by Anna Dean
‘What a very kind invitation! I shall consider it.’
Harriet was about to press the point but was prevented from doing so by the appearance of a housemaid come to say that Mr Paynter was out in the passageway and would like a short conference with Miss Crockford before coming in to see his patient. Immediately Harriet was on her feet, setting her cap straight, smoothing her gown and preparing to give an account of her nursing. But, at the door, she hesitated a moment to say, ‘Remember, I am relying upon you.’
The door closed behind her and Dido was left alone in the still chamber with only the sleeping girl, the gentle lapping of flames and the tap-tap of rain at the window for company.
Her thoughts were far from comfortable. She was deeply concerned for Harriet – and for Lucy too. And then, when she turned her head and looked upon the peacefully sleeping Penelope, she felt an even graver disquiet.
For here was an unscrupulous man who had deliberately made two young women in love with him. Two young women who were – to put the matter kindly – not remarkable for their sense. Why had he done it? And what would be the end of it all for them?
For the plain woman with a fortune it might end in a loveless marriage which would bring ruin on her brother and sister. But what was to be expected for the beautiful and penniless girl …? What were his motives in pursuing her? A girl with no father or brothers to protect her, guarded only by the mistress of a common school.
The fate he had planned for her might be infinitely worse.
Expelled from the sickroom by the surgeon’s arrival, Dido walked slowly out onto the landing which overlooked the hall and leant thoughtfully upon the gilded stair rail. Below her was spread Mr Harman-Foote’s dazzling new floor of coloured marble. High above her head rain pattered on the cupola, but otherwise the house seemed unusually quiet – there was only the murmur of voices in the room behind her, and the faint beating of a toy drum drifting down from the nursery.
Harriet’s communications had, she found, depressed her spirits and disturbed her in more ways than one. For now her mind was making invidious comparisons …
It was, of course, regrettable that Edward Crockford had failed to safeguard the futures of his daughters – but at least he had tried. Her own father had made no attempt to circumvent those severe laws of inheritance which impoverished daughters to the benefit of sons. The bulk of his small fortune had been spent on the education of his sons, and the remainder inherited by them …
She stopped herself. She was too near to being angry with her father – a man who had never been anything but kindly and tolerant towards her. Naturally he had never doubted that the boys would provide for their sisters – as they had. Eliza and Dido might be poor, but they would never be destitute, never lack for a home – though that home might not always be to their taste …
She must not succumb to self-pity. A diversion was absolutely necessary and she began immediately to look about for a suitable means of continuing her enquiries.
Beyond the high sash windows, rain continued to sweep across the lawns, cutting off the possibility of a visit to the ruins or the pool. Her eyes strayed on along the carpeted length of the passage – and came to rest at last upon the door of Miss Fenn’s room … Thus fixing her wandering thoughts upon the disappearance of the letters.
This would be an excellent opportunity for taking a look about the bedchamber alone. Would it be allowable to venture in there unaccompanied …? Yes, she thought that it might. She crept quietly to the door. She would, of course, explain her actions later to Anne. She was sure that she would not disapprove.
And yet, as she opened the door, she could not quite escape a feeling that she was doing something wrong: intruding. It was maybe the lingering presence of the apartment’s mistress which caused such a feeling of awkwardness.
The room seemed larger by day, and the stronger light falling through the tall, unshuttered windows also brought forward the intricate pattern of the wallpaper, the beauty of the needlework in the bed-hangings, the rich wood of the furnishings.
It was a very fine room indeed. And, as she hesitated just inside the door, Dido wondered again at its having been allotted to a governess. The most comfortable attic – or the very humblest family room – would have been a more usual choice. An idea insinuated itself into her mind: an idea she would have been ashamed to speak aloud …
It would have been the widowed Mr Harman himself who decreed where the young woman was placed; was it possible that he had chosen this room because Miss Fenn was more than a governess? Dido blushed at framing the thought – but framed it none the less: was it possible that she had been the old gentleman’s mistress?
She looked about and Miss Fenn’s few, simple possessions, thrown into sharp contrast by the room’s luxury, rebuked her for the thought. The plain hairbrush and writing desk, the text above the bed, certainly had not the appearance of belonging to an immoral woman. The black bible looked particularly humble and virtuous on the fine polished mahogany of the bedside table – and cried aloud against the horrible idea.
She crossed the room, picked up the bible and found that it bore every indication of constant use. She turned a page or two and saw the marks of a pencil everywhere – underlinings and neat little commentaries crammed into the margins. It would seem that Miss Fenn was one of those exceedingly pious women who make notes upon the sermons they hear every Sunday.
There is something about the writing of those who are dead – it seems to promise a connection with the past. Dido moved eagerly towards the light of the window to read more closely. And, once there, she was taken with the idea of trying to discover whether there was any page which had been studied more than the others. A favoured passage might reveal much about the lady’s character.
She closed the book, placed its spine in one hand and, carefully giving way to the inclination of the pages, waited to see at what place it would, most naturally, fall open.
The attempt was more successful than she had dared to hope.
The leaves hardly fluttered before opening at one place so very decisively that there could be little doubt of the book having been held in that position for some time. She turned into the full light of the window.
The bible had opened at the third chapter of Saint Paul’s letter to the Colossians and there were two verses underlined: Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as it is fit in the Lord. Husbands, love your wives, and be not bitter against them.
And in the margin was written: Mr Portinscale spoke very movingly in his sermon today upon the second part of this commandment – the duty of tenderness which a husband owes to his wife.
Did he indeed? thought Dido. It was not a subject upon which she could imagine Madderstone’s clergyman being eloquent …
But, before she could pursue her thoughts any further, there came the sound of quick footsteps outside in the gallery. She started – as guilty as if she were about to be detected in a crime – and hurriedly closed the book. And, as she did so, something – something which had been shaken loose by her handling – fell from inside the back cover onto the floor.
She snatched it up and had just time to see that it was a letter directed to Miss Elinor Fenn, before a hand turned the lock of the door. And there was but half a minute to decide between satisfying honour and satisfying curiosity: between taking the letter and replacing it.
The temptation was too great; it was decided in the instant. The door opened. Mrs Harman-Foote walked into the room. Dido was laying the bible back in its place beside the bed – and the letter was hidden away in her pocket.
Chapter Seventeen
Dido was not in the habit of thinking of herself as a bad woman. While acknowledging her many faults, she had always believed the balance to be, overall, in favour of virtue. But she found that now, facing her friend with Miss Fenn’s letter concealed in her pocket and reminding her of its presence with a little rustling every time she moved, she could not be quite so comfortable with herse
lf as usual. It had been theft – a kind of theft. She ought to tell Anne about it. She ought not to read it …
‘Why, Dido, I believe you are unwell. You still look very pale.’
‘Oh, I am quite well, thank you.’
‘Well, I am glad of it,’ cried Mrs Harman-Foote immediately. She sat down on the window seat and clasped her hands anxiously in her lap. ‘I must talk with you. I have had a dreadful shock!’
‘A shock?’ Dido sat down beside her and watched emotion working in every feature of her face. ‘Whatever has happened?’
‘The ring! It is gone!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘My dear Miss Fenn’s ring. It is gone from my jewel case.’
‘But it cannot … Are you sure?’
‘Oh yes. I have searched the whole room. It is gone. It was certainly there yesterday. But just now I went up to my bedchamber to change my wet clothes – and I found that the ring is gone.’ She drew a long breath. ‘I am this minute going to my housekeeper. I shall insist that the house is searched.’
Dido smiled. For all the pretence of talking the matter over, it was clear that Anne had already determined upon her exact course of action. ‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You are quite right, of course. It is very important that we find it – and even more important that we find who has taken it. For why should anyone steal it? It is of gold, and so must have some value,’ she mused, ‘but not so very much.’
‘There were a dozen beside it in the jewel case which were of much greater value – and they were left untouched.’ Anne stood up, very eager to begin the search, for commanding activity was a great deal more to her taste than contemplation.
But Dido was still puzzling over the matter. ‘Who would have had the opportunity to take the ring?’ she asked.
‘No one except the housemaids. There is my own maid, Jones, but she is above suspicion. She has been with me for more than ten years.’
‘And you can think of no one else? What of … visitors to the house.’
‘Visitors!’ cried Anne. ‘I could never suspect my visitors of such a thing!’ And then, having paid this necessary tribute to good breeding, she considered the matter carefully. ‘It cannot have been a visitor,’ she said at last. ‘A visitor could certainly not wander away to the bedchambers without my being aware of it. No one but a servant could have gone to my room.’
Except, thought Dido, your husband …
This disappearance of the ring was intriguing, but there was nothing to be gained from staying to watch it searched for. It was, Dido knew, a matter with which Anne Harman-Foote could be safely entrusted. And the letter in her pocket was continually demanding her attention. So she left the house just as soon as the rain held off – and when the search was at its height, with Anne confidently issuing commands from the hall, like a general directing a battle.
She hurried through the gardens and into the park, busily calculating whether she must walk the full two miles to Badleigh before looking at the letter – or whether the path afforded some secluded place in which to satisfy her curiosity. She still could not quite explain to herself why she had decided so quickly to conceal her discovery in the bedroom, nor why she had continued to say nothing of it all the time she remained in the house. Perhaps it was because she was half-afraid of the contents: afraid that they would reveal something which Anne Harman-Foote would not wish to know … Something which might make her call a halt to the enquiries …
But the removal of all the other letters pointed to the significance of Miss Fenn’s correspondence … And this one letter, which had by good fortune escaped the attention of the intruder, seemed by its privileged position in the bible to be more important even than the others …
In short, the only thing she was sure of was that she could not bear to remain any longer in ignorance of its contents. And when she had left the open parkland and the church, and had followed the path into a small wood, she decided that its great oaks and hazel thickets provided secrecy enough, and a fallen log a sufficient resting place. She sat down and there, amidst the drifts of curled, bronze leaves, with the busy sound of a small stream filling the stillness, she drew the letter from her pocket.
It was rather thick – there seemed to be two sheets of paper. The direction was written in a strong, slanting hand … a man’s writing perhaps? And there was no mark of a post office on it. It had certainly been delivered by hand – which argued for its having come from no great distance. She turned it over: the broken seal was of red wax, and did not bear the imprint of any device.
She opened it and found that it was not, in fact, a single letter of two sheets, but rather one letter enclosed within another. Her interest quickened.
She smoothed the outer sheet and read, in the same firm hand as the direction:
4th June 1791
Dear Madam,
I am returning under this cover your recent letter. And I beg you to send no more.
I cannot conceive that you truly intend to inflict pain upon one whom you profess to love, nor to end that security, happiness and contentment which he presently enjoys. Therefore I must remind you once again that such might be the end of your continued protestations of affection. I beg you will leave them off.
You must forget what is past.
There was no signature.
She quickly picked up the inner letter, but was instantly disappointed. It bore no direction – nothing to show to whom it had been sent. She unfolded it and found, written in the same small, neat hand which she had seen in the bible:
3rd June 1791
Beloved,
I must tell you how dear you are to me.
I see you, again and again, with your friends about you and I feel so lonely, my dear. You scarcely notice me and I must watch you in silence. Once I was everything to you – now I am nothing. And yet, dearest, I care more deeply for you than anyone else ever can. Believe me, no other woman will ever, can ever, love you as I love you – as I will always love you.
The pain of being apart is terrible. I can no longer endure this separation. We must be together. I see now that I was mistaken in ever thinking that I could give you up. I was wrong to ever agree to it.
Your ever loving
Elinor Fenn.
Dido stared, read the letter again to be sure she had not mistaken its contents, then let it drop into her lap.
The little noises of the forest flowed about her: the song of the stream, the rapid, broken stutter of a woodpecker, the furtive rustling of a mouse or a blackbird in the dead leaves. But in her head she heard only the echo of those passionate words in the letter. Words which showed Miss Elinor Fenn to have been a very different creature from the quiet, religious woman her neighbours had taken her for.
Chapter Eighteen
… You are, I know, Eliza, too generous to glory in your better judgement; but I must confess that you may have been right to advise against the enquiries I have lately been making. For I am now got to such a point I do not know where to turn.
The finding of these letters has taken me into very dangerous territory indeed. I know not what I ought to do next. And indecision is, I believe, of all states of mind, the most painful.
I find now that I am in possession of information about Miss Fenn which her friend would find almost as distressing as an incontrovertible proof of self-murder. For it would seem that the lady did, indeed, have a lover and, since secrecy was imperative to him, one cannot escape the conclusion that it was a guilty, clandestine attachment.
I am all amazement. I cannot make out how such a business could have carried on at Madderstone without any of her neighbours suspecting it. How were meetings contrived? How were friends deceived? For it is certain – from the way in which the neighbourhood talks about Miss Fenn – no shadow was ever cast upon her reputation.
Eliza, I certainly do not feel equal to revealing this attachment to Mrs Harman-Foote, and there would seem to be no reason for destroying her esteem of her go
verness.
Except that this lover would have had a powerful motive for murder.
The passionate nature which her letter betrays must have put him in a perpetual fear of disclosure. Here was she – just a few days before she met her death – declaring that she ‘could no longer endure’ their separation, insisting that they ‘must be together’. Did she intend some desperate action which would expose him? Did he act to prevent that exposure?
I cannot help but suspect that it was this lover with whom she had an appointment on the day of her disappearance. Nor can I forget that purse full of money and the last weeks of life, during which, by the housekeeper’s account, Miss Fenn had seemed recovered from her lowness of spirits.
These arguments against suicide, combined with the motive – and opportunity – for murder, make me fear that a terrible injustice has been done: that not only is a woman cast out needlessly from the church’s mercy, but also that a murderer is walking freely among us …
And I do fear that he may be walking among us.
The fifteen years which have passed since the lady’s death might have produced the hope that the guilty man was already gone beyond the reach of human law to face a much surer and more terrible judgement. But the removal of the other letters – those in the writing desk – robs me of that comfort. Someone is acting now to obscure the truth. The disappearance of Miss Fenn’s ring must put that beyond doubt. Someone wishes to remove every remembrance of this woman: every clue to her secrets. And I cannot escape the conviction that that person was among the company collected at the dinner table when Anne promised to take me to Miss Fenn’s room.
Under these circumstances, can I, in all conscience, stand by and do nothing? Every principle of humanity and morality cries out against it …