A Place of Confinement: The Investigations of Miss Dido Kent (Dido Kent Mysteries)

by Dean, Anna

  Dido started upon a rather dull-looking chapter entitled ‘The Rights and Duties of Mankind’.

  Grandmama Kent had had a similar taste for having improving books read aloud, and Dido had very early acquired the trick of mechanically producing sounds from a page without the engagement of any part of her brain. Her mouth, once set in motion, could continue well enough. Expression was not possible, but expression was not required. One aimed rather for that soothing monotony which most swiftly produces sleep.

  And the long sentences and ponderous tone of this book were well suited to use as a soporific. ‘In the present state of society,’ she read, ‘it seems necessary to go back to first principles in search of the most simple truths…’

  She yawned and thought how very refreshing it would be to read for once a moralist in charity with his own age. Then, as she continued to pronounce the words insensibly, her mind wandered back to the east wing …

  It would seem that the apartments at the end of the wing were those of Miss Francine – Mrs Manners’ dead sister. Was it sentiment which now took the lady to that ruined chamber? It must be a powerful emotion which could draw such a fastidious woman into that place of dirt and decay; and an uneasy emotion which must be satisfied in secret …

  Dido turned a page of the book.

  ‘Men…’ she found herself reading, ‘appear to me to act in a very unphilosophical manner when they try to secure the good conduct of women by attempting to keep them always in a state of childhood.’

  She stopped reading as a slight familiarity in the words broke upon her consciousness.

  Her first thought was that Emma Fenstanton had used remarkably similar words in their talk upon the drive. And her second thought was that Mr Blair would not express such an idea.

  There was a small snore from the sofa. Mrs Manners was contriving somehow to sleep soundly with an expression of righteous attention still upon her face. She seemed to have detected nothing amiss in the sermon.

  Dido turned the book over. Its cover certainly declared it to be ‘Sermons by Hugh Blair DD FRS (Edinburgh) One of the Ministers of the High Church’. Everything about the cover was severe and respectable; from the old-fashioned lettering with its long, straight S’s, to the plainest of plain black board bindings.

  And yet …

  She glanced back at some of the passages she had insensibly read:

  ‘Men complain, and with reason, of the follies and caprices of our sex … Behold I should answer the natural effect of ignorance!’

  These were not quite the sentiments Dido had expected of Doctor Blair. And besides, whatever could be meant by ‘our sex’? As far as she knew, the Scotch Church did not admit women to the ranks of its ministers …

  She turned back again and this time referred to the title page – which told a very different story from the cover. It read: ‘A Vindication of the Rights of Woman with Strictures on Political and Moral Subjects, by Mary Wollstonecraft.’

  It would seem that Dido had in her hands – that she had for the last half-hour been reading aloud – the opinions of one of the most scandalous women of the age! This was, in fact, one of those shocking and revolutionary books which Doctor Prowdlee had so thoroughly condemned!

  It was very interesting that Miss Fenstanton should have such a book in her possession.

  The silence seemed to have penetrated Mrs Manners’ half-sleeping brain. She stirred upon the sofa. ‘Yes, yes,’ she murmured, ‘it is all very right and true,’ and fell back into a comfortable doze, without any notion of what she was approving.

  Dido laughed quietly to herself as she began to understand the strange construction of the volume – and Miss Fenstanton’s ingenious arrangement with the bookbinder, which would allow her to read whatever she wished without raising any protest from her father. It was a clever stratagem.

  And, from these thoughts, she soon fell into her own considerations of ‘moral subjects’. She turned the book over, studied again it’s very unexceptionable cover and reflected upon how, in other ways, appearances might be deceiving. The outward show, the identity presented to the world, might be as effectively disguised in a person as in a book …

  Mrs Manners was sleeping soundly now, and Dido could not resist temptation. She seized the opportunity of exploring further the book which would never have been allowed in Badleigh Parsonage. It was a chance which might never fall in her way again …

  Chapter Twenty

  … I confess myself rather surprised by the book’s content, Eliza. I have always understood – from everything I had heard of it – that it is revolutionary and improper. But there is a great deal of sense in it; unexceptionable sense which any intelligent woman – or man – must approve. Miss Wollstonecraft’s style is awkward and, at times, indelicate; but one cannot disagree with her when she argues for a more rational education of girls. There is weight to her argument that they should learn more than those accomplishments suitable to marriage, for, as she observes, marriage is neither universal, nor eternal; spinsters and widows are frequently called upon to make their own way in the world – and all too often find that their education has left them ill-equipped to do so. A woman may find herself a burden upon her family and obliged almost to beg her bread from her more fortunate relations, because she has no respectable means by which to provide for herself …

  * * *

  Dido compelled herself to stop writing. The argument had begun to heat her cheeks and send the ink spattering from her pen. There was much more she would have liked to say upon this subject, but she doubted Eliza would wish to read it and, besides, she had sat down to write about something quite different.

  She struggled a moment for composure, then turned resolutely to a new subject.

  * * *

  The dust upon my aunt’s shoes argues for her being more closely involved in the secrets of this house than I had previously supposed possible. It is a rather disconcerting discovery for I have always supposed that lady to be mundanely inconvenient; a source of common irritation rather than intriguing mystery.

  But I cannot help but wonder whether her visit to the prison room is connected with the giving away of valuable jewels to her brother.

  For I must tell you, Eliza, that there are more jewels gone. This morning brother and sister were closeted together for two hours in earnest conversation. And now there is but one ring left upon my aunt’s fingers (a poor plain little thing of scarcely any value) – and again I am told that I must make no mention of the matter.

  Perhaps Aunt Manners has some secret to hide and pays her brother to hold his tongue. Maybe that secret centres upon the east wing and its barred and bolted chamber – and maybe it has to do with Mr Brodie.

  For I think I have been a little remiss in my suspicions there too. I have considered the possibility of everyone in this house lying about their knowledge of the man – except my aunt. Blinded by my prejudice that the inconvenient and irritating can not also be mysterious, I have failed to take into account some very salient facts. Firstly, that Aunt M has been particularly troubled with hectic headaches since she learnt of the murder; and second, that she was thrown almost into a fit when the looking upon Mr Brodie’s body was first broached by Mr Parry.

  Is an acquaintance with Mr Brodie the cause of her brother’s power over her? And if it is, might Mr George Fenstanton have committed murder in order to safeguard a secret which is peculiarly profitable to him?

  I have no very high opinion of Mr George’s character. He is resentful even of that universal and lawful injustice which has bestowed his father’s estate upon his nephew; and he has a high opinion of himself which does not appear to be shared by anyone around him. His nephew, his sister, and even his daughter are contemptuous of the authority he feels entitled to impose upon them.

  It may be he has turned to devious methods to achieve his selfish aims and is demanding money from his sister with a threat of revealing her friendship with the dead man …

  But am I even justif
ied in thinking our aunt was acquainted with Mr Brodie? I should dearly love to ask. But the question would certainly produce a great many words on the subject of impertinence and duty – and no information at all. Perhaps I should do better to ask at a time when the brown medicine has power over her!

  I confess that it is rather a comfort to have any new possibility to consider; for I have lately been obliged to give up another, rather satisfactory, theory – that of Mr Sutherland having murdered Mr Brodie.

  Mr Parry called again this morning and – as I was for two hours excused from attendance upon my aunt – I was able to take the opportunity of talking a little with him about his own investigations into the murder. And I find that he has been by no means dilatory. Though perhaps not quite so inquisitive nor as universally suspicious as he ought to be, he has exerted himself so far as to enquire into Mr Sutherland’s movements on the fateful night.

  And it appears that that gentleman must be blameless. For he was called away from the inn at eleven o’clock to attend upon a dying woman at a farmhouse five miles distant from Charcombe. And, since poor Mrs Wardle did not take her leave of this life until six in the morning, he remained there in the house. Mr Wardle and his daughter were both watching by the deathbed all night, and are willing to swear that the physician did not stir from the house until half after six.

  This is a heavy blow. It would have been a great deal more agreeable not to harbour suspicions against my acquaintances here within Charcombe Manor. But then, you know, that cannot be entirely avoided, for they will persist in behaving so very suspicious.

  And, in point of fact, I am, at this very moment, engaged in laying a trap for Miss Emma Fenstanton. I am in the library with the intention of ambushing her.

  You see, I now have a much more decided opinion of Miss Fenstanton’s character. The nature of her reading, and her arrangement with the bookbinder, point to an intelligence and guile which I had only half suspected before. I am now quite certain that her attempt to clear Mr Tom of the charge of abduction was more than a flight of fancy. She is not, by nature, a silly or a trivial creature. She has a reason for promoting his innocence. I am sure that she has.

  And I cannot help but wonder whether that reason is connected with her other strange behaviour. On my very first day in this house, I observed Miss Fenstanton escaping from the rest of the company and creeping away into the library. It is a trick which I have since seen repeated …

  I must know what she is about! It may of course be something entirely unrelated to the murder, but I must be sure. I must understand everything which is carrying on in this house.

  And that is why I am here now. My aunt is sleeping and everyone else is out of doors. I am in hopes that Miss Emma will again attempt to return here unobserved …

  * * *

  Dido laid down her pen and looked about her, wondering very much why this room tempted the young lady. No one else cared for the place; this was not in general a reading family.

  All the books upon the shelves were old and large, magnificent in leather and gilt. They provided an air of solemnity and learning; but it was a gloomy, old-fashioned room. The few expanses of wall not clothed in bookcases were panelled in fine polished oak, the colour of which almost exactly matched the dark bindings of the books. The wide fireplace was adorned with a vast and ancient overmantel of carved oak, complete with coats of arms and the large head of a rather ugly ram – in compliment to the flocks which had long ago made the fortune of the Fenstantons. The air was filled with the scent of dust and leather and aged paper.

  What was there here to draw Miss Fenstanton from the enjoyment of fresh air and company?

  * * *

  I hope that she will come here soon, wrote Dido, for I cannot wait long. Today we are all to go to the inn at New Charcombe to look upon poor Mr Brodie. It was all arranged by Mr Parry during his visit. I must walk thither in order to perform some errands for my aunt. And I intend to take the opportunity of meeting Mr Lomax in the old village so that we may visit his son. I have sent word to him and …

  * * *

  Out in the hall – beyond the door which had been purposely left ajar – there was the sound of a light, tripping step. Dido bent her head over her letter and, with her pen resting on the last word, waited.

  But the door did not open. The footsteps passed away across the hall.

  She set down her pen and went to the door. Miss Fenstanton was running across the hall from the front door to the screens passage; her bonnet was hanging back from her curls, her shawl was slipping gracefully from her shoulders, and there was a little workbox tucked under her arm. For a moment it was doubtful what she was about; then Dido made out that she had come there to meet someone. Matthews, the grim housekeeper, was waiting for her beside the screen.

  Emma held out her hand, she seemed to be thanking the housekeeper – who answered rapidly, saying something in which was included the name of her master and also the need to ‘be mighty careful’ about something.

  She handed a little package to Emma, who put it away quickly in her workbox, before turning towards the library.

  Dido had only just time to resume her seat and look up in great surprise as Miss Emma and her workbox burst through the library door. The door slammed and the girl leant against it in a moment of relief.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Fenstanton.’

  Emma started, her cheeks coloured and she could barely manage a greeting. She dropped into a chair and put her box – a pretty little thing of Tunbridge-ware with a pink silk lining peeping from its lid – on the table.

  And Dido, quite cruelly, hastened to increase the poor girl’s distress. ‘I am glad of this opportunity of speaking to you alone,’ she began pleasantly, ‘for I have been wishing to return your book. I hope you do not mind my borrowing it.’ She pushed across the table the extraordinary copy of Blair’s Sermons which had been lying ready beside her writing desk.

  Emma Fenstanton stared at it, and seemed for a moment as if she might deny possession. Then: ‘Oh!’ she said. Dimples flashed into existence for a second, her bright eyes darted to her companion’s face. ‘I wondered where it was got to. Did you … did you happen to look into it, Miss Kent?’

  ‘Yes. I read a whole chapter to my aunt yesterday.’

  ‘To your aunt?’ The last vestige of Miss Emma’s usual self-possession was lost. Her hands flew to her face. ‘And … and what was Mrs Manners’ opinion?’

  ‘Oh, she approved it heartily – if sleeping soundly throughout may be counted approval.’

  Emma sat in stunned silence – until she caught at the smile which was spreading across Dido’s face. In a moment both women were laughing loudly.

  ‘She suspected nothing,’ Dido reassured. ‘And your secret is quite safe with me. I shall not say a word to anyone about the surprising sentiments which Mr Blair expresses in this particular volume of sermons.’

  Emma answered with very promising gratitude. Then, with a little of her playfulness returning she added, ‘And what did you think of these sermons Miss Kent?’

  ‘Well, I did not find Miss Wollstonecraft’s style of writing pleasant, but many – indeed most – of her opinions I considered very sound indeed.’

  ‘And that,’ cried Emma, ‘was what everyone thought – when this was first published.’ She crossed her arms over the disguised book and continued eagerly. ‘When the Vindication of the Rights of Woman first appeared it was not thought shocking at all, you know – well, not so very shocking. It was thought to be just another book about the education of girls.’

  ‘It is certainly a subject which often exercises the female pen,’ agreed Dido.

  ‘But then – after her death – the circumstances of Miss Wollstonecraft’s life came to be known.’ Emma’s dark eyes glinted wickedly in the library’s gloom with the spice of gossip. ‘She loved a man to whom she was not married, you know,’ she whispered. ‘And she gave way to her passion.’

  ‘Yes, I had heard that there were �
�� irregularities.’

  ‘And it was that which turned the world against her book. It was the scandal of her life which made men like Papa forbid their daughters to read her work.’

  ‘And so,’ said Dido, lowering her own voice to suit the very convenient atmosphere of confidence and intimacy which was gradually taking possession of the library, ‘you believe it is on account of her character, rather than her opinions, that the lady is despised?’

  ‘Yes.’ Emma sighed extravagantly. ‘And is it not the way of the world, Miss Kent?’ She shook back her curls and lifted up her eyes. ‘Is it not the fate of every woman to be judged by her character … by what she is rather than what she thinks?’

  ‘Indeed. Reputation is everything to the female sex,’ agreed Dido. ‘I believe it always has been – since we ceased to live in a state of complete savagery.’

  ‘But do you not sometimes wish to defy the world and behave quite shockingly?’ sighed Emma.

  Dido chose not to consider the question. ‘And yet,’ she observed quietly instead, ‘you have not defied the world, Miss Fenstanton.’ She indicated the book. ‘You proceed by subterfuge, and read in secret what is proscribed.’ She smiled. ‘It is a stratagem of which Miss Wollstonecraft would certainly not approve. She denounces as beneath us all those little tricks and subterfuges which we women use to gain our ends.’

  ‘Oh!’ cried Emma. ‘“Behold the natural effect of ignorance!”’ She shrugged up her shoulders. ‘In short, you know, I cannot help but be devious. It is my faulty education – and the denial of my rights and liberties – which has made me so!’

  ‘This is poor morality and you know it,’ laughed Dido. ‘I would be quite worried about you if I did not believe your little trick to be harmless.’ She paused. ‘If I did not believe all your little tricks to be harmless.’