by G. M. Best
Mrs Grantly’s eyes widened with horror. ‘But who but us would desire that?’ she asked shakily.
‘Your father is deeply loved by many of the bedesmen. It’s possible that one of them has acted to protect him.’ He saw hope return to her eyes and took pleasure in it before providing her with less happy news. ‘I’ve advised Mr Harding that he should inform the inspector of all that we know so that he can hopefully identify the killer.’
‘I don’t think Mr Blake can be trusted to keep our secret,’ she replied witheringly. ‘I don’t want him told.’
‘Mr Trollope thinks that would not be wise,’ interjected her husband. ‘It could put us all in a bad light if the story leaks out and it becomes known that we kept him in the dark about it.’
‘Mrs Grantly bristled like a stuck pig and said in a voice that brooked no contradiction, ‘I would prefer to take that risk. For all we know the murders may have another cause and we will have wrecked our reputation for nothing.’
‘I agree,’ commented her father.
Dr Grantly saw the determination in his wife’s face and chose not to argue. ‘Then the matter is closed,’ he announced.
Trollope said nothing but he felt deeply frustrated. It was plain to him that the family was acting like an ostrich burying its head in the sand. Two men had been murdered and what other cause could there possibly be for their deaths? The inspector was not going to just abandon his investigation. Sooner or later John Gaunt would reveal what he knew – unless, of course, he was also murdered. Dare he therefore respect the family’s wishes and risk that man’s life? Or should he tell the police what he had been told in confidence? Mrs Grantly was a resourceful woman and one who would do anything she could to protect her husband and children from scandal. Had she refused to let them tell the inspector because she was the murderer?
Mrs Grantly looked relieved and gave first her husband and then her father an affectionate kiss. ‘Papa, we must speak with Eleanor,’ she said, ‘so that she is equally circumspect on this matter. Will you accompany me to her room?’ This question was said in such a way that it again left no room for disagreement.
Hardly had they left the study than Dr Grantly dejectedly sank into a chair. He looked anxiously at Trollope and muttered, ‘I cannot go against their wishes but I agree with you. We’ll not be able to keep the matter of Catherine Farrell secret and then our silence will have made matters worse.’ There was not a trace in his face of the composure that he had shown in his wife’s presence. ‘Mr Trollope, I beg that you will help me.’
‘In what way?’
‘Go back to London. Do whatever you can to find the evidence that will prove my wife is not Catherine Farrell’s child. I know her. She’s not capable of having committed these crimes. Nor is Mr Harding. Though it pains me to say it, I believe that Eleanor must have committed the murders. I think you will find that it is she who carries tainted blood within her veins.’
‘And what if I find that it’s your wife who is Catherine Farrell’s child?’
‘You won’t. My wife is an angel. There’s not an ounce of bad blood in her. Eleanor is a good enough girl but she has weaknesses – not least her interest in that young and dangerous doctor, Mr Bold. I would not be surprised if the pair of them are behind the murders!’
‘But you’ve no evidence that Eleanor has told John Bold about Catherine Farrell,’ protested Trollope.
‘Then look into that also. If I were a gambling man, I would bet everything I have that she’s told him.’
Trollope was unhappy at the evident bias in the archdeacon’s mind, but he registered that it was natural for a husband to defend his wife’s position. He also knew that it made sense for the family to try and discover the truth. After a momentary reflection he said, ‘I’ll go back to London as soon as the inspector permits that and I’ll do what I can, but only on two conditions.’
‘What are they?’
‘First, that I should speak with Eleanor about Catherine Farrell.’
‘What good would that do?’
‘It might clarify whether she has told Mr Bold. It’s also possible that she knows more than your wife and she may provide some clue that I can follow.’
‘She is more likely to mislead you, but I assent to your condition.’
‘Good. And my second condition is that, if I discover your wife is Catherine Farrell’s child, you’ll not expect me to stay silent on the matter to the other members of your family.’
The archdeacon shrugged his shoulders. ‘I assent to that also because I’m sure that will not be the outcome of your investigations.’
The two men shook hands and shortly afterwards Trollope decided to return to his room to rest. Scarce had he arrived within it than there was a gentle knock on his door. He opened it and outside in the corridor stood Mrs Grantly. Her eyes flashed angrily at him. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Trollope,’ she stated, ‘but I must see you and in private.’
‘Please come in.’
She entered the room with a look of deep determination. ‘What I’ve to say will not take long,’ she said and the coldness in her voice was chilling. ‘In my opinion it’s most unfortunate that you’ve become a party to our family secret. I will therefore be blunt. I don’t want you poking your nose any further into our affairs and I want you to cease offering advice to my father and husband.’
‘Not even if I could help find out whether you or your sister is the child of Catherine Farrell?’
‘I’ve already said I’ve no interest in knowing the truth on that topic. As far as I’m concerned I’m the daughter of Mr Harding and I’m Eleanor’s sister. The issue of whether the same blood flows in my veins means absolutely nothing to me.’ She jabbed at him with her right forefinger. ‘I want you to keep out of this matter altogether and I want your solemn word that you’ll say nothing to anyone about my family’s connection to Catherine Farrell.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Grantly, but I’ll not give you what you ask,’ he replied. ‘I can promise that I’ll not lightly reveal your family’s secret, but too much has happened here for me to guarantee never to speak about it. Two men have been murdered.’
‘Their deaths may not be connected with this.’
‘But they most probably are. I’ll let the inspector undertake his investigation and if, at some point, I judge I must tell him, then I will.’
‘I beg you to reconsider, Mr Trollope. You could destroy this family in the process! I ask not for myself but because the resulting outcry will destroy my husband’s career, wreck any chance Eleanor has for happiness, and more than likely kill my father. Think also of the impact that it will have on my stepchildren. Their lives too will be blighted. Think what their schoolmates will say to them if they think their grandmother was a murderess!’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Grantly. I sympathize with your position but I can’t give you the promise you seek.’
‘You show the strangest sympathy, sir, when you decline to offer the one thing that would put my mind at rest! You told me that you would one day like to be a successful novelist. That will never happen if you lack the imagination to see how this information could destroy us!’
‘I’ve no doubt that your lives would become intolerable, but I believe that sometimes telling the truth is more important than anything else. What I will promise is that I’ll not tell the inspector what I know without first informing your father and husband that I intend to do so.’
Mrs Grantly stiffened. For a moment he thought that she was going to strike him. However, she recovered herself and then said in a menacing tone, ‘I’m not without influence, sir. If you betray our secret I’ll see that you suffer for it! Have no doubt about that!’
‘Are you threatening me, Mrs Grantly?’
‘I won’t let you betray us!’
‘You heard my answer,’ he continued in as calm a voice as he could muster. ‘I think you should leave.’
Fury swept across her face and, in that instant, Trollope thought he
could see her killing the two bedesmen. All the kindness in her demeanour had vanished. Here was a woman who would be prepared to do anything to defend her family’s reputation. She swept out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Trollope sat down in his chair and heaved a deep sigh. Had he said the right thing? If she was an innocent woman, she had deserved better treatment from him. If he put himself in her shoes, everything she had said was true. The story of Catherine Farrell would destroy not just her life but also the lives of everyone she loved. And for what purpose? Who would gain by knowing of Mr Harding’s misguided act of kindness all those years ago?
His reverie was broken by an angry knock at his door. Even as he opened it, Eleanor Harding pushed her way in. ‘What have you done to so upset my sister?’ she demanded.
Trollope briefly explained the gist of what had transpired between him and Mrs Grantly.
‘I swear to you, Mr Trollope, that none of us are guilty. Someone else has committed these murders.’
‘But who else has an interest in silencing the bedesmen?’
All colour left Eleanor Harding’s cheeks and for a moment he thought she was going to faint. He grasped hold of her arm and gently escorted her to a chair. She sat down, trembling and wringing her hands. Trollope had the intuition to know the cause. ‘Mr Bold also knows, doesn’t he?’ he whispered gently.
‘My sister is a strong and determined woman, Mr Trollope. When she found those terrible letters she simply dismissed what they contained as being of no relevance to us. She said our lives had moved on and been blessed by God. She told me that I should never speak to Father about what she’d discovered. There was no need to revisit the past and reopen old wounds. She ordered me to speak to no one about Catherine Farrell.’
‘And did you obey her?’
‘No, I lacked her courage. I couldn’t help worrying about what would happen if others discovered our secret. I’d no one to turn to – not Susan, not my father, not my brother-in-law.’
‘And so you talked to John Bold?’
‘Yes, I confided in him. He’s been a loyal friend of this family since we were children together.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He told me not to worry because he would never let anyone harm me.’ All Eleanor’s efforts to control her emotions were instantly lost as she said these words. She slumped in the seat, her head dropped into her hands and she sobbed bitterly, her shoulders heaving with her grief.
‘And now you fear he may have killed the bedesmen to protect you?’
There was no answer but the failure to deny it was sufficient in itself. He waited, permitting her to gradually regain control of herself. She eventually looked up at him. Never had he seen such anguish in a person’s face. ‘God forgive me but I fear that he might, and I hate myself for thinking it.’
‘Because you love him?’
She gave no immediate answer, but he knew that she did. ‘Have you told your sister that Mr Bold knows?’
‘No.’
‘Then I suggest that you do not.’ She looked up at him, clearly surprised by his comment, and so he explained his response. ‘Let me first see if I can find some evidence to prove his innocence. If you tell your sister she will tell Dr Grantly and, knowing his dislike of Mr Bold, he will probably tell the inspector that the doctor is the murderer. You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?’
‘No, but is this what we will all be reduced to? Deceiving each other about what we think and what we have done? I fear, Mr Trollope, that unless these murders are resolved soon our family will be destroyed from within. How long will it be before we can’t look at each other without asking whether we are seeing the murderer?’
‘You are right, Miss Harding. That’s why we must find out the person responsible. I know that I upset your sister earlier and I’m sorry for that, but I promise you that I’ll do whatever I can to help solve the murders and, hopefully, without the world having to know their cause. I only wish that you and your sister hadn’t destroyed those letters.’
‘Why?’
‘For all we know there may be a clue in the past that will explain what has happened here,’ Trollope explained. ‘We should be investigating everything we can, including what happened all those years ago.’
‘The letters are not destroyed, Mr Trollope. My sister gave them to me to read and then told me to burn them. However, I couldn’t bring myself to destroy the only clues that we had to our possible true identities, even though I feared what the world might say if the letters became public knowledge. I know this may sound strange but I want to know which of us is Catherine Farrell’s daughter.’
‘And if it was you?’
‘I think that would be a better outcome than if it turned out she was the mother of Susan. My sister is a strong woman but she would find it very hard to come to terms with having a murderess as her mother. I don’t have the same problem. I don’t wish to be her daughter but I would not hate being so. Catherine Farrell loved her child, Mr Trollope, and if I’m that child she deserves my love, whatever crimes she committed.’
Trollope was almost overwhelmed by her fortitude and grace. Surely a woman of her quality could not possibly be the murderer? But then his doubt resurfaced. Outwardly Catherine Farrell had appeared to be an angel. Was the same true about Eleanor Harding?
‘I gave the letters to Mr Bold and begged him to help me uncover the truth,’ she continued. ‘He was the only person I could trust.’
Trollope could see that she did not realize her words were condemning Bold to become a strong suspect in the investigation. A young man might well kill to protect the reputation of the woman he loved. ‘And did he discover anything?’ he asked, choosing not to disillusion her at that moment.
‘He went to London to follow up what few clues were contained within the letters. When he returned he told me that he’d been unable to find anything helpful.’
‘And where are the letters now?’
‘He still has them.’
‘Then have I your permission to speak with him and obtain them from him?’
Eleanor Harding looked distinctly uncomfortable but nevertheless gave her assent.
8
A WIFE WRONGED
A large brass plate engraved ‘John Bold, Surgeon’ on the door of Pakenham Villas informed Anthony Trollope that he had reached the right house. He paused before knocking. Poor Eleanor Harding might not have plighted her troth to this man, and perhaps she had not yet fully acknowledged how much she loved him, but Trollope had no doubt that she did. And why should she not? Her father had opened his home to him and he was young and handsome and appeared good natured and conscientious. It was true that he as yet lacked the income to support a wife, but Trollope suspected it was only a matter of time before Bold would establish himself as a doctor in Barchester, despite the opposition he faced from vested interests.
The woman who opened the door was not beautiful but nor was she unattractive and Trollope judged her to be about thirty years old. Her facial features were sufficiently alike to John Bold that he had no doubts as to her identity. ‘I assume I’ve the pleasure of addressing Miss Bold,’ he said whilst undertaking a slight bow of his head.
‘I am Mary Bold, sir, but you hold the advantage because I’ve no idea of your identity.’
Trollope explained who he was and how he had come on behalf of Miss Harding to discuss some important business with her brother.
‘I’m sorry but my brother is currently not here,’ she replied. ‘He’s been called out to a patient. However, I’m expecting him back shortly so you’re welcome to wait for him in our sitting room.’
To this Trollope willingly assented and she led him down a modest hallway into a room that was comfortably furnished though old-fashioned in its appearance. It bore signs of a family that had seen better days. His eye was mainly drawn to the many books that partially lined its walls. Trollope glanced at the shelves. Many were medical texts but there was also a smattering of historica
l works and books by famous novelists of the day. Mary invited him to sit on a chair and then left him to prepare a cup of tea. In her absence he was very conscious of the slow ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. It seemed a long time but in fact it was but a few minutes before she returned with a tray laden with tea and slices of cake. Although she appeared to lack her brother’s liveliness of manner, Trollope could not help but note her kind face as she began to pour him his drink. He suspected Mary Bold’s faults were fewer than her virtues.
‘This is very kind of you, Miss Bold,’ he said, sipping his tea. ‘Have you lived long here in Barchester?’
‘John and I were first brought here when we were children and we both immediately fell in love with the place. The only sadness is that as yet the city has not truly welcomed my brother.’
‘And why is that? He has an air of authority and his manner strikes me as being one that would put patients at their ease. ’
‘In part it stems from the whispering malice of the other doctors in Barchester. They know my brother has more understanding of modern medicine than they have and they are afraid that they will lose their wealthy patients. As a consequence they spread rumours that he is inexperienced and prone to experiment with untried medicines. But John doesn’t help his cause. He’s too outspoken about the things in Barchester that require changing.’
‘He certainly seems to have upset Dr Grantly, who has not a good word to say about him. I think he regards your brother as a dangerous revolutionary.’
Mary Bold laughed. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth. John wants to end any injustice that he sees but I can assure you that he’s no radical. He’s far too kind a man to desire any revolution.’
‘That is what Miss Harding also says.’
‘I count Eleanor as a friend and wish she could be more.’ Mary paused and a blush spread across her cheeks. It made her appear more attractive. ‘Forgive me, sir, I presume to say too much.’