On the previous occasion, when Foxe had come to the Hutton Hall estate, he had been far too preoccupied with his own thoughts to take much notice of his surroundings. This time was different. Now he looked around on all sides, noting the extent of the land and how it was planted; taking in exactly what young Henry Valmar would one day inherit and committing it to memory. When the time was right, he would be able to give the lad a detailed description of his future inheritance. Besides, the activity might serve to calm his mind before the storm which was sure to come.
Like most driveways to grand country estates, the road up to Hutton Hall was long and gently twisting. The mansion stood in the centre of an extensive area of landscaped parkland. Whoever designed this park must have been determined to conceal the house itself for as long as possible. He had therefore used the natural undulations of the land and carefully-sited stands of mature trees to screen it from view for most of the way. Beyond the gate, the drive ran for perhaps three hundred yards amongst fine trees. Foxe noted sweet chestnut, beech and holly, mingled with many magnificent English oaks, now in their prime. Sandier, heathland areas were marked by clumps of silver birch. As he looked around him, Foxe realised such a wood must represent an asset of considerable value. Although there was no sign of felling, he found it hard to believe that whoever had planted the area had not done so with the eventual value of the timber uppermost in his mind.
As it left the wood, the roadway veered slightly to the left. Then it ran along the bank of an extensive area of water to cross a bridge over the stream feeding into the lake. Finally, it swung back to the right to resume its former course. All this time, a gentle rise on the right-hand side concealed whatever the park might contain in that direction. After another quarter of a mile, the driveway turned for the last time to run up the slope and descend the other side to cross yet another small stream. The trees had thinned now, to be replaced by open grassland, grazed by the sheep that stood in small groups, their well-grown lambs beside them. It was the very picture of a well-run estate that was being farmed in the modern manner.
Only when they had crossed the stream and breasted a rise on the other side did the house itself come into view. Even then, it was still some three or four hundred yards distant. The entrance drive did not approach the mansion from the front. Instead, it arrived at a right-angle to the principal frontage, first passing the stable yard and extensive household offices grouped about a courtyard. Foxe could see servants moving about. He noted a bakehouse, a brewhouse and sundry storage areas, all facing what must be the kitchen range, where a thin column of smoke rose from amongst the chimneys clustered on the roof.
Finally, with a kind of flourish, the drive turned sharply to the left, before swinging back in a half circle. His carriage came to a halt in front of the main entrance to the mansion itself. Everything about Hutton Hall had been designed to express the power and wealth of its owners. There were massive pillars on either side of stone stairs sweeping up to the main door. The grand entrance doorway was framed by a vast portico in the manner of some ancient Grecian temple. On either side of this splendid entrance, there were no fewer than four tall windows. The matching set above them must be for either a library or a series of splendid bedrooms. Above those again, a third row of windows, much smaller now, indicated attic floors where the servants would be housed. In Foxe’s eyes, it was a mansion worthy of a marquis or even a duke, not a comparatively lowly baronet. Foxe wondered how he could have missed noticing such ostentation and opulence on his first visit, however much his mind had been distracted.
A footman came forward to hold the door of his carriage open and Foxe stepped down. He could now see the imposing figure of the butler awaiting him at the head of the steps. Far from being turned away, Mr Foxe was being given a full ceremonial welcome. Why should that be? Surely Sir Samuel must be no more pleased to receive him this time than the last?
All was explained when Foxe climbed the right-hand set of stairs and reached the spot where the butler stood waiting for him.
‘Good morning, Mr Foxe,’ the butler began, after bowing to the visitor in the approved manner. ‘Her ladyship instructed that you should be received in the proper manner. If you leave your hat and outer garments with the footman here, I will conduct you to the Great Hall. The master is waiting for you there.’
Naturally, all this affability ended the moment Foxe stepped into the Great Hall itself. Sir Samuel would have used this as the meeting place to impress his influence and social status on all his visitors, and on Mr Foxe most of all. Now he received Foxe standing, his back to a large fireplace with an elaborate alabaster surround. Above him could be seen the coat of arms of the Valmar family. I may be a man like you, all this seemed to proclaim, but I am not just your social superior. I am a Valmar too. Remember that.
The baronet had dressed himself in a suit of fine brown wool embroidered in gold, over a pale cream waistcoat sprigged with tiny flowers. From his leather shoes with their golden buckles and his spotless white silk stockings up to his freshly powdered wig, he was the embodiment of the rich landowner suffering the attentions of some troublesome tenant. He was also in a combative mood. He launched his attack at once and without preliminaries.
‘Say what you have to say, sir, then get out!’ the baronet barked. ‘I am only suffering your presence because my wife begged me to do so. According to her, you have some important information affecting the Valmar family. My family heritage is everything to me. We Valmars came over with the Conqueror and have been here ever since. In all that time, no one has dishonoured the family name. No one ever shall, while I live and breathe. Now, get on with it — and be brief!’
When Foxe had stood before this man the last time, Sir Samuel had affected an air of complete indifference. Now all was different. What he wanted was to send this meddlesome tradesman about his business; preferably with his tail between his legs. By the end of his opening speech, his face was suffused with red and purple from the effort of holding his temper in check. Foxe noted how the other man’s breathing was shallow, his fists clenched tight and his eyes narrowed with fury. He had expected some such display of temper, but even he was taken aback by the vehemence of Sir Samuel’s attack. Still, he had determined in advance nothing would shake his calmness. He therefore replied in a quiet voice, his words measured and his tone mild and reasonable. To his quiet satisfaction, he observed immediately how much this gentle manner seemed to inflame Sir Samuel even more.
‘How long have you known that your eldest son, George, was alive and well and living nearby in the city?’ Foxe asked. ‘I say was alive, since he has recently met his end, as I’m sure you know very well.’
For a brief moment, Sir Samuel seemed to rear back. It was as if Foxe had landed a heavy and totally unexpected blow, which had come close to knocking him off balance. Then he gathered his strength once again to return to the offensive, his voice as loud and harsh as Foxe’s had been quiet and rational.
‘By God, sir, I am amazed that you have the impudence to come here and speak of that rebellious cur! I banished him from this place and cut him out of the family more than a decade ago. Alive or dead, it is nothing to me! If that is all you have come to say, sir, I will ask you to leave this instant. George went abroad and died there.’
‘You know he did neither.’
‘I know nothing of the sort!’ Sir Samuel raved. ‘I arranged an excellent marriage for my so-called son. One that would have added substantially to this estate and paved the way for the family’s entry into the ranks of the nobility. An entry long overdue and more than richly deserved, I maintain. What did he do? Refused so much as to meet the young woman! Said he had seen her once at a ball and that was more than enough. When I asked him what was wrong with her, he said she had a face like a sheep, bad skin, bad teeth, no figure at all that he could discern, and the character of a frightened rabbit. As if any of that mattered against the fifty thousand pounds she would bring to her husband! I told him. If he wanted pr
etty playthings, there are enough and more to be found on all sides. I should know. What d’you think has kept me sane all these years? Despite a wife who deals with me only as a matter of duty — and that with a poor grace.’
‘Are you telling me, Sir Samuel, that was why you drove your son out of this house and tried to deny him his inheritance? Simply because he refused to marry the woman of your choice?’
By now, Foxe had begun to enjoy himself. Acting the part of the man of reason confronted with someone who had long abandoned any pretence at rationality, a man gripped with a blind obsession for an outdated notion of family honour, had given him the advantage. He meant to keep it.
Valmar was incredulous.
‘He defied me, sir! Defied me to my face! Told me he would marry whomsoever he chose, and I could go to the devil, for he needed neither my help nor my approval. Is that any way for a son to speak to his father? I knew it then. Bad blood! Can’t have bad blood in the Valmar family. It must have come from his mother, of course. Couldn’t have been due to me. Of course, I threw him out. Disinherited him as well, damn his eyes! Now you…’
‘But you couldn’t disinherit him, could you?’ Foxe interrupted, his voice steadier and calmer than ever. ‘For all your claims to the contrary, that was something you were not able to do. The Will by which you hold this estate does not allow it. Like most such estates, this one is entailed on the eldest, legitimate male descendant of the original owner who had the Will drawn up. You have only a life interest, Sir Samuel. You cannot sell any part of what you have inherited nor interfere in the succession.’
Much of this was bluff, since there had been no way for Foxe to discover the actual terms of the original Will. However, one look at Sir Samuel’s face was enough to prove his statement was correct.
By this stage, the roles had been reversed and Foxe held the advantage. He pressed it home relentlessly, never raising his voice or deviating from the proper standards of politeness. Yet all the while allowing the other man neither time nor opportunity to recover himself.
‘I have consulted an expert in the law,’ Foxe continued. ‘He has confirmed that he can find no trace of any attempt to overturn the terms of the original Will, nor to break the entail. Indeed, in his opinion, based on many years of dealing with such matters, no responsible group of executors, no court in the land, would entertain such an idea. Especially on the grounds that your son refused to do your bidding when it came to choosing a wife. The story you put about, your claim your son had gone abroad and died there, did not contain a shred of truth. It merely reflected your most heartfelt hopes. I ask you yet again, when did you first learn that your son, George, was in robust health and living in Norwich?’
‘Damn you, Foxe! Damn you, I say! Interfering busybody!’
Sir Samuel’s words were still full of aggression. It was his posture which conveyed the truth. His legs were shaking now, and his breath came in uneven gasps. Before Foxe stood a mortally wounded animal, still attempting to stand its ground while knowing its strength was failing fast.
‘George had bad blood, I tell you! Bad blood!’
‘Rubbish!’ Foxe snapped back. ‘That bad blood, if any such thing exists, lies in you. It shows itself all too clearly in your pride and uncontrollable temper. Your tantrums have become boring, Sir Samuel. Now, I am asking you for the last time: When did you know where your son had gone?’
It was over. All the fight had gone out of Sir Samuel Valmar, baronet and one-time domestic tyrant. ‘I thought he had gone far away, Foxe,’ he replied, his voice uncertain and expressing little, save total weariness. ‘I hoped he had, anyway. The years passed and no news of him reached me. I told myself he had either decided never to return or had died somewhere. What else was I to think? I assume you know where he was all those years.’
Here was a man in despair. Someone who had discovered that a fantasy he had concocted to cover his blind arrogance and stupidity had crumpled about him. A cold wave of reality had swept in, brushing aside all his displays of temper. Now it was sweeping away all hope of living his life as he had always done: the unquestioned ruler of family and domain.
‘He was living first in London and then in Norwich,’ Foxe said. ‘Here he took lodgings with a cabinetmaker and his family while earning his living teaching, fencing and giving French lessons. The family with whom he lived knew him as Mr George Valmar. They believed him when he said that his name was due to his descent from a remote and impoverished branch of the family which held Hutton Hall. To the rest of the world, he was a refugee driven from his family’s modest estates in France due to their adherence to the Protestant religion. It was during this time that he fell in love with the daughter of the house and married her.’
‘Married the child of a common artisan? Are you certain of this?’ Valmar shook his head, as if unable to take in the enormity of what Foxe was telling him.
‘I have seen the parish records, Sir Samuel. I have also spoken with the vicar, who well recalls joining the two of them in holy matrimony.’
‘But why? Why, for God’s sake? He turns down an heiress with fifty thousand pounds. Says he wouldn’t marry her if she had a hundred thousand or more. Then he takes to marry some common girl from the gutter. A woman of low birth lacking any fortune whatsoever. Why?’
‘They loved each other,’ Foxe said. ‘From all I have heard, it was an idyllic marriage.’
‘Wait! Wait! You have the wrong man, Foxe. When they had finally tracked him down, the people I hired told me my son was living as a homeless vagrant.’
‘It is the same person, I assure you,’ Foxe replied. ‘All went well until your son’s wife died. Her death seems to have driven him out of his mind with grief. He left his home and disappeared. None knew where he was. The cabinetmaker, his wife and friends searched everywhere, but found no trace of him. Some, like you, assumed he had gone far away or had died. Yet, the cabinetmaker and his wife never gave up hope. They kept him in their prayers and thoughts against the day when, they felt certain, he would return to the house where he had been so happy. It was not to be. The people you hired saw to that, didn’t they?’
Sir Samuel’s response was a half-strangled whimper.
‘All along,’ Foxe continued, ‘poor George wore that gold pendant engraved with his family’s coat of arms. The one his mother had given him, I believe. He kept it, even though selling it would have raised more than enough to free him from poverty and set him up again elsewhere. I knew that you had recognised it when I first came here. I could see your wife recognised it as well. I imagine you guessed what had brought me to talk to you; how I had discovered the dead man was linked to your family. So, you threatened her and forced her to deny any knowledge of the pendant and what it proved. It was that which first made me suspicious of you. How could you have taken steps, before I came, to make her deny her own son? It had to be because you knew in advance that the man who owned the gold pendant was already dead.’
‘How could I have known?’ Valmar’s objection was feeble.
‘Because it was you who paid the Italian, Brunetti, to put an end to your son’s life, wasn’t it, Sir Samuel? I know it was. What’s more, Brunetti has now been taken by the constables and has already confessed to the deed. He even described how you were the person who told him to do it. It appears he is impatient to testify against you.’
‘Him? Who would take the word of a professional assassin — a damn foreigner as well — against the word of the head of one of the foremost families in the land? This will never result in a legal action, Foxe. You know that as well as I do.’ What ought to have been a triumphant statement of impunity came out instead as a plea for understanding. ‘I had to do it. Can’t you see that? I had to.’
Foxe brushed his attempt at justification aside. ‘Nonsense! Again, you give yourself away. How did you know Brunetti was a professional assassin? All I mentioned was the name.’
Sir Samuel started, then just managed to recover himself. ‘I had to do it,’
he repeated. ‘Listen! If a horse in my stables turns vicious, it’s a sign of bad blood. Surely you can see that. Should I keep the beast, in spite of it? Should I allow it to find fresh opportunities to harm those around him? However fond I was of the beast, I would have to tell the head groom to lead him off somewhere and shoot him. Root out the bad blood. It’s what is necessary in all such cases. This was the same thing.’
‘Your son was not a horse, sir, to be put down when it pleased you. He was a living, breathing human being; one that you had sired yourself. Don’t talk to me anymore of bad blood! Try as you might, you will never justify yourself in that way. You caused a man to be murdered, Sir Samuel. For that, I am not afraid to call you a villain and murderer to your face.’
Somehow, Valmar managed to call up a final flicker of pride and defiance. ‘Do you dare to stand there, Foxe, and insult me in that way? Do you dare to pour scorn on my concern for my family’s name? I’ll have the law on you for this, you see if I don’t!’
‘On what grounds?’ Foxe replied calmly. ‘For telling the truth? Others may fear your bluster. I do not.’
Sir Samuel’s attempt to fight back now ebbed away as quickly as it had arisen. Once again it was replaced by weariness and dejection. ‘What does it matter anyway?’ he said in a dull voice. ‘George is dead. The succession is safe.’
‘The succession?’ Foxe said. ‘Yes, that is certainly safe, Sir Samuel. George Valmar had a son.’
With those five words, all that Sir Samuel Valmar had lived for crashed about him in ruins. Like a once flourishing town devastated by a violent earthquake, his destruction too was complete. All colour drained from his face. He clutched his chest, his breath coming in gasps. He wore the expression of a man who had looked into a pit which had opened at his feet and seen his death waiting at the bottom. Unable to stay on his feet, he slumped into a chair and began to sob.
A Sickness in the Soul Page 22