton. “If you do nothing else, tell him everything you have told me, Miss Wytton. It is all you can do.”
He went out onto the landing to Lady Wytton, closing the door behind him.
“Does Captain Lazenby know I am here?”
“No,” said Lady Wytton. “I thought of mentioning it, but then I thought you might prefer I did not, given the circumstances.”
“Thank you. Perhaps there is another way I might leave?”
“If you go along this passage to the end, and then take the back stairs, you can go straight to the stable yard. There is a door at the bottom of the stairs.”
And so he found himself departing by the same route Esther Braithwaite had come for her fateful meeting with Margaret Wytton.
Chapter Thirty-five
“Arsenic poisoning?” said Giles.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Carswell said. “But that roster of symptoms suggests it.”
“But it would have to be supposition on his part?” Giles said.
“Yes, but he’s no fool. There are plenty of printed accounts of the effects of arsenic. He could easily have compared the symptoms he remembered his mother suffering and come to that conclusion. I have sent Jacob into the office for my Chrisiston on poisons – that’s the standard text. I’m sure he could have consulted it when he was at Oxford.”
“But why, is the question. Why would Mark Hurrell feel the need to make such a dire accusation?”
“Because it is the truth and he needs to tell it to the world? That is what the whole book is about, surely – telling all the truths that can’t be told.”
“We need to talk to him. If there is any substance in this idea, if Sir Morten did poison his wife, then it casts a different light over recent events. Miss Wytton told me an interesting thing. Apparently the late Lady Wytton was of humble origins and it was considered a scandalous marriage. Perhaps he regretted what he had done.”
“And murdered her?” said Carswell. “Oh dear God, perhaps we do need to reform the marriage laws!” He laughed nervously, and then in a low and pained tone of voice added, “I have had the most terrible scene with Eleanor.”
“What happened?” said Giles.
“She was fussing about me and I could not bear it. Then she said it was obvious that I found her annoying and stupid, and before we could discuss it, she ran away. The worst thing is that it is perfectly true!”
“Surely not?” said Giles.
“Yes, although I do want not to feel so, I do! Every time she comes in, I feel as though there is a noose about my neck, and –” He started plucking at the open
collar of his nightshirt in his agitation. “I look at her and I cannot understand what I have done. I cannot feel anything I should for her. All I feel for her is the lowest kind of wanting.” He looked away from Giles, his head bent in shame.
“If you were to see a patient in this condition, so soon after such serious illness, what would you say?” Giles said after a moment.
“I cannot blame it on that,” said Carswell. “That is a poor excuse. No, I have felt this before. Ever since we have been back here it has been...” He pressed his hands to his face. “I cannot remember what it felt like to love her! Perhaps I never did. Perhaps all I wanted was – you know...”
“I do not think for one moment that is the case,” Giles said. “You must allow yourself a little grace. No man or woman ever found the first weeks back from a wedding journey particularly easy, even without such a trial as this illness of yours. It is a great change for both of you. It will take time to adjust. I’m sure when you are yourself again, you will feel as you should.”
“And what if I do not?”
“Have some faith in yourself, for goodness’ sake,” Giles said.
“Ah yes, faith,” said Carswell. “I’ve never had much of a talent for it.”
“This is verging on self-indulgence,” Giles felt he must remark, and Carswell glanced at him, looking suitably chastened.
“I know, but I cannot start to think how I can remedy this! I know I should give it my attention, but instead I am eagerly solving riddles in anonymous novels written by possible murderers!” With which he grabbed the copy of Hurrell’s book that was lying on the bed.
“Time,” said Giles, taking the book from him. “Give it time. If you cannot manage faith, try patience.”
“All the copybook virtues,” said Carswell.
“They are in the copybook for a reason,” said Giles. “We need to learn them, just as much as clear handwriting.” He turned the book over. “Mark Hurrell is going to be surprised to find two surviving copies in our possession.”
“Are you going to talk to him?”
“I think we both should, if Lord Rothborough will allow him in the house and you feel equal to it. I must say, his aspiration to Lady Maria’s hand speaks strongly in favour of him, but you may disagree.”
The Echo at Rooke Court Page 27