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

by Dean, Anna

  ‘This chamber with the barred window appears odd, I grant.’ He put his chin upon his fingers as he considered. ‘But I cannot see why it should have any bearing upon the murder.’

  ‘Do you not? Do you not think that it suggests some secret being hidden? And if there is a secret to be hidden, might that not furnish a motive for murder?’

  ‘It might,’ he admitted.

  ‘At the very least it suggests that not everyone at Charcombe Manor is telling the truth.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Lomax, as if her words had struck some chord with him. He dropped his hands to his sides and walked on in silence for a little way, forcing Dido to hurry after him. ‘Miss Kent,’ he said, turning troubled eyes upon her. ‘It is very painful for me to have to say this … But I am afraid it is by no means certain that Tom is telling the truth.’ His face coloured as if it were his own dishonesty he was confessing. ‘It is possible that he is lying about the engagement; though I cannot guess at his motive for doing so.’

  He looked so unhappy that Dido longed to cry out a polite and reassuring contradiction.

  But there was something pressing heavily on her mind and they had now almost reached the paved road of the town; she could feel the stiff breeze blowing in from the sea. ‘I confess,’ she said, ‘that I had thought the same. And there were two other points upon which I thought Mr Tom Lomax was perhaps … less than truthful: when he spoke of Mr Brodie having nothing to do with Miss Verney’s disappearance – and when he claimed the argument was about nothing but a card game. It seems a very … slight cause for a violent quarrel.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said doubtingly. ‘But you are probably not aware of how very passionate such disputes can be – if a man is found to have wagered more than he can pay. And Tom certainly had no money. The constables found only a few shillings in his pockets when they took him – besides some snuff and a couple of racecards.’ He gave her a very thoughtful look. ‘But you believe their quarrel had another cause?’

  ‘Mr Brodie knew something about Miss Verney,’ she reminded him. ‘Something which he intended to communicate to Mr Fenstanton.’

  ‘And you believe that was the true cause of the dispute?’

  ‘Perhaps. Tom said that he knew nothing about Mr Brodie’s intention of visiting the manor, but—’ she broke off. ‘Of course,’ she added hastily, ‘they might have argued only about the reckoning at cards. But I think we should make enquiries upon the subject. It is possible that someone at the inn overheard their quarrel.’

  He agreed to it. ‘And,’ he added, ‘I shall also make enquiries among Tom’s acquaintances to discover whether there is any knowledge or suspicion of his being engaged.’

  But even as he spoke, he was turning away. For they were now at the beginning of the town’s promenade – and the dowagers were visible once more, seated upon their bench and alert for anything of interest which might be passing in the vicinity.

  ‘How shall I talk with you again?’ she asked quickly. ‘How shall I be able to hear what you have learnt – or tell you of anything I have discovered – if you are so very determined not to be seen with me?’

  He hesitated. ‘I shall call again upon Fenstanton – very early in the day. He is a decent man. He will allow it, I am sure – and he will not speak of it.’

  ‘Call tomorrow,’ she said urgently. ‘I hope that by tomorrow I shall have a great deal to tell you.’

  He agreed, bowed hurriedly and left her without even a touch of the hand. She stood bereft in the cold wind blowing in from the sea. And this, she thought, was how it would be for ever if Tom was condemned. Lomax’s sense of honour would not allow her to be the friend – much less the wife – of a man whose son was hanged …

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dido was determined to discover the true cause of Tom’s dispute with the dead man and intended to begin enquiries among the inn servants directly. But she was past her time when she arrived at the inn. She found the manor chaise drawn up on the carriage drive, beside the London coach, and regretfully decided that her enquiries must be postponed.

  As she hurried into the porch, she almost ran against the brilliant waistcoat of Mr Isaac Mountjoy. ‘A thousand, thousand apologies, fair maid!’ he cried, drawing back and sweeping off his hat.

  Dido politely assured him that not even one apology was required and would have gone on her way. But he detained her with: ‘May I be so bold as to enquire whether you are of the party come from Charcombe Manor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And,’ with a magnificent wave of his hand, ‘is all that company still gathered within the portals of this hostelry?’

  ‘I am sorry, sir, I do not know.’

  He bowed again and she continued on her way – with only one admiring backward glance at the waistcoat.

  In the parlour she found Mr Parry waiting for her – and only Mr Lancelot Fenstanton and Mrs Bailey remaining from the manor party: the others having all been conveyed home in Mrs Manners’ chaise. Fenstanton quickly assured her that not one of their number had recognised Mr Brodie. ‘So unless you can supply an answer, Miss Kent, we are no nearer to knowing who the fellow was.’

  ‘Oh dear, how very strange.’ Dido’s gaze was fixed upon Mrs Bailey who was sitting in the sunlight by the inn parlour’s tall windows; she held her red shawl tightly about her, the rouge was stark against her pale cheeks as she stared out at the people on the sweep, and she was unusually silent. There seemed to be a look of guilt or anxiety about her. Had she in fact recognised the corpse and was she now lying about it?

  Dido would have liked to stay a little longer in the parlour to observe the lady more closely, but Mr Parry was very eager to have the business concluded. Mr Fenstanton offered her his arm and she had no choice but to accompany the two gentlemen to the room in which Mr Brodie had been laid.

  * * *

  ‘I hope you will not find the sight of the corpse too distressing,’ Mr Lancelot said as he and Dido followed the magistrate up stairs which were so new built they smelt still of planed wood. ‘There is a quantity of old blood. But he has been made decent – and from his face you would not suspect that he had not died the most peaceful death imaginable.’ He touched her hand and searched her face. ‘You are not afraid are you, Miss Kent?’

  ‘Oh no, not at all.’

  ‘Capital!’ But he continued to rest his hand upon hers.

  At the top of the stairs Mr Parry turned away from the grand front of the building and led them along a low-ceiled passage with drugget on its floor and a faint atmosphere of boiled fowls; they passed a flight of backstairs and came at last to a small door in a lathe-and-plaster wall.

  Mr Parry paused with his hand on the latch. ‘There is no occasion for you to approach the corpse, Miss Kent. You need only stand by the door and look upon his face.’

  ‘Oh! I do not mind taking a closer look,’ Dido assured him and, before he could protest, she walked boldly into the room.

  It was a small room with bare floorboards and clean white walls marked only by a small square of sunlight thrown in through an open window, which also admitted the clatter of hooves on cobbles and the unmistakable odour of stables.

  The man lay on a low cot, eyes weighted with pennies, jaw decently bound up with a handkerchief. His coat was stained brown almost all over with blood – and his face was entirely unknown to Dido.

  She shook her head and Mr Parry held open the door for her with a look of dignified impatience, but she stepped closer to the bed.

  The man who lay there was slightly built with extremely tanned skin. He was elderly – perhaps seventy or so. His sunken cheeks and prominent chin were frosted over with silver stubble which filled and accentuated every crease and fold of his skin. His head was bald and an old-fashioned grey wig lay beside a broad-brimmed hat and a pocket watch on the pot cupboard beside the bed. His face was creased. Little fans of lines spread from the corners of his eyes – suggesting many years of squinting into strong sunlight.

&nbs
p; ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that he has lived a long time in a hot climate. Indeed, from his complexion, I would think he has but just returned to England.’

  Parry looked at her with disapproval. ‘Miss Kent, there is no occasion at all for you to study the body so minutely.’

  But Mr Fenstanton showed a great deal more enthusiasm for her ideas. ‘Ha!’ he cried, ‘I thought the same myself. And the landlord confirms it. He says the fellow spoke of being abroad for almost thirty years. But just returned, he said, and making for his old home.’

  ‘I do not think we need trouble the young lady with the details of this unpleasant business,’ protested Mr Parry.

  ‘Oh, it is no trouble,’ Dido assured him, and pretended not to see that he was still holding open the door for her exit. ‘And, I think,’ she continued, looking down at the sunken face, ‘that Mr Brodie was an ill-tempered, perhaps a disappointed man.’

  Mr Parry said something very dignified in which was included something about not permitting any daughter of his …

  But his words were lost in another great bark of interest from Mr Lancelot. ‘Now why should you think the fellow was bad-tempered?’ he asked standing close to Dido and looking upon her as if she were a prodigy.

  ‘Because of these very deep lines between his brows. Do you see – here, just above his nose? They are made by frowning.’

  ‘Are they?’ To try out the idea, Mr Fenstanton formed his own cheerful features into an exaggerated frown and put his fingers to the furrows on his forehead. ‘I believe you are right. That’s very interesting, ain’t it, Parry?’

  ‘I do not believe the man’s disposition is of any significance…’

  ‘And what else can you tell us about the fellow, Miss Kent?’ cried Mr Fenstanton.

  ‘Very little, except that he favours the fashions of his youth.’ She pointed to the long waistcoat, the loose, braided coat, waved her hand towards the wig upon the pot cupboard. ‘And his clothes are old and neglected. I do not think he was a wealthy man.’

  ‘Ha! There was not a great deal of money in his pockets!’

  ‘And was anything else found upon his person?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Parry firmly.

  ‘Only this.’ Mr Lancelot drew a piece of paper from beneath the wig. ‘It was in his coat pocket.’

  The paper was heavily stained with blood. Dido took it carefully by a clean corner and carried it into the light of the window in order to make out the words which were written on it. It was a list of places.

  * * *

  Plymouth, Charcombe, Bristol, Birmingham, Manchester, Kendal, Gretna Green.

  * * *

  ‘It is perhaps a list of the main stages on the journey he was making,’ she suggested.

  ‘We think remarkably alike,’ cried Mr Lancelot, ‘for that was my own thought exactly! And you see he is heading northward.’

  ‘To Gretna Green.’

  ‘Aye. Parry has sent a message there to find out if anyone knows him. It seems likely it is his home.’

  ‘How very … odd,’ said Dido. That the man should come from the destination of eloping lovers seemed as if it ought to have some significance – but she could not determine exactly what it might imply.

  She handed back the stained paper and looked about the room for anything of interest.

  Poor Mr Parry held open the door and coughed meaningfully in vain. Even when he suggested that his friend should escort the young lady back to the parlour, the young lady affected deafness.

  Her eye had fallen now upon a small valise with a heavy travelling coat neatly folded on top of it. On the toilette stand beside it lay a comb, and a razor with its leather strop. All three items meticulously aligned with one another.

  ‘Are these all his possessions?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. He had little enough.’ Mr Lancelot obligingly opened the valise for her inspection. Inside there were two shirts and a pair of stockings. Poor, threadbare old things, but arranged with all the care that a duke’s valet might bestow upon his master’s possessions.

  Dido frowned and turned back to the man upon the bed. She studied those parts of his coat and breeches which were not stained by blood and detected several missing buttons – and candle grease upon a sleeve. She looked at the thick brown hands crossed upon his broken breast; the thumb and forefinger of his right hand were stained with ink, the knuckles of both hands dusted with soot.

  ‘Now that is a little odd,’ she mused. ‘Mr Fenstanton, have the clothes in the portmanteau been rearranged? Or the items on the dressing stand made tidy?’

  ‘I don’t believe so, have they Parry?’

  ‘No. It is not my intention that anyone should interfere with this room.’

  ‘Why do you ask about it?’ said Mr Lancelot, smiling encouragement.

  ‘Because the arrangement of Mr Brodie’s possessions seems to argue for a meticulous, tidy character; but the state of his person declares the opposite.’

  She leant closer to the bed, searching for an answer to this puzzle. Searching for clues as to who and what this man had been in life. But, close to the body, the smell of death and dried blood was overpowering. She turned away abruptly and, making a hasty excuse, almost ran from the room.

  Mr Parry breathed a sigh of relief as she passed him.

  Dido hurried along the dim passageway and onto the landing where there was fresh air blowing in through the inn’s main door. She stopped and drew in several deep breaths. The wave of sickness retreated.

  ‘Damn me! But you’re mighty sick!’ cried Mr Fenstanton as he hurried to join her. ‘I fear that looking at the corpse distressed you more than you thought of.’ He took her hand solicitously.

  ‘It is nothing. It is over now.’

  He was standing rather closer than was strictly necessary.

  ‘You are very collected,’ he said admiringly. ‘And your observations are damned interesting.’ Dido paid rather less attention to his words than the fact that he still retained her hand. The rail of the stairs was at her back; it was impossible for her to move. But his proximity was not, exactly, unpleasant.

  ‘You must not mind old Parry being so short with you,’ he continued. ‘He’s a dry old stick and he don’t know how to appreciate a clever woman. But,’ he said, sinking his voice and searching her face with handsome brown eyes, ‘I do, I assure you.’

  Dido smiled … And then the ordinary, common sense part of her mind, which had been oddly silent since his taking her hand, raised a protest: reminding her abruptly that she was standing a great deal too close to a gentleman to whom she was not related, and that his attentive manner in such a situation – and in the wake of the scene just past – was rather indelicate. ‘You must excuse me,’ she said, ‘I am in need of air – I shall walk out to the carriage.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He stepped away immediately. ‘I must consult with Parry over what is to be done with the body. I shall join you in a few minutes.’

  Dido turned away to the stairs and, as she did so, she was almost certain that she caught a glimpse of Mrs Bailey’s scarlet shawl in the hall below. She blushed uncomfortably, and hoped with all her heart that the little scene just past had not been witnessed by that lady.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  There was no Mrs Bailey in the hall when Dido reached the bottom of the stairs, only the very small pot boy in his very long apron carrying an empty ale jug away from the parlour.

  The sight of him provided a welcome distraction and reminded Dido of her need to discover more about Tom’s meeting with Mr Brodie. She called out to the boy as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and he stopped in the middle of the hall, swinging the jug back and forth in his hand.

  He did not appear at all surprised when she began to question him about Mr Brodie’s last evening at the inn, for the topic was upon everyone’s lips. He was very happy to tell everything that he knew – and probably a great deal that he did not know but which he had now persuaded himself that he knew.
r />   ‘Oh yes, yes,’ he cried eagerly, swinging the jug more widely, and wiping his free hand upon his apron. He had heard ‘the gennlemen’ arguing in the parlour that evening. And very angry they had been, he was sure. Shouting and carrying on in a terrible way! He did not know that he had ever heard such another terrible quarrel in his life! They had seemed so very angry that he wondered they did not start out fighting straight away …

  It was clear that – in the mind of the pot boy at least – the dispute had taken on all the force of a murderous rage. And Dido feared that, by the time his evidence was put before a jury, it might be almost enough to hang Tom Lomax on its own.

  ‘And do you know what their disagreement was about?’ she asked.

  The boy frowned and peered down into his empty jug. ‘Just their game of noddy, miss. Until they started to play they seemed friendly enough. Young Mr Lomax, he kept calling for more whisky and pressing it upon Mr Brodie, very friendly like. “You need it,” he said, “to keep the English damp out of your bones.” It was only after they sat down to cards that the trouble started.’

  ‘You are quite sure it was the game they disagreed over?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Nothing else? Mr Brodie was only angry because Mr Lomax lost and could not pay what he owed?’

  ‘Oh no! It weren’t like that!’

  ‘Was it not?’

  ‘No, the young gennleman had won. He’d won and very pleased he was about it. But Mr Brodie was in a great rage. He swore he’d been cheated. “You’ve robbed me,” he shouted again and again. “You’ve robbed me of everything I’d got.”’

  ‘Mr Lomax had won?’

  The pot boy nodded vigorously. ‘Won pretty handsome, I’d say.’

  How odd, thought Dido as the boy hurried away to refill his jug. Why had Tom allowed them to believe that the argument was occasioned by an unpaid debt?

  She turned away to the inn’s door, but she had not gone far before another thought struck her with great force. If Tom had won ‘pretty handsome’, then what had become of his winnings? Why were there only a few shillings in his pocket when the constables seized him?