by Jane Jakeman
Perched among these deadweights of the Jesmond family history were some trifling possessions which must have been the present lady’s own choice—little gilt-framed pictures—a child with a kitten, a weeping nymph—that sort of thing. My eye fell on a flowery vase of pink and gold china, fighting a despairing battle for cheerfulness in the midst of weighty gloom.
Although the day promised to be comparatively warm, the nominal mistress of the house was curled up in the armchair wearing a wrapper of pale blue wool and with a rug over her knees. Standing by her side was Mrs. Romey, holding out a cup.
“I was just trying to get my lady to drink some warm milk,” said she. She put the cup down.
Clara Jesmond spoke to Sandys immediately.
“Dr. Sandys, my health is not good. I have quite lost my appetite.”
This, murmured in an undertone from the invalid in the chair, was an understatement. Sandys afterward told me that he had observed her carefully during his stay beneath her husband’s roof, and at any sound, at the creaking of a door or the distant barking of a dog, she would start from her chair with such alarm that he could observe the very pulse beating at her throat. The food on her plate was barely touched: her clothes had begun to hang loosely about that once-plump form. And I observed for myself the great dark hollows that lay under her eyes, making her look almost an old woman. The sight seemed to recall something to me—what exactly, I could not tell.
Sandys came directly to the point. “Lady Jesmond, you will be aware that there is but one likely explanation of the deaths of those two unfortunate young men.”
She answered him, but she was looking up at me, straight into my face; her lips were murmuring so that I saw rather than heard the word being formed.
“Poison.”
I nodded. “And prussic acid in all probability. Fast acting and without remedy.”
The head, with its weight of pretty blonde hair, nodded.
“The most alarming aspect is that there appears to be no connection between the deaths of Mr. Cyriack Jesmond and young Dr. Kelsoe,” Sandys continued. “It seems we must dismiss the possibility of an accident which could have overtaken them both. Can you think of any possible reason why anyone should have some malicious intent toward both of them?”
“No, Dr. Sandys, none whatever. I have racked my brains to find one, but it seems quite impossible, does it not? Cyriack was—well, he was a rash young man sometimes, but he was my husband’s only son and heir, and as for Dr. Kelsoe, I believe he was scarcely known at all here. There can have been no reason whatsoever for anyone at Jesmond Place to wish poor Dr. Kelsoe in his grave.”
Tears stood in her eyes. I said nothing, and let Sandys continue.
“Your ladyship, we must then face a terrible possibility. This is not the work of someone who has murdered for a rational purpose—this is the work of a lunatic, one who kills for the pleasure of it. And that means that anyone may be a victim.”
She was shrinking back into the chair, her face very white. The housekeeper made a sound of alarm and bent down to arrange a shawl round her mistress’s shoulders.
“You’re frightening my lady, doctor, with your wild ideas!”
“No, no,” murmured Lady Jesmond. “We must think about it. But what are we to do?”
I now took a part in the proceedings. “Lady Jesmond, I would urge that you and your housekeeper both take your meals here in your room, and that you eat only food and drink prepared by Mrs. Romey. Do not touch anything else—even if it is only a dish of tea.”
“But how long is this to continue, Lord Ambrose? I cannot remain like that indefinitely! And Sir Edward Knellys wants to take me away—”
Sandys answered for me.
“Lady Jesmond, I believe it to be the case that these are the acts of a deranged mind, which is very close to the edge when it commences its terrible machinations, and that soon it will break down altogether. You will be exonerated, most certainly. Be patient, I beg you, and follow my advice!”
She nodded, mopping her eyes, and we left her. I realized that for much of the time while we had been talking, Mrs. Romey had been sipping at the cup which her mistress had refused. A betrayingly intimate action.
“I think I have heard her weeping at night,” said Sandys, as we descended the stairs, “though the house has some odd properties; because of the twisting staircases and odd little rooms leading hither and thither, it is often difficult to tell where any sound is coming from. At first I thought that I should be put in the attic story, where young Kelsoe had perished, but Sir Antony desired me to remain near his wife’s chamber, in case she should need medical assistance. He seemed to mention this to me in a rather desultory way, as if he were more preoccupied with something that was going on elsewhere, but this is a frequent occurrence with him. He said that Mrs. Romey had been sleeping in his wife’s chamber, but that he had put a stop to it. He wanted Lady Jesmond to have a proper physician nearby, but that, I think, was an excuse. He does not like the housekeeper being so near her.”
“Does Charnock have any medical skill?”
“None, it appears. I cannot account for his presence here, but Sir Antony has said that he assists him with his work—whatever that may be. He has no medical duties.”
“Well, that scarcely throws any light on that curious creature. What happened at young Cyriack’s funeral, by the way? There seems no end to the descriptions of obsequies I am obliged to endure!”
CHAPTER 17
But he was a good observer, Sandys, and gave me a precise account of Cyriack’s funeral. It had been very different from that of Kelsoe. There, few mourners were present, though those few were sincerely afflicted by the loss of a modest and promising young man. For the funeral of Cyriack Jesmond the small church of St. Chad’s was nigh packed out with local people, yet Sandys did not have any feeling that they were mourning their young squire, but rather that their faces were impassive, guarding their feelings for the occasion, and they had mainly come because they were Jesmond tenants and fearful not to make the right show. Of course, the rector, who deemed the occasion worthy of his attendance, said the appropriate words, but somehow, said Sandys, they did not carry much conviction.
There they were, huddled in the church, the family in the front pew and the rustics at the back. I pictured the scene. A clammy day, said Sandys, a kind of damp miasma arising on the moor outside, and the faces within mostly pale and drawn or quite blank and unreadable. As he spoke (I should have used the word “droned”), Sandys surveyed the mourners.
Lady Jesmond was seated between Mr. Charnock and Sir Antony; she had scarcely been able to enter the church unassisted. She was wearing mourning now, a full black gown which seemed to drag her down. As she entered on the arm of Sir Antony, with Mrs. Romey, the housekeeper, supporting her on the other side, one or two voices were heard murmuring in sympathy.
“I do think there’ll be a third burying before summer come.” That was one voice, and a soft sighing of agreement rippled along the hard wooden pews at the back of the little church.
Sandys followed this sad trio of the Jesmonds and their housekeeper into the church and expected them to be seated thus together, as they had entered. But Sir Antony did an unkind thing—even cruel, considering the state of his wife’s health. His words rang through the church. “Charnock, take her other side! Mrs. Romey, you will leave off helping her.”
With a shock, Sandys saw that the fellow, who had lagged behind, went past and, without a word, obeyed his master, though it seems that he flinched, like a dog reluctantly carrying out a disagreeable order which might be reinforced with a blow. There was an open stare of shock on Mrs. Romey’s face, and Sandys thought for a moment that she would refuse to leave her mistress, but she reluctantly gave way, and the lady was assisted, half-fainting, into the family pew.
The housekeeper took her place behind, with the few other servants—the Jesmonds’ coachman and a couple of maids—who also attended the last rites of their young squi
re. Sir Antony had made her inferior status very plain.
For Sandys’ part, he did not venture to enter the same pew as the Jesmonds, and observing empty seats on the other side of the church, took himself thither. There, he told me, he observed that Sir Antony’s face bore the signs of real grief. There were tears in his eyes as the prayers were said over the coffined body of his only son. Charnock looked merely bewildered, as if trying to make some sense of the situation in which he found himself. Behind, the servants were impassive. Mrs. Romey in particular had recovered herself and was staring straight ahead, her back upright. “She has a handsome face, a large and brilliant eye, a fine wide brow—a face that made me pause, I knew not why, but it is all of a piece with what you surmised of her past history,” added the doctor.
As for Lady Jesmond, Sandys thought that the sight of the coffin might undo her altogether, and that a fit of hysteria or fainting might follow, so he held himself in readiness to offer medical assistance. Yet, strange to say, she seemed unchanged as the pallbearers solemnly moved down the church to set their black-draped burden before the altar. She became perhaps even a little calmer as the service progressed.
At the end, however, Sir Antony was forced to leave his lady in the charge of the housekeeper, for the traditional usage was followed and only the men went to the graveside. It was at this point that Sandys, following the other men, became aware that another gentleman had joined them in the church; he presumably had been sitting behind him during the service. He was a respectable-looking fellow, a little stout, in a suit of good black cloth, and stood back as Sir Antony approached the grave. Not a member of the family, Murdoch Sandys concluded; nor did he have the air of being a local country gentleman nor yet a servant.
Sir Antony showed far more feeling than expected. His sobs were unrestrained as the wet clods descended with dull thuds upon his only son’s coffin.
“Ah, Dr. Sandys, I have much to grieve for,” he suddenly broke out, as the drizzling rain washed thin mud over the varnished wood of the coffin; it disappeared at last under the spadefuls of earth that the gravediggers were tipping in, and Sir Antony finally consented to go indoors. Charnock had stood nervously at the back all the while, offering no assistance to his master.
There was no hospitable ceremony of funeral baked meats, as had been held for Kelsoe; the master and mistress of the house were not able to sustain the niceties of such an occasion, their grief being now too close to home. Sir Antony and Lady Jesmond went immediately to their separate rooms. As he mounted the stairs, Sir Antony called out, “Mrs. Romey, would you please have something to eat sent up to Mr. Charnock’s room. There is some work I wish him to undertake immediately. I do not myself want anything, but Mr. Candless and I have a matter to discuss. Mr. Candless, what will you take?”
The stout party whom Sandys had observed at the graveside appeared behind us in the hallway. “No, thank you, Sir Antony, I won’t take anything just now. I have brought the papers with me.” They vanished into the dining room.
That was as much as Sandys was able to tell me, but that evening I learned more. There seemed no likelihood of a normal dinner being served in this turbulent household, and I went into the dining room in search of fodder only to find Lady Jesmond getting up from the table, an empty plate before her. Sandys was there already, urging her to try something. “Do you have something light, Mrs. Romey? A little neat’s foot jelly, perhaps, or some fish?”
“No, nothing for me, Romey,” said her ladyship. “Perhaps a dish of tea—no more.”
Mrs. Romey turned to me.
“Lord Ambrose, Dr. Sandys, no doubt you would like something to eat, but there is nothing prepared. The kitchen maids have not come up from the village—I do not think they will come to this house again, to tell the truth, and I have been looking after my mistress. I can have some bread and ham sent through—or a dish of eggs, if you would prefer.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Romey, I would like something.” I glanced across at Sandys. “But we shan’t trouble anyone to bring it to us—we will happily join you at your table, if you are having something. I do not stand upon ceremony myself.”
Sandys nodded agreement, and this brought a smile from the housekeeper. “Well, Sir Antony would not like gentlemen under his roof to eat with a servant, but perhaps on this occasion, since the circumstances are very unusual…”
“Oh, they are, Mrs. Romey, are they not? Most unusual.”
We followed her into a neat room, the housekeeper’s parlor, plainly and solidly furnished. She disappeared into the cavernous kitchen, and produced a tray with a rabbit pie with country pastry and thick wine gravy, but it was served with some care at a table covered with a white linen cloth. Mrs. Romey wiped her mouth delicately with a napkin and rose to fetch a decanter from the small black-oak sideboard.
“Will you take a glass of Madeira, gentlemen? It is perhaps a little early in the day, but the church was chilling.”
This seemed an agreeable idea. And perhaps it would induce Mrs. Romey to unleash a few secrets.
She raised the glass to her eyes, regarding the rich color of the wine, and made a few comments of the kind one might expect—what a sad occasion, how young was the poor gentleman, and so forth.
“Mrs. Romey, I am a plain Scot,” said Sandys. “I cannot sing any false praises of Mr. Cyriack Jesmond, since I knew nothing of him or his qualities. But let us be clear here: from what I do know of him, he seems no great loss to the world. Sir Antony grieves, that is true, but he is, I think, the only one truly distressed. Forgive me, but I do not care for hypocrisy. What did you think of Cyriack Jesmond?”
There was a long pause and I thought she would refuse to answer him. Then she got up, walked across the room, and suddenly pulled the door open wide. There was no one in the passageway beyond.
Returning to her seat, she did not close the door, but was watchful. What a household, where even the housekeeper fears spies!
“This is a very unhappy house, sir,” she began. “Lady Jesmond is not at all well—perhaps you would watch over her, Doctor?” She hesitated and then plunged on, twisting her napkin between her fingers. “Her health is very poor at present. She seems unable to get any rest, and Sir Antony does not like me to be close to her.”
I had observed this for myself.
“Why, Mrs. Romey? Why does he keep you away from her?”
She dropped her handsome head suddenly, staring down at the white surface of the table. “He wanted…wants…no one else to be near her.” There was a long pause.
I think she would have spoken more.
But there were footsteps.
Charnock’s thin black shape came into view at the end of the passageway.
“Ah, Dr. Sandys—and Lord Ambrose! Sir Antony desired me to ask…but I see you have had something to eat. Well, it is no matter, then.”
His eyes swept round the housekeeper’s room. Mrs. Romey stood up, once more with that expression of cold restraint I had witnessed in the church. She said nothing, and as the silence lengthened it became apparent that Charnock had nothing more to say, but would not leave. Was he under instructions not to allow us to have a private conversation with the housekeeper? Perhaps, unseen, he had followed us as we left the dining room and reported back to his master. He was tugging nervously at his cravat.
There seemed no further prospect of gleaning anything from the housekeeper on that occasion. We stood up, thanked her and followed Charnock down the passageway.
Yet we had learned something.
It was not so very odd that both Sir Antony and Mrs. Romey should desire Sandys to watch over her ladyship. But it was odd that they seemed so highly suspicious of one another.
I had already made up my mind to make a few inquiries of Mr. Candless, but as it happened I had no need. I wanted to speak further to Mrs. Romey. It seemed she might hold the key to a great many secrets in this house.
It was a fine evening, however, and I took Zaraband out for a gallop across the moo
r. It was light still, though the stars were visible already, and small moths and night insects flitted through the air. The Arab flew across the grass and scrubby heather as if she would carry me into another world, but as we turned back reluctantly to Jesmond Place, I saw its muddled and twisted chimneys sticking up into the sky. The real world indeed! And a dangerous one. I thought with relief of Elisabeth, safe in the cool marble expanses of Malfine.
Back at Jesmond Place, all seemed quiet, and I determined to have further talk with Mrs. Romey. I therefore descended the stairs to the housekeeper’s quarters. There was not a soul about—nor even a sound, save the occasional creak of some old beam in the depths of the building. From somewhere above came an occasional noise, which I identified after a few moments’ thought. It was the chinking of glass—not the sort that a bottle makes against the rim of a tumbler, but something much more sharp and careful.
I forgot all about the sound, however, as I entered the realm of the kitchen, for as I identified a larder, and to give my mission some pretext, helped myself to a plate from a stack on the dresser, Mrs. Romey herself entered.
“Can I get you something, my lord?”
“Oh yes, thank you, Mrs. Romey. Is there some cold meat or cheese—something of that sort?”
The last thing I desired, in truth, was some thick mouthfuls of cold rustic collop, doubtless served with no herbs or sauce, but it was too late to wish I had thought of a better request.
Mrs. Romey sallied into the larder and emerged with a great serving-dish, which she set on the table. She then took up a sharp carving-knife and began to cut into the meat. “Pressed brisket of beef,” she explained to my reluctant visage, then lit a couple of candles and laid a place for me at the great scrubbed table.
To my surprise, the plain-looking beef had a better taste than I had expected. “Peppercorns, bayleaf, thyme, and I add a glass or two of white wine to the stock,” said Mrs. Romey after a few minutes, observing my gesture of appreciation. Evidently the former actress had learned to cook.