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

by Dean, Anna

  ‘If only I could be sure—’ Martha stopped short, her head raised, listening. Her face was suddenly pale.

  It was a moment before Dido could discern the sound which had alarmed her. Then she made out the clatter of a horse being ridden along the lower track. She looked down but could discern nothing through the hazel thickets.

  However Martha’s mind was made up; she called out to Miss Fenstanton who stopped and waited for her to catch up.

  Greatly vexed at having lost the opportunity of discovery, Dido remained where she was, struggling to get the better of her disappointment and straining her eyes and ears towards the sound of hooves. It was probably a stranger riding down there upon the track; but Miss Gibbs had feared an eavesdropper – a secret follower. Who did she think it was?

  The trees here were coppiced and grew very thickly. It was impossible to see the ride below. And then, after a moment or two, the horse was halted. It was standing with only an occasional restless movement of its hooves and the small tuneful sounds of harness. Dido considered turning back in an attempt to discover the rider, but doubted she could move quietly enough. If the horseman wished to remain unseen it would be the work of a moment to turn his mount and hurry off. He could be out of the wood entirely before she regained the lower track. Better to continue and let the pursuer – if he was a pursuer – believe himself undetected.

  She walked on after her companions, and soon saw that the path and the ride were drawing back together. They would meet at a stile just a hundred yards ahead. When she reached that point she would be able to look back along the track and see the mysterious rider.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The whole party stopped to rest at the stile, Mrs Bailey taking possession of the most comfortable seat upon its step, and the others all standing about her. Ahead were the open downs: gorse and wild thyme, and grass kept short by sheep, stretched away to a wide expanse of cloudless sky with a single buzzard hanging motionless in the clear air.

  Beside the stile a gate closed off the end of the ride and Dido and Martha turned together to look over it. There was nothing remarkable to see; just a dim tunnel under the arching hazel boughs, a track so awash with water that it seemed to be half a stream, and high banks covered with moss, primroses and white windflowers. It was possible to see no more than fifty or sixty yards along this tunnel before a turn obscured the view. If the horseman was still in the ride, then he had stopped. He was staying back, determined to keep out of sight.

  Martha peered and peered, and twisted her locket about in a growing state of dread.

  ‘Perhaps the rider does not wish us to see him,’ said Dido quietly, while the others were shading their eyes to watch the bird of prey.

  Martha gave a great start and edged herself away. And, when they all began to be in motion again, she took care to place herself as far from Dido as possible.

  Dido walked slowly at the rear of the party as they made their way across the downs, looking back frequently to the stile and the gate beside it. Each time she did so she hoped to see a rider emerging from the trees. But she saw no one, until they came to the highest point on the path and all stopped for a moment to sit upon a large stone and catch their breath.

  The air was very still and the rock was warm to the touch. The sun was so bright that it was already difficult to see the stile and the path into the wood. Dido drew down the brim of her bonnet to protect her eyes as she gazed backward – and thought that she discerned a slight movement. She narrowed her eyes.

  Her companions were moving on now but she held her place, struggling to see. There was a horse down there, standing just within the shelter of the trees in the shifting light and shade. The horse was brown with a blaze of white down its face. And she was almost sure that the rider wore a green coat. She waited a moment longer, but the horse did not start towards her. It remained where it was. Perhaps its master was watching the walking party.

  Suddenly Dido felt very much alone – and was immediately angry with herself for it. Why should she be so discomposed by a fellow sitting upon his horse and watching her? If he was indeed watching her. It was more likely that he was pausing to admire the view of the downs, or else to decide upon his way.

  But she was suddenly keenly aware that by attempting to save Tom from the accusation of murder, she was threatening a real murderer with discovery. And a man who had killed once might have little compunction in killing again to save his own neck …

  In the past she had laughed when Mr Lomax suggested that her passion for uncovering secrets might place her in danger. So why should she now feel so very exposed, so very lonely? Perhaps it was because he was not by to reprove her. Perhaps there was comfort to be had from criticism born of concern. And now, separated from Mr Lomax, she was truly alone, without the annoyance – or the safety – of a man’s censure.

  She jumped up from the stone and determinedly turned her mind to purely rational thoughts. Rational thoughts which soon reminded her there was only one man in Charcombe Manor who habitually wore a green coat – and that was Mr George Fenstanton.

  * * *

  Once they arrived at the sands, Dido hoped for another opportunity of talking with Martha Gibbs. She had come very close to discovering Martha’s secret and was quite determined to win it before the end of the day.

  But, unfortunately, when the descent to the beach had been made and the party paused – as all visitors to the sea must pause to take in its beauty and health-giving atmosphere – Mrs Bailey stepped forward to claim Dido’s arm and attention.

  And it soon became clear that, during the course of their walk, Mrs Bailey had formed a resolution of action. The affront which Mr Fenstanton had given in the breakfast room was not, by any means, forgotten.

  ‘Well now,’ she said quietly as they all turned away from the town and began to walk along the sands, ‘I have been quite worried about you, my dear, since your suffering so badly with the headache yesterday.’

  Dido began to protest that she was entirely recovered, but Mrs Bailey only tightened her hold upon her arm. The grip of her fingers was steely.

  ‘I am afraid, Dido,’ continued Mrs Bailey, ‘that you are exerting yourself too much in this business of poor Letitia’s disappearance. I fear Lancelot is imposing upon your good nature.’

  ‘Imposing, Mrs Bailey?’ Dido stopped and looked directly into her smiling face. ‘Why, I am sure Mr Fenstanton has done no such thing.’

  ‘Oh! I know that he does not mean to be unkind. But the dear, dear man is so very worried about Letitia. He is so very attached. I fear that he will stop at nothing to find out what has become of her.’ Another sidelong look to see how her words were affecting her listener. ‘I fear that he may be attempting to enlist your support – using his charming manners to persuade you to help him. For he is an excessively charming man, is he not?’

  There was no mistaking the meaning of all this. Mrs Bailey was jealous – on her ward’s account – and it would have been the work of a moment to silence her. Dido had only to assure her that she did not suspect anything particular in the gentleman’s attentions towards herself. It would only require a word or two.

  But there was in Dido a contrary spirit – upon which Aunt Manners frequently remarked. She had a great dislike of being manoeuvred into saying what was expected of her. And she saw no reason to oblige Mrs Bailey now. She turned her face away to watch the long waves rolling in across the sands. ‘Mr Fenstanton,’ she said demurely, ‘is a … delightful gentleman.’ There was a sharp intake of breath from her companion. ‘I find his society very pleasant indeed, and I am happy to give him any assistance within my power.’

  Dido enjoyed discomposing Mrs Bailey; but, as they walked on in hostile silence, she found that she was more than a little discomposed herself. For there was no denying that Lancelot Fenstanton was a delightful man – and she could not help but notice it. Which she found a little odd and inconvenient. Since her affections were now most decidedly fixed, she had suppose
d that she would cease to notice the agreeableness of other men; but it seemed that was not the case. And whatever was one to do about it? While there was the possibility of falling in love, then appreciation of a handsome man seemed allowable; but to appreciate when one’s heart was already engaged elsewhere did not seem quite proper.

  This little conundrum – which most women are compelled to contemplate long before they reach the age of six and thirty – kept Dido silent for some minutes.

  And meanwhile Mrs Bailey’s brows were gathering into a look of deep consideration. ‘My dear,’ she began at last, in a dangerously gentle voice, ‘there is another little matter which I feel I must just mention to you. I hope you will not take offence.’

  ‘I am never offended when no offence is intended, Mrs Bailey.’

  ‘Well then, I feel that I should just mention that your aunt is unhappy about your behaviour. Yesterday, when you were so very long in returning from Charcombe, she complained to me of your absence. Naturally I attempted to soothe her. I represented to her how much more pleasant it must be for you to walk out – to mix in society – suggested that you were perhaps a little weary of being confined to attendance upon an invalid.’

  ‘It was very kind of you to draw those little matters to her attention, I am sure.’

  ‘But I regret to say,’ continued Mrs Bailey, pursing up her lips, ‘that she did not seem soothed at all.’

  ‘Did she not? How very … remarkable.’

  Mrs Bailey drew her cloak about her shoulders with an air of satisfaction. ‘If your … preoccupation should continue, Miss Kent, if you should continue to pursue Letitia’s case and neglect poor Mrs Manners, I fear it may become quite difficult for me not to draw these matters to her attention.’ Mrs Bailey smiled and, to be quite sure that her refined little threat had found its mark, she added, ‘It would be a great shame, would it not, if the dear lady was so displeased as to settle her fortune away from your family? But dear me, I cannot promise to hold my tongue! It is in my nature to say what I think. “Let me have no lying”, as the Great Bard says, “it becomes none but tradesmen”.’

  For several minutes Dido was too angry for speech and – since they had now come to a place where the sea ran in across the sands, almost to their feet – she stopped walking, withdrew her arm, and stood looking down upon the white curve of foaming water. Retaliation was, she felt, beneath her; but it was a great temptation and she certainly had the means of a very powerful counter-attack. Mr Mountjoy’s words in the inn yard yesterday had confirmed a little suspicion which had been growing upon her for some days …

  She watched the lacy foam dissolve into the sand as the wave drew back.

  Yes, she decided, retaliation was in fact necessary. Her investigations must continue. She certainly could not allow herself to be bullied into inaction.

  She looked about to be sure their companions were not near. But Miss Fenstanton was stooping down to search for fossils higher up the beach, and Miss Gibbs was a long way back, almost under the cliffs.

  ‘But curiosity is in my nature,’ she began in a light conversational tone. ‘I thank you for your concern, Mrs Bailey; but you had better cease worrying about my enquiries. I am as I am, and…’ she turned her eyes upon her companion ‘… as the Great Bard says, “Things without all remedy, should be without regard”.’

  Mrs Bailey coloured suddenly, and one hand twisted rapidly in her scarlet shawl.

  But, before the hand was quite hidden, Dido noted with satisfaction that its fingers were crossed. She bent down and dug out a shell from the hard, damp sand. ‘In point of fact,’ she said, brushing sand from the shell and running her finger thoughtfully along its curving ridges, ‘although I have not yet solved the entire mystery of Miss Verney’s disappearance, I am satisfied that I already understand one or two very material points.’

  ‘Upon my word,’ cried Mrs Bailey with a brittle laugh. ‘Vous est trop…’ she faltered, flapped her hand about a little ‘… inquisiteeve,’ she finished hopefully.

  ‘Yes, I daresay I am. And one of the points I now understand is why you do not wish Miss Verney to be found.’

  Mrs Bailey said nothing.

  But a sideways look proved to Dido that her companion was biting anxiously at her lip. ‘You do not wish me to pursue my enquiries,’ she continued, ‘because you believe that the young lady might not wish to return to Charcombe Manor; you fear that she would be angry if she were brought back against her will; and her anger might be turned against you. You cannot countenance an angry Miss Verney, can you, Mrs Bailey? She would be too dangerous to you.’

  ‘Dangerous? Why this is just too ridiculous for words!’ trilled Mrs Bailey valiantly. ‘I am sure I do not know what you are talking of. Why ever should you suppose I fear my ward?’

  ‘I suppose it because you have, of late, become quite incapable of checking her behaviour,’ continued Dido seriously. ‘It seems you can deny her nothing. You did not wish her to remain at the manor to meet Mr Lomax on the day she disappeared – but you could not prevail upon her. You do not approve her friendship with Miss Gibbs, but you cannot prevent it.’

  ‘This is nonsense! Why do you suppose Letitia is so very terrible to me? Why must I always give way to her?’

  ‘That is a point which puzzled me for some time. But then I remembered that your acquiescence originated in the visit to Worcestershire last autumn. And I considered Miss Gibbs’ account of that business – the circumstances under which the matter was decided.’

  It was Mrs Bailey’s turn to look about to be sure they were not overheard. Her yellow curls bobbed about her red cheeks as she turned this way and that.

  Dido obligingly lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I recalled that your consent to the Worcestershire visit was given after an evening at a theatre.’

  Mrs Bailey said nothing, but insensibly pressed together her hands as if pleading silently.

  The gesture assured Dido that she was coming at the truth. ‘And it occurred to me,’ she said, ‘that there is something of the theatre about you, Mrs Bailey. It is in your manner – your gestures. And then you know so much of the Great Bard’s work. You frequently quote his words.’

  ‘A lady ought to be well read, I’m sure!’

  ‘But I have noticed something else. There are some extracts from Shakespeare which you do not like to hear. Miss Fenstanton’s remark that the sleeping and the dead are like pictures was not at all to your taste. Nor was the line which I quoted just now.’ She smiled and tossed the shell out into the sea. ‘And those lines, I have discovered, come from Macbeth – a play which is generally held to be unlucky – by actresses.’ She turned a look of great meaning upon her companion.

  Mrs Bailey let out a kind of yelp at the word. She laid an anxious hand on Dido’s arm. ‘You will not say anything, will you?’

  ‘No. We shall trust one another to be discreet, shall we not? I shall not mention that you earned your living upon the stage before your marriage, and you will say nothing about my behaviour to my aunt.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Dido smiled in triumph – and then pressed a little further. ‘But I hope you will oblige me by explaining just one little detail.’

  ‘What do you wish to know?’

  ‘Well, I can understand that Miss Verney may have discovered your past that evening at the theatre … Perhaps you met with an old theatrical acquaintance?’

  ‘It was Isaac,’ Mrs Bailey explained hastily. ‘Isaac Mountjoy. Letitia overheard him talking to me. Isaac wishes me to return to his company.’

  ‘And I understand that with such power over you, Miss Verney would be able to do pretty well as she wished. But…’

  ‘What is it?’ Mrs Bailey’s voice was sharp with worry – Miss Fenstanton was now making her way towards them across the sands.

  ‘When Mr Mountjoy spoke to you in the inn yard,’ said Dido, ‘I heard him say that “a friend” had told him where to find you. And I cannot help but wonder whether that “f
riend” was Letitia.’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Mrs Bailey quickly. ‘It seems that after she ran away, Letitia sent a note to Isaac – at the theatre in town. To spite me.’

  ‘And do you know of any reason why Miss Verney should particularly wish to make trouble for you just now? Had there been a disagreement between you just before she left Charcombe Manor?’

  ‘No, there had not.’ Mrs Bailey’s brow contracted so that there was a great danger of the paint cracking. ‘I was surprised to find that she had gone away in such anger against me. Since that time in town I am sure I have done my utmost to accommodate the ungrateful girl.’

  ‘And yet it must have been something very particular which prompted her to take such an action as sending Mr Mountjoy here to cause you embarrassment before your acquaintances,’ mused Dido. But Miss Fenstanton was within earshot now and she was obliged to abandon the enquiry.

  Mrs Bailey gratefully seized her opportunity of escape, claimed Emma’s arm, and walked off.

  Dido could not look upon her stout figure hurrying away across the sands – pink bonnet ribbons and red shawl fluttering – without feeling a little triumph at her discomfort. But she earnestly wished that she might have had a moment longer to pursue her success.

  Well, enquiries in that direction must now wait. And, in the meantime, she could not afford to stand idly by here on the sand watching the long waves roll ashore their burdens of foam and weed. At the top of the beach Miss Gibbs was still loitering alone beside the cliffs. This was undoubtedly the best chance of persuading that young lady into a confidence; here, upon the open beach, even the most suspicious mind need have no fear of eavesdroppers.

  She hurried up the hard wet sand and made her way towards the cliffs.

  * * *

  As Dido approached it seemed that Martha was also in search of the fossils for which Charcombe’s shore is famed; she was walking slowly with her eyes downcast among the rocks and pebbles which had fallen from the cliff face.

  However, as Dido came closer, she saw that it was misery rather than geology which was bowing down the poor girl’s head. There were fresh tears upon her cheeks; she was twisting one hand in the chain of her locket and crying quietly.