by May Burnett
“More like Yorkshire.”
“Ah.”
Twenty minutes later, when the two ladies entered Mrs. Dorchester’s Select Boarding House and placed orders for high tea, Nell looked around with covert interest. This was the place where Lady Marian, her companion and maid had resided before the tragedy two weeks earlier. Though the most expensive inn in the small seaside village, it could not be considered other than shabby-genteel. Why would a woman as fabulously rich as Lady Marian Colville spend even one night there, if she had been in her right mind?
There were already three ladies present, and Mrs. Pelham dutifully performed introductions. Nell put her veil aside, to see better in the room’s dim light. Besides, it was rude to be introduced without showing your face. Mrs. Roderick Sponger was rotund and high-coloured, the kind of patient doctors liked to bleed. Mrs. Remington was thin as a stick, in her fifties, and had a speech impediment which did not keep her from talking as much as she pleased. Her companion, Miss Monkton, only nodded at her and continued to dispose of her sandwiches and cake with astonishing speed.
“You look very young to be already widowed,” Mrs. Sponger said to Nell, “my condolences on your loss.”
“It was pneumonia.” Nell looked downwards with a sad expression. “One week my husband was as healthy as any other man of thirty, and then a sore throat, fever – nothing the physician tried helped. Within four days poor William was gone.”
“It is often the seemingly strongest that are struck down without warning,” Mrs. Pelham said with a sigh. “I could tell you many instances…”
Nell was spared this recital, as Mr. Thomas joined them at that moment, evidently returning from a walk outdoors. His tall, energetic form brought a whiff of tangy air into the stale room. He politely greeted the other ladies, to whom he was already known, and was immediately presented to Nell – “Mr. Thomas, Mrs. Smith.”
“Honoured to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Smith.” Blue eyes stared straight into hers. Was it normal to gaze at new acquaintances quite so intently?
Nell inclined her head with dignity, as a dowager might have done. “Mr. Thomas. I understand that you are interested in ants? Or is it all insects?”
He smiled faintly. “The insect kingdom is so very vast that no scholar could do justice to all the species it comprises. Ants are a particular interest of mine. They display aspects of our own society, like co-operation and warfare.” He sounded unapologetically pedantic.
“Warfare?” Mrs. Pelham shook her head. “Surely not.”
“I assure you, Ma’am, that epic battles take place between different tribes of the formicidae - unnoticed by most humans, but well documented for all that.”
“So you are a kind of war correspondent?” Nell said.
“You might put it like that.” He regarded her cautiously. Mr. Thomas was only in his early twenties, tall and husky, and besides those remarkable blue eyes had curly hair the colour of ripe golden wheat. Against prevailing fashion, he wore no sideburns and no beard, not even a moustache; but his firm chin and broad shoulders kept him from looking at all effeminate. Why was a young man this personable hanging around a seaside boarding house with elderly ladies and widows?
No matter how attractive, he would not distract her from her original purpose. “This was the place where poor Lady Marian lodged only two weeks ago,” she said, looking around. “Have you noticed any alteration in the atmosphere, Mrs. Sponger?”
That lady shook her head. “I only arrived the weekend after the tragedy, so I do not know how different it may have been before. Of us all, only Mrs. Pelham stayed in Chatterham at the time, and she was staying at the Rose Inn, though I believe you met Lady Marian?”
“Yes, two times,” Mrs. Pelham confirmed. Mr. Thomas’s eyes fixed on the speaker in intense concentration. A strange combination of interests, ants and drowning ladies…
“You were not here yet, Mrs. Smith? I cannot help noting your fascination with the story,” Mr. Thomas said.
“Who would not be interested in such a tragedy? The poor lady was close to my own age, only two years younger. If I had already been here, and we had struck up a friendship, she might not have gone out on that boat that morning, and might still be alive…”
Mr. Thomas brushed this fantasy aside with a dismissive gesture. “There are a hundred other ways her drowning could have been prevented, especially had she not come to Chatterham in the first place. Without denigrating this charming village in any way, it is not known for an aristocratic clientele. Why would Lady Marian have stayed here at all?”
“I know that much,” Mrs. Pelham replied, to Nell’s surprise. “She told me – well, me and the other ladies present at the time – that her medical attendant had most particularly ordered her to come to Chatterham, there was something in its climate that would be of special benefit for her nerves.”
“I wonder what that can have been,” Mrs. Sponger said doubtfully. “My physician recommended the place for the lungs.”
Nell persisted, “Did she mention which doctor had sent her here?”
“I believe she did, but I cannot remember. Some commonplace, forgettable name. At any rate, by the time I met her she had put her health into the excellent hands of Doctor Rimblescarp.”
“Was her companion a relative?” Nell asked. “What did she do after her mistress died? It must have been a great blow to her.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Thomas concurred. “Rather careless of the companion, to lose her employer like that.”
Mrs. Pelham frowned. “Do you know, I hardly remember the woman, though she was always hovering at Lady Marian’s shoulders. Not a relative or a lady of birth, and with a different surname – a Miss Jones or something like that – middle-aged and self-effacing. I never spoke to her directly, and have no idea if she stayed on or departed right away.”
“The landlady here ought to know,” Mrs. Sponger said. “Surely the companion and the maid would have had to appear at the inquest? When was it held?”
“Quite soon after the accident,” Mrs. Pelham said, “it brought a verdict of accidental death, as was only to be expected. For a noble family like that, it would be too bad if the young lady could not be interred in consecrated ground.”
“Then you believe she may have taken her own life?” Mr. Thomas asked, his slightly bronzed hand with the teacup pausing halfway to his well-shaped mouth.
Mrs Pelham pursed her lips. “Well, we will never know for certain, but it stands to reason … she did not seem the type to go out all by herself in a small leaky boat just for fun.”
“The boat was leaky?” Nell wished she had arrived in time for the inquest. Of course it would not have been lady-like to attend such an event; it would have betrayed vulgar curiosity. “That strikes me more like evidence of an accident. To whom did it belong?”
“One of the local fishermen. The boat was old and waiting for repairs. She took it without asking – evidence of unsound mind, and the desire to do something fatal, in my view.”
“It is certainly very strange behaviour,” Mr. Thomas said thoughtfully. “What of the companion and the maid?”
“It was very early in the morning, before six. The companion was still asleep, unaware of what she was doing. I do not know about the maid.”
“Strange. None of the noble ladies I know would get out of bed and dress as early as that, though they might still be up after a dance,” Mr. Thomas commented.
“You know many noble ladies?” Miss Monkton asked with patent scepticism.
“One or two,” Mr. Thomas said, unruffled.
“What happened to the body?” Nell asked. “Did you hear anything about that, Mrs. Pelham?”
“It was sent to her home parish in Berkshire in a lead-rimmed coffin, I believe. Lady Marian was to be interred in the family cemetery with her parents and siblings.”
“You look distressed,” Mr. Thomas said to Nell sympathetically. “No wonder, such talk must raise sad memories if your own loss is still recent.
”
The conversation passed to other subjects – not ants, at least, and Thomas was mostly quiet – until the two ladies from the Rose Inn took their departure.
“Allow me to escort you to your lodgings,” Thomas said, getting up too. “Such lovely ladies should not be going about unaccompanied.”
Nell almost snorted. If there was a safer and duller spot than Chatterham, she could hardly imagine it.
But it had not proved safe to the young lady who had drowned here only two weeks earlier, had it? Leaky boat or not, Nell was firmly convinced her death had not been either accident or suicide. Unfortunately it seemed she was too late to find proof of her suspicions, if there had been any to find in the first place.
What was Mr. Thomas really after? She studied him through her veil as they walked the short distance. The afternoon light confirmed her first impression, that he was an uncommonly handsome young man.
Would such an Adonis really choose to spend his days studying small insects? Anything was possible; but she rather doubted it.
Chapter 3
The sun was low on the horizon, but there was still a cheerful air to the June afternoon, and the breeze from the shore was comparatively mild. Gulls were raucously diving on the beach behind a row of humble fishermen’s houses, along which Thomas walked with the two widows. The street was unpaved and muddy from the morning’s rain.
Focus on the mission. He needed the reminder because the sight of Mrs. Smith – he did not even know her first name – had nearly robbed him of his wits. Thomas had met many lovely women, and had never before been susceptible to corkscrew curls and widow’s weeds – what was it about her? Those dark brown eyes were expressive and full of intelligence, rare in combination with blonde hair, but that was hardly sufficient reason for his fascination with the woman.
His instincts whispered that there was something mysterious about her. The humdrum name Smith did not belong with the educated upper-class voice, so familiar from his mother and cousins. And that dowdy black dress did not suit her at all. Thomas wanted to tear it off her body and burn it in a bonfire, right there on the beach. What an utterly inappropriate and shocking desire! If she or Mrs. Pelham had the slightest inkling, they would not be walking so sedately at his side.
At least he had not betrayed himself. A gentleman kept his dark fantasies to himself, and was polite in all circumstances. So far he had managed it, but it had been a near thing.
Mrs. Smith, he gathered from Mrs. Pelham’s words, had repaired to Chatterham on medical advice, because of a nervous complaint. At her age? From her remark about Lady Marian, she was only twenty-two. Her thoughtful expression and avid interest in Lady Marian did not suggest morbid fears or suffering. But what did Thomas know about the sorrows of widowhood? Although his father was one of the best-known specialists in mental disorders in northern England, Thomas knew hardly more than the average layman. Doctor Seymour kept his family strictly away from his patients and his clinic.
“Mrs. Smith,” Thomas ventured, “being close to Lady Marian in age, as you mentioned, can you think of a single reason why a young lady would take a fisherman’s leaky boat out in the early morning?”
“Of course not. It would be interesting to know if anyone observed her departure – was she all alone in the boat? How was she dressed?”
“In that purple dress – oh,” Mrs. Pelham said. “It was an afternoon dress. Not at all suitable. Unless she had two garments in that particular vivid shade?”
“I suppose if you were going to kill yourself you might not care,” Mrs. Smith said, “but to a lady of her class, dressing correctly for the time of day would be second nature. It is definitely odd. If she had not slept all night, she might still be in evening dress, but an afternoon dress at six in the morning? Impossible. Would she even be able to put it on without her maid?”
They reached the Rose Inn a minute later.
“After that cake I need more exercise,” Mrs. Smith decided. “A walk along the shore path, to breathe in the sea air, is just what Doctor Wombling would recommend.”
“I have letters to write,” Mrs. Pelham said, “I shall see you at dinner. Good-bye, Mr. Thomas, thank you for your escort.”
He bowed. “It has been a pleasure and a privilege. Would you mind my walking on with you, Mrs. Smith?”
“Very well.”
He was surprised at her willingness to court gossip – of course she was hidden under her veils, and the path was in plain view of several fishermen’s cottages. While it would not have done for a debutante, for a widow it was not all that shocking to accept a gentleman’s company on a bare hour’s acquaintance.
They walked briskly for a while, in silence, not touching. Her posture was rigid. She would probably decline his arm if he offered it.
At last Mrs. Smith spoke, in her low melodious voice. “I am not in need of an escort, really. This village strikes me as singularly safe and peaceful.”
“You never know. My sister was once attacked by an enraged flock of geese.”
“And were you there to protect her?”
“Alas, I was at school, unaware of my sibling’s deadly peril. She had to fend them off with a stick and shouts, and was pecked in the thigh by the gander.”
“Poor girl.” Mrs. Smith sounded as though she did not believe a word of the story, true though it was.
“Can it be,” she said after another minute, “that you are a journalist from one of those mud-raking papers, trying to ferret out salacious details about poor Lady Marian?”
Thomas stopped walking, nonplussed. Not for the first time, he cursed Lord Ormesby’s self-defeating orders not to let anyone know what he was investigating. The moment you asked questions about a mysterious death, anyone with the meanest intelligence drew such inferences.
Of course, he was not the only person who had shown an unseemly interest in Lady Marian’s tragedy. “Strange,” he said lightly, “I had just that same suspicion of yourself; you seem as interested in the details of the case as I am.”
He could not be sure, with the black gauze veils, but he felt she was glowering at him. “Maybe I should look into the possibility. Does it pay well, Mr Thomas?”
“How would I know? I do not even read gossip sheets.”
She huffed. There was something endearing about it, because it was her. For the first time, he felt a frisson of alarm at his out-of-character reactions. It was as if one of those ladies at the Dorchester Inn had put a love potion into the tea, if one believed in such things, which of course Thomas did not. He adhered to rationality and science.
She did not speak for a while. Her theory was not unreasonable, and might offer a much better cover than that of an ant fancier. Why not admit to it? What had he to lose?
“Very well, you have me,” he said with a small sigh. “Though I would never lower myself to working for a scandal rag, I am thinking of writing a true account of the sad fate of this Heiress, either to be published as a pamphlet, or in the form of a melodrama for the stage. But so far I have not discovered much, and hesitate to supply the missing details with my imagination.”
“Ah.”
“Now that I have put my cards on the table, what of yourself, Mrs. Smith? My intuition tells me that you are not truly suffering from a nervous complaint, and only came to Chatterham to look into the poor young lady’s demise. Are you too working on a literary account of her fate?”
“Not at all. As you have honoured me with your confidence,” Thomas suppressed a twinge of guilt, “I am tempted to do the same, if you will promise on your honour as a gentleman that it will not go any further.”
“You have my word.” Surely her connection to Lady Marian was sufficiently peripheral that he could keep this promise.
“My own interest is rather more personal.” She spoke in a low voice, perhaps afraid to be overheard by the circling gulls. “Marian was a childhood friend. We had lost sight of each other over the years, but I doubt she had any other friends, the way that uncle
kept her locked up and sequestered. She stopped writing soon after he became her guardian.”
Thomas tensed. A witness who could tell him about the dead woman and her family!
“You interest me greatly. Whatever you can tell me about your friend and her circumstances, would be of enormous benefit to my own undertaking.”
“I am sure - but poor Marian would not want to be the subject of a sensational melodrama. It is my duty to protect her name and reputation.”
“Whatever you tell me will merely help set the record straight – we already know the worst, how it all ended. And I do not plan to publish the story with the true names, of course, so there could be no harm to your friend’s memory.”
“Very well, then.” She nimbly sidestepped a puddle. “I was orphaned young, and was educated by my late aunt, who earned her own living as a highly competent and sought-after governess to young ladies. When I was sixteen and Lady Marian fourteen, for one year Aunt Selina was governess to Lady Marian. She obtained special dispensation to bring me along to share her student’s lessons.”
“An unusual arrangement,” Thomas commented.
“Indeed, but Lady Marian lived very retired at Colville Hall in Lincolnshire, and after the premature death of her mother and siblings she had no family to keep her company. Her father was the only surviving parent at the time, and did not greatly care who taught her. He never came to the Hall during the entire year I lived there with my aunt.”
“Not an affectionate parent, it would seem.” The more he heard about Lady Marian’s circumstances, the more likely the suicide theory sounded. “Did Lady Marian miss him?”
“If so, she was too proud to admit it to me. My guess would be that she did not. I gather he had made only rare appearances all through her childhood. She missed her mother, however, and especially her brother and sisters, dead from a fever that left her as the only survivor.”
“How old was she then?”
“Ten when she lost her siblings, thirteen when her mother died in childbirth – the Countess was dutifully attempting to replace the son who had perished, although she was already in poor health herself.”