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

by Dean, Anna

  ‘You did tell me that I was free to enquire…’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course I did! And I don’t mind it one little bit. Why, it’s kept me better amused than a whole month of good shooting, seeing how you’ve gone to work on ’em all. But I can’t suppose that with all this investigating carrying on, you ain’t taken the measure of me too.’

  ‘Oh, I would not presume so far, Mr Fenstanton! You, I believe, are not so easily understood as your guests.’

  ‘Ha! But are you really ignorant of my guilt – have you not fathomed my secrets?’ He put up a foot on the rock and planted his hands on his bent knee. With eyes narrowed against the sun, he searched her face. ‘No! You cannot be ignorant of what I am up to. For I know you have been asking little Miss Gibbs about my reluctance to ride after our fugitive. You know that I ain’t behaved quite honourable.’

  Dido hesitated over a reply. He seemed close to a confession, and to insist upon ignorance might make him withdraw. ‘I have made some observations,’ she said, ‘but my conclusions are not quite complete.’

  ‘Are they not?’

  ‘Perhaps you would sit down here with me and explain a little more?’

  ‘Why, that’d suit me very well, Miss Kent! For that’s what I’ve rid out here for, you know. I want to explain myself to you.’ He looped the reins more securely about the saddle and sat down on the rock beside Dido, holding the whip across his knees with both hands.

  She waited.

  He looked into her face and then out towards the sea.

  ‘Why have you not pursued Miss Verney?’ she prompted.

  ‘I ain’t pursued her,’ he said, ‘because I don’t want her back at Charcombe – not yet.’ He looked sidelong with his puzzled little boy expression. ‘Because the fact of the matter is, Miss Kent, I’ve got myself into a bit of a scrape over Miss Verney.’

  ‘A scrape?’

  ‘You see everybody is expecting me to marry her. No definite engagement, you know. But one of those growing understandings that everyone – women in particular – set such store by.’

  ‘And … is it not…? I mean, why do you call it a scrape?’

  ‘Because it ain’t what I want … That’s the truth of it. Not now.’ He rubbed at his brow, threw another sidelong look. ‘I thought Letitia and me would suit well enough. I’ve known her all her life And Reg and Augusta believed it would be a fine match. She’s a pleasant girl, and I will not deny that her fortune was an inducement. But, the long and short of it is, Miss Kent, I don’t love her. I thought I liked her enough to marry her; but I don’t. I know that now.’ He finished with a shrug of his broad shoulders, looking more bewildered than ever.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Ha! Do you, Miss Kent? Do you understand that when a fellow’s got to two and forty without falling in love he thinks it ain’t ever going to happen to him? So then, why should he not marry a pretty girl with twenty thousand pounds. It seems it’ll do well enough, until…’ He stopped and looked very directly at his companion, his eyes wide, his smile disarmingly open …

  There was silence between them in which could be heard the distant surge of the sea and the cry of a whinchat. Dido gazed into the earnest brown eyes and, at last, guessed at exactly what her companion had followed her out onto the downs to explain.

  He reached out and took her hand. ‘It will do well enough until a fellow really falls in love,’ he said. ‘And then, you see, he knows a pleasant girl he likes ain’t enough at all. Twenty thousand pounds ain’t enough. Because the only thing that’ll make him happy is to spend his life with the woman he’s set his heart on.’ He bent his head and pressed his lips to her hand.

  Dido stared, quite unable to speak.

  ‘Miss Kent, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? No!’ he held up his hand. ‘I don’t want an answer straight away. But say you’ll consider, I beg you. Don’t turn me down out of hand.’

  Dido’s reeling mind struggled for words. She reached out for every convenient phrase which can help a lady at such a moment: she was flattered; she was astonished; she had never suspected that he thought so very highly of her; he did her too much honour. The words poured out. They seemed to be no part of her; it was as if she was listening to another woman providing the perfect reply.

  And, in the minutes which it took to complete the speech, there seemed to be an almost infinite amount of time for thought; time to consider – as she looked sidelong at the sturdy knees beside her, the strong square hands clasped about the whip – how would it be to be married to him?

  The idea was vague – for he was little more than a stranger to her. And yet many of her friends had married upon just such a short acquaintance.

  The world, if it ever heard of the match, might cry out in amazement over the union of Miss Dido Kent (‘six and thirty, you know, and her brothers can give her nothing’) and Mr Lancelot Fenstanton of Charcombe Manor (‘a very fine estate, and the family settled there for centuries’); but the slightness of their acquaintance would not figure among the causes of wonder. It was the fate of many a woman to place her future happiness into the hands of a man she scarcely knew …

  Meanwhile his eyes were following her eagerly through her speech and he seemed relieved that there was no outright refusal contained within it. ‘You will consider my proposal?’ he asked when she fell silent.

  ‘Oh! Y-yes,’ she stammered, wanting nothing but to be alone; to clear her mind; to think. ‘Yes, I will consider.’

  He pressed her hand and smiled. ‘And, I’ll tell you what – if you say yes, I’ll give you that letter of Bailey’s. A gift to mark our engagement.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  … I cannot accept him, of course, Eliza. It would be very wrong, would it not, to accept a man while loving another – no matter how hopeless that other attachment is?

  But it is such a very remarkable proposal!

  He declares that he loves me; and how can I doubt it? For there are no other inducements – I am not rich; I am not beautiful; I can furnish him with no useful connections; I am not even young. No, I cannot suppose that he would pursue me without love.

  But then, you know, men with large estates do not fall in love with poor women – unless the poor women are young and very beautiful. It is a principle which one so rarely sees violated it seems almost a law of the land.

  And altogether I do not know which is more unlikely: that the gentleman should love me, or that he should marry me without love.

  Oh, what am I to do?

  It must be a negative, of course. I ought to have spoken it straight away, but the shock of the offer seemed to take away my wits entirely. I hesitated over inflicting the pain of refusal – and then he mentioned Mr Bailey’s letter …

  He would keep that promise I am sure, Eliza. For a man would wish to save his bride from the pain of seeing a friend suffer. And besides, the shame of the connection would be his too, if he were my husband …

  Oh! Would marriage be such a high price to pay for dear Mr Lomax’s peace? Or would it be so very wrong to pay it? Women – when all is said and done – marry for a great variety of reasons. It is not always love, and many moralists would have us believe that love matches are not the best foundation – that they do not produce the greatest happiness …

  And Mr Fenstanton is a fine man. I esteem him highly. And admire him. He is very much the gentleman; there is no objection to be made to his person … there would be no unpleasantness in being his wife. In fact, Eliza, if there had been no Mr Lomax in the case – if I had never met that gentleman – I believe I might have been favourably inclined towards Mr Fenstanton.

  And that consideration brings me to a very great dilemma …

  For, if my only cause of refusal is love for Mr Lomax, then how paltry, how very selfish must that love appear! What manner of love is it which condemns its object to a lifetime of shame and misery rather than endure a union with another man? This is false delicacy; false affection.

  Mr Lomax a
nd I are divided now. We cannot be together. So why should I hesitate over marriage to another? The man I love can never be more lost to me than he is now. The consequence of my marriage would not be to divide us further – but only to save him from wretchedness.

  Eliza, I believe that love directs me to accept the offer … And duty demands that I make Mr Fenstanton content with his choice. I must give up every thought of Mr Lomax – learn not to love him. And learn instead to love my husband …

  * * *

  She stopped writing at this point, for her own arguments had produced a conclusion from which she could not help but recoil. The course of the future which her pen had just mapped out was bleak and painful; and yet the logic which had brought it there was unassailable.

  She looked up from her writing desk, glancing about with a kind of desperation – as if she hoped to find in the surrounding scene some argument against the terrible reasoning on her page.

  She was sitting in the window of the great hall and the sun was now high in the sky. Out in the garden Mrs Bailey was gathering flowers, Miss Gibbs was slowly pacing the gravel walk beside a high yew hedge which divided the lawns from the meadows beyond, and Miss Fenstanton was curled upon a sunny bench avidly devouring the last pages of … Blair’s Sermons.

  The two Mr Fenstantons were discussing business in the Mr Lancelot’s room. Mr Sutherland and the electrical tractors were in attendance upon Mrs Manners, and Dido was free for an hour or so to pursue her investigations. But she was not ‘getting on’ as she ought. The extraordinary proposal had set up such a tumult in her brain that it had been absolutely necessary to confide the whole business to her sister.

  And now the sun’s position in the sky declared another day to be nearly half gone. Tomorrow the assize court judges would arrive. It seemed almost possible to hear the approaching hooves of their horses …

  Well, Mr Fenstanton need not be given an answer yet – and, in the meantime, everything must be done to make acceptance unnecessary. She must find the murderer. It was perhaps an unusual alternative to marriage: but she must not give it up.

  With a great effort of will she put away her letter and turned her attention to the figure of Miss Gibbs, just visible in the shadow of the yew hedge. There were still more questions to be put to that young lady.

  * * *

  Martha was walking slowly beside the yew hedge, looking down upon something in her hand. And, as Dido drew close, she saw that it was the locket that she held and Tom Lomax’s insinuating features that she was studying.

  She hesitated to interrupt. But Martha happened to look up – and made no attempt to hide the portrait; she looked steadily at Dido.

  ‘Have I been a fool to believe he loves me?’ she asked abruptly. ‘Have I been deceived?’

  ‘You are certainly no fool,’ said Dido, stepping into the deep, cool shadow of the yew. ‘It is not foolish to be trusting. And as to deception … Well, you will soon know about that. It must all depend upon how the gentleman behaves when he knows the truth.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Martha quietly. ‘You are in the right.’

  Dido waited for more, expecting excuses and arguments in the young man’s favour. But none came. Martha pressed together her lips, as if she had determined upon keeping her own counsel. There was a new dignity. It seemed almost as if the girl had grown closer to being a woman in the course of the night just past. And the look suited her – it gave to her long, heavy features a kind of distinction. Perhaps, thought Dido, losing the constant companionship of her friend had been to Martha’s advantage, and the deficiency might now be supplied, not by a new confidante, but by a greater reliance upon her own judgement.

  She took Martha’s arm and, by unspoken consent, they began upon another turn along the gravel walk.

  ‘You want to talk more about Tish going away, don’t you?’ said Martha.

  ‘Yes. I have been thinking over your account of the day Miss Verney disappeared – and there are one or two points I particularly wish to ask you about.’

  Martha sighed. ‘Upon my word, I have scarce thought of anything else since we talked. But I am sure I don’t know any more than what I have told you.’

  ‘At what time did you set out on your walk?’

  ‘It was half after two. I remember hearing the clock chime the half-hour as we was walking down the drive.’

  ‘I see. And,’ said Dido pursuing a thought which had occurred during the restless hours of the night, ‘what did Miss Verney plan to do while you were absent from the house. She would have had to remain hidden, would she not? For she was the one who everyone supposed had walked out onto the moor. I believe you said that she meant to hide in the bedchamber which you shared?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But that is rather odd. I did not think of it when you first told me, but now it appears a little strange.’

  Martha looked puzzled.

  ‘How was she to get to the bedchamber?’ asked Dido. She stopped walking and turned towards the house, drawing her companion with her. ‘Look.’ Across the sunny lawn the ancient house front faced them: with its grey stones; its green creeper, starred here and there with the first pink flowers; its steep, mossy roof; its thicket of twisted, irregular brick chimneys; its old porch that fronted the great hall.

  Miss Gibbs looked and shook her head.

  ‘Look at the drive and the door,’ said Dido giving their joined arms a little shake. ‘Do you see the difficulty? To return to your chamber, Miss Verney must walk back along the carriage drive and into the house. Through the main door there.’ She indicated the jutting porch. ‘And through the hall. Where – you will remember – the gentlemen were talking.’

  ‘Oh! Yes.’

  ‘There is, of course, a back door and backstairs. But I have observed that the back door of this house leads directly into the kitchen. She certainly could not have entered there without a dozen maids and men seeing her.’

  ‘But I swear, that that is what she said she would do – she said that she would go to the bedchamber and wait there for my return.’ Martha’s look of worry deepened. ‘Oh dear, Miss Kent, do you suppose the gentlemen saw her – and guessed at our scheme – and were so angry about it that Tish ran away?’

  Dido shook her head and they walked on slowly. ‘I can see no reason why the gentlemen would be much in anger about your scheme to deceive Mr Lomax. Nor why the discovery should make Miss Verney wish to escape the house. But, if we are to come at the truth, I believe we must discover exactly what she did after she left you at the gates.’

  Martha rolled her eyes about as her habit was when forcing herself to think deeply. ‘She stood beside the gates, I remember, watching us as we crossed the highway. And then we started along the track to the downs…’ Her eyes rolled frantically. ‘When we was a little way down the track – almost to the stream – I looked back…’

  ‘And Miss Verney was still by the gates?’

  ‘No. She had turned about and was walking down the drive. That was the last I saw of her.’

  ‘She was walking towards the front of the house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dido stopped and turned once more to look across the lawns to the house. Again the drive and front door presented themselves uncompromisingly to her view … But then her eye was drawn away into the shadow of the creeper. ‘Oh!’ she cried, staring in momentary bewilderment.

  ‘What is it, Miss Kent?’

  ‘There is,’ she said slowly, ‘another door.’

  Martha followed her gaze with a puzzled frown. ‘But that,’ she said at last, ‘leads only to the library. If Tish had gone in that way she must still have crossed the hall to the stairs – and the gentlemen would have seen her returning.’

  Dido’s only answer was to withdraw her arm from Martha’s and snatch her hand instead. She began to run across the lawn, drawing Martha after her.

  ‘Whatever is wrong?’ cried Martha as she was propelled past a disapproving Mrs Bailey, who was pressing her hands to
her breast in a vast gesture of alarm – and scattering flowers about the lawn.

  ‘I think,’ said Dido breathlessly, ‘that I understand now why Miss Verney moved the toilette table.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Dido did not stop until they reached Martha’s chamber and there she dropped down upon the bed, facing the hearth.

  ‘I remember,’ she said, gasping a little, ‘Mr Lancelot claiming that this was your friend’s favourite room. That she had had a fancy for sleeping here ever since she was a little girl. And I believe that is because she knew something about this room.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Something which is quite clear to see if one sits here and only looks closely at what is before one.’

  She turned to Martha, but there was no sign of understanding: she sat with flushed cheeks staring uncomprehendingly, the bonnet falling back awkwardly from her head, the precious locket still clutched in one hand.

  ‘What do you see directly ahead of you, Miss Gibbs?’

  ‘A fireplace.’

  ‘And to your left?’

  ‘Nothing, just panelling.’

  ‘And the place in which the toilette table stood when you and your friend took possession of this room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what do you see to the right of the fireplace?’

  ‘A closet.’

  ‘Exactly so!’

  Miss Gibbs shook her head.

  ‘If,’ said Dido, pointing her finger accusingly at the innocent-seeming wall, ‘there is space for a closet on the right-hand side, why is there only a flat panel on the left-hand side of the chimney? I knew there was something amiss with this room! It made me feel uneasy the first time that I entered it!’ She jumped up and put her hand against the panelling on the left-hand side of the fireplace.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘I am looking for the reason why Miss Fenstanton’s little cats have been disturbing your sleep continually, while troubling no one else in the house.’

  She ran her hands along the oak panels, pressing as she had seen Emma do in the library below. And at last – just as she was beginning to doubt her own genius – the wood shifted beneath her hand. There was a creak and the panel moved inward, revealing itself to be a very cleverly constructed door.