The Devil and Drusilla

by Paula Marshall

  ‘And then, this morning, her mam found her little box of treasures still in the cupboard in the room she shares with the little ‘uns. And when she opened it, it was full of her little bits and pieces, as well as the few pence she saved to buy trinkets for herself and the little ‘uns when the pedlar came round. But what worried us was, why did she leave the money behind if she were going to London? And where got she this, m’lord, as I shall now show you.’

  Silent before the man’s anguish, Devenish watched him fumble in his breeches pocket, before he added, ‘And why should she leave such a valuable thing—and her savings—behind if she was off to London to make her fortune? For that was a jest of hers in happier days.’

  So saying, he drew from his pocket something that shone and glittered in the bright afternoon sun, which filled the room, and laid it on the desk before Devenish.

  Devenish picked it up. It was a necklace of thin fine gold, with a small pendant diamond in a delicately beautiful setting. He examined it carefully and handed it to Robert, who gave a low whistle, and said, ‘Is this as valuable as I think it is?’

  Devenish did not answer him, but said in a voice quite unlike his usual mocking one, ‘Tell me the truth, Hooby. Have you ever seen this before?’

  ‘Nay, m’lord. Never. What should a poor fellow like me have to do with such trinkets?’

  ‘And you never saw your daughter wearing it?’

  ‘Neither I nor my missis, m’lord. Who would give her such a thing? She was walking out with Geoffrey Larkin until a month or two ago, but she quarrelled with him. She said as how he was a rough fellow, and not for her.’

  ‘And she had not walked out with anyone since?’

  Hooby nodded agreement.

  Without warning his face crumpled and tears stood in his eyes. ‘What has she been adoin’ of, m’lord? For Lily, her next sister, allows as how she has been leaving her bed at night and coming home she knows not when, bein’ asleep herself. And now I learn this very day that more’n one maid round here has left her home and not been seen again. I am afeared for her, m’lord, and ask your help.’

  ‘Which I shall give you, so far as it in me lies. You will leave the necklace with me, for it might help us to discover who gave it to your daughter and why.’

  ‘Oh, m’lord, I fear I know why she was given it: as payment—which makes me fear the more for her.’

  ‘Yes. I understand. But until we know more, we can neither fear the worst nor hope for the best. I have only been at Tresham for a few hours, but I shall make it my business to get to the bottom of this. Go home, comfort your wife and pray for good news.’

  Robert saw him out and turned to Devenish, who was propping his chin with his hands and staring into space.

  ‘That did you credit, Hal,’ he said abruptly. ‘Why cannot you always speak so?’

  ‘What?’ he exclaimed, staring at Robert as though he were returning from a long way away. ‘Oh, you mean how I spoke to Hooby. Few people in this world deserve any compassion, Rob. When they do, I offer it to them. For the rest—’ and he shrugged.

  Robert was gloomy. ‘So, your verdict is the same as mine. Some harm has come to her, I fear.’

  ‘As does poor Hooby. And do you think this business of a disappearing wench is linked with that of the others—or with anything else? I have already learned that Jeremy Faulkner met a strange death.’

  He thought it wiser not to admit—even to Robert—his knowledge of the other deaths and his conversation with Lord Sidmouth.

  ‘As well as several servant girls, two men have disappeared over the last few years—one of them Jeremy Faulkner and the other Harrington’s valet. Complete mystery surrounds the whole business. The numbers are slowly rising and no one seems to be able to discover the reason, and that is why I became uneasy, Hal, and sent for you.’

  ‘And is Kate Hooby the first of my people to disappear?’

  ‘As it chances, yes.’

  Devenish rose and paced restlessly round the room. ‘If we were living in a Gothic novel written by Mrs Radcliffe or Monk Lewis, we might suspect that a mysterious animal stalks the woods between Tresham and Marsham Abbey seeking and finding prey. But since this is southern England and the only mysterious animal around here is that huge mongrel which you still favour, then we must dismiss that supposition.’

  He came to a stop by a map table on which lay a gazetteer of the district.

  ‘Allow me to refresh my memory of my estates and those which march with them before I speak with you further. I fear that poor Hooby depends on a broken reed if he thinks that I may be able to help him. No matter. On Saturday, Rob, we shall both attend the fête given by Mrs Drusilla Faulkner in the grounds of Lyford House in order to empty our pockets—and keep our ears open.’

  He gave a short scornful laugh and said, ‘But I am not hopeful, Rob, not hopeful at all, despite my brave words to that poor fellow.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘How good of you, my dear Mrs Faulkner, to allow your beautiful grounds to be invaded by so many. Even for such a good cause as the poor children of the parish it is most magnanimous of you.’

  Mr Williams, the incumbent at Tresham Magna, a portly middle-aged man, beamed kindly at Drusilla and wished that he were twenty years younger and unmarried that he might offer for such a treasure.

  He turned to Devenish who had just strolled over to them, Robert walking at his rear, and said, ‘I do not know, m’lord, whether you have had the honour to be presented to our hostess yet, but if not—’

  Devenish cut him short. ‘Oh, but we have met already, quite informally, so it is, unfortunately, too late for all the usual niceties, as I am sure Mrs Faulkner will agree.’

  Drusilla had already been busily admiring m’lord’s splendour. Beside him everyone looked provincial, or as though they were striving to appear as fine as he did—but had failed. Only Robert in his sensible countryman’s clothing had not sought to compete with his friend and master.

  Devenish was turned out so as to emphasise that even an event as small as this was worthy of his full attention. His bottle-green coat, his cream-coloured breeches, his perfect boots, his splendid cravat—a waterfall, no less—and his carefully dressed hair, gave him the air of just having sat either for a portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence, or for a fashion plate designed to sell a Bond Street tailor’s wares.

  Now she smiled at him and the parson, saying in her quiet, pleasant voice, ‘Since we have met, m’lord, allow me to present to you one of our guests—that is, if you have not already met him informally. I mean Mr Leander Harrington.’

  She gestured at that gentleman who had just walked up to them.

  ‘No, indeed,’ said Devenish languidly, ‘I have not yet had the honour.’

  ‘No introductions needed,’ interjected Mr Harrington before Drusilla could speak. ‘I do not subscribe to the pantomimes of an outworn society, you understand, Devenish. And since we each know to whom we are speaking, that is enough. We are men together, no more and no less.’

  ‘Well, we are certainly not women,’ drawled Devenish, ‘so I must agree with you in that, if nothing else. On the other hand, if Mrs Faulkner had not mentioned your name beforehand I would have been reduced to asking my good friend Stammers here who the devil you were!’

  Several of the bystanders, previous victims of Mr Harrington’s Radical views, sniggered behind their hands at this put down.

  Nothing ever put Leander Harrington down, though. He smiled. ‘Remiss of me, I suppose, not to mention that I am Harrington of Marsham Abbey—for what such titles are worth. I am but a citizen of the great world, and proud to take that name after Earl Stanhope’s great example.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Devenish, and to Drusilla’s fascination, his drawl was longer than ever, ‘you are, I see, of the Jacobinical persuasion—as Citizen Stanhope was. Pray inform me, sir—as Stanhope, despite his desire to be at one with all men, threw away his title, but retained his estates and his wealth—I suppose that you have
followed his example there as well and retained yours?’

  Great men, like Devenish, could say what they pleased, Drusilla knew. What she also knew was that she had long considered Leander Harrington to be a fraud, and it was a pleasure to hear him called one so gravely and apparently politely.

  Leander, though, was never bested in an argument. He ignored protocol and all the uses of polite society to clap Devenish on the back. ‘Why, Devenish, until the great day comes when we are all equal in every way in the eyes of the law as well as God, I must sacrifice myself and husband what my ancestors have left me so that it may, at the last, be put into the pool for the common good.

  ‘I bid you do the same, brother Devenish—and cleanse your soul.’

  Behind Devenish, Robert made a choking noise. Those before him waited to see what riposte m’lord might make to that. His smile was enigmatic. ‘Since I possess no soul to cleanse, that might be difficult, but I accept your suggestion in the spirit in which it was offered.’

  Drusilla heard Miss Faulkner gasp behind her. She found that she had the most overwhelming desire to laugh, but dare not, for the bewildered parson was staring, mumchance, at the patron who had given him his living.

  ‘You cannot mean that, m’lord,’ he managed at last.

  ‘At your pleasure, sir, and at both our leisures we must discuss my soul later,’ said Devenish. ‘Here and now is not the time. Mrs Faulkner, I would ask you to be my guide on this fine afternoon.’ He bowed to Leander Harrington and said indifferently, ‘Your servant, sir, and you will excuse us. Later you might care to visit the Hall and we can have a discussion on whatever subject you please.’

  ‘Oh, very fine,’ said Drusilla softly to Devenish. He had taken her arm and was walking her away. ‘I compliment you, m’lord. Not many men could be as exquisitely rude and as exquisitely polite in two succeeding sentences as you have just been.’

  Devenish looked down at her. Demure-looking she might be, but there was much more to her than that. He half thought that she was playing his own game with him by making cutting remarks in a pleasant but indifferent voice.

  He briefly considered echoing her comment by saying, Not many women have made half so observant a remark to me, and in such a manner that I am not sure that you actually meant to compliment me.

  Instead he merely offered, ‘I trust that your brother has recovered from his fall.’

  Drusilla looked up at him. For a moment she had wondered whether he would answer her in his most two-edged fashion. Since he had not, she was as coolly pleasant as he.

  ‘Oh, very much so. I am fearful of what he might next wish to get up to—and what it might involve me in.’

  ‘He is present this afternoon, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I had thought that he might have tried to find you before now. He wishes to thank you for coming to his aid so promptly.’

  ‘But I did very little for him.’

  ‘Only because there was little to do. The thought was there, m’lord.’

  Yes, there was more to her than he might have guessed.

  Devenish looked around him at the house standing before them: a handsome, classically styled building in warm stone, a gentleman’s residence, not too large and not too small. Over the front door was a stone shield with a falcon trailing its jesses on it: the Faulkners’, or the Falconers’, punning coat of arms. At the back of the house were three lawns, all at different levels on a slope running down to a wide stream.

  Tents and tables had been erected on them. On the top lawn a target had been set up and a group of gaily dressed women were engaged in an archery competition. Their male escorts were standing about, keeping score, and urging them on before they took part themselves later.

  ‘I must not monopolise you,’ he said, abruptly for him, for his speech was usually measured. ‘You have your duty to do to others.’

  ‘Oh, m’lord,’ Drusilla spoke softly, but firmly. ‘My biggest duty is to see that you are introduced to most of your neighbours—if you will so allow.’

  Oh, yes, he would allow. In the normal course of events he would not have permitted himself to be bored by making the acquaintance of a pack of nobodies, but he had given Sidmouth his word that he would try to discover what was going awry around his home, and he would do his best to be successful. Mrs Faulkner was going to save him the trouble of spending several weeks discovering who was who around Tresham Magna and Minor.

  Noblesse oblige then—and perhaps it would do him good not to be selfish for once, and stifle his sharp tongue! As if to aid him in this decision Giles Faulkner hobbled up to him, full of a goodwill which it would be wrong to mock.

  ‘Dru said that you might honour us with your presence, m’lord, and so you have. Now I may thank you properly for your consideration when I played the fool and received my proper payment by falling off my horse.’

  He caught Devenish’s sardonic eye and added ruefully, ‘Oh, I see what you are about to say! That I didn’t receive my proper payment for it because I didn’t break my neck!’

  ‘Well anticipated,’ offered Devenish, ‘except that I was only thinking it—not about to utter such a home truth aloud.’

  This honesty pleased Giles immensely. He smiled and began to pull at Drusilla’s sleeve.

  ‘I say, Dru,’ he exclaimed, ‘you aren’t going to tire my saviour out by dragging him round to introduce him to all the old bores of the district, are you? Much better if you went in for the archery competition, sir—if you can shoot, that is.’

  ‘Giles, Giles,’ reproved Drusilla, ‘you mustn’t run on so! Whatever will m’lord make of your manners? And do address him by his proper title. He will think you ignorant of the world’s usages.’ Giles thought this pomposity unworthy of his sister and was about to say so. Devenish forestalled him.

  ‘Sir will do, my dear Mrs Faulkner. I am m’lorded quite enough as it is. I would be even happier if you were to address me as Devenish. You are my nearest neighbour, after all.’

  He had no idea what made him come out with this unheard-of piece of condescension, but was left with no time to theorise as to the origin of it. Drusilla was surprised by it, but had little time to ponder on it because they were rapidly being approached by all those who wished to meet the great man who had avoided meeting them for ten long years.

  Devenish knew Parson Williams because he had interviewed him in London when he had granted him his living, but he had never met Williams’s junior fellow at Tresham Minor, George Lawson, having allowed Rob Stammers to make the appointment in his absence.

  Lawson was the first to reach Drusilla and he made a low bow to his patron, murmuring, ‘Too great an honour, m’lord, too great,’ when Devenish, remembering his resolution to be pleasant to everyone, said he would be happy to entertain him to dinner in the near future.

  He was a handsome young fellow in his mid-twenties, short rather than tall, dark in colouring, with an easy insinuating manner which Devenish instantly, and instinctively, disliked. He disliked most of all the expression on the fellow’s face when he spoke to Drusilla, and the way in which he fawned on her, holding her hand a little too long after she had offered it to him.

  He thought the dislike didn’t show, but Drusilla registered it immediately. To her surprise, and much to her shock, she found that she was beginning to read Devenish’s mind.

  She smiled a little to herself, when, in swift succession, Devenish made further invitations to dinner to John Squires of Burnside, Peter Clifton of Clifton Manor, and a series of minor gentlemen. When Leander Harrington returned to ask m’lord to dine at the Abbey in the near future, he invited him as well.

  ‘And you, too, Mrs Faulkner,’ he added, ‘and Master Giles. He is quite old enough at eighteen to join us and it is time he made his entry into the polite world.’

  It was a pity, Drusilla thought, that she had always held Mr Harrington in dislike, for he was one of the few men who behaved to Giles as though he were a normally healthy person. For some reason which she co
uld not explain, however, he made her flesh creep.

  She would have been astonished to learn that Devenish was—to his surprise—registering her concealed dislike of the man. He thought that it showed her acumen as well as her good taste.

  He had not expected to discover anything about the missing men and women on an occasion such as this. He moved about the grounds of Lyford House, being bowed to and responding with his most pleasant smile, his cutting tongue for once not in evidence. He was thinking, not for the first time, of the vast difference in life between the few fortunate men and women who surrounded him, and the vast mass of people at the bottom of the social heap.

  Men—and women like the missing girls.

  Here food was piled up in plenty on beautifully set tables. Elegantly dressed men and women talked and laughed in the orange light of the late afternoon’s sun.

  For the unlucky in their wretched homes a meagre ration was laid out on rough boards in conditions so vile that the workers on his estate would not have housed pigs in them. Their clothes were ragged, and the men and women who wore them were stunted and twisted.

  Devenish shivered. He thought of Rob Stammers’s surprise when he had ordered that the cottages on his estate should be rebuilt and the men’s wages increased so that they might live above the near-starvation level which was common in the English countryside.

  It was when he was in this dark mood which sometimes visited him at inconvenient times that John Squires approached him and asked diffidently, ‘If I could have a serious word with you for a moment, m’lord, I should be most grateful.’

  ‘As many serious words as you like,’ he responded. ‘But what troubles you, that you wish to be serious on a fête day?’

  Squires coloured. He was a heavyset fellow in early middle age, ruddy of face, a country gentleman who was also a working farmer.

  ‘It’s this business of the missing wenches, m’lord, but if you prefer not to talk about it here, we could perhaps speak later—’