“And seven and six,” she said, with some satisfaction and laid down her pencil. “All done,” she said and turned smiling to him. “What have you got there?”
“Mysterious objects from my Lord. This one is for you,” he said, tapping the dress length. “From Fairfax’s.”
“Oh my,” she said, getting up and taking it from him. “It’s heavy.”
“He’s gone away to Italy,” he said. “Lady Rothborough’s doctors have ordered it.”
He put the other parcels down and wrapped his arms about her. The dress length slipped to the floor.
“You do love me, don’t you?” he said.
“You know I do. What’s wrong?” she said, as he pulled her more tightly against him.
“I just had a conversation with your brother-in-law.”
“Oh...”
“It’s all right. They only think we are courting, That’s all. Or rather that I love you but haven’t told you yet. And your sister thinks you like Holzknecht.” He threw the last phrase in as casually as he could, but the words fell out, sounding more angry than he meant to.
“And that’s what’s upset you,” she said, looking up at him. “Yes?”
“Yes,” he said, after a moment.
“I thought we had sorted this out,” she said.
“Yes, but why would Bridey think that?”
She wriggled out of his arms and stooped to retrieve the fallen parcel.
“Because she thinks I’m not to be trusted,” she said. “It’s a bad habit of hers.” She went to her desk and cut the string on the parcel, and turned back the brown paper to reveal a glowing length of amber-gold silk. “Goodness. How beautiful!”
He came over to her and put his arms about her again, but she resisted.
“Are you sure?” he said.
“I will pretend you didn’t say that,” she said. “I’m going to go and see Louisa. Oh, by the way, I took Professor Holzknecht some tea – he was singing your praises. Poor old fellow, that sounds like a nasty turn he had.”
“When did Bridey see you with Holzknecht?” Felix said. “He hasn’t given you any more polka lessons, has he?”
She put her hands over her ears.
“I just want to know why she would think that,” Felix went on.
“Because, as I told you, she has never trusted me! She thinks I’m a flirt.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t believe you!” she said. “I really don’t believe you! How can you even ask me that? After everything?”
With which she left the room, and left him standing there wondering, indeed, why and how he had let such poison escape from his lips.
He sat down by the fire, in the chair which he generally used in that room. It had the distinction, even after those few months they had been together, of being his chair, though it could not, of course, ever be spoken of as such. This room, which they used as a sitting room together, necessarily bore no markers of his ever having being there. It was as if he were a ghost in her life, leaving no visible traces.
A moment later he heard the front door open, and Sukey saying, “Oh, good evening, Mr Holzknecht. You’re back early today.”
“Yes, my employer let me go early.”
“That’s fortunate – your father hasn’t been well. Mr Carswell saw to him, but he’ll be glad to see you, I’m sure.”
“Oh dear,” said Holzknecht. “I will go in at once. But first, I have something for you, Mrs Connolly, if you will permit me? I saw it in the music shop window. A new melody for a waltz. I hope we might have the pleasure...?”
“Thank you,” Felix heard her say. “But I can’t accept that. It isn’t quite right to be thinking of dancing just now, really, sir. Your father...”
There was a little silence and then Holzknecht said, “Yes, yes, of course. Another time, perhaps.”
There were footsteps and it fell quiet, and Felix remained for some moments, alone in the room, feeling like a fool for doubting her and at the same time, dry-throated with fury at Holzknecht’s presumption.
Having mastered his feelings sufficiently, he went upstairs to see Louisa Rivers.
The girl was sitting up in bed, with a shawl wrapped about her. Her dark, thick hair was loose and falling on the white pillows, and her slightly flushed complexion completed the impression of a picturesque invalid. He was pleased to see she had made this much progress. Despite her red cheeks, there was no sign of fever and she was bearing the pain with fortitude and without too much recourse to opiates.
He checked her wounds. They were healing cleanly, with no signs of suppuration. Sukey had cleverly contrived a frame out of a fire guard to keep the coverlets from weighing down on her abdomen, which must have added greatly to her comfort.
“You may not feel it,” said Felix, “but you are doing well.”
“I wish you would all leave me alone!” she exclaimed, pushing away Felix’s hand as he rearranged the covers. “You don’t need to bother!”
“I shall bother all I like,” said Felix.
She sank back on her pillows, looking pointedly away from him. The picturesque invalid had quite vanished.
“I hate you,” she muttered. “I hate you all and this place!”
Felix retreated from the bedside. As he did, Sukey slipped past him and sat down on the chair by the bed. There was a silence for a while and then she asked, in a gentle tone, “So, where would you rather be?”
“Not here!” Louisa said. “Anywhere, anything but here!”
“I can understand that,” Sukey went on. “But you might feel that wherever you were. I think you were feeling that even when you were at home.”
“What does it matter to you?” she spat out at Sukey.
“Because – and I know you don’t believe me – we want to help you. You have been feeling like this for some time and it’s been hard to bear, yes?”
“What do you know about that?”
“I’m just guessing, of course,” Sukey said, “but I grew up in a little town like Whithorne, and when I was about your age, there was a man, a friend of my parent’s – a married man. A man everyone thought the world of – very kind, very charitable, very religious, very respectable.” She hesitated a moment. “I thought of him when I saw Mr Latimer.”
Felix was standing in the far corner of the room, leaning against the wall. There was something in her tone which alarmed him.
“He was the sort of fellow with whom you take care not to be alone in a room,” Sukey went on. “One afternoon he – he...” She glanced up at him for a moment and then looked back at Louisa who had turned towards her and was staring. “And afterwards, I felt – oh, I don’t know what I felt. Like I wanted the earth to swallow me up. And there was no-one I could tell. No-one. Not even my sister. Especially not my sister. Now, I don’t know about you, of course I don’t, but I just remembered how I felt and how...” Her voice broke now and she covered her mouth with her hand and gazed over at him, her eyes bright with tears.
He had thought she was being cynical when she accused Latimer of seducing the girl, but it was evident the insight came from experience.
Louisa twisted the hem of the sheet in her hands and said quietly, “Truly?”
“Truly,” said Sukey, her eyes still on Felix.
He found he must sit down. Awash with mixture of nausea and anger there was a part of him that wanted to demand the name from Sukey and at once set off for Ireland with a pistol in his pocket. But he sat there instead, bent forward, as if his stomach ached, his elbows on his knees, his hands locked together, feeling completely powerless.
There was a long silence and then Louisa said,
“Latimer. It was Latimer.”
-o-
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.
“Not really,” Sukey said.
It was about nine o’clock, and the fire in the grate was dying away. Usually at this hour, in her sitting room, they would have two lamps burning bright and the fire w
ell fed. But tonight was not an ordinary night. They had eaten dinner together as they usually did, but an uncomfortable formality had overtaken them.
She had taken away the dirty plates and returned with the customary pot of tea. Felix had got out his cheroot case, but he had no wish to smoke. He stood watching as she made the tea.
“You’d better go and write to the Major,” she said.
“I’ll see him tomorrow. Remember?”
“Of course you will,” she said.
It was unlike her to forget such a detail.
“You’re tired,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I’ll go, then,” he said, starting for the door.
“Have your cup of tea first,” she said, offering it.
“Thank you,” he said.
She took her own cup and walked across the room to her usual chair by the fire, but instead of sitting down, she put down the cup on the mantel and stood with one hand on the shelf, her head and shoulders bent. He heard her sigh.
“I’ll go and horsewhip him,” Felix said. “If you want.”
“Not much point,” she said. “He’s dead. Quite a big affair that funeral was, apparently.” Her words dissolved into a sob and her frame jerked as her grief overcame her. Then she threw herself into her chair and began to cry in earnest.
Crouching down by the chair, Felix put his arms about her, and attempted to comfort her, which thankfully she allowed, but it was some minutes before the storm subsided.
“Oh, I feel like such a fool,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because it wasn’t so bad, and maybe it is one of those things that just happen to girls and that’s that. It was just a bit of touching and kissing, and leering, as you’d say, and it didn’t last very long and it was just that one time, because after that I was careful, and I shouldn’t let it hurt like this. I mean, God only knows what Louisa has been through to want to do that to herself and here am I, feeling sick with the memory of something I am sure any sensible creature would have –”
“I still want to horsewhip him,” Felix said. She straightened and pressed her hand to his cheek, fixing him with her red-rimmed eyes.
“Better save that for Latimer. If he can be persuaded to admit it.”
“He would if you questioned him.”
“That I would enjoy,” she said, and then shook her head. “But he won’t. It will be her word against his. It’s always the way. Or he’ll say that she led him on. That she was a flirt.” She twisted her up mouth.
“Is this why Bridey thinks?” Felix ventured.
“Yes. Sort of. I mean, the thing was that he was quite the charmer. Until you were alone with him in a room. How was I to know that laughing at his jokes meant that I was encouraging him?”
“Or dancing the polka,” Felix said, sinking back on his heels, feeling the sting of the rebuke.
“She’s always thought that I was one for putting myself about, as they say. That’s why she sent Tom to talk to you, I dare say.”
“He said she thinks you like Holzknecht. That was why I was –”
“I don’t, you know I don’t!” she said. “When I’ve thrown my soul to Hell for you!”
“You don’t believe that, surely!” he said.
“Sometimes I do,” she said. “Sometimes you do too. And don’t you dare deny it,” she added, prodding an accusatory finger to his shirt front.
“If Hell exists –” Felix began.
“Don’t try and be clever,” she said. “You know what I mean.”
He nodded, and then regretted it. He had not meant to be quite so transparent, but sitting at her feet, it was impossible not to be honest.
He turned away and stared into the fire, which was now dwindling into non-existence. He heard her rise from her chair and start gathering up the cups of tea which they had not even touched.
“I’d better go to bed,” she said. “I have a wretch of a headache coming on again.”
“Do you want anything for it?”
“I just want to sleep,” she said and left the room.
Chapter Twenty-two
Mrs Rivers sat in the inspector’s office of the old Bridewell at Whithorne, and despite her economical clothing, looked too magnificent for the place. Her demeanour was one of equally magnificent obduracy and it was trying Giles’ patience.
They had been talking for an hour or so. He had done her the courtesy of fetching her there that morning, allowing her to make domestic arrangements before leaving and keeping the matter as discreet as he could. He had not made mention of any charges – he was letting the place itself speak of the seriousness of her situation, but he wondered if it was making any impression on her at all.
He sent out for coffee and they drank it in silence. As he tried to form some new strategy to make her more reasonable, he watched her gazing out of the soot-stained window. He wondered if she had turned her head that way to show him exactly how perfect her profile was and distract him. It was a lovely sight, but he would have infinitely preferred to be sitting looking at a silent Emma Maitland, and then reflected she would not be silent so long, and that would be all the pleasure. He felt he could listen to her talk for hours and never tire of it. He felt somewhat ashamed as he realised this, as if Laura herself was reproaching him. “How you like to hear her talk? You would not care for my talk like that.” He could find no effective argument to defend himself against this. Emma Maitland had inadvertently set a spell over him.
Now Mrs Rivers turned and looked at him again, reminding him of the beautiful birds of prey in Patchett’s hawk house. Yet he doubted if she was predatory, for all her glorious hauteur.
He looked down at his notes.
“Can we talk again about the tradesmen’s bills you settled, Mrs Rivers? The butcher. Let us go over that again.”
“I told you I gave Harrison ten pounds and seven shillings.” She had it by rote. “And threepence.”
“You do know how easy it will be to check this, ma’am?” Giles said. “When you give me a figure as precise at that, and the name of the tradesman in question, it does not make it true, no matter how much you wish it were.”
“You underestimate the pleasure I’ve found in paying off such bills,” she said.
Giles shook his head.
“You don’t wish that it were true because it’s unpleasant to be in debt,” he said. “You wish it because it’s easier to imagine your own guilt – to construct this fancy of yours – than face whatever unpleasant truth it is you are so determined to conceal from me.”
“If that is what you wish to believe.”
“You do realise that you could hang for this? For making and supplying such a poison to a vulnerable girl knowing exactly what purpose she had in mind – neither judge nor jury will look sympathetically at that, despite your willingness to confess.”
She glanced away.
“And even if they do not hang you, you face incarceration for the rest of your life. You will never see your sons grow into men, nor your daughters become wives. And I believe they mean more than life itself to you.”
She still said nothing.
“And they are, I think, the answer to this ridiculous attitude of yours, ma’am.”
“I am not being ridiculous!” she said, drawing herself up. “I am telling you the truth.”
“You are exceeding my patience, and you are making it worse for everyone by this conduct. If you are seeking to protect someone, which I know you are, then you are doing a poor job of it.”
“Then what am I to do?” she burst out suddenly. “What?”
“That’s better,” he said. She looked away as if deeply ashamed, and he decided he would approach gently. “Let us go back to the beginning of this. You have distilling equipment in your house, and the books and the practical knowledge to make simple distillations of plants and so forth, yes?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And who in your house shares that knowledge? Johnny?”
“No,” she said with a sigh.
“Then whom?”
She shook her head, her lips pursed.
“Very well, with whom have you shared your work in making your creams and lotions for Mrs Wilson? Again, the boys are at school and I am sure their handwriting is execrable. But who has a pretty hand, learned from her mother, and a turn for decorations on labels in watercolour and ink?”
“But, but...” She leapt up from her chair and went to the window. She looked as if she wished to throw herself out of it. Then, in a quiet voice, she said, at last, “I do not not know why. I can only guess that she did, and if she did, then what will happen to her?”
Giles said, “You are right to say you can only guess. We do not know exactly what happened, only that she may be involved. There is no need, ma’am, to throw yourself on the altar. Nothing is concluded.”
“But she does know how. She is good at it!” Mrs Rivers exclaimed, turning to him. “And she said she broke the still in an accident, but believe me it would need to be quite an accident to destroy such a thing. She must have broken it deliberately! Oh God, and now I have said far too much!”
There was a knock on the door. It was one of the Whithorne constables.
“Mr Carswell has arrived from Northminster, sir,” he said.
“I will send him up to you in a minute, ma’am,” said Giles, gathering up his notebook. “He can let you know how Louisa is doing.”
He left Mrs Rivers with her conscience and found Carswell, attempting to get warm at the stove and grimacing over the coffee.
“You’ve come at a good moment,” he said. “Mrs Rivers has just admitted that she thinks Louisa brewed the prussic acid.”
“Oh,” he said. “As you thought.”
“Yes. How is she?”
“Recovering well. But how robust mentally she is, I cannot say. Sukey managed to get her to admit the name of her seducer.” He glanced round to make sure they were not overheard. “She says it was Latimer.”
“Mrs Connolly has excellent instincts,” he said.
“He will probably deny it,” said Carswell.
“More than likely, but we may be able to get something to corroborate it. That will help the girl in her defence, at any rate.”
The Hanging Cage (The Northminster Mysteries Book 4) Page 19