by Anna Dean
I stood upon that muddy bank in the gathering gloom, with no company but the ringing of axes echoing back from the house-front, and I imagined coming there in a state of utter despair and loneliness. I imagined walking down into the green, weedy water with the intention of extinguishing life, of ending for ever worry and pain. I declare that I could almost feel the chill of the water rising against my shrinking flesh, the soft silt sucking at my feet as I surrendered up misery, loneliness and humiliation …
You are perhaps wondering, Eliza, why I should distress myself – and you – with such terrible thoughts. But there is a purpose. You see, it is all but impossible to imagine lying down to die in the water. I am sure, that if one had made up one’s mind to self-destruction, and had the determination to carry out the intention, the only way to accomplish it would be to walk on until the water became so deep it was impossible to save oneself. In short, I believe that, while the continuation of life remained possible, the body would insensibly struggle for it, even though the heart and brain were determined upon destruction.
A woman bent upon suicide would have no choice but to walk out into the deep water at the very centre of the lake – and that is where her remains would be found.
Well, this conclusion was as grim as the thoughts which had brought me to it, and you may imagine how I began to shiver in the gathering dusk. For it would seem that I am being forced to agree with Anne Harman-Foote’s opinion and declare, with her, that it is impossible for Elinor Fenn to have taken her own life. And little by little, I am being brought to contemplate the alternative: murder …
Chapter Twelve
Dido woke from an odd dream of despair, loneliness and cold, encroaching water, to find that she had fallen asleep remarkably awkwardly. Her writing desk was still upon the bed and the covers were slipping away from her, leaving her feet exposed and thoroughly chilled.
It was still rather early. The light falling through the little window was thin and grey, and there was no movement from the house below, only the slow heavy sound of Rebecca descending the attic stairs to begin her duties.
She pulled up the covers and attempted to rub some warmth into her frozen feet, but the gloom and wretchedness of the night seemed still to hang about her. Nor was there much comfort to be found in anticipation of a day carrying out Margaret’s orders as the vicarage was prepared for its visitor.
In fact, there was but one way to dispel desponding thoughts: she drew the little writing desk back onto her knees, turned herself about to gain as much light as she might from the window, and resumed her letter:
… I mean to be rather selfish this morning, Eliza. I shall keep to my room until Margaret has gone out upon her early morning errands and then I shall attempt an escape to Madderstone. It is not a course of which I think you will approve, but I am quite determined to pass as much of the morning at the abbey as I am able – for once Mr Lomax is here it may become rather more difficult to pursue the matter of Miss Fenn’s death.
And, while I wait for Margaret to leave the house, I shall attempt to divert your thoughts – and my own – by giving an account of an amusing and very surprising little encounter which followed my discoveries at the pool yesterday.
I was just turning away when I saw that I was not alone. Silas Crockford was walking along the opposite bank, with a very distracted look upon his face and a pencil and a tablet in his hand.
Poor Silas … It is odd, is it not, how often the epithet accompanies his name? But I cannot help it, it is nearly always ‘poor Silas’ with me. Perhaps it is his sickly air; or his sisters’ constant chiding; or his great brown eyes and little pointed chin which always put me in mind of a child. I do not know why it should be, but there is something which never fails to arouse a pitying fondness whenever I see him. And yesterday he appeared more than usually pathetic, for, can you guess what he was about, Eliza?
He was attempting to write a poem.
It is true: little Silas Crockford has turned poet! He told me all about the poem he is writing: it is the tragic story of the Grey Nun’s doomed love and is to be composed ‘in the style of an old-fashioned m … minstrel’. Of course, he begged that I would not mention the matter to Lucy or Harriet. For he was sure there would be ‘a g … great carry-on’ about it if they knew.
I agreed immediately upon secrecy, but I doubt my complicity will result in a work of towering literary merit, for the poor boy did not seem to be going on very well. He showed me his page and was very eager to know whether I could suggest a rhyme for ‘drooped’ or ‘b … bonnet’. ‘W … what do you think, Miss Kent? I should be very g … glad to know your opinion.’
Altogether this did not seem to be a proper way of going about the business of poetry to me. At least, I do not think that Mr Pope ever asked advice, nor can I suppose that dear Mr Crabbe is forever troubling his friends for rhymes. Though, of course, I may be wrong. I know very little about poetic genius … Except that I believe I know what has turned young Silas into a poet.
He is in love, Eliza!
I began to suspect it as soon as he mentioned poetry, for the two generally go together, do they not? But I became sure of it soon after, when he asked in a very anxious voice if I could assure him that Miss Lambe was quite out of danger.
I said that I believed she was, but his anxiety did not seem to be entirely done away. He shuffled his feet about like an embarrassed schoolboy, evidently wishing to ask more, though it was some minutes before he could manage to stammer out, with flaming cheeks, ‘I s … suppose that she is a great deal in c … company with C … C … Captain Laurence?’
Poor Silas! Oh dear, I have said it again. But the pain in his eyes cut me to the heart. ‘Oh no,’ I said quickly, ‘I am sure she is not in company with the captain at all. She is still too unwell to leave her bedchamber. So, of course, he cannot visit her.’
‘I am very g … glad of it,’ he stammered. ‘That is, I am glad she does not see the c … captain, I am not g … glad she is unwell …’
He stopped and we both stood quietly for a moment or two, looking down at the muddy waste, and the dark pool of water in which were reflected flying storm clouds and the last light of the day.
I was thinking he had little chance of succeeding with Penelope if he were indeed opposed to such a man as the captain – and I believe his thoughts had taken a similar turn. For he soon shook his head regretfully and said – very fast, in the way he does when he wishes to express his thoughts before the stammer can intervene – ‘I had hoped, that while Pen … Miss Lambe was with us at Ashfield, we – that is, she and I – would be able to improve our f … friendship. I hoped that before she returned to Bath I should be able to d … d … dec … to tell her how I feel. But then there was this c … confounded accident, Miss Kent, and now she is sh … shut away from me … And C … C … C … And Laurence is there on the spot with her all the time …’ His poor face burnt as red as the sunset reflected in the water.
I expressed my concern at this unfortunate situation – and he became confiding.
‘Henry,’ he said eagerly, ‘– that is, Mr Coulson, you know – he says that I should declare my passion, that I should write such an ardent letter, Miss Lambe could not resist. That I should tell her I will d … die if she is not k … kind to me. Henry says that that sort of thing never fails with women.’
I ventured to suggest that Mr Coulson’s information might be a little inaccurate.
‘So you think I had better not?’ he said
Oh dear, Eliza, he looked so wretched! I could not help myself: I turned matchmaker on the spot!
‘But,’ I said firmly, ‘it may be possible for you to convey your sentiments – to raise yourself in Miss Lambe’s esteem – without an outright declaration.’
He looked doubtful. ‘The devil of it is, Miss Kent, if I don’t d … declare myself, then I cannot write to her at all. For that would be most improper – c … corresponding, you know, when there is no engagement. Harriet w … w �
� w …’
‘Harriet would be very angry indeed. Yes, I quite see your point.’
We both considered a while. It was becoming more gloomy than ever. The sound of the workmen’s axes had ceased, and, overhead, rooks were calling harshly as they flocked to roost in the park. I was wondering how such a dear, gentle boy as Silas might gain the advantage of a worldly fellow like Captain Laurence with his coarse good looks and his interminable stories of high-seas gallantry, and I confess that, for a while, I was utterly perplexed.
But then I considered the character of the lady … And I saw a possibility.
I suggested to Silas that his poem might make a great appeal to Penelope’s romantic disposition … and that the character of a poet might make an even greater appeal.
He looked more than a little frightened, but he is not lacking in understanding and he caught my meaning well enough. And so, before we left the side of the pool, we had agreed upon our plan. When he has written some part of his great ballad – I was careful not to condition for the completion of the whole, which I rather fear may never be accomplished – when some part of it is completed, he is to show the work to me; and I am to convey it to Penelope.
Do you not think it a rather good plan, Eliza? I am extremely proud of it.
I grant that there would seem to be some danger in the probable badness of the verse; but I am trusting that Penelope’s taste in such matters is not too nice.
It will not be easy, for Harriet has always opposed any attachment of her brother’s – love no doubt being considered as dangerous to his constitution as ragouts and port wine. But I confess that I am very glad to have another scheme on hand to divert me a little from gloomy thoughts. And I would dearly love to rout Captain Laurence. Somehow, I just cannot like the man. Nor can I escape the feeling that I have detected in him some kind of duplicity or deception. And yet I cannot quite remember what it is that has made me suspect him.
For some reason my mind keeps returning to that moment upon the gallery when we saw the men discovering the bones. It seems ridiculous to suggest it, Eliza, but I feel as if in that moment he revealed something about himself: something very suspicious.
Chapter Thirteen
Dido emerged cautiously from the vicarage sweep and looked about her.
It was a dull, raw morning; shreds of mist lay about the gravestones in the churchyard, and all the spiders’ webs on the vicarage railings were thickly beaded with moisture. There had been rain in the night and the ruts of the village street were full of puddles. Beyond the black and white front of the inn, the usual little knots of women were gathered upon the steps of the baker’s and the milliner’s shops; but, though Dido looked very carefully, she could not distinguish Margaret among them.
Very much relieved, she set off along the street at a brisk pace, her thoughts all fixed upon a stile beyond the village forge which led, through a little copse, to the Madderstone footpath. Once over this stile she would be beyond Margaret’s sight – and free to spend the morning as she pleased.
She passed the Red Lion in safety, and the baker’s, with its warm yeasty scent. She was passing under the chestnut trees on the village green and was just daring to hope … when a voice called out her name.
She gave a guilty start. However, it was not Margaret, but Lucy Crockford who was hurrying over the yellow carpet of fallen leaves.
‘My dear friend!’ she cried, ‘I am so very glad to have met with you! For I must speak to you on a matter of the utmost importance … and … delicacy.’ Her face coloured coyly – until it matched almost exactly the pink satin lining of her bonnet.
‘Indeed?’ said Dido looking anxiously about her. ‘But I am afraid I am in rather a hurry just now.’
‘Then I shall walk with you.’ Lucy linked arms and leant close to talk as they walked on. ‘You are on your way to Madderstone to visit the poor invalid I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh! It makes me quite wretched to think of dear, dear Penelope lying sick,’ said Lucy in her slowest most languishing voice. ‘No one feels these things as I do! I declare, I had rather be sick myself than see someone I care about suffer! You will laugh at me for it, I am sure, but it is quite true.’
Dido showed no inclination either to laugh or to reply, but only to walk on as fast as Lucy’s dragging arm would allow.
‘I wish,’ continued Lucy, ‘that I might come with you to Madderstone and sit a while with poor Penelope! But I dare not attempt it!’
‘I see no need for caution. I do not believe there is any infection in a broken head.’
‘Oh, but it is so dangerous to my nerves. I feel things so very deeply. Captain Laurence …’ there was a conscious glance as she spoke the name, ‘says that it is extremely uncommon for a woman to be so exceedingly sensitive, so very alive to the feelings of everyone around her. He thinks it something quite remarkable. But I am sure that, if I am remarkable, I had much rather not be. As I tell the captain, it is a dreadful trial to me. Harriet of course is different. She is much better suited to a sickroom.’
‘I do not doubt she is.’
Lucy pressed Dido’s arm and sunk her voice almost to a whisper. ‘In point of fact, it is Harriet I wish to talk to you about.’
‘Oh?’
The pressure of Lucy’s fingers increased. ‘Dido,’ she whispered urgently, ‘you must speak to Harriet on my behalf!’
‘Must I? On what subject must I speak?’
Lucy cast her eyes down modestly. ‘Captain Laurence,’ she whispered.
‘Oh!’
‘You must tell her,’ Lucy said eagerly, ‘that she should not attempt to separate …’ She stopped speaking, looked conscious, tossed her head. ‘She seems determined to part us. And I declare it will break my heart …’ She stopped again, and gave Dido’s arm another squeeze. ‘I am sure you understand.’
But Dido was quite determined not to understand so easily. ‘Has the captain made you an offer?’ she asked.
‘Well …’
‘Has he?’ Dido was so eager to know – for Silas’s sake – whether Captain Laurence was, indeed, an engaged man that she momentarily forgot the risk of capture to herself. She drew Lucy to a halt outside the open front of the village forge – where the light of the blacksmith’s fire shone out into the dull morning, and the smells of hot iron and coal mixed with the damp air. ‘Is there an understanding between you and the captain?’ she asked firmly.
Lucy bent her head. ‘Nothing has quite been said,’ she admitted. ‘There has been no outright proposal. For you know it would not be proper to announce an engagement whilst my poor friend is lying sick. I could not bear to do anything so indelicate myself, and the dear captain is so very considerate …’
‘Is he?’ said Dido suddenly, half to herself. The description did not quite chime with her own opinion of the man – and yet, for some reason, it had raised again the troubling memory of that moment when she and Laurence had stood together on the gallery … Why?
But meanwhile Lucy, who had not heard the question, was running on eagerly with her own narrative.
‘Of course he cannot speak until Pen is quite out of danger. But …’ She stopped with such a look of happy consciousness as cried aloud to be prompted.
Dido put aside her doubts about the captain’s character. ‘But?’ she prompted obligingly.
There was a little lifting of the eyes. A sigh of great sensibility. ‘But … I believe I do not say too much if I confess that there is an attachment between us.’
‘I see.’ Dido was rather surprised by this news; she had been almost certain that – if Captain Laurence settled on either of the two friends – it would be the lovely Penelope. She looked doubtingly at Lucy’s unremarkable little face: the ruddy light of the blacksmith’s fire deepened the rather excessive colour on her freckled cheeks and laid a faint red gleam across the lank curls clustering under the pink bonnet. Could a man such as Laurence be charmed by the person or the mind of Lucy Crockford?
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Of course, there was money to be considered. But the Ashfield estate, she knew, was entailed upon the male line. It was not a subject ever entered upon by Lucy or Harriet, but it was generally known in the village that there was somewhere a distant relation who could ‘turn them out of the house if anything should happen to their brother’. It was also universally supposed that Lucy and Harriet’s marriage portions were small – a thousand – two was the most that even generous gossip allotted to them.
Two thousand pounds was certainly no great inducement to an ambitious man. And Dido would take an oath that Laurence was ambitious. It was possible that Lucy was deceived – either by her own wishes, or by the gentleman himself …
Meanwhile Lucy was chattering on. ‘Two days ago, on the evening we all dined at the abbey, Captain Laurence and I were in the conservatory alone all the time between dinner and tea. And he was very attentive.’
She smirked and raised her brows in a way which invited her companion to beg for confidences – but Dido was in no mood to oblige her. ‘And you are certain,’ she said briskly, ‘that Harriet would oppose an engagement?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘But why? Why should Harriet wish to prevent your happiness?’
Lucy primmed up her lips. ‘It is not in my nature to be suspicious,’ she said, ‘nor to speak ill of a sister.’
Dido stared a moment, then understanding dawned. ‘You suspect her of … admiring the captain herself?’
Lucy tossed her head. ‘Why do you suppose she has insisted upon staying at Madderstone with Penelope?’ she cried in a sharp, quick accent.
‘Why, she is nursing her!’
‘But why cannot she leave the house? The business of nursing could be safely left in the hands of Nanny and the Madderstone housekeeper. But there is no shifting her from the place! She is determined to remain where he is.’
‘I cannot believe …’ began Dido, but just at that moment, Margaret’s unmistakable green and yellow bonnet emerged from the butcher’s shop. Forgetting everything but her own need for liberty, Dido began to hurry towards the stile, pulling Lucy with her.