The interview with Durrant had yielded nothing beyond a conviction that the secretary was finding a malicious pleasure in the situation. He had evidently expected a confrontation with Anthony before long, and possibly would not have been surprised had it been an acrimonious one; but Anthony’s cool head kept their brief but pertinent conversation on a calm, objective note, thus denying Durrant the satisfaction of seeing his adversary at a disadvantage.
The secretary repeated the story much as Anthony had heard it from his father and Carlton. The only additions he made, at Anthony’s request, were the present name and abode in Rye of Mrs. Lathom’s ex-housemaid, together with the exact location of the pawnbroker’s shop where the ring had come to light. Anthony watched the other closely while he put these questions, but could find no trace of reluctance in giving the information. Durrant seemed to take it for granted that the family lawyers would be set on to check his own findings, and the notion appeared not to disturb him at all.
When Anthony parted from him, it was in a less sanguine frame of mind than before. Both Carlton’s and Durrant’s accounts tallied; and if Durrant could contemplate with equanimity a legal inquiry, he must be certain of his ground.
There seemed no purpose, therefore, in a visit to Rye. What could he hope to learn there? The ex-housemaid would merely repeat the little she had already told Durrant. Apart from that, he might visit the church and see for himself the entries in the parish register of his father’s marriage and the subsequent burial of the unfortunate bride. If the child had been baptised before leaving Rye, the date of the baptism would also appear. Most parishes kept a conscientious record of the religious rites performed within their boundaries, as they were required to do. But there seemed little point in this, as these facts had been supplied by the Earl, and therefore their accuracy was unquestionable. It was only Durrant’s testimony which Anthony persisted, in spite of so much corroborative evidence, in thinking suspect.
It was this uneasy feeling which finally persuaded him to make the journey into Sussex, after all. He encountered a good deal of delaying traffic on the road to Sevenoaks; this decided him to stay overnight at the Chequers Inn at Lamberhurst, where he was known and could be certain of finding a good dinner.
He left soon after breakfast on the following day and well before noon was entering Rye by the Landgate, one of the fourteenth-century town gates with two massive towers on either side of its archway. He had never before been in the little town, and was much struck by its charm, in spite of his preoccupation with personal matters. He soon found the George Inn, where he stabled his curricle and set out to make his calls on foot, glad of the opportunity to stretch his legs for a while.
An inquiry at the inn furnished him with the direction he must take to find the home of Mrs. Fremlin, and before long he was knocking at the door of a small neat cottage in a passage running between two of the streets. It was a few minutes before his knock was answered; then a plump little woman with greying hair tucked tidily under a cap poked her head round the door.
“Mrs. Fremlin?” he asked, with one of his disarming smiles.
She acknowledged this, staring at him curiously.
“I wonder if I might have the favour of a few moments’ conversation with you?” he went on, persuasively. “There is a matter in which I believe you may be of assistance to me.”
“And what might that be, sir?” she asked, doubtfully.
He glanced up and down the passage before replying.
“It’s difficult to explain in the street,” he said, sustaining the smile. “If you would permit me to step inside for a moment, where we can be private, I would deem it an inestimable favour.”
Reassured by his air of gentility, she opened the door to admit him into a tiny parlour, sparsely furnished but spotlessly kept. Asking him to be seated, she herself took a chair, then waited expectantly for him to speak.
“I believe that recently you were visited by a gentleman who asked you some questions concerning a Mrs. Lathom who used at one time to live in Watchbell Street?” he began.
Her expression, which had been puzzled, now cleared.
“Oh, yes, sir, so I was. I told ’im all I could, though t’were little enough. ’Tis a long time since, and I only worked for the lady less than a couple o’ years. I used to do for ’er in the mornings.”
“And during that time, the lady’s daughter was married, later dying in childbed, as I understand?”
Mrs. Fremlin nodded. “Ay, poor young soul! Her ’usband wasn’t with ’er, neither—’e was often away. I only set eyes on ’im a few times, but — but—”
She stared at Anthony again.
“It’s a mortal long time, but ’e was a ’andsome gennelman, and as I recall somethink favoured yourself. Be ye any relation, sir?”
He dismissed the question with a brief nod. “Can you recall exactly what Mrs. Lathom said to you before she quitted Rye?”
“Why, just what I told the other gennelman. Didn’t ’e tell ye ’imself, sir?”
“He did, but I prefer to hear it again from your own lips, if you’ll be so good as to repeat it.”
“I don’t mind, but there’s naught to tell, sir. She said as ’ow she wouldn’t be needin’ me again, but would give me a character an’ a month’s wages, an’ I was to go to the Vicar to find me another place. Which I did, an’ the Reverend sent me to Mrs. ’Olyoake’s, where I stayed till I was wed.”
“I am glad that you so quickly found employment,” replied Anthony, admirably masking his impatience at being supplied with detail irrelevant to his inquiry. “But I understand that the lady told you where she intended to go when she left this town?”
“That she did, sir. She said as she was goin’ somewhere close to Lunnon.” A vague expression came into her eyes, and she clicked her tongue with impatience. “There, now, if I ’aven’t been an’ gone an’ forgotten it, again!”
“Forgotten what again?” asked Anthony, sharply.
“The name o’ the place. She let it drop, like, an’ I remember thinking at the time she ’adn’t meant to tell me at all. Girls is sharper at fifteen than women is at my age, for danged if I can bring that name to my tongue! No more I could for the other gennelman, until ’e chanced to say it.”
“You mean,” said Anthony, with an inner feeling of excitement, “that the other gentleman prompted your memory by suggesting a name?”
She nodded. “Ay, that’s it, sir.”
“Was the name he suggested Southwark?”
“Southwark!” she repeated, triumphantly. “To be sure, that was it, an’ I knowed it as soon as ever I ’eard it again! But it’s a long time…”
He stayed chatting with her for a few minutes longer, but learned nothing of consequence beyond the exact situation of Mrs. Lathom’s onetime dwelling in Watchbell Street. Nevertheless, he thought, as he turned his steps in the direction of the Parish church of St. Mary the Virgin, he had made one discovery. It had been Durrant, and not Mrs. Fremlin herself, who had first mentioned Southwark. Why had he done so? His enquiries in Rye had been the first stage of his search for Mrs. Lathom, and it was acting on the information gleaned from Mrs. Fremlin that he had later traced Carlton. Had Durrant perhaps run through a whole list of villages close to London, coming at last to a name which Mrs. Fremlin recognised? Perhaps it would have been wiser to check that point with the woman; but it had occurred to him only now when he had the necessary solitude for thought. He turned on his heel with the intention of returning to put the question, but changed his mind. As he was so close to the church, he might as well go there first.
He glanced up at the clock as he approached the building, and read the inscription which so long ago had brought a shiver of apprehension to Dorinda Lathom. Entering, he was struck by the vastness of the interior; he walked about it, admiring the evidences of Norman workmanship, his boots on the stone floor breaking the unearthly silence. Something in the solitary atmosphere of the place at length played on his senses,
making him reconstruct in fancy the scene of that clandestine marriage which had brought so much trouble to everyone concerned, born and unborn, living and dead.
He squared his shoulders. The registers would be under lock and key. If he wished to see them, he would need to apply at the Vicarage; but was there any point in doing so? He left the church to stroll around the graveyard, inspecting the tombs. And presently he came upon the one he sought, a simple granite stone as simply inscribed.
To the beloved memory of
DORINDA STRATTON
born 1772, died 1790
R.I.P.
It must have been erected after Mrs. Lathom had left Rye, he mused; either she had placed an order for it before leaving, or else despatched one from her new abode. He wondered if an inquiry at the local stonemason’s would throw any light on this. But after twenty-six years, it was doubtful if a small craftsman would have kept a record. In any event, Durrant would not have overlooked that avenue of research; and had he succeeded in finding the woman’s precise direction, he would not have had recourse to his later attempts to trace her through the signet ring.
Anthony’s mood was sombre as he paced the paths crossing the churchyard, the weight of bygone events settling upon his spirits. He was stirred by pity for the young girl who had given her life so trustingly into his father’s keeping, and by contempt for the moral cowardice which had prompted the Earl to betray that trust.
Finally — but this came after half an hour’s solitary reflection — by the beginnings of compassion for the Earl himself, enmeshed in the classic tragedy situation of adverse circumstances and weakness of character.
The path along which he was now walking took him out of the churchyard and into Watchbell Street. Still thoughtful, he strolled along until he came to the cottage which had once been inhabited by the Lathoms. He had formed no intention of doing more than look at the place out of a curiosity inspired by his present mood. It was unlikely that anything could be learned there of Mrs. Lathom after all these years, for several other tenants had probably succeeded her. But when his idle loitering outside caused a face to appear at the window, on a sudden impulse he knocked.
Doors were opened warily in Rye, he thought, as this one, too, was eased back a few inches. Behind it stood a shrunken old man with bald head and toothless gums. He gave a half-witted stare at the visitor.
“Pray forgive me for troubling you,” began Anthony. “I wonder if you could tell me whether you had a call from a gentleman some seven or eight weeks since? He would have been making inquiries about a former tenant here, one Mrs. Lathom.”
The man’s face showed no change of expression, and it was obvious that he had not understood. Anthony silently cursed his luck, but determined to try again.
“Is there anyone else at home to whom I could speak?” he asked, gently.
The unwinking stare remained. Anthony decided that there was nothing else for it but to abandon the enquiry; Durrant had not mentioned calling here, so the odds were against his having done so. He thanked the old man, though it was not clear for what, and turned on his heel.
As he did so, he almost bumped into an angular female of uncertain age with a basket over her arm. She was evidently intending to enter the cottage, for she sharply instructed the old man to open the door. As he obeyed, she eyed Anthony shrewdly, taking in the elegance of his attire and his air of Quality.
“Be ye wantin’ somethink, sir?” she asked, in the same sharp tones.
Anthony repeated his enquiry, with more hope now of receiving an answer, but little expectation of its turning out to be helpful.
“’Tis a long time agone,” she said, “and I’m busy — can’t stand ’ere all day answerin’ questions.”
“I would be more than willing to recompense you for your time,” replied Anthony, making a move towards his pocketbook.
Her mean little eyes sharpened and she glanced quickly up and down the street.
“Well, ye’d best come in,” she capitulated. “Get along now, do, Father, or ye’ll get trodden on!”
She pushed the old man aside to make way for the visitor to enter. He did so, and she slammed the door behind him, then went over to the window to pull the curtain closer.
“Folk can be curious,” she said. “Sit down, sir, and I’ll be with ye in a trice — must put the marketin’ away.”
Anthony seated himself in a wooden armchair, while the old man shuffled to a bench in the chimney corner and proceeded to nod off to sleep.
“Touched in the nob,” said the woman, indicating him as she came back into the room. “Ye was sayin’, sir, somethink about — what was the word?”
“Recompense,” supplied Anthony, promptly, and drawing out a banknote, pressed it into her ready hand.
She looked at it thoughtfully, then said slowly, “Well, now, mem’ry’s a funny thing. It plays tricks. Some folks pays ye to remember, an’ some pays ye to forget. It depends which pays best, see?”
“Perfectly,” he replied, pausing in the act of restoring the pocketbook to its secure resting place. “In matters of business, a direct approach is best, don’t you agree, my good woman? How much?”
She shook her head. “Ah, now, that’s askin’. Depends what it’s worth to ye to know.”
“From all of which I collect that the gentleman I mentioned did come here, and did ask you the same question?”
She looked blank. He passed another two banknotes over, pausing interrogatively between each one.
“Well, now, I’ll tell ye what I telled ’im,” she said, tucking the notes away in the pocket of her apron. “I never ’eard of no Mrs. Lathom — don’t know nothink about ’er, an’ that’s Gospel.”
His disappointment showed in his face. He rose and stood over her menacingly.
“And you have the effrontery to take money for passing on that information! Have a care, woman!”
She cowered away from him. “There’s more, isn’t there?” he continued, relentlessly. “He didn’t pay you to keep silent about that! Very well, out with it. What was it?”
It was evident that she was scared of him; but her cupidity was stronger than the fear and urged her to persist in the hope of a larger reward. She shook her head, compressing her lips tightly.
Anthony surveyed her for a moment in frustration, wishing she had been a man so that he could have dealt with her as she deserved.
“Very well,” he said, at last. “How much did he pay you?”
“Ten pound,” she replied promptly, with a sly look.
She wondered for a moment if she had put the figure too high when he continued to glare at her; but at last he drew two ten-pound banknotes from his pocketbook, placing them out of her reach on the table.
“Yours — if I find the rest of your information more worth the price than the first part,” he said grimly.
She argued for a time, attempting to snatch the money; but he easily restrained her without doing her any harm, though she cursed volubly.
Defeated at last, she subsided in her chair and reluctantly passed on to him the information he desired.
Since that ecstatic evening at the Moonlight Masquerade almost a month since, Durrant had scarcely set eyes on Cynthia. He would occasionally catch a glimpse of her as she set out for an evening engagement exquisitely gowned and with jewels glinting on her white neck; or he might chance to be crossing the hall as she left the breakfast parlour in the mornings, ready to begin on the day’s hectic social round. Always there were others about at these times, and the only recognition she would give him was a distant smile and a cool, formal greeting. He chafed under this neglect, finding it hard to reconcile with the memory of that passionate night of shared delight.
After he returned from escorting Carlton to Alvington, he determined that he would somehow contrive to see her privately and inform her how matters stood for the displaced Viscount Shaldon. She would soon be hearing rumours, for he had left nothing undone to spread the tale abroad. Only a few days si
nce he had been closeted with a journalist whose speciality it was to obtain spicy items of news for one of London’s scandal-sheets; he had also sent anonymous letters to those quarters where he judged they would be received gleefully and promptly broadcast in malicious whispers to anyone who could be induced to listen. And who could not, in the scandal-hungry hothouse of the London salons?
In the event, he was saved the trouble of contriving a meeting, for Cynthia sought him out herself one morning some days later when her father was out of the house. She walked coolly into the library where he was working alone, just as she had been used to do in the old days at Alvington.
He sprang up as soon as the door was closed behind her and made as if to take her in his arms. She waved him back imperiously.
“Not now — too dangerous,” she said, rapidly. “Anyone might come in. I must not stay a minute, but I came to ask if you know what all this is about Shaldon. I was shown something in a journal yesterday evening by a lady of my acquaintance. Oh, it was cautiously written, with all the names in initials — you know the kind of thing — but quite obvious to anyone acquainted with the persons concerned! Moreover, this lady has recently received a letter, not quite so cautious. Your work, I suspect? You’ve dropped more than one hint to me on this subject from time to time, so I believe I’ve come to the best source for information.”
“I would have told you the whole before this, but I can never get near you,” he replied, in disgruntled tones.
“Of course not. That would be the height of folly, as I’ve said often. But tell me, is there any truth in these extravagant rumours? They credit Alvington with making a secret marriage before his union to Maria Cottesford and with abandoning the child of that first marriage! And it seems the child has now appeared to lay claim to Shaldon’s place as Alvington’s heir! Can it be true? And what has been your part in all this?”
He speedily recounted the full history of the affair and of how he had set about tracing Alvington’s other son at the Earl’s request. She could see that he was enjoying the recital, and she commented on this when he told her triumphantly what the reward for his services would be.
A Regency Scandal Page 42