The Egyptian Coffin (A Lord Ambrose Mystery)

by Jane Jakeman

  “Oh, yes, most surely, I’ll look after her.” Jennet was fussing round the other side of the bed.

  “Please drink this, Miss Lilian.”

  Jennet was holding a small glass containing a syrup. I took it and sipped cautiously. A warm, soothing glow spread down my throat. It stopped the tickle which threatened another spasm of coughing.

  “One of your country remedies, Jennet?”

  I used to tease her about them. She is forever decocotting or whatever the word is — you will know it, Lord Ambrose, and mixing up potions from some smelly herb or other.

  “Aye, but the doctor knows it, too.”

  “Indeed I do. Oil of bergamot, and very effective it is. I never despise the old country herbals.” Dr. Sandys was speaking from the other side of the bed. “They often bring relief of the symptoms, you know. Though I cannot approve of Lord Ambrose’s outlandish behaviour at Malfine — he is using some salve supplied by a gypsy woman upon his scars. Heaven knows what horrible concoction it contains — but it is having a sovereign effect upon his wounds, I must say. He thinks, of course, that I know nothing of the matter, but his man Belos found out about it and informed me, but what could I do in the matter? His lordship is a most determined man and if he will listen to the gypsy’s counsel, who can gainsay him? I must say that he bears but a slender mark upon his face now, though the traces of his wounds will never disappear completely. I have advised him to take some foreign travel to complete his convalescence.”

  “Well, doctor,’tis mighty good to hear he’s improving so well, for the truth is that he did fright the children terrible with those awful scars. They hid away whenever he pleased to ride outside his own grounds, though anyone with a tender heart must have had some pity for what the poor man had suffered in foreign parts. But he’s a strange one, Lord Ambrose, living like a hermit in that great mansion of his. He’s a deep one, if you like — he thinks too much, if you ask me!”

  Here I must state that I am sorry, Lord Ambrose, to include these remarks concerning your character, but you did ask me to make my diary as complete as I could.

  Dr. Sandys’ footsteps were retreating, but the ordeal of his patient was not over. I was dropping off back to sleep and my eyelids were already closed, when a stray thought drifted into my head, and I murmured to Jennet, “Just tell me one thing, Jennet. How is Selene?”

  “The horse, miss? Why ...”

  “Well?”

  “Oh, miss ... the horse is just fine, don’t you fret ...” Dr. Sandys’ footsteps were suddenly returning and I heard his voice, low but clear as he spoke to Jennet.

  “You must tell her. It will do more harm if you tell her a lie now and she finds out the truth later. She will never trust you again.”

  I sat up in bed and opened my eyes suddenly. My head ached, but I had a far worse feeling, a sick feeling, in my stomach. I think I knew what was coming. Jennet was flustered, her face flushed. She was twisting her hands unhappily in her white apron.

  “Tell me what, Dr. Sandys?”

  “Your mare, Selene. I’m sorry, my dear.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “They had to shoot her. There, I’m sorry to have to tell you, but its better that you should know the truth. It must be faced, my dear Miss Lilian.”

  “Oh, doctor — she thought the world of that horse!” cried Jennet.

  My head began to spin. Giddy, sick, I recollect crying out in protest, “But I don’t understand. Why was she shot?”

  “Why? Well, it had to be done, my dear young lady. You would not have let her be left in agony — her leg was broken. Your uncle gave orders for the groom to dispatch her. It was over very quickly, I am sure. They had to do it.”

  I fell silent, slowly realising what had happened and feeling with a creeping horror the pain of losing that beautiful and gentle creature. It seemed like a heavy stone inside my chest.

  And yet, I still had that picture in my head! I was sure I had seen the horse scrambling up after the fall — Selene had surely been standing, walking — so she could not have broken a leg! I had a stubborn vision in my mind of that last moment, before I had lapsed into unconsciousness, with the horse standing over me and the mist, the autumn colours of the trees, in the background.

  “No, no ...” I called out feebly now. “No, it can’t have been ...”

  “There, there, Miss Lilian,” said Jennet. “Don’t upset yourself now — I’m sure there was nothing else they could have done for the poor creature. Try to get some rest now, my chick.”

  “But you don’t understand,” I remember protesting, weakly, “she wasn’t seriously injured! Her legs were sound — I’m sure of it! She was standing — she came over to me!”

  By now, I was sitting up in bed, for anger was pouring into me, my bodily weakness momentarily overcome.

  “Who shot her? Adams would never have let anyone hurt her, I know it! He was as devoted to Selene as I was!”

  Dr. Sandys was making soothing noises now, trying to calm his agitated patient.

  “Send for Adams,” I continued frantically, turning from Jennet to Dr. Sandys, and then back again, looking at their faces as if for signs of some secret hope. “Send for the groom — he was with me that day. He’ll tell you! He saw it all happen.”

  “Oh, Miss Lilian,” begged Jennet, “please calm yourself. No good will come of all this — ”

  “But why was it done, Jennet? Why was my poor Selene shot?”

  “Oh, miss, it had to be done, and there’s an end on it. And Adams — well, he’s not here any more.”

  “Not here? What do you mean? Adams has been the head groom here for years. What has happened to him? Has he gone away?”

  “Dismissed, miss.”

  “Dismissed?”

  “Yes, miss. Your uncle turned him away. He said he would get another groom to ... to see to your horse, and told Adams he was to leave the Park and go instantly. He went that very same day — none knows where. His sister in the village — she’s not saying, not to a soul.”

  “But why, Jennet, why?”

  “Oh, it was your uncle, miss.” Jennet was in tears now. “He gave orders for the horse to be shot and he sent Adams packing. Your uncle was carrying on about how Adams should have taken better care of you and not let such accidents happen — and we all knows how headstrong you are, miss, and poor Adams would stand no chance of stopping you if you had your heart set on doing something! But your uncle, he said he would have Adams out of doors that very day. So he went, miss, but not afore he’d told your uncle a thing or two — he never reckoned your uncle was treating you right, chough twas not his place to say so. But he always took your part, did Adams — you and that horse of yours. Your uncle was just trying to protect you and save you from your own silly foolishness!”

  I am not sure how long I lay in bed, drifting in and out of consciousness — several days, at any rate. I recall Dr. Sandys saying I was mending, that perhaps I might soon be up and about, but the fever did not leave me, and then my coughing fits increased, and my ribs ached so I was near to crying with the pain. “I fear her lungs may be affected,” Dr. Sandys was saying over my head one morning. “Let us hope that this does not end in a consumption, as is sometimes the case with invalids who lie abed and cannot well breathe and expand their lungs nor take exercise. We must take care, Mistress Jennet, we must take care!”

  *

  Well, my uncle did take care, as I shall set down here!

  My next clear recollection after that — and your lordship will pardon me, but my memories of this time are in fragments and little pieces on account of my fevers — my next recollection is that I was wrapped up by Jennet in fleecy white shawls against any possible draughts and sitting in a big armchair in the Blue Drawing-Room at the Park. A fire burned in the grate, although it was a sunny day outside. But autumn was here; the trees were bending in the wind. I could see them through the window, the branches and the scudding yellow leaves which the wind was carrying thr
ough the ground outside.

  The Blue Drawing-Room speaks entirely of my dear mother’s taste, and takes its name from the wall-hangings of sky-blue taffeta. The oval mirrors, wreathed in gilded bamboo patterns, reflect a watery sort of light, like the stones in my opal ring, and display my mothers collection of filigree ornaments and blue china, standing in sundry little niches and pilasters. Such a gleam of gold wires, of porcelain, glass and swagged ruches of powder-blue silk!

  Standing masterfully against the fireplace, looking quite out of place and stroking his iron-grey beard, was my uncle, my mother’s brother, Micah. I should explain that he had handled our affairs since my father had died seventeen years before, though whilst my mother was still alive he had not had full control.

  I never liked my Uncle Micah, I must confess it. I was what is called “prejudiced” against him, though Jennet had told me that he wanted only what was for my own good, and that he was a very respectable personage, which was the thing that Jennet admired most in anybody. While my mother was alive, I had never had much to do with him, so really I had but little cause for my dislike, as I must admit. There had been arguments between him and my mother, and I had once found her in floods of tears after one of Micah’s visits to the Park. But, till now, he had not had much influence on myself, though he had made occasional attempts to interfere with my upbringing — wanting me to be sent away to a young ladies’ seminary school, for example, where I might learn some restraint instead of running wild, which I believe was his constant complaint, and the idea of my going away was what had distressed my mother so on the occasion when I had found her weeping. She admitted that Uncle Micah had good sense on his side, but she could not bear to part with my company.

  At that time, her will had prevailed. But now the case was altered, as I realised, sitting there in my armchair. Uncle Micah could interfere all he wanted. He was my legal guardian after the death of my mother, and my only near relative.

  “I would never have permitted the expense of your keeping such a horse, in any case” he was saying now. He had red, fleshy lips, buried deep in his grey moustaches, and his thick hair was still streaked with black. He had probably been a handsome man in his youth, I thought, but he had never married.

  “We shall have to be very prudent as to your finances. I kept it from your mother, not wishing to burden her with these troubles, but I must tell you, Lilian, that Westmorland Park is very heavily mortgaged, and there are very few assets remaining. And there is not enough in your father’s trust fund to keep you in this style to which you have quite inappropriately become accustomed. I shall have to be laying out expenses for you, do you understand that? You will be a burden on my pocket, young lady.”

  I kept silent, not really listening to Uncle Micah’s homily. On and on he ran: there was not so much left in my father’s trust fund as I seemed to think — my parents had both been somewhat lax — well, careless, nay foolish, were the most appropriate words — foolish with money — and anything enjoyable in life, it seemed, also showed a want of proper respect for the precious lucre.

  Uncle Micah gazed out of the window, and even the peaceful scene outside presented an object of grave offence. “That tree!” he snorted, pointing at a luxuriant growth just outside the window. “That absurd tree! Why, it must have cost all of fifty pounds!”

  “That tree” was innocent of blossoms at the present season. It was a magnolia, obtained by my father for his young bride, when my parents were first married. Even then, my mother had a taste for the exotic: she pored over books of rare plants, over voyages of discovery to distant lands, and had heard of Lord Bute’s famous gardens of rarities, where camellias, magnolias, and the Green Tea Tree bloomed, transplanted far from their distant homelands. My father had begged a specimen of magnolia from his lordship’s head gardener, the redoubtable Archibald Thomson. As my mother loved to recount, it had, somewhat surprisingly, duly arrived, packed carefully in a crate, with instructions written in a rough countryman’s hand. The tree had flourished on the south-facing lawn at Westmorland Park. Every June it burst into a magnificent scented spectacle, twenty feet in height, of great creamy flowers.

  There seemed no point in telling Uncle Micah that the tree had cost nothing; it had been a graceful gesture from an old gardener. But there was more to my silence that that. It seemed pointless to say anything at all, for I truly believed that Uncle Micah disliked the magnolia for its beauty as much as for any possible cost. I do not know why I sensed this but I suddenly understood it as a part of his character, that is to say, I saw him as a grown-up would see him, yet understanding things that would not be voiced aloud.

  I continued to listen, nodding when it seemed necessary. I found I could look out of the window at the same time, and watch a squirrel, scampering across the lawn to prepare its winter larder at the base of a tree. I found myself thinking how very interesting life at the Park always was, with these small creatures and the endless variety of activities that went on just outside the old house, where the birds and animals bustled about with their little lives. I much preferred to watch squirrels than to think about what my uncle was saying. In any case, I was drowsing in the sun that came through the small glass panes. Uncle Micah’s voice was droning on and on.

  “And there is really not sufficient money available to keep up an establishment such as the Park just for a miss of seventeen. Especially when that uppish miss has such stiffnecked and stubborn follies as you have displayed, young lady. Expensive horses, grooms, doctor’s bills — all this adds up, you know. It adds up! Now, the Park cannot be sold, for it was entailed by your great-grandfather, and if you marry and have heirs, it must pass to them. But I intend to move here myself, to supervise the expenditure and ensure there is not the slightest waste! My house in Bristol can be sold, and I shall occupy the east wing.”

  I began now to pay attention.

  “And if we sent you abroad for your health, the savings would be very great, and I do not see why I should be at the expense of providing you with an establishment here,” he was saying. “There is not enough interest coming into the fund to pay for the costs of running the Park. I shall have to assist out of my own pocket. And I do not see why it is at all necessary for a young woman to live in such a style.”

  “Can’t the man ever cut a sentence short?” I wondered at this point: I had lost track of my squirrel because of Uncle Micah’s going on and on.

  “I have made my decisions, which I will now proceed to communicate to you,” continued Micah, bearing out everything I had just been thinking. “The west wing — that which you and Mrs. Jennet occupy at present — is to be closed. The furniture will be sheeted up. As for the estate, I take no interest in that — the tenants can pay their rents, which do not amount to a row of beans — through an agent.”

  “Oh no!” I gasped, realising at last the import of all this verbiage, though he still had not imparted his full array of plans for my disposition. “No, I beg you, Uncle, let me stay at the Park!”

  “Why, niece, I have much more exciting plans for you — plans such as any young woman would delight in. You are to go abroad and I am determined to take control of your affairs myself; I am fully entitled to do so as your guardian, you know. Had I been managing things here of late, your unfortunate accident would never have occurred, for you would never have been permitted to have such an expensive and mettlesome horse. An old pony — yes, an old, safe cob, that would have been a perfectly adequate mount for a young woman. But careering all over the countryside on a thoroughbred!”

  He turned and looked out of the window and a fresh cause for reproach met his vision.

  “Come, come, dry your eyes, miss, for I see the thought of it upsets you — you are like your mother, too tenderhearted. And that conservatory of hers — that was another shocking expense that I would never have permitted! However, that is all now in the past, and I, as your legal guardian until or unless you marry — I will make the decisions now.

  “You w
ill leave the Park, but mind, it is for your own health, and I am acting with Dr. Sandys’ medical considerations in mind. He has told me that you need a milder climate for your lungs — you should not stay here throughout the winter. His advice is that your best convalescence will be travel to warmer and dryer climes, and I have made all due enquiries and been most conscientious in determining what will prove the most effectual in your case. I had considered that you might go to Italy, but the weather, I am told, is quite unreliable ...(here Uncle Micah paused, turned up his eyes to the ceiling, as if in despair at the very thought of Italy’s frightful unreliability in the respect of climate) and you might travel there only to find rain and mists as bad as any we might expect here.”

  “Uncle — ” I began, for I was going to beg him that I might be allowed some say in the choice of what part of the world was to receive me. But he carried straight on as though I had not spoken. “Besides, I have made enquiries and Egypt is very inexpensive, I find — indeed, there will be a deal of saving if you spend the winter there, for it will be far cheaper than heating all the rooms at the Park ... hmm, you may take Jennet as a maid — her wages are small. Besides, she saves the expense of having a nurse while you are still convalescing from your accident. But most of the other servants at the Park will have to go — I have already dismissed Adams, the groom — and I refused to give him a character, I may say, so he will not easily find other employment. I suppose the man may take to drink or crime for all I care. Incompetent, insolent — that’s what he was, like all the other servants here. Your parents never took the trouble to teach them their place!”

  “Oh, Uncle Micah, please — will you let me stay at the Park at least until spring?”

  But even this stay of execution was not to be granted.

  “No, miss, I will be at no more expense. The General Steam Navigation Company is advertising most advantageous rates for passengers embarking on its new steamship service, and I have already advised them I wish to make a booking. Jennet has been given instructions to pack such things as you and she will need. And I have already sent for workmen — they are already boarding up the windows of the west wing. Can you not hear them?”