But Sir Benjamin was obliged to return to India and Hugo was sent away to school. They did not always meet in the holidays; sometimes over a year would go by with nothing but letters from Sir Benjamin. These were always informative and gently affectionate, but it was a long and lonely childhood. As he grew towards manhood, he’d looked forward to joining his great uncle and worked conscientiously with him until Sir Benjamin decided it was time to return home. Home…. It wasn’t really his home. Home was where Mama and Papa were and fond though he was of Sir Benjamin, he didn’t feel that Westbury Hall was his home. Even after all these years, he knew very few people and wondered if he would ever settle down and feel comfortable in a place like Felbrook.
He thought of Sir Benjamin’s advice to marry and have a family to guard against a lonely old age. He supposed he’d never experienced any problems in attracting women, especially in India where eligible bachelors were highly prized by well-bred young ladies, some of whom sailed out specifically to seek for an eligible husband. But this particular social set-up also made it very easy for him and other young men to form liaisons with an entirely different sort of young woman. He remembered vividly one exotic girl in Mysore, so willing to please and content with so little in return. Then a mental picture of Charlotte Grayson flashed into his mind. Her indignation when they’d first met, her bonnet awry and her lovely face streaked with mud. He smiled again at the memory. And at the Wests’ party when she’d been so angry at his gesture of kissing her fingers. He’d not managed any further private talk with her, but they would be bound to meet again soon. It was unavoidable. He wondered if she would still be cross with him and decided he would have to put himself out even more to charm her out of her bad temper. Tomorrow, while he was assessing the various repairs needed to cottages in Felbrook village, he would call at the Manor and see how the family did. Who knows? She might be persuaded to take Lucy Baker for another little ride. In spite of the sombre emotions generated by the funeral, he felt happy with this thought and retired to bed.
CHAPTER NINE
Sir Benjamin Westbury was as usual sleeping late and breakfasting in his room when Hugo went downstairs. It was the sort of wonderfully joyous morning that made him glad to be alive, especially after the mournful discovery of his grandfather and the solemnity of the interment yesterday. No doubt he was demonstrating his own love of life and the feeling of gratitude that he was still here, he thought. Rapturously, wonderfully, vibrantly alive, on such a glorious sunny day, and he began to whistle to himself.
He’d decided to walk and see again some of his old childhood haunts and he swung along the well-worn footpath to the village, picking up a stout stick and every so often taking a swipe at a patch of nettles or thistle, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of Charlotte. He wondered if he would meet her. He knew she was singularly independent-minded and sometimes went walking without her maid. Maybe she would be out walking herself on such a fine morning. Perhaps they would be able to walk together for a while. As he entered the woods, he paused suddenly in his nettle-beating activity. There was not a soul about and yet, despite the very early hour, he had the unwelcome feeling that he was being followed. He looked behind him but could see no one. Whom should he see? Whom should he fear? He was in a safe and quiet country village, not in the dangerous city of London. He could only conclude that it was the strange events of his grandfather’s death that had given him this sense of some mystery, which had haunted him ever since he’d come back to live at Westbury Hall. He’d be seeing ghosts and apparitions next. He smiled cynically at the thought and returned to his nettle beating, and it was as well he did, for it meant that he half turned away from the path and, at the same time, from the heavy club which was poised to strike him. It was no ghost or apparition that felled him to the ground, but a man. A large, tough rogue, who bent over him and with arms like huge hams, hauled him to his feet and pushed him roughly against a tree, holding him tightly by the front of his expensive jacket and smart cravat.
A swarthy unshaven face was pushed close to his own and the man hissed into his face, ‘Nah listen, my fine swell, and listen good. Unless yer wants to be dead meat, keep yer nozzle out o’ what don’t concern ye, or next time yer daylights’ll be darkened permanent.’
He flung Hugo back against the tree, leaving him to slide down on to the grass, before he ran swiftly away.
As Hugo hauled himself up, he reflected that his instinctive feeling that he was being followed was quite correct and that the only explanation for the attack must be his investigations into the circumstances of his grandfather’s murder. He looked down ruefully at his ruined jacket and torn cravat. To the devil with the thug’s threats, but still, he’d be more careful from now on. Taking out his handkerchief, he wiped his face and felt gingerly at the painful lump on the back of his head. No blood, thank God, and at least the ruffian hadn’t punched him in the face. He straightened his clothes and decided to turn back towards home. He was in no fit state to greet any lady, let alone one as critical and mocking as Charlotte Grayson.
It was at that moment that he saw Charlotte herself, coming towards him along the path, looking as beautifully fresh and smart, as though she’d just stepped out of a band box.
At first, she didn’t notice his dirty clothes and torn neck cloth, but when she drew nearer to him, she exclaimed impulsively, ‘Oh, Mr Westbury, what has happened? Have you had an accident, sir?’
‘You could say that,’ Hugo said grimly. ‘An accident in the form of a hired bully boy, who accosted me in order to deliver a warning.’
‘A … a warning?’ she faltered.
‘Yes. It seems I must desist forthwith from making enquiries about my grandfather’s death or else suffer the consequences!’ He smiled wryly to himself at his earlier feelings of light-hearted anticipation at a chance meeting with the beautiful Miss Grayson, which had culminated in a meeting of quite a different kind.
Charlotte had never looked so desirable as now, when she stood in front of him, her clear gaze meeting his own, only her tightly clasped hands betraying the anxiety she was feeling.
‘It is obvious then that the ruffian attacked you because of your interest in … in the body in the library.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So … what do we do next?’
Hugo registered use of the word ‘we’ and her look of genuine concern and frowned.
‘We don’t do anything,’ he said. ‘I am the one who must act to solve the mystery of my grandfather’s murder. As for you, ma’am,’ he said sternly, ‘take care not to go out unescorted, even in quiet Felbrook.’
‘But I was there when the body was discovered,’ she said mutinously. ‘It would be too bad of you to try and exclude me now! And I dislike feeling helpless. I am sure I could—’
‘No, Miss Grayson,’ he said more gently. ‘You must do nothing to draw attention to yourself. That way you will keep out of danger. For the moment, Bunfield and I will continue our investigations as secretly as possible.’ Noting her rebellious expression, he gave her his most charming smile and said gravely, ‘I will inform you of any progress that we make and I can always ask for your assistance if I should need it.’
She was silent but continued to look up at him questioningly, her large eyes bright and clear in the morning sunshine. He had a sudden vision of the beautiful Charlotte Grayson in his arms and feeling helpless, but quickly recalled himself to the present. He was about to observe that she was without her maid and was going to offer to escort her home, but then completely lost the thread of what he was about to say and could only gaze silently back at her. He had never felt like this before. Perhaps it was the effect of the blow to his head, he thought wildly. Devil take it, he was acting like some idiot moonling boy. He was disgusted with himself.
Still they didn’t speak.
Under the shadow of the trees, her eyes looked so enormous and so deep, he felt as if he could drown in them. God help him, he must be losing his mind. All he wanted to do w
as take her in his arms and kiss her until she really was helpless and then to protect her and guard her from all danger.
The silence lengthened as they stood there still.
‘What . . what is it … Mr Westbury?’ she said at last, looking at him questioningly, almost fearfully.
With a supreme effort, he hastily pulled himself together. ‘Nothing … nothing, only be careful, dear Miss Grayson. I would not want you to be in any danger.’
‘I will heed your warning, Mr Westbury,’ she said, taking note of the ‘dear Miss Grayson’, and was suddenly demure as she took his arm and they walked sedately back to Felbrook Manor.
He took his leave of her at the gate, intent on not being seen in his untidy state and wishing to return to Westbury Hall as quickly as possible. He would have a meeting with Bunfield and decide on some plan of action. He cursed himself for not going out on horseback this morning. Now he would have to walk back. Tedious and time-consuming. On the other hand, he’d set off in the hope that by chance they would meet and in that, at least, he’d been successful. Then he wondered if it really had been by chance. Charlotte Grayson walking abroad without her abigail, or footman, he reflected, was perhaps indicative that she also had hoped they would encounter each other by chance. Even his thoughts seemed incoherent. He must try and calm himself.
By the time he reached Westbury Hall, in spite of his stiff limbs and a severe headache, Hugo was in a saner mood. He even managed to get to his room without encountering either Sir Benjamin or his hated cousin Alfred. His dignified and discreet valet, Latimer, was his usual quiet self as he picked up the torn neckcloth and discarded, soiled garments which his master had thrown on to the floor of his dressing-room.
Then he said tactfully, ‘Forgive me for saying so, sir, but you do not look yourself at the moment. Do you wish me to get the footman to prepare a bath for you?’
Hugo smiled appreciatively. ‘How perceptive of you, Latimer,’ he said. ‘I am stiff and weary and my head is throbbing as though it will burst.’
Latimer laid out a fresh set of linen and then, without looking directly at him, said softly, ‘May one enquire what has happened, sir?’
Hugo laughed out loud at this and said, ‘An unfortunate accident, Latimer, and I have a very sore head. Be a good fellow and bring me a brandy while I await the bath.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Latimer replied gravely and returned in no time at all with the decanter and a glass on a silver tray, and then he discreetly retired, leaving Hugo to his warm bath.
It was some time later when Mr Bunfield was announced and Hugo received him in the library.
Bunfield’s face was as innocent as ever, his small, twinkling eyes darting everywhere as he stood four square in front of Hugo. He had been summoned to discuss progress on the murder mystery and had his little battered notebook at the ready, but it was obvious that he knew something was wrong.
‘Beggin’ parding, sir, but you look … different, somehow.’
Although Hugo was now dressed in his usual smart style, it was clear that Bunfield’s sharp eyes had noticed something amiss. Hugo was obliged to smile at the way the Bow Street Runner echoed the words of his valet.
‘I am different,’ he said ruefully. ‘I was walking to Felbrook when I was set on by a huge ruffian who raised quite a handsome bump on the back of my head.’
Bunfield smiled back sympathetically. ‘So you decided to go walking about the countryside, did you, sir? Well, try a bit of grease on it, sir. A little rub o’ butter or lard takes the swelling down a treat.’
‘Thank you, Bunfield, I shall bear that in mind,’ Hugo said gravely. He smiled again as he imagined the horror on Latimer’s face if he should catch Hugo ruining his expensive hairstyle by rubbing any sort of animal fat into his scalp.
There was a pause and then Bunfield said quietly, ‘I have to admit to being at fault over this, sir. In fact I overheard Mr Alfred Westbury telling his valet to organize just such an attack on you, sir, but before I could intervene, one of my scouts met me with more information about the Golden Maiden. I was not quick enough to prevent the attack on you, Mr Westbury. I am truly sorry, sir.’
‘Think nothing of it, Bunfield. It was a warning, no more. I shall take heed of it and strive to be more careful in the future. But what of the latest on the shipwreck?’
‘Well, sir, one of my informants has told me that after Rudkin was saved from the wreck of the Golden Maiden, he became very friendly with the other survivor, Tobias Todd, whose real name was William Ingram. He was a former tutor at the Lynn Grammar School and was seemingly a quiet and respectable man with a scholarly demeanour. No one suspected that he had a past to hide. He generously offered Rudkin a temporary refuge when he became homeless and destitute. There was a degree of planned self-interest in the former schoolmaster’s seeming philanthropy, however. Rudkin was not to know this, but Ingram was a villain and a murderer. Ten years earlier, he had robbed and murdered Daniel Theaker of Norwich and had hidden the body in some caves at Heacham. It only came to light years later when Theaker’s remains were accidentally discovered. This was the only crime that was proved against him, sir, but it is probable that there were others.’
‘It sounds to me as though we should interview Mr Rudkin again, Bunfield.’
‘Aye, sir, mayhap we may also hear of other crimes that our Mr Ingram was connected with.’
‘Very well. We shall definitely pay Rudkin another visit. I shall take a couple of days to nurse my sore head and then we will get back to him. Meanwhile, please continue with your local enquiries. The ruffian who attacked me was a native of these parts, of that I am convinced.’
‘Aye, sir. I am also continuing to observe the movements of Mr Alfred Westbury and his manservant, Bennett. Those two need a close eye keeping on them. I suspect them of all sorts of devilry, sir, but am recording my observations in my little black book. Meanwhile, I shall await to hear from you regarding another trip to Cromer.’
He touched his broad forehead with the carved end of his stick and departed.
Long after Bunfield had gone, Hugo remained in the library, lost in thought. His cousin Alfred was nowhere to be seen and Sir Benjamin, who seemed utterly done up by the funeral of his youngest brother, kept to his room and only appeared at mealtimes. He wondered what Charlotte would think of Bunfield’s latest revelations and immediately decided that he might be better to say nothing about it when they next met.
This proved to be at a soirée given by the mother of the other of ‘the girls’ – Mrs Augusta Casterton. There had been a little coolness between ‘the girls’ since the announcement of Ann’s betrothal and Aurelia’s mama, not to be outdone by Mrs West’s lavish entertainment, was determined to make a push to land a giant matrimonial prize for her only daughter. In spite of the rumours that the heart of the charming Mr Hugo Westbury was utterly impregnable, Augusta Casterton was going ahead with her plan to help Aurelia to captivate him. She was not the sort of woman who would ever be daunted by such a deterrent to holy matrimony as an impregnable heart. In her book, all wealthy, handsome men were good husband material and her dear daughter must be the one who would change the mind of the excessively attractive Hugo Westbury and turn him into an ideal husband. Position, money and good looks were already his. What he needed to complete his cup of happiness was a wife, in the form of her dear daughter, Aurelia.
That Hugo chose to attend was not to indicate his interest in Miss Casterton, but because he was hoping to see or overhear something that might help him and Bunfield in their investigations. Also, it would definitely be an opportunity to meet Charlotte again and he found himself looking forward eagerly to that. His sore head was now completely healed and he felt somewhat dull and bored with only the subdued Sir Benjamin for company. He found Alfred so uncongenial, he discounted him as any sort of companion.
But, having accepted Mrs Casterton’s invitation, he was obliged to offer a ride to Alfred, who agreed promptly and made himself agreeable for
once. Hugo decided not to confront Alfred with the fact that he knew Bennett had organized the attack on him, but would see if Alfred would lower his guard sufficiently to reveal himself. Alfred seemed highly pleased at sharing a coach with Hugo and chatted pleasantly and sensibly, without any of his usual oily or insinuating conversation.
Nor was Hugo disappointed when he reached the Casterton’s country mansion. One of the first persons he saw when he entered was Charlotte. She was, as expected, accompanied by her mother and sister, but also, this evening, by her Uncle Bertram. Predictably, Matthew King and his aunt were with them. Hugo was only a little behind the Grayson party as they reached the top of the staircase to be greeted by Mrs Casterton and Aurelia. Several people had already spoken to him and it was obvious that on this occasion, Augusta Casterton was determined to make it an evening to remember. She had invited everyone in the county who was of any consequence and now she stood with her daughter, acknowledging all the guests with dignified politeness. Hugo was greeted most effusively by Mrs Casterton and even the insipid Aurelia beamed at him and gave him a warm welcome.
Charlotte was talking to Lavinia and Matthew King when she saw Hugo enter Mrs Casterton’s huge drawing-room and, on an impulse, she excused herself and walked towards him, offering her hand in greeting.
‘Mr Westbury,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
Knowing that she referred to his sore head, he smiled openly and unaffectedly at both the pleasure of seeing her and with humour at the implied conspiracy of their shared secret.
‘Miss Grayson,’ he said, bowing over her hand. ‘I am indeed wonderfully well, unless you think that the blow to my head has addled my wits for ever.’
A Particular Circumstance Page 14