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

by Dean, Anna

Lomax shook his head several times in astonishment as she talked, but he wasted no time upon futile questions. As she concluded, he pressed a hand to his brow; his grey eyes narrowed above the painfully prominent bones of his cheeks; and he immediately took up the most important point. ‘You believe that there is evidence of this marriage still in existence?’

  ‘Yes. And my aunt believes that her brother holds the evidence. I am sure of that because she fears him. She does not fear my knowledge for she knows I can prove nothing. But she fears Mr George so much she supplies him with funds for his new town.’

  ‘And what do you suppose this evidence to be?’

  ‘Well,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I know that marriages in Gretna Green’s famous blacksmith’s shop are perfunctory: there are no banns called, there is not even a proper clergyman to officiate; but I cannot believe that the ceremonies are entirely undocumented – after all, proof of the married state must generally be wanted by the lovers resorting there.’

  ‘They are not undocumented,’ agreed Lomax. ‘A certificate is provided – often at preposterous expense.’

  ‘And there must be witnesses to the ceremony, must there not?’

  ‘Yes, generally some local men drawn in by the promise of payment—’ He stopped, catching at the meaning of her raised brows. ‘You believe that Mr Brodie was such a witness?’

  She nodded. ‘His home would seem to be Gretna Green. By your son’s account, he and Mr Sutherland were already acquainted when they met here on the night of the murder. And he is known too to my aunt; she believes him unworthy of a trust placed in him – she claims that he stole something.’

  ‘The certificate?’

  ‘Yes. At least I think it may be the certificate … I hope that it may be.’

  ‘And now Mr George has got it from him?’

  ‘Oh, I sincerely hope he has not! For if he has I do not know how we shall ever recover it. I believe that our only hope lies in Mr George Fenstanton being a liar. I think it possible that he has convinced his sister he owns a proof which he does not.’ She thought a moment. ‘Yes,’ she cried at last, so loud the laughing ladies from the open carriage party turned to look curiously at her. ‘I think there is a chance here, Mr Lomax! For why else was Mr Brodie killed?’

  He looked about anxiously and made a little gesture with his hand to quiet her, for her voice was rising with her certainty. But he could not keep excitement entirely from his own voice as he said, ‘This you believe was the motive for the murder?’

  ‘Yes! All Mr George’s schemes for getting money would be spoilt by the arrival of the man who actually held the certificate of marriage. He would be quite desperate to get the document from him. And besides,’ she added as a new idea occurred, ‘Mr Brodie had boasted of possessing it! I am sure he had!’ She clapped together her gloved hands.

  ‘I cannot understand why you should be so very certain.’

  ‘There is the evidence of the folded shirts and the tidy razor to be considered.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Someone else had searched for the certificate. When I looked into Mr Brodie’s chamber I was surprised to find that, although his person showed signs of carelessness and neglect, his possessions were meticulously ordered. I thought it very odd; but now I understand the cause. The shirts and the razor were, in fact, arranged with just that exactitude which Mr Sutherland applies to everything he touches.’

  ‘Sutherland had searched the room when he was called to inspect the corpse?’

  ‘Yes – and that means that Mr Brodie must have talked of the certificate in the course of their meeting. He had, perhaps, offered to sell it to the doctor. After all, he was the bridegroom, he would have an interest in it. Though I think it most likely that Mr Sutherland’s intention was to return the document to my aunt.’

  ‘But he declined to buy the paper from Brodie?’

  ‘I doubt he could afford the price set on it. Mr Brodie was a greedy man – returning poor from the West Indies, where many unscrupulous men go to seek wealth. He was determined to mend his fortunes and no doubt believed he could get a high price for the certificate at the great house. Perhaps he was as foolish as your son believes, for he was courting danger by turning his threats in that direction.’

  ‘But,’ said Mr Lomax with a doubting shake of the head, ‘we cannot be sure that he made any such threats.’

  ‘Oh, but we can!’ cried Dido. She leant forward eagerly and wished very much that she might get up and take a turn about the room. A little exercise would certainly make her thoughts flow more freely. But she dared not attempt it – their earnest discourse had already attracted more than one look of curiosity and she was very grateful that Mr Lomax’s growing interest rendered him a little indifferent to the damage which their ‘associating’ might be inflicting upon her reputation. ‘We can be sure that he made those threats,’ she said, ‘because I have read them myself.’

  ‘There has been a threatening message sent to Charcombe Manor?’

  ‘There has indeed. For I see now that that is exactly the character of the note Mr Fenstanton received. The note which he read to the entire company over tea on Sunday. It was all threats and insinuation from beginning to end! Mr Brodie wrote of an elopement and secret marriage – of the danger connected with them. He spoke of being intimately connected with someone at the manor. All this would have been instantly comprehensible to anyone familiar with the events of thirty years ago. And then he spoke of papers in his possession, before ending with the darkest threat of all – a suggestion that it would be dangerous to ignore his demands.’

  ‘But how could he know that the threat would meet its mark – that Fenstanton would read the letter aloud?’

  ‘He could not, of course, be certain. But by mentioning the acquaintance, he was inviting Mr Lancelot to ask his guests whether they knew the sender. And do you see what he was about? He had more than one document by which he meant to profit at Charcombe Manor. Besides Mr Bailey’s letter, he had the old marriage certificate.’

  ‘You may be right,’ he mused, ‘but I do not see much hope of evidence in all this. If George Fenstanton killed Brodie to preserve the secret of his sister’s marriage then he almost certainly secured the proof of that marriage.’

  Dido closed her eyes at this terrible idea which must be the destruction of all their happiness. ‘Perhaps he did,’ she admitted, ‘but we must hope that he did not. And we must act upon that hope. We must put our faith in Mr Brodie having learnt his lesson. He had already lost one of his valuable papers to your son – let us hope that he was more cautious with the second and that he did not take it with him to his meeting behind the inn. I do not doubt Mr George Fenstanton searched the corpse – but it is possible that he was disappointed.’

  He studied her face as if trying to catch some inkling of this hope from her expression. His own haggard features showed only the same, immovable terror, reined in by an almost superhuman effort of will, and a kind of yearning to believe in her words.

  ‘And there is just one other small cause of hope,’ she said, fixing her eyes upon his. ‘When I examined Mr Brodie I observed that there was soot across the knuckles of both his hands.’

  ‘And what might that signify?’

  ‘Nothing perhaps. But I cannot help but wonder at it. For he had not been mending the fire in his bedchamber. Your son told us that there had been no fires lit above stairs – that was the reason he gave for being forced into the parlour and Mr Brodie’s society. And it also occurs to me that a cold, unused fireplace might provide a very useful—’

  ‘Hiding place! You think that the marriage certificate may still be in the chimney of Brodie’s room!’ He seized both her hands and, indifferent to wondering looks, raised them to his lips. ‘You are right! It is a chance we must investigate immediately.’ He recollected himself and released her hands. But, sitting back hastily in his chair, he could not help but smile at her. ‘You are a truly remarkable woman!’

  �
��Remarkable but contrary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She was content with that. It was highly desirable that he should be able to acknowledge her faults and still smile upon her.

  ‘I shall contrive a means of getting into Brodie’s chamber straight away,’ he said. ‘And if I find the document I shall take it directly to Parry.’ He stood up with an air of decision and determination, and she was delighted to see that the fear in his eyes had given way to just a little spark of hope.

  * * *

  Mr Lomax was so emboldened by hope as to accompany Dido onto the steps before the hotel and, despite all the business that lay ahead of them, they were both a little reluctant to take leave. The sun was shining, small white clouds scudded over the sea, driven by a warm breeze. Two barouches and a very smart curricle were to be seen driving along the mall. On the green before the inn two little boys were capering about in delight as they flew their kite and an elderly half-pay officer was waving his walking stick and hallooing encouragement.

  Everything spoke of spring and of hope and, though their troubles were by no means behind them, both Dido and her companion could not help but feel refreshed by the scene.

  ‘Do you return directly to the manor house?’ asked Mr Lomax as they paused at the top of the steps.

  ‘No, for we are to picnic on the cliffs this afternoon and I shall walk there to meet with the others.’ She looked beyond the town as she spoke, towards the woods and meadows and the sandy road which looped about in a leisurely route to the cliff top. There was already, ascending the road, a wagon from the manor laden with tea kettles and trestles and rugs, baskets filled with cold fowls and bottles of wine, china cups packed up in straw – and all the other necessary accompaniments of a simple, rustic meal. ‘It is a scheme of Mrs Bailey’s which rather inclines me against it; but the whole company will, I think, be gathered there and there is a little matter which I may conveniently settle in the course of the afternoon.’

  ‘Miss Kent,’ said Mr Lomax, anxiously laying his hand on her arm. ‘You do not mean … you will not endanger yourself by speaking directly to Mr George Fenstanton? You must not approach him until either I or Parry are present. If I can find the document, I shall urge Parry to send the constables straight away, and come to you myself as soon as I may. But you must not go near him. Nobody must know of our suspicions until we have the evidence in our hands.’

  ‘Oh, you need not be concerned. My business this afternoon lies with the nephew, not the uncle.’

  He still looked anxious. ‘You have business to discuss with Mr Lancelot Fenstanton?’

  ‘Yes. He has asked me a question. And I think I must answer it soon.’ She hesitated and the day became a little less bright as she recollected that the answer to that question was still uncertain. The evidence she sought was not in their hands, and it might yet be necessary to become Mr Fenstanton’s wife. ‘However,’ she finished, her eyes fixed upon the kite as it swooped earthward, ‘before I can supply an answer, I must first discover just why he has asked the question. That is another little mystery which I am quite determined to get to the bottom of.’

  By the time this faltering speech was complete her companion was looking upon her very anxiously indeed; searching her face for meaning. But before he could satisfy himself, the smart curricle turned off the mall and came to a standstill at the foot of the hotel steps.

  The driver was none other than the gentleman they had been talking about. ‘I am come to drive you to the picnic, Miss Kent,’ called Mr Lancelot.

  And Mr Lomax was obliged to accompany Dido down the steps and assist her to climb up into the high carriage. He leant forward as she mounted the step and whispered urgently, ‘Ask him whether his uncle is to be at the picnic – we need to know where the wretched fellow is.’

  Dido settled into her seat with pleasure – a drive in an open carriage was a rare treat and she was quite determined upon enjoying it, in spite of everything. ‘Is our whole party joining in Mrs Bailey’s excursion?’ she asked Mr Fenstanton.

  ‘Ha! Yes, she has compelled us all to it. Though George will, of course, be a little late – he cannot postpone his dip on any account.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Mr Lomax bowed and turned away up the sunny steps. He was satisfied; but, all of a sudden, Dido felt as if everything had slipped a little – as if ground which she had supposed to be firm and solid was quaking.

  She looked anxiously at Mr Lancelot. ‘And he takes his dip at three, does he not?’ she asked, speaking with some difficulty for her mouth was rather dry.

  ‘Yes.’ He took up the reins. ‘You might put your watch right by him. George never misses his daily swim.’

  Dido pressed her hand to her brow. ‘He has never missed?’ she asked in an unsteady voice.

  ‘Not once in over two years.’

  She made a little noise which might almost have been a suppressed scream and looked towards the hotel steps. Mr Lomax was hurrying away on his mission. He was at the top of the steps – a waiter was holding open the door for him.

  She longed to call him back; but she dared not. Their plans must remain secret – no one from the manor must suspect.

  The carriage was beginning to be in motion, but she felt none of the anticipated pleasure in the drive. For she saw now that there was a flaw in all her recent deductions. A terrible, dangerous flaw …

  She watched the sandy track and the grass and the gorse bushes blur with the speed of their motion. And she thought:

  If Mr George Fenstanton swam every day, then he had done so on the day that Letitia Verney left Charcombe Manor. In order to keep his appointment on the beach at New Charcombe at three, he must have left the manor almost immediately after the walking party quitted it at half after two …

  And that meant that Mr George Fenstanton could not have been the person who detected an eavesdropper and wrote the threatening note to Miss Gibbs. He had had no time in which to do so much.

  Dido turned her head fearfully towards the gentleman beside her.

  It was only Mr Lancelot Fenstanton who had remained behind in the hall that day …

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ‘Have you considered my proposal, Miss Kent?’ Mr Fenstanton asked as they left the town behind and started along the sandy road.

  Dido looked at her companion, almost as if she had never seen him before.

  The hair was blowing back from his face, his square jaw was set in a look of determination, one powerful hand controlled the reins, the other idled on the whip. Outdoors, with his boots and his greatcoat and his horses, Lancelot Fenstanton was in his natural element, at ease with himself – much more the man of property and lord of the manor, less the eager little boy.

  She wondered again whether she quite understood this man. Was it possible that he was involved in his uncle’s dark schemes? Because Lancelot Fenstanton must be the person who had heard a sound in the library and issued the horrible threat against Miss Gibbs. There had been no one else in the house to do it …

  Her companion had turned now and was looking for an answer. And the question of just why he wished to marry her took on a new urgency.

  ‘I am very sorry to keep you in suspense,’ she began cautiously, trying with all her might to sound as if a proposal was all that she had on her mind. ‘But any offer of marriage is a very serious matter. And this one, I think, is particularly difficult to decide upon.’

  He smiled sidelong at her. ‘Am I such a very difficult prospect to consider?’

  ‘Perhaps you are.’ She cast down her eyes, for, after all, a lady is allowed to be bashful when an offer of marriage is under discussion. ‘I confess it is the letter – Mr Bailey’s letter – which makes me hesitate.’

  ‘No need for you to worry about that, my dear,’ he said promptly. ‘I’ll put it into your hands the moment you consent to marry me.’

  She fixed her gaze upon her own small feet which were swinging an inch or two above the floor of the carriage; but out of the
corner of her eye she could see his booted feet and the tip of his riding whip, which was just beginning to twitch and tap against one foot.

  ‘But,’ she pursued, ‘it is that which makes me uneasy, Mr Fenstanton – your promise to give me the letter after I have agreed to be your wife.’

  ‘Ha!’ he threw her a quick, assessing look.

  ‘You see, I cannot help but feel that I am being … manoeuvred into marriage. That my consent is being enforced.’

  He frowned and seemed for a moment as if he would not answer. But she waited in silence.

  ‘Don’t they say,’ he remarked at last, ‘that everything is fair in love as it is in war?’

  Dido continued to look down. His whip was still tapping on the high leather boot. ‘But I would wish to know,’ she said, ‘whether this is a case of love or of war. In short, are you making love to me or threatening me?’

  ‘Why, I’m making love, ain’t I?’ he cried. She looked up and saw that he was trying for a smile. ‘I have told you that I admire you – and, by way of proof I’m offering to do you a service.’

  ‘But the service is conditional upon my acceptance of your offer?’

  He threw her another troubled, sideways look, then turned his attention back to his horses. Clearly he had expected only a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’, not this lively interrogation.

  ‘I cannot allow myself to be threatened and tricked into marriage, Mr Fenstanton.’

  ‘Threatened? Why, what nonsense!’ He laughed and urged on the horses. ‘I only mean to persuade. Marriage is a manoeuvring business. It is the way of the world.’

  Whether Mr Fenstanton was embarrassed, or only anxious to reach his destination, he was driving the horses harder and harder and they were now travelling at a speed which was not entirely comfortable. Dido held to her seat with both hands and studied the profile of her companion. His jaw was set, he had a look of determination. But what, exactly was he determined upon?

  And was his pursuit of her some part of the other mysteries?

  The motion of the carriage whipped blood into her cheeks, made her heart beat fast – and emboldened her to ask: ‘And what do you hope to gain from the manoeuvring, Mr Fenstanton?’