After a moment’s reflection, I decided that this unpleasant prospect could be avoided with sufficient discretion on my part, and that it would be advisable to proceed.
‘I’d like to exchange information with you,’ I said, ‘if I could trust you not to publish any detail I let slip about Sylvia.’
‘You can trust me – why, there’s no point in publishing anything except a real breakthrough. What I want is a scoop, the real thing! I shan’t spoil things before by letting out little bits.’
‘All right, then,’ I said, ‘it is a bargain.’
‘Let’s drink to that!’ he responded triumphantly, lifting his glass. ‘Call me Pat, then! And may I call you Vanessa?’
‘Of course,’ I responded absently. ‘Only there is one thing that might annoy you. It’s just this: I really don’t know very much at all, and some of it probably isn’t even relevant. I’m afraid you’ll think I’m very useless.’
‘Well, go ahead, spill it all and we’ll see.’
‘There are two reasons for which I believe Sylvia is innocent. The first one is a conversation I overheard her having with her best friend, in private. She assured her that she really had never left her room that afternoon, promised it, swore it even. I found her totally convincing. After hearing her, I simply cannot believe she is guilty.’
‘Ah,’ said Pat O’Sullivan, looking ironic and unconvinced. ‘Would you tell your best friend if you’d committed a murder?’
I looked at Arthur, and thought of you, Dora; beyond a doubt, my two best friends on this earth.
‘I think I would,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘But anyway – listen to my second reason. It’s more important! I’ve found out that there was a stranger seen in Haverhill on the morning of Mr Granger’s murder. I heard it from some ladies at a tea party, the same one where I met Mrs Munn. One of the other ladies actually claimed to have seen the man herself. She observed him fairly closely and could give some description of his clothes, face and hair. She described him as wearing a red cape. He might have been the person Mrs Munn spied flitting between the trees, if she really did see anyone at all. Now, this young man was also seen in the train station both coming and going from Haverhill, and the lady spotted him on the path up by the fields going towards the Granger estate, but it seems nobody saw him in the village itself at all; he must have crossed through the woods coming from the train station. He seems to have avoided the village completely, as well he might if he were planning a murder – you’d think he would want to remain unseen. On the other hand, it seems strange, then, his dressing so noticeably. At any rate, the main thing is that I was able to confirm that he was observed in the train station itself on the day of the murder – and he arrived before it, and left after!’
‘Vanessa, this is capital! Do you realise what you’re saying?’ Pat became extremely animated, and half stood up from his seat. ‘Now, this is definitely something for the police! They’ll manage to trace him, all right. That’s the kind of thing they do with the efficiency of … of machines! They’re capable of tracing every person on every train, questioning everyone in a dozen stations! Let me tell my brother-in-law about this, Vanessa! Anything they find out, we can also use!’
‘I think … I think you may be right,’ I replied after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I have not told the police about it up to now because first of all, I only just learnt about it myself, and secondly, Mrs Bryce-Fortescue was very much against it. She cannot abide the idea of communicating with them at all, and thinks that her daughter needs to remain absolutely silent and closed where they are concerned, as her best defence. But I … yes, I do believe that you are right. The police should begin at the Haverhill train station, and work from there.’
I purposely avoided the idea of their questioning Martha. I doubted that she would speak openly to the police, and I felt disturbed at the idea of their harassing her … noticing her, and perhaps carting her off for questioning, or worse, sending her to the workhouse. I thought of her wrinkled face, her mysterious eyes.
‘Wait, I’ve just remembered something else!’ I exclaimed suddenly. ‘The old lady who saw him – she said – I don’t know how trustworthy this is, but I thought she seemed clear enough in her mind. Anyway, she said he looked familiar, only she couldn’t place him!’
‘She did, did she? Well … well, we mustn’t get our hopes up. It could mean nothing at all, I suppose. A vague old lady mixing things up, or trying to seem important. But on the other hand, can you imagine if it were true, and she suddenly remembered? Why, there’d be no more need to detect, then, would there? Vanessa, you must go and talk to her again!’
‘Yes. Yes, I must go back to Haverhill as soon as I can.’
‘You do that, and tell me if you discover anything. And I’ll set the police on the trail of the young man in the Haverhill station. And I won’t leave you in the dark if they trace him!’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I hope they do find him, and prove that he is the murderer, and Sylvia is innocent! But if they don’t, then we shall have to.’
‘Shake hands on it!’ he cried, and we parted the best of friends.
What mixed feelings this strange person provokes in me, reducing the reality of death and murder to a silly scoop. And yet he is right, he is right in what he told me to do. I had very nearly forgotten old Martha’s strange words. I must go back to Haverhill and find out more, if I can. And somehow, I feel that I must also manage to discover Sylvia’s secret, for it may not be related to the murder … but then again, it may! Surely, one of these two trails must lead me somewhere.
Your loving but overly busy
Vanessa
Maidstone Hall, Tuesday, June 21st, 1892
My very dearest twin,
By the time this letter reaches you, you will perhaps have heard about its contents already – but I am so amazed that I cannot resist relating the incredible coincidence to you at once! Dora, this is a strange thing, and I feel it may even turn out to be important. I hope this is something more than wishful thinking, for I am sorely in need of insight into this tangled mystery. I’ve made no progress since I returned on Sunday. I searched Sylvia’s room twice, though but hastily, I have talked with her but learnt absolutely nothing of interest beyond the power of her careless charm, and I have planned a new trip to Haverhill with Peter for Friday (I do not dare to tell you how I inveigled him into inviting me again, for I am heartily ashamed of it), but that is as far as my research has progressed in these last three days. Until now.
Earlier today, Mrs Bryce-Fortescue came in to tell me that we were not to have supper together today, for she and her daughter were invited out and Camilla should be away. I was to ring as soon as I desired my evening meal, and Mrs Firmin would have it sent up to me on a tray. I had no such intention, however; it seemed to me that much use could be made of the opportunity, and as soon as I judged it could rightly be about supper time, instead of ringing, I proceeded to wend my way towards the part of the house in which I had always supposed the kitchen to be located. Naturally, I never before had an occasion to visit those regions, and I felt some trepidation at the idea of being discovered and scolded by one of those servants who consider it their duty to uphold civilised behaviour, but I met no one until I timidly knocked at the large wooden door which appeared to form the entrance to the sacred altar of cooking.
The door was opened from within, and I encountered the round, rather heated face of Mrs Firmin herself.
‘Why, Miss Duncan,’ she said disapprovingly, ‘you was to ring when you wanted supper. I’d have sent it up by Sarah. It’s ready now.’
‘Oh, I am so sorry, Mrs Firmin,’ I said warmly, edging my way forward into the welcoming steamy atmosphere, so that she was obliged to take a step back. ‘Please do forgive me, and send me away at once if I am disturbing you. But it is so dark out, and it is already starting to storm, and I am so frightened of thunder and I felt so dreadfully lonely altogether – I was going to ask you if I could possibly sit here a
nd take supper together with you.’
She seemed mollified, and indeed more than mollified; I should not go so far as to state that she was delighted, but it seemed as though the prospect of a pleasant chat was not displeasing to her, once she had gotten past the duty of objecting to my behaviour.
‘Well, miss, we downstairs have already had our supper, being as we eat earlier than the family. But I’ll sit with you and take a cup of tea if I may. It’ll save Sarah carrying the tray, and she can go home. Sit down at the table, miss, and I’ll dish up your chop directly.’
She spoke to the maid who was finishing the dishes in the scullery, and then set the kettle on the hob where it began to boil directly (from which I conclude that pleasant cups of tea had already been in preparation), and very soon provided me with a delightful supper of sliced potatoes au gratin, green beans and lamb. When Sarah had dried her hands, bid us goodnight (not without a stern glance in my direction) and departed, Mrs Firmin sat plumply down opposite me.
‘Oh, it is so kind of you to allow me to stay,’ I began happily. ‘I grew up in a cottage on a farm, you know, and I’m really not used to a big house like this; it can be lonely sometimes, and seems so empty, with just the four of us and all those large rooms.’
‘Yes, it is an empty house,’ she agreed, ‘and even four is a lot for these days. It’s not like it was when Mrs B, Miss Eleanor that was, was a child. She was an only daughter, but the house never seemed lonely one minute; friends and acquaintances always about, and Miss Eleanor that loved and pampered, her parents would have liked her to live in paradise. Ah, things was different back then, with candles and lights all about, and meals for ten or twelve as often as not. And when Miss Eleanor got married – wasn’t that a celebration! No one could ever have thought that the house would end up so sad. Poor Miss Eleanor. She lost her parents and her husband in the same year, and she’s never been the same since then. Not that she was ever a bright, fun-loving creature like her mother, she was always the haughty type, but willing to have a good time nevertheless, at least if someone else would take the trouble to arrange it for her. Very used to having everything done for her, was Miss Eleanor. Then, when her parents went, there was the fear about the house. It was to pass to the nearest male relative, of course. Miss Eleanor had grown up here and knew no other, and she’d have given her eye teeth to keep it, but the lawyers came and told her she’d have to give it up and leave, once they located the rightful heir. Months went by as they looked about all over the world, but in the end it seemed there was no male heir anywhere; Miss Eleanor’s parents were both only children, and there turned out to be no cousins or uncles anywhere after all. Months it took, and then, when it finally went to judgement that the house belonged to her, Mr Bryce-Fortescue was thrown from his horse and died, and poor Miss Eleanor found herself a widow with practically no income to keep up the house, and so she nearly lost it a second time. I guess it was only then that I came to realise how much this house meant to her. Mr Bryce-Fortescue had had investments, and they were sold and paid in to her, but it didn’t come to so very much. He was a wise one, and kept on taking them out and putting them in again, so that the money seemed to go on making itself, but Miss Eleanor never had any mind for such things, she was just cut out to be a great lady. Alone she remained, with baby Sylvia, and all the servants had to go except for me and Mr Huxtable and the girl Ellen who looked after the baby. We three had been here for so long we’d no desire to leave. Ever since Ellen left we’ve just had Sarah who comes in for the day but goes off to her home at night – huh! that’s not the same thing; there’s no loyalty to it, no family sense. Well, a hundred times I’ve thought how much easier it would be for Miss Eleanor to sell the house and take a smaller one, maybe in town, but she would never hear of it. This place is her place, and no other. Ah, it’s not always easy, with all the memories, but I’m too old to think of moving anywhere else. Nigh on forty years I’ve been here. I helped bring up little Miss Eleanor, and Miss Sylvia too. Whilst the child still lived here, there seemed some use going on, but since she got married and went away, most every day I cook for Mrs B alone, and she takes it all by herself at the dining-room table, with Mr Huxtable and Sarah in attendance. It’s a sad thing. I often think how this house was built for a large family with a great many children, but Miss Eleanor’s parents only ever had the one, and then she the same, and as for Miss Sylvia, she’s had none at all, and now her husband’s gone, who knows when there will ever be children about the place again?’
‘Miss Sylvia is very young,’ I said, ‘perhaps she’ll marry again.’
‘Not she, I don’t think,’ responded Mrs Firmin. ‘A young lady that unhappy in her marriage I never see. Her mother was never so; haughty and distant, maybe, but fond of her husband, and above all, respected him, thought him a good man. No marriage can work if a wife don’t feel respect for her husband.’
‘And you think Miss Sylvia didn’t?’
‘I shouldn’t be telling you these things, miss, I don’t know why I’m running on like this. But Miss Sylvia never wanted to marry Mr Granger. Why, he’d been coming to the house since she was a child; he was more like an uncle than a husband for her. There was a time, everyone thought, hoped even, that Mr Granger was sweet on the mother. It could have been, it might not have been too bad, although he was in commerce and not from any family anyone ever heard of. Vulgar, he was, but he was attached to this family and we all got used to him, and thinking maybe a match would come off, but not the one which came off. It surprised us all, and maybe Miss Sylvia more than any, when we heard two years ago that Mr Granger had asked for her hand. And he so much older than her, and older than her mother even. But then when I thought, I thought it must be because he wanted children of his own, as any man would.’
‘And was Mrs Bryce-Fortescue pleased with the marriage?’ I enquired.
‘Oh, no one can ever tell what that one is thinking. She announced it, and organised it, and an elegant party was had, but nothing like the one she’d had herself, and off went the couple to live in the next county where Mr Granger had bought a house, wanting to lord it like a country squire when he was no such thing.’
‘And Miss Sylvia didn’t seem happy in her marriage?’
‘Well, I can’t say. She doesn’t show much. But it didn’t seem right, somehow. No children and didn’t seem to want any, and didn’t seem to want to run a house or stay home or even have parties or weekends or suppers, now that she was finally a rich woman, but couldn’t think of anything better than getting away from him; coming here to visit home, or running off to the continent with her friends. Well, everybody’s different, I suppose; who knows what happiness is made of?’
It was at this very moment, when the conversation appeared to be taking a philosophical turn, that a loud and rather abrupt knocking was heard at the outside door which leads into the scullery. Mrs Firmin jumped.
‘Now, who can that be? Could Sarah have forgotten something so important she’s had to come back for it?’ she said, and heaving herself out of her chair, she bent into the low scullery and opened the door. A gust of stormy wind blew into the kitchen.
‘Why, Ellen!’ I heard her cry in real amazement. ‘Ellen Whitman, I declare, after all these years! What are you doing here?’
The woman who came into the kitchen was a beauty, although no longer very young. Tall and simply dressed, she came into the kitchen and removed the kerchief from her hair, shaking out the drops of water, for it was raining quite heavily. She was about to answer Mrs Firmin, when her glance fell upon me.
Dora, I have never seen anyone stare with such transfixed horror. It was as though she were seeing a ghost! She fixed her eyes upon me and they widened so much I could see the whites all about the iris, while her dark and abundant hair almost seemed to stand upright upon her head. The colour drained from her face completely, and in a forced, raucous voice she cried,
‘Where’s William?’
I felt very distressed, thinkin
g she must be mad. I moved towards her kindly, stretching out my hand, and said gently,
‘I am very sorry, but I don’t know any William.’
‘Don’t know William?’ Her voice dropped to a whisper of anguish. ‘What are you doing here? What has happened? Did you follow me? Where’s my baby?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, glancing at Mrs Firmin, but she seemed quite as shocked and uncomprehending as I was. ‘Of course I have not followed you, I have been here the whole evening. Is William your child?’
She walked up to me slowly, and stood leaning towards me, her face barely inches from mine. A sinister look came into her eyes, but then I realised it was actually a look of soul-devouring panic and horror, so severe that it could find no outward expression in cries or fainting. It was as if death itself were staring out at me from her crazed orbs.
‘I left him with you,’ she said, plunging her eyes into mine as though she would hypnotise me into confessing what I had done with her baby. ‘Where is he, Miss Dora? Why are you here?’
‘Oh, I understand!’ I exclaimed in sudden, incredible relief, for I assure you that I was nearly paralysed by the tension of the scene. ‘I am not Dora! You must be acquainted with my twin sister, Dora Duncan. Is that it?’
Her face changed somewhat, as she slowly made sense of my words.
‘Twin sister? You’re not Miss Dora?’
‘No,’ I laughed. ‘I am Vanessa Duncan, her sister. I know that we look very much alike. It is easy to mistake one of us for the other. But what an extraordinary coincidence that you know my sister. Is she taking care of your child?’
‘Yes, I left little William with her not a few hours ago,’ she said, still staring at me rather suspiciously. ‘Land sakes, is it possible? I’ve heard of twins but never seen two people look so much alike. Is everything all right then? You’re sure you’re not her? I thought William must be dead, and she come to tell me.’
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