by Dean, Anna
‘But I daresay the landlord at the inn can supply all the information you need,’ said Mr George, and he attempted to dismiss the difficulty with a wave of his hand.
‘But it seems that he cannot. All that is known in that quarter is that Mr Brodie came up on the Plymouth coach two days ago, engaged a bed for a few nights, and…’ he paused and turned his head from side to side, surveying the company and looking for all the world like a bloodhound seeking the scent. ‘And the only other thing that is known about the unfortunate man is that he intended to come here, where, by his own account, an old acquaintance of his was paying a visit.’
There was a short silence before everyone burst out with fresh denials of knowing the dead man. Dido looked eagerly from face to face, trying once more to determine who it was that was lying.
Lancelot rose from his seat and held up a hand. ‘Well, well,’ he said soothingly, ‘it is all a very great mystery. But Parry, you see, wishes to make quite certain; he thinks perhaps someone may recognise the fellow if we go to look at him; that perhaps someone does know him and the name only has been forgotten.’
The whole company now began to cry out at the idea of looking at the dead man.
‘Lord!’ declared Miss Gibbs with some enthusiasm, ‘I ain’t ever looked at a murdered man before! And I don’t know how I shall like it.’
Miss Emma was philosophical. ‘“The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures”,’ she quoted, with a grin, ‘“’tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil”.’
But there was a sharp intake of breath from Mrs Bailey’s quarter of the room. And Dido was extremely interested to see that lady looking red and anxious – and hurrying to hide her right hand beneath the needlework in her lap. And, before the fingers were entirely obscured, she noticed that they were crossed – very much as if Mrs Bailey was frightened and felt herself to be in urgent need of good luck.
Dido was instantly possessed of the idea that this was the culprit – the liar who wished to deny a knowledge of the dead man – but she was, unfortunately, prevented from making any further observation by a coming on of enervating symptoms.
The mention of a murdered man had proved too distressing for the delicate nerves of Mrs Manners – she was now half prostrate. And Dido could stay no longer in the hall; she must attend her aunt to her chamber and administer a large measure of brown medicine. It was exceedingly inconvenient to be called away at this most interesting juncture – and she had no wish to hear her aunt’s opinion of recent events.
‘It is too bad of Mr Parry to put us all to so much trouble,’ she said fretfully when Dido and the maid had at last settled her in her bed. ‘I am not accustomed to looking upon murdered bodies!’
‘No, Aunt.’
The dainty little hands plucked at the edge of the sheet. It was an unpromising sign; Dido was apprehensive of a ‘comfortable chat’.
‘It is all the fault of this wicked young man,’ complained Mrs Manners, ‘this Tom Lomax, as he calls himself. He has stolen away Letitia and hidden her and, I daresay, ruined her, and now he has killed this man at the inn. And I do not see why I should be made to look upon a dead man on his account.’
‘It is by no means certain,’ said Dido as calmly as she could, ‘that young Mr Lomax is guilty.’
‘Not guilty? Why I should say he is! Why should you think otherwise?’
It was a pertinent question. Why should Dido think otherwise? Had she any cause other than her own wishes? ‘He is of such a very respectable family,’ she said.
‘No, he is not,’ said Mrs Manners with decision. ‘A family is only respectable if it behaves respectable. These Lomaxes, are not respectable at all if they have a murderer among them.’
Preserving a suitably submissive silence cost Dido dear. She was longing to protest. But she knew that this was not only her aunt’s prejudice; it was the opinion of the world.
However, as Mrs Manners composed herself to sleep with a look of triumph on her face, Dido did find an argument for Tom’s innocence – or at least an argument for the guilt of someone else … She remembered the figure which she had seen creeping in secret into Charcombe Manor on the very night of the murder.
Mr Brodie, it was supposed, had been killed at about midnight. And the clock, she remembered, had struck one just before the figure appeared. Time enough for a murderer to have made the journey back from New Charcombe.
And someone among the guests at the manor had known the dead man – but had not wished to acknowledge the connection.
Chapter Thirteen
… I am become a pariah, Eliza. The company of Charcombe Manor looks askance at me. I am not to be trusted! My association with the guilty name of Lomax makes them all uneasy, I believe, and some among them find it impossible to hide their disgust.
At dinner Mr George Fenstanton was so good as to indulge me with a little discourse upon the merits of summary hanging, which Mrs Bailey immediately improved with a few choice comments upon the likely role which ‘bad blood’ must play in producing extreme vice in one so young as Tom Lomax.
It was a painful meal, relieved only by the watchful courtesy of Mr Lancelot. I have made my aunt my excuse now and escaped from them all. So – while she sleeps restlessly – I shall snatch a precious opportunity of ‘talking’ to you, Eliza.
I hardly know where to begin. But I shall not attempt to describe to you the anxiety, the dread which I feel of the misery impending over Mr Lomax. I know that your feelings are there before me – that you share every anxiety, every fear. And, besides, it is not a subject upon which I dare allow myself to dwell.
I shall turn my thoughts instead to a consideration of what is to be done to avert the evil. How is Mr Tom’s innocence to be proved?
His presence at the inn, his arguing with the dead man, are both beyond doubt and I believe the best way of coming at the problem is by considering his motive. Everybody agrees that Tom’s reason for killing Mr Brodie was to prevent his reaching Mr Fenstanton with news of Miss Verney.
So the motive rests upon Mr Tom having abducted Letitia Verney. The greater crime depends entirely on the lesser. If it could be proved that he played no part in the girl’s disappearance, then the case of murder must fall.
And I am convinced, Eliza, that Tom Lomax has no more idea where Letitia Verney is now than you or I have. He cannot know where she is. Else why did he remain in Charcombe? Why was he not at her side, pressing his suit; pursuing her fortune; carrying her away to a blacksmith-priest in Scotland?
And why – if he is privy to her whereabouts – should he solicit my help in finding her?
No, no. Tom Lomax is not the cause of Miss Letitia Verney’s removal from Charcombe. That is an explanation which makes no sense at all.
So two possibilities remain. Either Miss Verney is the author of her own disappearance, or someone else has contrived to carry out an ‘abduction’ and throw the blame upon T.L.
* * *
Dido read through the argument with some satisfaction. The neat, orderly lines of script were remarkably comforting; all her worry and misery compressed into clear thought and rational words. Now she could see her way forward …
* * *
The first puzzle to be solved must be how Tom was deceived into thinking Miss Verney returned safely to the house. How can he have seen her walk through a door when all her friends declare that she never arrived upon the other side of that door?
I must begin to investigate this question without delay.
My aunt has been very unhappy since retiring to her chamber. Letitia’s sins run very much upon her mind. In her half-dreaming imagination she has placed the fugitives in the Westmorland town of Kendal tonight and, since this is but ‘half a day’s hard riding’ from Gretna Green, she is very apprehensive indeed.
However, she seems at last to have fallen into a calmer state. And I think I shall attempt to steal away. There is company come to tea below and dancing is once more under discussion. I hope that I
shall be able to creep out into the grounds undetected and look about me.
* * *
Dido laid down her pen and rose as quietly as she could, but it was not quietly enough.
Before she could reach the door of the bedchamber, a tremulous voice spoke from within the closed curtains of the bed. ‘I shall see Doctor Sutherland,’ said Aunt Manners, in the precise tones of a drunkard attempting to prove his sobriety.
Dido parted the curtains cautiously and leant over the high, crimson-covered bed. The light from the candle by the writing desk caught the pale little face within. The eyes were staring blankly into the distance, proving that the lady remained in a half-sleeping state.
‘I am a very sick woman,’ she continued argumentatively. ‘Why should I not see a physician?’
Dido turned away hoping her aunt was insensible of her presence.
‘And he is a very clever man, you know. He was a great help to my sister, Francine, with all her nervous complaints.’
Dido stopped – turned back to the bed.
Mrs Manners tossed her head restlessly on the pillow; her voice became more argumentative than ever. ‘It was all lies the things they said about him…’
‘What did they say?’ asked Dido quickly.
‘They said he came here too often. They said that his motives were mercenary. But Francine was sick – and he was her physician. It was only natural that he should call every day.’
‘Indeed…’
‘I shall send for Doctor Sutherland tomorrow,’ said Mrs Manners. ‘George will not like it … But I shall not be put off by George…’ Her voice faded as she slipped away into true sleep.
Dido stood a moment beside the bed staring down thoughtfully at the sleeping figure – until the striking up of a dance tune below roused her to a recollection of her intended visit to the grounds.
* * *
What had really happened on the afternoon of Miss Verney’s disappearance? Dido wondered as she closed the great front door on the noise of the company and stepped out into a chilly but tranquil evening.
Around her, the flower beds and lawns were darkening and the trees in the valley cast a purple dusk, but above the woods rose the downs, glowing in the last of the ruddy sunlight, and over all was spread a glorious red-streaked sky, filled with a promise of fair weather. The stillness sharpened Dido’s mind. It almost seemed as if the answers to all her difficulties might be hanging here in the air with the scents of woodsmoke and damp grass.
How had Letitia Verney disappeared while only walking a hundred yards along this gravel carriage drive and into the house? The driveway ran straight between the smooth lawns, offering no possibility of concealment even now in the gathering dusk.
Dido had descended the steps and begun to pace slowly towards the gates, when the great door behind her opened and Emma Fenstanton stepped out, her white gown gleaming in the dusk.
‘Miss Kent, I must consult with you!’ she cried running down the steps.
‘Oh!’
‘I have something very important to tell you.’ She drew her shawl about her – and it immediately fell into exactly the right, the most becoming, folds. ‘I know what you are about,’ she said turning up her bright little eyes to Dido’s face. ‘You are trying to determine how Mr Lomax’s extraordinary story might be true, are you not? You want to prove that he did not run away with Letitia.’
Dido looked at her in surprise.
‘Oh, it was very plain in your face at dinner that you want him to be innocent,’ said Miss Emma, ‘so I thought what a great laugh it would be if you and I could puzzle it all out – for I am sure we are as clever as any man.’
‘I see.’
‘And then, all at once, I saw what had happened!’
They had now begun to walk side by side along the drive. Miss Fenstanton was shorter than Dido – who had always been considered an inch or two short of elegance herself. But the young lady’s air was so assured that, walking beside her, one immediately believed her height to be perfection.
Dido felt over-tall. ‘And what do you believe happened?’ she asked, bending her head.
‘Letitia deceived Mr Lomax. She made him believe that she had returned to the house, when, in fact, she had not.’
Dido looked curiously at her companion, wondering what she would be about. Her face was all smiling certainty; her eyes danced with the enjoyment of her own genius. ‘Why should you think that Miss Verney would trick the poor man?’
‘Because,’ said Emma, her voice thrilling with the importance of her information, ‘Letitia was not pleased with Mr Tom Lomax. He had offended her.’
‘Indeed! And are you in Miss Verney’s confidence? Has she told you of his offence?’
‘No,’ admitted Emma. ‘Letitia Verney and I are not exactly intimate now. We were once. When we were little girls we spent a great deal of time playing together in this house.’ She paused a moment and looked back fondly at the old grey manor house. ‘No, Letitia and I are good friends now, but,’ she said, slipping her arm through Dido’s and walking on towards the gates, ‘the time is gone when she and I shared secrets. However, I did overhear her telling Miss Gibbs that Mr Tom Lomax was not to be trusted.’
‘Did you indeed?’ said Dido, deeply interested. ‘When did you hear it?’
‘Just two days before she went away. She said that his motives were mercenary and she did not believe him to be disinterested.’
‘Indeed!’ This made excellent hearing! It rendered an elopement very unlikely. ‘Are you quite certain that that was her opinion?’
‘Oh yes.’ Miss Fenstanton smiled up at Dido, as self-possessed and sure of herself as a cat.
‘And were you surprised to hear her talk like that? Would you say that in general she is a suspicious person?’
‘Well, I would say that she is cautious. I tell you honestly, Miss Kent, I do not think she is at all the kind of girl to be running away to Gretna Green.’
This opened up new vistas of possibility. Until this moment, Dido had not doubted that Miss Verney was in love with Tom Lomax. But if she were not …
‘Now,’ said Emma. ‘You must allow me to tell you what happened on the afternoon Letitia disappeared. For I have reckoned it all out – which I think proves what a woman’s mind is capable of. Women are as capable as men of thinking rationally, you know, and it is very unphilosophical of men to suppose we are like children—’
‘What do you believe happened?’ asked Dido quickly before her companion could be taken with one of her flights of fancy.
‘I believe a trick was played upon Mr Lomax.’
‘A trick? You think that this disappearance of Miss Verney’s might be a species of revenge upon the gentleman – because she was angry with him for his mercenary ambitions?’
Emma paused and frowned. ‘No, I think it was more in the nature of a test.’
‘A test?’
‘Yes, Letitia often talks of “testing” suitors. Like the fairy stories, you know – when men must accomplish great tasks to prove themselves worthy of the princess’s hand. She would be cold, demanding – that kind of thing – just to see whether a man would bear with her patiently.’ She shook her head, half admiring, half disapproving. ‘Once she “tested” cousin Lancelot by insisting that he missed a whole day’s shooting in order to accompany her to the shops in Exeter.’
‘And did Mr Fenstanton complete his “test” to her satisfaction?’
‘Oh yes! He is quite determined to marry Letitia.’ She glanced up smilingly. ‘Papa will be disappointed, you know. Lance will never marry me. Even if I would have him – which I certainly never shall! Indeed I do not think I shall ever marry.’
‘Then how are you to gain that fortune with which you will torment your family when you are old?’
Emma laughed delightedly. ‘That is a difficulty, is it not? I see I shall have to give a little more thought to the matter.’
Dido smiled and shook her head. She found herself rather likin
g Miss Emma. ‘But, in the meantime,’ she said, ‘you must tell me more about this “test” upon Mr Lomax. How was it to operate; and what was to be “proved” by it?’
Emma shrugged up her shoulders. ‘His constancy, perhaps,’ she said. ‘Or his intelligence. Perhaps she meant that he should find her out. Perhaps he had to discover how he had been deceived – solve the mystery.’
‘I see.’ Dido walked on in silence for a moment, not sure whether to believe or not. Then, putting aside the motive, she turned her attention to the greater puzzle. ‘But how was the trick accomplished?’
‘Well, Letitia must have given him the slip. And this,’ coming to a standstill, ‘is the place where it was done.’
They had arrived at the spot where three well-grown beech trees stood beside the carriage drive, within yards of the gates. The smooth grey trunks towered up against the evening sky; bright green leaves were unfurling on the overhanging branches and bluebells were just pushing through the carpet of old brown leaves, among roots spread like giant grey claws.
‘This,’ said Emma firmly, ‘must be the place at which she disappeared. There is nowhere else it could have been done. She slipped away and hid behind one of these trees.’
‘It is not possible!’
‘Is it not?’
‘There are two very strong objections. Firstly, Mr Lomax is quite sure that she did not slip away. He assures me that his eyes were upon her the whole time. Gazing devotedly, I don’t doubt.’
‘And is Mr Lomax so very devoted?’
‘He is a great deal too devoted to Miss Verney’s fortune to neglect any detail in his role of lover.’