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

by Dean, Anna

  ‘I recalled that on that occasion you had come from the direction of the stables. I also remembered that, after you had failed in your pleas to your cousin, you attempted to come in here. I think you meant to look into this hiding place which you remembered from your childhood – to ascertain whether it would suit your purposes.’

  ‘Miss Kent! You see a great deal too much – and remember too well!’

  ‘Perhaps I do, for I also recall the scratch upon your hand that day – a scratch which had certainly not been got from gathering roses.’

  ‘And how had I scratched myself?’

  ‘I regret to say that it was your friend herself who had injured you. The friend for whom you steal food – food which you sometimes leave in a bowl beside the garden door.’

  ‘But we have been very careful! Mrs Matthews takes the dish away every morning.’

  ‘But the mark which it makes in the moss remains – and also the slugs which are drawn there by the meat.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But perhaps I should speak of friends rather than friend. For besides the lady herself there is a baby, is there not? A baby who cries when he is left alone.’

  Miss Fenstanton tilted her head to one side. Her cheeks dimpled. ‘You do not mean to expose us, do you?’ she said. ‘Lancelot has been just too cruel!’

  ‘No, I shall not expose you; but…’ She was stopped by a little scratching from within the library wall. Emma turned anxiously towards it. ‘I think your friend is hungry,’ said Dido. ‘You had better deliver her dinner.’

  Laughing Emma jumped up and went to the wall, feeling along the edge of the panel until she found just the right place, then pressing firmly. The panel swung inward, forming a door no more than three feet high.

  Beyond the door, Dido could see a dark, dusty space and, laid upon the stone floor, an old flannel petticoat. Standing on the petticoat and stretching herself was a small, thin, very worried-looking black cat; and, curled beside her, were three fat, sleeping kittens. The cat ran out, writhed gratefully about Emma’s ankles and turned towards the napkin. Emma unfolded it and the cat set to work upon the slice of mutton within.

  Meanwhile a little black kitten with white paws had woken and raised himself onto unsteady legs; his mouth opened in a tiny pink wail. Emma scooped him up, hushed him and planted a kiss upon the top of his head.

  ‘You will not betray them will you?’ she begged. ‘You would not see the little ones drowned?’

  The kitten, seeming to recognise the gravity of the situation, fastened anxious blue eyes on Dido and opened his little pink mouth again in a completely silent cry. A little dust from the hiding place adorned his ridiculously long whiskers, and his tiny paws rested upon one another as if folded in supplication. It would have required a harder heart than Dido’s to give him up to his persecutors.

  But, for all that, she could not give her silence for nothing. She must condition.

  ‘If I agree to keep your secret, Miss Fenstanton, will you, in return give me a little information?’

  ‘Information?’ Emma sat down upon the floor by the priest’s hole, stroking the kitten in her lap. ‘What sort of information?’

  ‘The sort of information which might save a man from hanging undeservedly.’

  ‘I have told you, I don’t know anything…’

  ‘But, I believe you do. You know something which suggests Mr Tom Lomax is innocent of the charge laid against him. That is why you have been so anxious to exonerate him.’ Dido leant towards her, speaking low and urgent, trying with every inch of her being to force seriousness upon the elusive Miss Emma. ‘I know it was on Sunday night that you removed the kittens from the stables – for on Monday morning I saw the stable lad searching for them so that he might carry out Mr Lancelot’s sentence.’

  ‘Yes, it was Sunday night…’

  ‘And that was the night on which Mr Brodie was murdered.’

  ‘Was it?’ Emma bent her head over the kitten. ‘I had forgotten.’

  ‘No. I believe it has been very much upon your mind.’

  Emma said nothing.

  ‘I believe you saw something that night while you were creeping about on your errand of mercy. I believe you saw something which connects someone in this house with the murder.’ She paused, but Emma would not look at her. ‘Please tell me what you saw, Miss Fenstanton. Did you see one of the inmates of this house stirring? Did you see the murderer returning from the crime?’

  ‘No!’ Emma’s head jerked up. ‘No! I saw no one. I give you my word I saw no one. It was nothing … It probably meant nothing at all.’

  ‘And yet it was enough to make you doubt Mr Lomax’s guilt.’

  Emma’s pale little hand flew back and forth on the kitten’s black fur. ‘I did not see a person,’ she insisted. ‘And what I did see was nothing…’

  ‘Then there can be no harm in your telling me about it.’

  ‘Oh, very well! I saw a horse in the stables, that is all. I saw a horse that was hot and tired – from being ridden, you know. It appeared to be but just returned.’

  ‘At one o’clock at night?’

  ‘Yes. I thought it odd. But there might be a hundred innocent explanations.’

  ‘And do you recall which horse it was? Do you know to whom it belongs?’

  ‘No. I know nothing about horses. I declare they all look the same to me and cousin Lance has so many in his stable!’

  ‘I see.’ Dido sat, lost in thought for several minutes.

  ‘There, I have told you everything I know – and you promise not to say anything about the kittens?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Dido’s voice was calm; but her eye did not fail to note the look of exquisite relief on her companion’s face. Emma had been fearful of more penetrating questions.

  But in fact there was no need to press her further. For Dido could guess which horse it was that had been heated with exercise on Sunday night. It was the horse which had been found to be lame on Monday morning – the little grey mare.

  And a simple question put to Charlie had already informed her that the grey mare belonged to Mr George Fenstanton.

  * * *

  Emma had given just the information which Dido had expected – and wished – to hear. And, all in all, the day ended more hopefully than the terrible events of the morning had seemed to anticipate. Here, at last, was solid evidence of a murderer within the house.

  And all suspicions must now turn upon Mr George Fenstanton.

  His horse had been ridden on the night of the murder; he and Mrs Manners shared a secret; and it was … possible that that secret concerned Mr Brodie.

  This last point – the likelihood of Aunt Manners being the person in Charcombe Manor who knew Mr Brodie – was one of which Dido would dearly love to be certain. It had not been far from her thoughts for the last two days and it came to occupy her entirely that evening as she attended upon her aunt and settled her into her bed.

  ‘If only I was sure that you knew Mr Brodie, Aunt,’ she whispered quietly to herself as she put away the slippers and the dressing robe. ‘If only I was sure. Then I could begin to build my case against Mr George.’

  She turned back to the bed and stood for a moment watching the sleeping figure. The room was quite chilly and the air smelt of the woodsmoke which a rising wind was blowing back occasionally from the dying fire. The wind was also throwing thin snatches of rain at the windows and rattling the old leaded frames; the only other sound in the room came from Aunt Manners herself: a rhythmic little wheeze – the precursor of outright snoring.

  As Dido looked at the little white face in which every little crease and fold had, through enforced attendance, become as familiar as her own reflection, it seemed all but impossible that there could be secrets or mystery hidden here. But she was too much a pupil of human nature to doubt the possibility …

  She moved insensibly towards the bed where the slight figure lay, silent and stately. The fragile little fingers were arranged neatly as ever a
long the sheet’s edge. They appeared oddly naked now, with only the white marks in the flesh bearing witness to the lost rubies and diamonds. And the one remaining ring did little to relieve the stark appearance of loss, for it was a plain, narrow thing of pale, poor-quality gold.

  Why, wondered Dido again, should any woman give up all her valuable rings to a brother she despised? Was it possible that it was because of an acquaintance with the dead man which must be hidden at any cost?

  Was it possible that George Fenstanton had killed the man to preserve a very valuable secret?

  She stood at the bedside consumed with the desire to know … to know for sure …

  And, as she hesitated, her eye fell upon the bottle of brown medicine which stood on the table beside the bed. Her aunt had drunk freely of it this evening, and it was impossible not to remember her own words to Eliza … the method of gaining information which she had – half in jest – started.

  A few nights ago, under the influence of brown medicine, Mrs Manners had been induced to answer a question she would not answer in a sensible state. A question of which she had – most conveniently – no memory the next day.

  If Dido spoke now quietly to her aunt, was it possible that she could obtain an answer from within that strange half-sleeping, half-waking world?

  It hardly seemed honourable … but the temptation was very great.

  The wind rose to a howl outside, the window rattled and the old crewel work curtains swayed in the draught.

  Dido stepped up to the bed and knelt down to bring her face close to the sleeping woman, her cheek rested on the cool linen sheet. ‘Aunt?’ she said tentatively, still uncertain whether to make the attempt.

  There was no reply, but the lids lifted with promising slowness. The eyes fixed themselves upon an unseen distance; the lips moved, forming no words but making a little dry sound.

  These were symptoms too good to be wasted.

  ‘Aunt,’ whispered Dido, ‘what do you know of Mr Brodie?’

  The eyes rolled to right and left, the fingers tightened about the sheet. ‘James Brodie?’ she said, speaking quite distinct. ‘He is not to be trusted – that is what I always said, and I was proved right. He stole from us.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘And so, you see, my aunt was acquainted with the dead man.’ Dido turned her eyes up anxiously to Mr Lomax’s face as she finished the account. ‘It is a material point, is it not?’

  She was earnestly willing her companion to be heartened by the news, for she must soon tell him of Mr Bailey’s letter – and that would be a heavy blow.

  He had called very early in the day and they had walked out as a further precaution against his being seen. They were seated now in the wildest, least visited part of the manor’s grounds, on a bench beside the stew pond, where the trailing branches of a willow hung down into the still green water.

  The sun was just gaining power over a garden sparkling from the rainstorm of the previous night. Shadows thrown by the willow twigs moved across Mr Lomax’s brow as he listened. A pair of doves from the nearby dovecote murmured in the branches above them. It was an exquisite relief to talk to him. He caught her ideas so very easily. There was no one else in the world to whom she could have conveyed so much in so few words. He always understood – but he did not always agree …

  ‘This theory of a secret shared by your aunt and her brother is ingenious,’ he said with a doubting smile. ‘But I wonder whether it does more credit to your lively imagination than your reason. What do you suppose the secret to be?’

  ‘I am not sure,’ Dido admitted. ‘But I think it has to do with Miss Francine – the sister who died thirty years ago. Mr Lancelot himself has told me that Mr George was a harsh guardian to his young sister, and that my aunt believes his unkindness was an aggravation of her sickness.’

  He shook his head. ‘But that will not do. Why should Mrs Manners pay her brother to keep secret his own ill doing? Why does she not denounce him? It is certainly no cause to share her riches with him.’

  ‘But I have been considering that locked door – the barred window,’ Dido continued slowly, glad to sharpen her own thoughts against his intelligent opposition. ‘And I am inclined to think … Supposing Miss Francine’s illness was one of the mind!’

  ‘Madness?’

  ‘Now, Mr Lomax, you need not look at me as if I were suffering from that malady myself! It is possible. And – if it were the case – my aunt might well wish her brother to continue to keep the secret.’

  ‘Perhaps…’

  ‘Or,’ she pursued, ‘it may be that the sickness was love.’ She was speaking her thoughts as they arose and the ideas were pressing so hard upon her that she could not comprehend them until they were released into the world. It was as easy, as natural, as thinking aloud. ‘Love for the wrong man. Mr Lancelot says that his father and uncle were anxious for their sisters to make good marriages. Maybe … maybe there was an attachment to—’

  ‘Mr Sutherland?’

  ‘You are there before me! You too think it possible?’

  ‘No,’ he said cautiously. ‘I think that you think it possible. You are remembering the fishwives, are you not? Reasoning that when they spoke of an elopement from Charcombe Manor – one which Mr Sutherland knew about – they were remembering an old rumour.’

  ‘Exactly so! You agree—’

  ‘No, no! You are mistaking comprehension for assent. I am unconvinced by the argument of love or madness. For, no matter what the young lady’s illness, I cannot believe she could be simply shut away from the world in a barred and bolted chamber. Her neighbours would notice; her acquaintances would demand to know where she was.’

  ‘I do not agree at all!’ cried Dido with feeling. ‘All this might be true of a man; but a woman – an unmarried woman – has no business to fix her in the world, her presence is essential to no one. Consider how little trouble it has taken to account for Miss Verney’s absence from Charcombe. She is visiting friends! An unmarried woman may always be supposed to be with friends; to be bearing some cousin company, or nursing a sick aunt. I assure you, Mr Lomax,’ she finished with a sad shake of her head, ‘we disappear very easily indeed.’

  ‘You need not be so very desponding,’ he said gently. ‘For I should certainly notice if you disappeared.’

  She looked up into the solemn grey eyes, delighting in the affection she saw there, but almost immediately the suffering in his face swept everything else from her mind – even the ideas and suspicions which had begun to form so promisingly.

  William Lomax was a great deal too well bred to distress his friends by any neglect of his person; but that loss of sleep and indifference to meals which result from constant worry were taking a toll upon him. His cravat was as well tied, his face as neatly shaven as ever; but his cheeks were thin and hollow, and there was a settled look of fear which wrung her heart.

  Dido’s hand crept involuntarily to the letter which still encumbered her pocket – and her conscience. The moment of communication could be delayed no longer; she was trifling with his misery by concealing the whole truth. ‘There is something else I must tell you…’

  She began awkwardly upon her tale, struggling against every horrible word. She found that she did not wish to admit that the letter was still in her possession – nor that she had read it. So she proceeded very cautiously, endeavouring to give the idea – without ever stating outright – that she had delivered it promptly and that Mr Fenstanton had revealed its contents to her.

  Lomax’s expression became more and more wretched as he listened, and she looked away to prevent herself from seeing the increase of suffering which her tale produced. She spoke with her eyes fixed upon the kitchen garden beyond the stew pond where beanpoles marched in orderly ranks across the freshly turned earth and a scarecrow lolled against a brick wall with the air of a dissolute man-about-town.

  Her hand strayed again to her pocket – and the letter which would in all probability confirm Tom�
�s guilt in the eyes of his judges. The tips of her fingers touched its worn edge and she seemed to feel its danger burning against her skin.

  As she completed the account he let out a groan and she turned to him fearfully. His head was bowed, his face covered by his hands. ‘It will hang him for sure,’ he said, and stopped, unable to say more. A tremor ran through his shoulders.

  She had never before seen him so overpowered. The desire to put her arms about him in comfort was shockingly powerful and, had she only been more secure of their not being discovered, she doubted she could have resisted. She took one hand and drew it away from his face, pleading, half coherently, against despair.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said, exerting himself. His eyes sought hers; the sun drew out darker flecks in the grey, and the terror which he was endeavouring to keep from his voice shone out, heartbreakingly clear. ‘I shall be more composed in a moment. I do not mean to distress you. But…’ his hand clutched at hers ‘… he will hang, I am sure of it. To contemplate a child’s death … in such a cause…’

  She held his hand and they sat in silence for several minutes; he struggled for control and she laid her free hand once more upon the letter in her pocket. Thin shreds of mist twisted up from the dark surface of the pool; the rising sun turned the larches on the hill below the summer house into brilliant green flames. And, in her heart, Dido felt all the corrupting power of love.

  Until this moment she had been wretched in the prospect of delivering the letter to Lancelot Fenstanton, but she had never doubted that it was what she should do – what she would do. The time only of that delivery had been uncertain. But now she looked at Mr Lomax; at his bowed shoulders, his shaking hand, his eyes filled with visions of suffering and shame.

  She looked – and that sense of duty which had been urging her to deliver up the letter to its rightful owner lost all its potency. Propriety, she found, counted for nothing at all; even the principles of honesty instilled in her nursery days were beginning to seem of little value.