Lord Montague

by Mary Kingswood

  Two days after their arrival, the opportunity arose to remedy this defect. A carriage broke an axle almost outside the gates of the property, and its occupant, a well-dressed woman of above fifty, requested aid and was invited inside while their own coachman conferred with hers to assess the damage.

  She introduced herself as Mrs Horace Chesterfield, from Hertfordshire, a widow of some years’ standing, although she still wore black. She was a handsome woman with a fine figure, although her looks were marred by a scar across one cheek.

  “Where are you bound, Mrs Chesterfield?” Robinia said. “For this is a very quiet road, and we do not get much traffic from Hertfordshire.”

  “Oh, that is Richard’s fault — my coachman,” she said with a merry laugh. “He will take these shortcuts, and they always go wrong! I am on my way to York for a spell, but he decided to turn off the main road and — well, here we are, broken down and very far from help. If he were not so careful a driver in other ways, I should have turned him off years ago.”

  The report from the two coachmen was not optimistic. The axle was completely smashed, and the carriage could not be moved until the wheelwright could be got from Mellingham village. Even then, it might be days before the axle could be repaired.

  “Oh dear!” said Mrs Chesterfield. “What then are we to do? Is there a respectable inn anywhere nearby?”

  “Is your business in York urgent?” Robinia said.

  “Not in the least. It was merely a whim of mine, for I am so restless since my dear Horace died.”

  “Why, then you must stay with us.”

  “Oh, indeed, I could not impose—”

  But Robinia insisted and Mrs Chesterfield graciously agreed, and so it was decided.

  That evening was a pleasant one. Mrs Chesterfield was good company at dinner, although Melissa thought she devoted rather too much of her attention to Reggie. It was not that she flirted, exactly, for how could a respectable widow of such years be said to flirt? But she listened intently to every word he said, and responded in the most respectful manner, in contrast to her more casual tone with the ladies. However, she played whist competently, so the four played several rubbers and only retired to bed when the clock struck midnight.

  Melissa was restless that night. Even though Hortensia brought news from Monty every day, she still missed him, and however comfortable Great Mellingham was, she wanted to be back in her own home with her husband. She lay wakefully in bed for some time, then, with a sigh, threw back the covers. She had another book from the circulating library to read, and she had left the characters within it at a dramatic moment. She would read for a while until sleep overcame her.

  There was still a little light left in the embers of the fire. She was still fumbling around for a spill to light her candle when she heard a noise, just a quick scuffling sound, gone at once. Mice, she thought, reaching again for the spills jar. A soft click stayed her hand. She froze, ears straining, for mice did not, in her experience, make clicking noises. Then, to her horror, she saw a sliver of light from the crack under the dressing room door. Someone had entered her dressing room from the landing.

  She crept towards the door, weak and trembling with fear. Who could it be? And why would anyone enter her dressing room? Did they mean her harm? The light wavered, moved this way and that, as the interloper walked around the room. Melissa stretched out her hand to the door, found the knob, felt around some more and her fingers fell on the cold metal of the key. Slowly, keeping one eye on the wavering line of light below the door, she grasped, turned and prayed it would make no noise. Silently the key revolved. The lock engaged with an audible clunk, and Melissa held her breath. The light continued to bob about. She breathed a sigh of relief. Quickly, she moved to the bedroom door and locked that, too. She was safe!

  The light under the door stopped moving, and then came some slight sounds that Melissa could not identify. Metallic, she thought. What on earth was going on? But this did not seem like the behaviour of one who planned to murder Melissa in her bed. A burglar, perhaps. And if so, she could not sit in her room listening while some housemaid stole the silver.

  She crept to the bedroom door and gently unlocked it, then stole out onto the landing. The dressing room door was ajar, the faint glow from the burglar’s candle scarcely showing. Very, very cautiously, inch by careful inch, Melissa pushed the door open. Someone could be seen scrabbling around by the fireplace, but she could not make out who it was.

  But she did not need to, for she knew what she was going to do. Her hand felt around the door. No key on the outside, so it must be on the inside — there it was! Slowly she withdrew it, and when she was sure she had it firm in her hand, she slammed the door shut and locked it.

  Then, with cries of, “Help! Help! Burglars!” she ran off to wake the household.

  It took some time to rouse enough men to tackle the burglar, who had grown in Melissa’s eyes to the size of a giant. She would be disappointed if the door were opened to reveal only a wisp of a kitchen maid. But when Reggie and his troop of footmen and grooms, unlocked the door and streamed inside, the room was empty. Soot covered the rug in front of the fire, and a window had been opened, suggesting that the culprit had fled. Melissa was terribly disappointed. Why had she not thought of the windows? Although how she could have secured them, she knew not, and the room was on the first floor.

  But when Reggie peered down from the window, he laughed. “Our burglar did not get far, I see.”

  And there, perched precariously in the branches of a tree and looking terrified, was Mrs Chesterfield.

  19: Theft And Deception

  Two gardeners brought ladders and the burglar was retrieved from her tree, clutching a sooty metal box. She glowered at them all, not in the least cowed, and only put up a fight when Reggie asked her to hand over the box.

  “It is mine!” she said defiantly. “I have done nothing wrong in reclaiming my own property.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Reggie said sternly. “Lampton, Walker, relieve Mrs Chesterfield of the box.”

  There followed an unseemly tussle, but two large footmen were more than a match for one rather stout middle-aged lady, and Reggie soon had the box in his possession, and Mrs Chesterfield was led away with what dignity she could muster to be locked into an empty portion of the wine cellar, with the two footmen left to watch over her in case she escaped.

  Then they all returned to bed, to snatch what hours of sleep were left to them.

  The metal box, which had been hidden behind loose bricks in the chimney, was found to contain rolls of money, some coins and several bags of small but valuable jewels, as well as titles to several properties.

  “That is curious,” Reggie said thoughtfully, as they examined the contents the following morning. “Murchester Hall… I remember hearing of that. It seems to me that it was one of Carrbridge’s properties at one time. Merton will know, if anyone does. The others do not sound familiar, though.”

  “But so much money!” Robinia said. “And these diamonds must be worth a great deal.”

  “Is it possible that Mrs Chesterfield truly owns the box, as she claims?” Melissa said. “Perhaps she lived here once, and left it behind.”

  “Then why not ask for it, like an honest woman?” Reggie said. “No need to creep about at night if it is her property. It is more likely stolen, perhaps by highwaymen, and was left here so that the thieves would not be caught with stolen property on their persons. The house has been empty for some years, remember. It would not have been difficult to break in and find a safe hiding place.”

  “It would not be difficult to break in, perhaps,” Melissa said. “Finding a chimney that happened to have loose bricks in it would be a lucky chance, I should think.”

  “That is true,” Reggie said. “Well, we shall do nothing further except to keep Mrs Chesterfield locked up. I sent word to Drummoor at first light, so I am hopeful that Carrbridge and Merton will come and advise us.”

  Not long
after noon, Lord Carrbridge and Mr Merton arrived, accompanied by two grooms, and Lord Carrbridge’s valet, in case they should be required to stay the night. The marquess was irate, pacing about, arms waving, most aggrieved that anyone should be sneaking about in the middle of the night retrieving boxes from chimneys.

  “This is quite unacceptable!” he cried. “Why, Lady Monty was only in the next room, and suffered the greatest fear and alarm, and I will not have it! This person — this Mrs Chesterfield, if that is indeed her name, and personally I doubt it — should not be allowed to terrorise honest people in this way.”

  “We are all agreed upon that, Carrbridge,” Reggie said. “But Lady Monty was more than equal to the occasion, and had the presence of mind to lock the lady up so that she might be caught. Otherwise, she might have got clean away, you know, and the box of valuables with her.”

  “And what of her coachman?” Mr Merton said.

  Reggie looked chagrined. “Gone, and the groom and maid with him. We think they had another carriage, one without a broken axle, parked in a field nearby, ready for their escape. The coachman and the others must have run for it when Mrs Chesterfield was caught, and they saw that the game was up.”

  “What were they like?” Mr Merton said. “The coachman — was he an older man?”

  “No, rather young. Twenty five, perhaps, and the groom even younger. The maid, about the same.”

  “Interesting,” Mr Merton said. “May we see the box of valuables?”

  When it was all spread out before him, he examined every item with great care, and then he asked to see the chimney where the box had been secreted. When he returned to the drawing room, he was smiling.

  “Do you wish to interview Mrs Chesterfield?” Reggie said. “She will not tell you much, but you might find out a little more about her, with judicious questioning.”

  “I should certainly like to see her at some stage,” Mr Merton said. “However, I do not need to ask her any questions, for I know exactly who she is, and what she is about.”

  They all exclaimed in amazement, but he smiled, and pointed to the contents of the box. “The titles here are all properties which rightly belong to Lord Carrbridge. Murchester Hall, for instance, was held by Lady Millicent Marford for her lifetime.”

  “Great-aunt Millicent?” Lord Carrbridge said. “But she has been dead for years. Her house should have reverted to the estate long ago.”

  “Indeed. Lannimont Lodge… I have only seen one mention of that, in a letter to the eighth marquess, but no other sign of it. Yet here it is. And Barnfield I assumed was lost at the faro table or some such. It is obvious, therefore, who is behind this attempted theft, and who Mrs Chesterfield is.”

  “You speak of Sharp, I presume,” Lard Carrbridge said.

  “Certainly,” Mr Merton said. “Who else but your agent would have access to the titles of your properties? And remember that Great Mellingham was empty for some years, with renovations overseen by Sharp. He had every opportunity to loosen bricks in the chimney, in order to hide money and documents. He has been concealing such caches in many different places. Now that he finds himself pursued by the law, he is trying to retrieve some of his hidden funds. He was foiled at Drummoor by Lady Humphrey, and now he has been thwarted by Lady Montague’s quick thinking.”

  “Yes, Lady Monty was both quick-witted and courageous, and we are all greatly indebted to her,” Lord Carrbridge said with a bow which put Melissa to the blush. “But I do not understand. Who is this Mrs Chesterfield, and what does she have to do with Sharp?”

  “Why, she is his wife,” Mr Merton said.

  There was a long silence, and Melissa tried to call to mind the nondescript little woman, rather tired-looking and worn out, that she had encountered once or twice at Drummoor, and reconcile that image with the robust Mrs Chesterfield.

  “I do not understand you,” Lord Carrbridge said plaintively. “I have seen his wife, and not only is she nothing like Mrs Chesterfield, but I cannot imagine her doing anything of this nature.”

  “The wife I speak of is his other wife, who was known as Mrs Ballard, from Drifford mill town in Northumberland.” Mr Merton said. “As soon as I see her, I shall be able to confirm it.”

  “Ah,” Lord Carrbridge said. “But she was supposed to be confined to an asylum.”

  “So we were told by Ballard, but since we believe he is Sharp, it seems unwise to take his word for anything,” Mr Merton said. “Bear in mind that Sharp has lost his position as your agent, my lord, he has lost his foothold in Drifford and he has lost a great deal of the income that supported his lavish lifestyle. He must be getting desperate, so he sends his wife to recover a secret store of money. But not only does his plan fail, but she is captured. It is a pity he was not here himself. I had hopes of the coachman, but Sharp is too slippery to be caught that way. Still, we will get him before long, I am sure of it. And if I am right that this is Mrs Ballard, then the Duke of Dunmorton will be very pleased to hear of it. She tried to poison his grandson, so we may send her to Northumberland to be tried for attempted murder, and perhaps she, at least, will hang for her crimes.”

  After the trials of the night, the evening was a pleasant one. Lord Carrbridge and Mr Merton decided to stay overnight, and since it was one of the regular occasions when Lord and Lady Humphrey came to dinner, they sat down seven to table, and then played a cheerful game of loo afterwards. If Monty had been there, then the evening would have been quite perfect.

  Melissa had not previously had much occasion to talk to Mr Merton, who was rather a dour, quiet man with a forbidding countenance. In such confined society, however, she had her opportunity and he proved to be an easy conversationalist, making sensible suggestions for the management of the flood victims, and recommending several craftsmen to work on the interior of the parsonage. When she asked him how Lady Hardy was, his thin face lit up with a broad smile and he grew animated, revealing their plans for an early wedding and the small changes he was making to his house for the comfort of the future Mrs Merton. His affection for his betrothed was quite charming.

  She was curious about how he came to be secretary to Lord Carrbridge.

  “Ah, that was Lady Carrbridge’s influence,” he said. “I was known to her when I worked for Lady Hardy’s husband, Sir Osborne Hardy, and his death coincided with Lord Carrbridge’s realisation that his finances were amiss. I was invited to investigate, and then taken on permanently.”

  “I do not know what we would have done without him,” Lord Carrbridge said. “My agent has been swindling me for years, and I had not the least idea until Merton looked into it.”

  “And had you no secretary before, my lord?” Melissa said.

  “Once, many years ago. He was the chaplain, but he became my secretary briefly. Poor Mr Penicuik! A dreadful business!”

  Melissa paused, the card she was about to play suspended in mid-air. “Oh dear! Whatever happened?”

  “We never speak of it,” Lord Carrbridge said with a shudder. “It was all too horrible to contemplate.”

  Lady Humphrey sighed. “And that is all anyone will say of the matter. It is most mysterious. I have made enquiries everywhere, and have discovered only that a butter churn and a pig were involved. Beyond that, no one will say a word, except ‘Poor Mr Penicuik!’ as if the man were dead.”

  “He is not dead, although he might as well be,” Lord Humphrey said, mournfully.

  The party played in silence for some time, out of respect for poor Mr Penicuik, until Lord Carrbridge, his mind still on his former chaplain and secretary, began to talk of his plans to acquire a new chaplain.

  “It was so pleasant when Monty was able to take services in the Drummoor chapel,” he said. “Lady Carrbridge found it a great convenience not to have to go down into the village on a Sunday, and one does not like to take the horses out in bad weather just for that little distance. I daresay Monty will know someone we might engage as chaplain, and since Lady Carrbridge delights in filling the house w
ith as many aunts and uncles and cousins and mere acquaintances as it can hold, we shall hardly notice the extra expense of one more at table. What do you say, Merton?”

  “You can bear the expense very well now, my lord.”

  “Indeed, for my income is twice what it was, and my expenses much reduced, is it not so? Everything is perfectly comfortable, with nothing of that nature to worry me,” he said with satisfaction. “Even with the cost of the hospital, I shall have sufficient to enable me to disburse small sums to other worthy souls.”

  “If you have money to spare, perhaps you could do something to help Bridget Kelly?” Melissa said diffidently. “She is family, after all. In a way.”

  “But female,” Carrbridge said gently. “The charge Father laid on me was to help his sons, not his daughters.”

  “A thoughtful man helps both, although perhaps in different ways,” Mr Merton said. “You will teach the Earl of Deveron to be a marquess in his turn, and establish Lord William in a career. And for little Lady Mary, you will give her a season or two in London and a good dowry. As for your father’s less official children, you gave Ben Gartmore and Charlie Wilkes the chance of careers, so why not help Miss Kelly, too?”

  Lord Carrbridge looked pensive. “Humphrey, Reggie, what do you think?”

  “I would do it in a heartbeat,” Humphrey said. “She is an independent sort of woman, it seems, and needs only a helping hand to get started. She will not be a drain on the estate.”

  “It is unorthodox,” Reggie said, “and one would not wish to be seen to be condoning immorality, but Miss Kelly herself is respectable enough. Why not?”

  “You have not asked for my opinion,” Hortensia said, “but I shall give it anyway. Bridget is to be applauded for giving respectable employment to these unfortunate women. I have already promised my help.”