by Beth Andrews
Lydia hardly knew whether to laugh or weep when she heard one of the maids solemnly express this charming theory to another servant - who seemed much impressed and easily persuaded. For herself, she rather suspected a more alarming beast which walked on two legs and used two hands to accomplish what serpentine scales and monstrous wings could not.
Mrs Wardle-Penfield refused to entertain the possibility that anyone in their village could have committed such an atrocity. However, her theories on the subject came perilously close to creating a rift between her and Aunt Camilla.
‘Not one of our people could have been involved,’ she declared.
‘What do you mean, ma’am?’ Aunt Camilla stiffened slightly.
‘It must have been someone from outside the village,’ the older woman explained, as though to a child.
‘Of whom are you thinking?’
‘Frankly,’ Mrs Wardle-Penfield stated, ‘I would look into that Frenchman, if I were Mr Savidge.’
‘That is absurd - and slanderous!’
Lydia had hardly believed that her aunt could be so animated. She fairly trembled in her outrage.
‘I know that you have a partiality for him, my dear Camilla, though it seems absurd at your age,’ her friend replied, not a whit perturbed. ‘But what do we really know about the man?’
‘We know that he was not living here when the other murder occurred,’ Camilla flung at her, as if to say, ‘There! Explain that, if you can.’ Mrs Wardle-Penfield did.
‘Monsieur d’Almain arrived to take up residence in Diddlington very soon after that incident,’ she reminded her with a speaking glance. ‘Who knows where he might have been hiding before that?’
‘Hiding!’
‘Of course,’ the grande dame added graciously, ‘he may not have been involved in that case. But that is no reason to suppose him innocent in this.’
‘Is there any reason to suspect him, ma’am,’ Lydia asked drily, ‘other than the fact that he is French?’
‘Is that not enough?’ She seemed surprised. ‘After all, one cannot trust the French. Look at Bonaparte!’
‘I believe,’ Lydia returned, ‘that Napoleon is from Corsica, not France.’
The lady shrugged. ‘It is all one.’
‘I recall that Monsieur d’Almain was a guest at your own card party only recently.’
‘My dear Camilla,’ the lady protested, growing slightly defensive, ‘you know as well as I do that he has the entree everywhere. There is a sad dearth of eligible gentlemen in this parish, and one must make do with what one has.’
‘I do hope,’ Aunt Camilla said, barely squeezing the words through clenched teeth, ‘that you have not mentioned your suspicions to anyone.’
Mrs Wardle-Penfield adjusted the lace collar on her elaborate morning-gown before responding, ‘I did drop a word in Mr Savidge’s ear. However, I doubt that he paid any heed to it. Not the smartest hound in the pack, Mr Savidge. I would never expect him to corner the fox, myself.’
‘I’m sure,’ the other lady raised her chin again, ‘he is far too sensible to be suspecting Monsieur d’Almain of something so vile.’
‘Young John,’ her friend continued, deaf to her outburst, ‘is another matter.’
‘Is he?’ Lydia enquired, a little surprised to find herself in agreement with the lady.
‘He may play the schoolboy,’ Mrs Wardle-Penfield informed them, ‘but Master John is as sharp as they come, in spite of his impertinent manner.’
This last remark no doubt referred to his lack of deference toward herself, Lydia thought with an inward chuckle which she barely managed to contain.
Chapter Six
A DARING PLAN
Lydia was able to draw Aunt Camilla away from her friend before an irrevocable schism could develop between them. It was some time before her aunt could at all regain her composure. No sooner had she done so, in fact, than she lost it again. Her mind was only now able to comprehend Mrs Wardle-Penfield’s remark concerning her partiality for the Frenchman.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, her cheeks reddening. ‘I hope that she does not imagine that I am setting my cap at Monsieur d’Almain.’
‘No,’ Lydia offered by way of cold comfort. ‘She merely perceives what everyone must: that you have a decided tendre for the man.’
‘It is not true!’ Camilla cried, rising precipitately from her chair and wringing her hands. ‘I do indeed admire him—’
‘Indeed.’
‘But do you suppose that he suspects - that he believes—’
‘Calm yourself, dear aunt.’ Lydia rose also, gently pressing her aunt back onto her chair. ‘Nobody could ever accuse you of flirting, you know. It is not in your nature. I am sure that your behavior toward Monsieur d’Almain has always been well within the bounds of propriety.’
‘Yes,’ her aunt whispered somewhat mournfully.
‘In fact,’ Lydia went on with her usual forthright but tactless commonsense, ‘you will never attach him if you do not make more of a push.’
‘Lydia!’ For a moment it seemed Camilla would swoon at this vulgar sentiment. ‘You really should not say such things.’
‘Well, I would not do so to a stranger.’ She looked down upon her aunt with mild disapprobation. ‘But we are family, and need not be coy about such things. It is foolish to pretend that you would not welcome a proposal from the man.’
‘I am sure he never thought of such a thing,’ Camilla said primly.
‘And never will, if you do not encourage him.’
‘I - I do not know how to do so.’
‘No.’ Lydia sighed. ‘If you did know, you probably would have married long before now.’
‘There are worse things than being an old maid.’
‘Not if you desire something more,’ her niece answered tartly.
A tremulous smile touched her aunt’s pink lips. ‘You are right, of course.’
‘Well, we must contrive between us.’
She perceived a look of alarm in her aunt’s eyes. Camilla Denton was a woman of strong feelings but not equally strong will. She would sit and dream her life away in single-blessedness unless something was done about it.
‘What are you planning, Lydia?’ Camilla asked.
‘I must give the matter more consideration.’ Lydia looked thoughtfully through the parlor window and happened to see John Savidge walking past the house. ‘Excuse me, dear aunt!’ she cried, vaulting up. ‘I will be back directly.’
* * * *
If John was put out by being accosted on his way to the inn, he displayed no sign of it. When Lydia hailed him, he turned and smiled warmly at her before retracing his steps to the gate of her aunt’s cottage.
‘Miss Bramwell.’ He doffed his hat. ‘How d’ye do?’
‘Quite well, Mr Savidge,’ she replied politely. ‘Can you spare a few minutes, sir?’
‘Of course I can.’
She ushered him into her aunt’s parlor, where Camilla sat looking somewhat discomfited. She so rarely entertained any gentlemen callers beyond the vicar and the occasional tradesman. Still, John was well known to her and she would soon have composed herself had not her niece immediately broached a subject which never failed to overset her nerves.
‘Have you discovered any more about the murder?’ Lydia demanded.
‘Lydia!’ Camilla begged, her hand clutching her throat as though to keep the breath from escaping entirely.
‘There seems to be nothing more to discover,’ John answered.
‘I suppose you have heard the rumors circulating in the village?’
‘Dragons and demons?’ He shook his head, half amused and half disgusted. ‘Superstitions die hard in the country.’
Lydia leaned forward, determined to know more. He clearly thought as little of the prevailing notions as did she.
‘What is your opinion of the matter?’ she asked pointedly.
‘Do not be plaguing John about this,’ her aunt pleaded, referring to Mr Savidge with the
casual air of one who had known him from his cradle.
‘But I cannot get it out of my mind,’ Lydia protested to both of them, refusing to be put off. ‘I am convinced that there is more to this than meets the eye.’
‘I quite agree, Miss Bramwell.’
John’s response both surprised and delighted her. At last here was someone who did not settle for easy answers. He was as concerned as she was that someone - who for now must be unknown - should profit by a crime so heinous.
‘I can bear no more of this!’ Aunt Camilla cried, and made haste to quit the room, leaving the two young people alone together in a most improper manner which neither of them considered for a moment.
‘Should you not go to her?’ John asked, frowning at the retreating form of his hostess.
‘Oh no!’ Lydia dismissed the suggestion carelessly. ‘Best to let her enjoy her vapors in private. She will feel much more the thing afterward, I assure you.’
He accepted this without demur, and they returned to the topic which most interested them both. After all, in such restricted society there was not much to exercise the mental faculties and stir the imagination of young people. Mr Cole’s death was a source of endless entertainment, and they would have scarcely been human had they not found something in it to occupy their minds. It was merely that they both looked more deeply into the matter than the generality of their neighbors.
‘My father,’ John said at length, ‘is inclined to blame the matter on gypsies. That solution would certainly be the simplest one.’
‘Do you think it likely?’
‘Well, no gypsies or mendicants have been seen in the area for some time, to my knowledge.’
‘And it seems that you have discounted—’ she coughed delicately, ‘any supernatural agency.’
‘I have.’
‘Then where do your suspicions lie?’
He stroked his chin pensively before continuing.
‘I think it very likely that smugglers, rather than phantoms, are involved.’
‘Smugglers!’ Lydia’s cry was one of scandalized delight. It was better and better.
‘You seem surprised,’ John said with a smile.
‘I am.’
John immediately set about the task of educating her concerning the history of Sussex. It seemed that smuggling had at one time been a very lucrative source of income for certain persons along the southeast coast of England. Even since the defeat of Napoleon, the Alfriston Gang and others were known to have continued this less than respectable profession. Some had been caught and prosecuted by the Crown, providing the gibbet with a few gruesome trophies.
‘You think,’ Lydia said, ‘that there may be a Diddlington Gang, and that Mr Cole had some connection with them?’
‘It is possible.’ John was a little more cautious in his assessment.
‘How can we prove it?’ she asked.
‘We?’ His smile now was very pronounced, as was the arch of one thick eyebrow.
‘You and I,’ she explained with casual assurance.
‘If we could discover where they conceal their stolen goods,’ he said, not contradicting her, ‘we would certainly go some way toward solving this riddle.’
‘Do you think it is in Wickham Wood?’
‘I am almost certain.’ He nodded emphatically. ‘Too many local folk have seen lights among the trees at night and even a few sober men claim to have encountered ghostly apparitions in the vicinity.’
‘An excellent means for the smugglers to frighten away anyone who might venture too near their hiding place.’
‘Precisely.’
Lydia stood up, looking down at him in a glow of excited anticipation.
‘Then there is only one thing to be done!’ she cried. ‘We must go into the woods ourselves and find the smugglers’ lair.’
‘I think,’ John said dampingly, ‘that is a job which I should attempt on my own.’
This was totally unacceptable to Lydia.
‘If you think that you can keep me out of this adventure, John Savidge,’ she told him roundly, ‘you are much mistaken.’
‘Your aunt would never permit it,’ he shot back reasonably.
‘Which is why,’ Lydia retorted with a smile, ‘I have no intention of telling her anything about it.’
‘Minx!’ he quizzed her. ‘And what will become of her when someone discovers our bodies at the edge of the wood?’
For a moment she paused, considering this not improbable consequence of confronting a gang of dangerous malefactors. However, although it was totally irrational, she felt complete confidence in John’s ability to extricate them from any difficulty which might result from their rash behavior.
‘Are you afraid?’ she demanded, quizzing him in her turn.
‘Oh no!’ He grinned broadly at her. ‘I know that I have nothing to fear with you there to protect me.’
And so the two became co-conspirators in a daring plan whose effects would prove more momentous than either of them could possibly imagine.
Chapter Seven
A SAD DISAPPOINTMENT
Midnight. The moon was full and round as a silver tray resting on the ebony table of the sky. Lydia had considered climbing through the window of her bedroom. She abandoned this scheme not only because of its impracticality, but because it was simply unnecessary. Her aunt and old Mrs Plumpton were both fast asleep by the time the two hands on the clock pointed heavenward, so Lydia slipped from her room and wandered the house at will, leaving it through the side door of the kitchen.
She flattered herself that she would not be recognized, even if anyone happened to be about at this hour. As Providence would have it, Aunt Camilla had taken in some clothes to darn before distributing them amongst the poor of the parish. Out of this miscellany, Lydia had purloined a pair of rough pantaloons, a shirt and a short coat. In this attire, she looked more like an urchin than a young lady of seventeen.
Striding down the lane in the moonlight, the only one who noticed her was the neighbor’s cat, Cecilia. This curious feline followed at her heels for awhile, before a movement in the underbrush attracted her attention and she disappeared in search of a hapless mouse.
Within ten minutes, Lydia reached the edge of the town. She leaned against an oak tree and waited. The stillness was almost palpable, and more forbidding than she had anticipated. It was with relief that she heard the thud-thud of hooves and observed John leading his horse, Scapegrace, toward her.
‘Well met, my lad!’ John greeted her in a loud whisper when he drew near enough.
This reference to her male costume did not discompose her. She merely replied, ‘I thought skirts would be very much in the way.’
‘I do not disagree with you.’ He helped her up onto Scapegrace before mounting behind her. ‘But for a moment I thought you had sent someone else in your place.’
‘And miss this adventure?’ He must be mad. ‘There is small chance of that!’
They rode slowly at first, and then at a pretty brisk gallop. Lydia was not really accustomed to being on horseback, but she found it quite exhilarating; nor was she in the least afraid, with John’s arms about her and his broad chest for support.
‘What is that house there?’ she asked, seeing a silver silhouette rising above a neat expanse of parkland.
‘That’s Bellefleur, Sir Hector Mannington’s place.’
‘I’ve heard my aunt speak of him.’ Lydia looked more intently, though not in expectation of seeing anything. ‘He is something of a recluse, is he not?’
‘And old as Methuselah,’ John added.
‘They say that he is mad as a hatter, and treats his servants shamefully.’
‘They also say that there are ghosts haunting Wickham Wood,’ he reminded her.
She acknowledged the good sense of this remark, refraining from further comments. A few minutes later, John reined in his horse and dismounted. He reached up and helped Lydia down as well.
‘From here, we walk.’
&nbs
p; ‘Is it far?’ she asked, watching him tether Scapegrace to a sturdy tree trunk.
‘Less than a mile.’
‘But why stop here?’
‘Because,’ he answered, turning back to her, ‘something as large as a horse is difficult to hide. If there are smugglers in the wood, we don’t want to announce our presence, do we?’
‘No indeed.’
For the next fifteen minutes, they walked silently together through the fields in the moonlight. Scrambling over stiles and navigating ha-has, they gradually made their way toward a patch of impenetrable darkness outlined against the sky. At length John broke the silence with a loud whisper.
‘This is where Mr Cole was found.’
Lydia almost jumped out of her pantaloons as she looked down on a patch of ground which showed evidence of a recent fire. To think that some of those ashes beneath her feet might actually be the remains of a dead man! Even the smell of the place was unpleasant: the scent of desecration, perhaps? It was an eerie feeling indeed, and she was conscious of a desire to quit the spot as soon as possible.
‘Poor man!’ she declared sententiously. ‘I hope that he did not suffer too much.’
‘My father said there was hardly a patch of skin remaining on the bones.’ John’s statement was dispassionate, as if he were describing a portrait hanging in an old house. ‘The few bits of flesh left were so seared by the flames that they looked like the skin of a centenarian.’
‘How awful!’ Lydia breathed excitedly. ‘And to think it was the second corpse to be discovered in such a fashion.’
‘Not precisely,’ John said after a brief pause.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The previous corpse was not burnt,’ he explained.
Lydia was startled, though she was not sure why she should be.
‘I had thought the deaths were identical,’ she said, half to herself.
‘Why?’
‘Well, it seems to me that a murderer who takes the time to kill two people in the same place is more than likely to employ the same method. Of course,’ she continued with some self-deprecation, ‘I am not well versed in such matters.’