In a matter of half an hour they had left the main road, and were cantering towards Mr. Whichale’s estate. The five horsemen clattered into the walled forecourt of the house, and found that no boy ran out to hold the horses. They dismounted, the constable groaning after the long ride. Mr. Grahame handed his reins to the constable, and went to knock on the door, which gleamed in new green paint. It remained unopened so he banged the knocker harder.
“Open up!” he called.
The door swung slowly open to reveal an old manservant.
“Sirs,” he said. “Won’t you step in?” He looked into the yard.
Mr. Templeton, who had handed his horse over to Sir Richard, came forward and the old man peered at him. A perceptible look of fear crossed his face. Two boys, under-gardeners by their appearance, came running around to take the horses.
“Where is Jem?” said the butler.
“Jem’s run off, Mr. Moreley, in the night,” said one of the lads. “His things are a’gone too.”
“Damnation!” The magistrate cursed quietly.
“Foolish lad—he’ll lose his wages,” said the butler. He shook his head.
“Jem be a noggerhead, Mr. Moreley.”
“Or a scamp!” muttered Mr. Grahame. The gentlemen entered the house, leaving the constable outside.
They discovered Mr. Whichale seated in the library, putting down the newspaper and picking up their cards. Edward, the first to enter, was struck by something odd in the gentleman’s demeanour as he rose to greet them: he had the distinct impression that Mr. Whichale had only picked up the paper a second before.
He’s just sat down, he thought. Why this pretence of being at his ease?
“Captain Morrison!” said Mr. Whichale. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Good morning, Mr. Whichale,” he said.
“Sir Richard, I am honoured, sir!”
“And this is …?” He looked questioningly at the magistrate.
“I am sorry, Mr. Whichale,” said Sir Richard. “May I present Mr. Grahame?”
The name was familiar, and Mr. Whichale’s eyes flinched slightly as he bowed. “Mr. Grahame, indeed I am honoured to receive you here.”
They watched keenly as he finally turned to Mr. Templeton, wondering how he would greet this phantasm. He was perfectly natural, however.
“Mr. Templeton, I am pleased to see you again,” he said.
Sir Richard and Edward looked at one another in amazement at this coolness.
He turned to Edward. “You have found your friend, I see. I said it would be so.”
This was too much for the captain. “Two months ago you denied to my face ever having even heard of Mr. Templeton!”
“Sir, I hope you do not call me a liar. I may have discreetly steered the facts. Gallantry demands that a lady’s reputation must be protected,” said Mr. Whichale.
“No situation calls for outright untruths!”
“I hope you will take back those words when you hear how I attempted to protect the name of your own sister.”
“Do not dare mention my sister!”
“Cousin, wait a moment,” said Sir Richard. “What reason can you give, Mr. Whichale, for telling us that story?”
Mr. Whichale’s anger appeared to dissolve. He looked around at his four visitors with a genial smile, and gestured to the chairs near the fire.
“Won’t you all sit down?” He rang the bell and the butler came in.
“Moreley, bring in wine—send Harry for it.” He turned to his guests. “Moreley is training another to take over his role. His retirement is well and truly due.”
The magistrate and Mr. Templeton sat on upright chairs, Sir Richard took an armchair, while Edward maintained his angry stance opposite their host on the hearth.
Mr. Whichale coughed delicately. “I was very careful to express no actual untruth.”
“You claimed you never saw Mr. Templeton!” said Edward.
Mr. Whichale shook his head. “I only refuted your statement that my uncle had called him in for spiritual guidance in his last hours. Had you pressed further, I may have been forced to admit seeing him.”
The captain could not recall the exact words spoken at the time. “I believe you implied an untruth, sir.”
Mr. Whichale glared, but Moreley entered, followed by a younger man carrying a laden tray. The butler poured the wine and offered sweet ginger cakes to the gentlemen. The other three took their glasses but Edward curtly shook his head and the footman placed his glass on the mantle. Both servants left the room.
“Now,” said Mr. Whichale, adopting his hospitable tone once more, “I arrive at a matter of some delicacy. It came to my ears that in Lyme a young lady was seen several times alone with a gentleman in the streets of the town. We live quietly hereabouts and take interest in every little adventure.”
The captain replied to the affable tone of these reflections with a stony expression.
The host pressed on. “I sent for Mr. Templeton in the hopes that my relative might repent at the last.”
“Why ask me, a stranger, to come such a distance?” said Mr. Templeton.
“Our parish curate and his vicar, both familiar with my uncle, would have been difficult to persuade.” He turned down his mouth comically. “One does not readily forget an attack by dogs, or the threat of a whipping!”
“Carry on, sir,” the magistrate said.
Mr. Whichale turned to him in annoyance. “I wish to know why you interest yourself in this matter, Mr. Grahame. What is the young lady to you? You seem to think I am before the court.”
“Such investigation is not my usual role but I have involved myself for reasons of the very delicacy to which you refer. This enquiry is not within the scope of a constable’s duties.”
“Very well—I see your point. I sent for the clergyman known to be holidaying at Charmouth. When Mr. Templeton himself informed me that he must urgently communicate with a lady in Lyme, I imagined a romantic entanglement at once, and realised that this was the very gentleman seen walking with the young lady.”
A slight flush lit Mr. Templeton’s cheeks.
Mr. Whichale said, “The next day, he left very early, and a letter arrived addressed in a lady’s hand. Imagining it to have been written by the young woman, I discreetly sent it on to Charmouth.”
“I cannot agree that you have been discreet, sir!” said Edward.
“It seems foolish now. When the young lady’s relations visited me to pose questions about her admirer, I sensed she was in disgrace with her family. I felt honour bound to put you off, sirs, for such is my feeling of sympathy for the weaker sex.”
“Sir, you do not know the trouble you have caused her,” said Sir Richard.
Mr. Whichale mimed great concern.
Edward took a step forward angrily. “This tale would do very well, sir, if it was my sister who wrote the letter.”
Mr. Whichale leant back in his chair, in a pretence of cowering in fear. “Kindly temper your manner, sir. You say the letter was not written by Miss Morrison?”
“It was not and I can prove it.”
Mr. Whichale raised his hands in protest. “I demand no such proof from a gentleman, Captain. Your word is good enough for me. The letter was in a lady’s hand and I made a false assumption that it was hers.”
He looked from one to the other, singling out the magistrate for a friendly glance.
“I believe the letter originated from this house,” said Edward.
Mr. Whichale’s face reddened. Blustering, he said, “Do you dare suggest that an act of forgery could have taken place, in my house!”
Mr. Templeton, having kept his cool, was quick to see what Edward’s anger made him miss, and he said, “Why assume it to be a forgery? Do you know the contents?”
“What? No! That gentleman seems to suggest that Mrs. Whichale—the only lady in the house—is capable of disreputable interference!”
“Interference in what?” said Mr. Templeton reasonably. “What was the
subject of the letter, Mr. Whichale?”
“Well … how should I know?” He had talked himself into the trap.
There came a tap at the window and they all looked over. The constable pointed out a lady walking across the garden towards a picket gate, leading to a kitchen garden beyond. She wore a straw bonnet and carried a flower basket.
“That is the lady whom you accuse of infamy,” said Mr. Whichale.
The magistrate indicated that the man was to stay close to the house. “No one mentioned names, sir,” he said.
Mr. Whichale got up ponderously and walked over to his desk. From a drawer, he withdrew a bundle of yellowed letters, and handed one of them to Mr. Templeton.
“This was written in June of the year 1784, when Mrs. Whichale visited her sister in Kent. Pray compare this writing to the one you received.”
Mr. Templeton winced slightly in distaste, but took his own letter from his pocket book. He looked at the direction, then Mr. Whichale opened his letter to display the conclusion.
Selina has made out the letters of her name and can find them in her box of blocks. She sends her best love to her Papa. Louisa babbles “Da Da Da Da” all day long, which I am convinced is her way of doing the same!
Yrs most affectionately,
Lydia Whichale
Mr. Templeton was silent for a moment. Without a doubt this old letter and the one in his possession were in different hands. While there was scarcely a limit to what an expert forger could produce, he could not imagine how a person such as Mr. Whichale could have caused a new letter to look twenty years old. It must be genuine.
Mr. Whichale indicated a portrait that hung near his desk.
“This is how they looked at about that time,” he said proudly. Two little girls were portrayed with their mother, the smaller child on her knee and the other leaning at her side, one arm clinging around her neck. The similarity of all three was striking, and anyone who had made the lady’s acquaintance could clearly see the woman in the picture to be a younger Mrs. Whichale.
The captain was forced to withdraw his hasty accusation. Mr. Templeton noted how quickly Mr. Whichale seemed to recover from his pained offence; the man seemed mercurial, prone to follow every impulse.
Mr. Whichale stood up and handed the untouched glass of wine to the captain, who curtly refused it, and their host placed it on the tray. He continued to stand on the hearth opposite the captain.
“Sirs,” he said. “I hope you are satisfied that I meant no ill will to the lady in the case. You have a long ride ahead of you so I will not take offence if you cannot stay long.”
The magistrate cleared his throat. “There is one item that I wish you to produce, sir.”
Mr. Whichale frowned. “What would that be?” he asked icily.
“The document to which Mr. Templeton put his name on the night your uncle died.”
Mr. Whichale rose, spluttering in anger. “Have you some further calumny to suggest?”
The magistrate did not lose his composure. “Is it not best for all concerned to be quite open in this matter, sir?”
“I should not be put in the position to make these explanations!” said Mr. Whichale.
He’s blustering, thought Edward, glancing at Mr. Templeton, who raised his eyebrows slightly.
“If you will not produce the document willingly, sir, I will pass the case to the High Sheriff forthwith.”
Mr. Whichale paled. He strode angrily to the door, pulled on the bell rope and the butler entered. “Send for Mr. George—he is in the copse, marking damaged trees. He must carry a note to Axminster at once. Perkins can go with him.”
“Yes, sir.” Moreley trembled his way from the room.
Mr. Whichale ushered the visitors into the hall, where he opened the drawing-room door for them.
“Kindly wait here, sirs, while I write to Mr. White, my attorney in Axminster, to send back my uncle’s will with Mr. George. You will see that a codicil was added before his death.”
“Mr. White could show us the document at his office,” said the magistrate calmly. “That would save considerable trouble to … Mr. George is your steward, I believe?”
“He is. There is no trouble that is not worth taking to protect my family name from slander,” said Mr. Whichale.
The magistrate gave a little bow. “Indeed you have every right to protect yourself, although I am sure this is a formality.” He moved near a window that afforded a view of the forecourt. Mr. Whichale left the room, closing the door.
“Should we not watch him?” asked Edward.
“That would not be gentlemanlike,” said Sir Richard. Edward shook his head in disbelief.
Mr. Grahame said, “It is not utterly impossible that the letter originated outside Mr. Whichale’s family.”
“Something is very wrong in this business,” said Edward.
“Indeed,” said the magistrate. “I prefer the cases I usually deal with in my court—a little poaching or a quarrel over a stolen petticoat.”
“You may yet hear this matter in your court,” said Mr. Templeton.
“I shall pass the case on to the Assizes, if it comes before me, as indeed I must. Forgery alone carries the death penalty.”
“If the forgery proves to be connected only to matters of the heart, or perhaps written by a madwoman, would it be treated so seriously?” asked Sir Richard.
“I am very suspicious of Whichale. He was too quick to assume that forgery had been committed,” said Mr. Templeton.
“Thankfully, you were sharper than I,” said Edward. “I was too occupied in wanting to thrash him for speaking of Laura.”
Through the window, they saw a brown chaise come around into the court.
“That was fast work,” said Edward.
A man they took to be Mr. George himself sat on the box next to the coachman; there was no sign of another servant. The chaise turned out into the road. The constable looked after it, scratching his head; then shrugged and stayed near the gate. The men waited for another minute or so, when the magistrate suddenly leapt to the window. Opening it, he called out sharply to the constable. “Where was the servant Perkins?”
The man ran over. “There were a woman inside, sir—lady’s maid mayhap.”
“A woman! I thought Perkins to be a man! Get your horse at once and follow them. But first, find the mistress of the house and bring her to me.”
“Aye, sir!” He ran off.
The magistrate rushed towards the door.
“What is happening?” cried the captain.
“I believe they’ve given us the slip.”
CHAPTER 43
THE LADIES ARRIVED AT THE Crossroads Inn and alighted from the barouche.
“Such unseemly haste! I was never so frightened in my life!” said Elspeth.
“I enjoyed it immensely,” said Laura.
The countess patted her arm, saying, “I have a strong and perfect team, though I say it myself.” She looked in pride at her horses, a splendid matched four, black coats steaming from their effort.
She turned to the coachman. “Well done, Barton!”
“It were a pleasure, my lady.”
“I will send out a glass of ale and a pie to you, while you watch over the change of horses. There is no one I can trust as I trust you.”
Barton blushed and nodded. Eight years in her ladyship’s service had not inured him to her flattery.
“What is the great hurry, Countess?” said Elspeth, as her friend seized her arm and hurried her into the inn.
“The gentlemen have such a start upon us. Come, we must refresh ourselves. There is no time to lose.”
In less time than Elspeth wished to devote to adjusting her bonnet ribbons, the four ladies availed themselves of the services of the inn and drank a cup of tea. They re-entered the carriage again, a few minutes later, and set off along the narrow road to Longpan.
Laura stared at her sister, who looked at her briefly with a mixture of defiance and disdain. How she hates
to be proved wrong, thought Laura. Was this enough to drive her to her deceitful acts? Why was she so determined to marry me to Richard? If she thought it such a desirable match, why did she not manoeuvre it for herself? The very thought made her smile. Elspeth had her goals fixed on a life of fashion and elegance among the Ton; it was inconceivable to imagine her as Richard’s wife.
Laura’s thoughts turned again to Mr. Templeton. How soon might she see him? They had been apart a matter of a few hours only and she was eager for their next encounter.
“We are coming into the village,” said Laura.
“Do you see the shape the river takes on—like a frying pan!” said Mrs. Bell.
Already the tiny village was left behind. “I believe Longpan House is on this bend in the river. It will be the next entrance,” said Laura.
Elspeth said, “My brother will be very displeased if we enter the house.”
“That would be distasteful but I hope to see some fun outside,” said her friend.
“There is the stone wall—a carriage is turning out!” said Laura.
“Perhaps they are trying to flee,” said the countess with a reckless laugh. Putting her head out of the window, she called, “Cut them off, Barton!”
The barouche steered towards the middle of the road, while Elspeth screamed and Mrs. Bell gave a moan of fear. The barouche came to a halt and one of her ladyship’s footmen came to the door.
“We must not move an inch,” she said.
The footman smiled. “There do seem to be summat wrong with my lady’s carriage.” He called up something in a laughing voice to Barton, and went to hold the horses’ heads, while the coachman got down and began to laboriously inspect the wheels.
A voice shouted from the brown chaise. “Excuse me, we are on urgent business.”
Barton looked up and shrugged.
Mr. George climbed down from the carriage and approached the barouche. In the window appeared the lovely face of the countess.
“Pardon me, madam, but I am in the greatest hurry.”
“Oh sir, can you not aid me?” said the countess. “My coachman thinks something is amiss. I am frightened out of my wits that my carriage will tip over.”
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