by Anna Dean
‘They are gone!’ cried Anne suddenly.
Dido turned to see her standing beside the open writing desk, staring in disbelief.
‘They are all gone!’ she repeated.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Dido went to stand beside her and looked into the opened desk which held only two uncut pens and some blank sheets of paper turning brown at the edges. ‘What are gone?’
‘The letters. There were letters here, letters which she had received. They were here in the writing desk.’ She sat down upon the bed among the Chinese birds, staring at the desk in disbelief.
‘Are you quite sure they were in the desk? They were not somewhere else? In a drawer, perhaps?’
‘No! I know they were in the desk. They have always been there.’
‘Have they?’ Dido felt her interest quicken. She looked more closely at her friend’s face, pale with confusion and shock. ‘Anne, who were these letters from? What was written in them?’
Mrs Harman-Foote raised her eyes in a look of amazement. ‘I had not read them,’ she replied.
At first, Dido – judging from her own unmanageable curiosity – was scarcely able to believe this. Letters left for fifteen years unread! How remarkable!
But then, allowing for a difference in character – and the profound influence of the governess upon her pupil – it began to seem less strange. Looking about the room, which seemed still to bear the imprint of its mistress, she could, after all, comprehend that the respect in which Miss Fenn’s memory was held, might make Anne reluctant to come in here and violate all the rules of honour by reading what was not addressed to her.
‘When did you last see the letters?’ she asked.
‘Today. Just before dinner. After dressing, I came in here for a moment or two. And I looked into the desk, so I know the letters were there. I was wondering, you see, whether it might be right to look at them now. Whether the higher good might not be served. I meant to ask your opinion whether reading the letters might help us discover the truth about her death.’
‘I see. So it would seem someone has taken them from the desk since then.’
‘And someone must return them,’ said Anne, regaining her usual assurance. ‘I cannot permit such a theft! But, Dido, I do not quite understand. Why would someone take them?’
‘I think we must assume that it was in order to prevent them being read.’ Dido smiled. ‘Anyone who knows me could guess that I would hesitate less over looking into them than you …’ She was forced to stop a while to consider all the implications of the letters’ disappearance. ‘Of course,’ she said very slowly, ‘anyone who was at the dinner table would have heard that you intended to bring me here. Any one of those present could have come to this room after dinner and removed the letters … And there is another point …’ She stopped.
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Nothing … No, it is nothing of consequence.’ She had decided it would be better not to mention that little hint of tobacco smoke which she had discerned upon entering the room.
Chapter Ten
The strange disappearance of the letters haunted Dido’s dreams and occupied the many waking moments of the night. But she came to the breakfast table next morning with no clearer notion of what was carrying on – only a certainty that the nature of her mystery was changed entirely. For it would seem she faced not only the death of a woman fifteen years ago, but also a more immediate puzzle – the motives of someone who was acting now.
Who had cared enough about those letters to risk drawing attention to themselves by removing them? Was there something written in them which would cast light upon the circumstances of Miss Fenn’s death? Might they point to the guilt of someone still living at Madderstone?
There was a great deal more to investigate than she had previously supposed. Somehow she must circumvent Margaret’s demands upon her time and get herself to the abbey again as soon as she might. She had, as yet, not even looked at the place in which Miss Fenn’s remains had been discovered. And there were a great many questions which might be put to the abbey servants …
‘I declare, Dido, you are very quiet and sullen this morning. Does dining at the great house not agree with you?’ Margaret leant across the sunny table with the teapot in her hand. She looked irritably from her sister-in-law to the back of the newspaper which was engrossing her husband, in the expectation that one or other of her companions should supply her with a little conversation – and seemed to decide that Dido was the more promising subject of the two. ‘Well,’ she said, as she poured the tea, ‘you have not told me one word about who was in the party yesterday, or what you had to eat.’
Dido sighed and was on the point of giving as good an account of the evening as she could, when her brother saved her the exertion by making a sudden announcement from behind his newspaper.
‘I have had a letter from my friend Lomax,’ he said. ‘He is coming here again on Friday.’
Dido laid down her knife and stared across the bread and butter and the tea-things of the breakfast table, to the window sill where a tray of windfall plums had been laid to ripen in the sun; she noticed the deepening marks of bruises upon one, the small wasp holes in another … But, though she would not look at her, she knew that Margaret’s lips were thinning as she set down the teapot and swept a few invisible crumbs from the tablecloth.
‘And how long,’ said Margaret in her most gentle tones, ‘how long do you think Mr Lomax will remain with us, my love?’
Alerted by the extreme softness of her voice, Francis lowered his paper an inch or two; a bushy grey eyebrow and a very wary eye appeared. ‘About a week, perhaps?’ he hazarded, his voice rising into a question.
Margaret closed her eyes and sighed.
Francis retreated behind his newspaper. ‘He is on his way to somewhere else – perhaps he will only stay five days – or four. I daresay it will not be so very long.’
Margaret looked once more as if she were bound for the pagan arena, but, as wives all over the country discover every day, it is peculiarly difficult to argue with the back of a newspaper. And Dido was soon wishing that she could employ such a protection herself.
For the expectation of a visitor threw Margaret into a frenzy of activity. She was determined that curtains must be washed and beds aired – though the motive seemed to be rather less the comfort of her guest than the discomfort of her husband. And through it all she had a great deal to say about the inconvenience and expense of visitors and also her surprise that Francis should take such extraordinary pleasure in the company of a man who was, after all, not much more than the steward of his daughter’s husband.
It was a very great relief to escape at last for another walk to Madderstone.
By then it was so late that Margaret very much doubted there would be time to reach the abbey and return before dark, and she thought that if Dido was wanting air and exercise she had much better walk out into the kitchen garden and watch over Robert digging the potatoes, for the fellow was so lazy he had left half of them in the ground last time.
But Dido held out. She would walk fast, and not stay long, and the necessary business of ‘finding out how Penelope goes on’ provided a very convenient excuse for the visit.
By the time she left the vicarage, the sunshine of the early morning was all over, the clouds were gathering and there was a threat of rain in the breeze. But still she was determined to go. Madderstone and its mysteries intrigued her more and more, and besides, the two miles between Badleigh and the abbey provided a little peace, a break between one society and another in which she might indulge her own thoughts.
And she found that today, as she walked, even thoughts of ghosts and governesses must give a little ground to thoughts of Mr William Lomax …
His proposed visit must discompose, though it did not surprise, her. Unlike Margaret, she found it very easy to understand why her bookish brother should value the friendship of another clever, well-informed man. She had not forgotten to anticipate, whe
n her living at the vicarage was first proposed, that the move must throw her more into Mr Lomax’s way.
But did she wish to meet him again, or not? It was a difficult point which two whole miles of brisk walking could not quite decide.
It was now nearly four months since Mr Lomax had made her an offer of marriage – and been refused. There had been, at that time, such a serious difference of opinion between them as had convinced her they could not be happy together – despite her considerable affection for him. He had objected to that part of her which was particularly dear to her – her curiosity. They had argued; but still he had made his offer. He had even been so foolhardy as to pin his hopes for their future happiness upon a change in her character. She might, he had suggested, be so influenced by the advice of a husband as to adopt his opinions rather than arguing against them.
It was, she thought, a strong proof of his regard that such a sensible man should wilfully blind himself to the evidence around him: evidence which must cry out against finding happiness in marriage through so momentous a change. Was there a couple in the world who had ever succeeded in it? And even if it were possible, she doubted she would find it desirable. Her own opinions were very precious to her: she did not wish to give them up.
All in all, she had felt it incumbent upon her to save them both from his dangerous optimism. She had spoken her ‘No’ as firmly as she knew how. And if the matter had only rested there, there would be sufficient embarrassment in this recontre. But there was more.
She had given her answer and walked away – and he had followed her. He had, in point of fact, run after her and called upon her to stop.
This last memory brought a little flutter of pleasure. At nineteen she would have been affected by this evidence of passion; at six and thirty she was quite delighted to find that she had such power over a man.
She remembered him, there in the lime walk at Richmond, bareheaded in the sunlight that twinkled through the leaves, earnestly pleading his cause. For she had, of course, done as he requested and stopped – just before reaching the end of the avenue.
‘Miss Kent,’ he said breathlessly, ‘forgive me … I know that I am not acting the part of a gentleman … to force myself upon you in this way when your answer is already given. Please, do not think I would be such a brute as to distress you by asking you to reconsider your decision now … But I cannot help … I must just beg one favour.’
‘I am sure …’ she began, but her voice was unsteady and she paused. Exertion was absolutely necessary. If this was to be their last interview, she would not wish him to remember her stammering. ‘I am sure I would do anything in my power to prove my friendship.’
‘Then may I be allowed to ask you again … Not now, but in the future …’ He too was forced to break off. ‘As you know – as I have explained,’ he began again more calmly, ‘the burden of debt which my son has laid upon me makes an immediate marriage impossible. In two, three years at the most, I shall be free. Do I have your permission to ask then – if, of course, you are still unmarried – to ask you again to be my wife?’
Dido remembered staring down at the trodden earth of the lime walk; she remembered very clearly how the interlacing roots of the trees had stood out like veins on the back of an aging hand. Her mind had been in turmoil, flattered, confused … and yet, suspecting him. ‘I do not think such an arrangement would be wise,’ she said quietly. ‘I would not wish you to feel bound to make an offer which – three years hence – you may no longer wish to make.’
He shook his head very seriously. ‘My dear Miss Kent, I am bound to you. It cannot be helped, though it is very kind of you to attempt to grant a liberty I do not even desire.’
She bent her head lower so that he could not see her smile. ‘I cannot suppose,’ she insisted, ‘that time will change my reply.’
‘But we cannot any of us predict the future,’ he argued eagerly. ‘Three years … two, even one year may encompass any amount of change. I beg you: allow me to hope.’
The indecision had been dreadful: her heart had been all for giving way and consenting immediately, while her head … Her head had been calmly noting the inconstancy of his argument. The passage of time was to produce no change in him – his feelings were not to alter, and yet it was to be supposed that hers might undergo a very material change. He was no doubt thinking that she would soon regret her answer – and decide that she must give up her opinions, cease to argue with him, and become all that he required in a wife … In fact, his request was intolerable presumption …
But he was regarding her with such tenderness, and he had never looked so well as he did now, his usual dignity all put aside, his brow furrowed, his eyes so anxious.
Her heart had won the day. She had granted the favour. When the gaming debts of his dissolute son were at last paid – when he had a home to offer a wife – Mr Lomax was authorised to apply to her again.
Of course, she remained determined against accepting. She instinctively shrank from that image which her lively imagination readily supplied – of esteem and affection all sunk into marital discord and resentment …
However, there was another image of the future which had lately begun to haunt her: an image of a lonely old maid shivering perpetually in Margaret’s attic – and that was sufficient to touch even Dido’s cheerful mind with despair.
Chapter Eleven
… Well, Eliza, I have very wisely determined to give myself no more pain by worrying over this visit of Mr Lomax. The resolution is, I think, a great proof of my strength of character. Though the keeping of it may prove my weakness …
But I shall write no more upon the subject – except to remind you of your promised secrecy – which you must be particularly careful to preserve if you should happen to see our cousin, Flora, while you are in town looking after Charles. I would not for the world have any of my acquaintance know of Mr Lomax’s offer, for I do not think there is one among them – excepting, of course, your dear self – who could resist advising me upon the subject. And that would be insufferable.
I certainly have more than enough carrying on here to distract me. And I hope, instead of pining, to prove myself worthy of my resolution by being useful to poor Mrs Harman-Foote. For the more I look about me, Eliza, the more certain I become that a very great injustice has been done: that Miss Fenn is innocent of the dreadful calumny which is charged against her and has been cast out into that terrible grave for no reason.
I must tell you about the drained pool.
I went to look at it yesterday, you see, and it provided a great deal more interest than one could reasonably expect from a muddy depression in the ground.
It was a bleak enough sight! Indeed there seemed to be a kind of gloom hanging over everything yesterday. Though it pains me to admit it, Margaret was right in supposing it would be rather dark before I reached the abbey. The sun was low in the sky. It was cold and still and damp, with the smoke from the house chimneys hanging low and sullen, and the grounds deserted, except for two men up on the lawns lopping branches from the fallen trees.
There was a sad, winter smell about the place: smoke and freshly cut wood, mud and bruised grass. When I first descended the steps in the bank and looked down into the pool it seemed unpromising. But there is this to be said for the business of mystery-solving: it can enhance the dullest scene with the thrill of discovery. For here was only an expanse of gently sloping mud, with a sort of large puddle collecting at its centre and its edges dry and cracking, except for the great wet hole – a yard or two from the bank and all trodden round with boot prints – which showed where the remains had been dug out.
And yet, there were two great points of interest. Can you discern them from my description? I charge you not to read on until you have tried to find them out …
Well, did you notice, first of all, that I said there was water collecting in the centre of the pool?
As yet it is no more than an inch or two deep, but it alerted me and, when I looked
to the end of the lake, I saw that the dam is repaired. The pool is being refilled! Soon the place in which Miss Fenn lay will be lost once more beneath the water – and all its secrets sunk with it!
Do you not think that this has a very suspicious appearance? Why has the plan to redirect the stream been changed? Does it not seem as though someone is anxious to have the place, and any information it can offer up, concealed? Who, I wonder, has decided it should be done? Was Mr Harman-Foote giving orders to effect it when I passed him and Mr Coulson on my way to dinner yesterday?
All this, Eliza, is puzzling enough, but … I wonder whether you have yet noticed the other strange detail in my description: the fact that the place where the bones were discovered is no more than a yard or two from the bank?
Now, I am sure that this is of the very greatest significance.
For, as Mr Wishart observed, the sides of the pool slope very gradually indeed. And, though I am inclined to agree with him that this renders an accidental falling-in unlikely, I cannot agree that, in this case, a suicide is more probable.
I shall tell you what I did. I took up a stick from the bank: as long and straight a one as I could find. And, putting one end of it against the place where mud ends and grass begins – the place which marks the margin of the old pool and the level of its water – I held it out towards the hole. By this means I was able roughly to calculate the depth of water in which Miss Fenn lay.
It was, I am sure, no more than three feet!
And so you see, even allowing for her sinking six inches or so into the mud of the lake-bottom, she cannot have been beyond her depth in that place. The water would not have reached to her shoulders – unless she was remarkably small of stature. And I have certainly never heard her described so.
I confess that this observation threw me into a very melancholy train of thought.