The Devil and Drusilla

by Paula Marshall

  The footman with the flambeau, hearing him stumble, turned towards him, stammering, ‘Forgive me, m’lord. I thought that you were with me, or I would not have left you in the dark. You are not hurt, I trust.’

  ‘Not at all. My own fault for dallying,’ said Devenish. The small incident had caused Mr Harrington to walk agitatedly towards him. He had been standing at the bottom of the stairs, helping his guests on their way. He had Giles by his side.

  ‘It is as I feared, Devenish. I thought this adventure ill-advised and now you have proved it so. As a consequence of that silly fellow’s negligence, you might have been injured.’

  ‘Not his negligence, mine,’ said Devenish quickly. ‘As you see, I am A1 at Lloyds, quite ready to help Master Giles up the stairs.’

  ‘Oh, I think I could manage walking upstairs without help,’ returned Giles. ‘But Mr Harrington insisted that I wait for you. He said that he wanted to be the last person out.’

  ‘And so he will be,’ smiled Devenish. ‘Except for the footman, of course. You will not wish to be left in the dark.’

  Mr Harrington was offhand. ‘Oh, the dark does not trouble me,’ he murmured. ‘I have good night vision.’

  Devenish became conversational as Giles took his arm. ‘One wonders why our ancestors were so fond of dungeons, crypts and oubliettes, seeing what difficulties they must have had in lighting them.’

  This served to set Mr Harrington off on a long disquisition about the habits and customs of the Middle Ages which, as Giles later told Drusilla rather irreverently, seemed to be a bad habit of his.

  ‘He thinks that we are all as interested in his dry-as-dust hobbies as he is, although I must admit that Devenish was the soul of politeness, asking him questions as though he really wished to know the answers.’

  ‘Perhaps he did. We are not all ignorant heathens like you, Giles.’

  ‘He nearly fell, though. In the crypt.’

  ‘You mean Lord Devenish fell? Was he hurt?’ She had not meant to sound as agitated as she did. After all, what was it to her that Devenish might have injured himself?

  ‘Oh, no. It wasn’t a real fall. The footman was stupid and left him in the dark, but Devenish didn’t want Mr Harrington to blame him. He was unhurt, he said, and only went to his room to change his clothes. He said that he didn’t want to spend the day dressed as a gamekeeper!’

  ‘How exactly like him,’ exclaimed Drusilla. ‘I never met a man so determined to be exactly right for every occasion in which he finds himself. He is the exact opposite of you, Giles.’

  Giles nodded mournfully. ‘I’d love to be like him, you know, but it would be the most fearful hard work.’

  Neither Giles nor Drusilla was to know that Devenish had not been quite truthful with him. His real reason for returning immediately to his room was that he wanted to examine the ring which he had found—and his right hand.

  He did not immediately send for his valet. He walked to the window in order to examine his hand. Down the side of it and inside his finger nails were smears and traces of black candle grease, the result of his grasping at the altar to save himself from falling.

  Now that was odd. For had not Mr Harrington quite explicitly told him that the crypt was never used? But the grease was soft, not hardened with age, and when he sniffed at it he could smell the slight remains of its burning. He thought for a moment before shaking his head.

  Something tugged at the edge of his mind—but what? He did not waste time trying to recall the wisp of memory—it would come if he left it alone. Beside there was the mystery of the ring. He pulled it out of his breeches pocket and examined it carefully, to discover that engraved on it was a falcon with its jesses trailing, exactly like the one on the shield over the door at Lyford House. The falcon which was both the arms and emblem of the Faulkners of Lyford.

  Devenish turned it in his hand. Presumably it had at one time belonged to the owner of Lyford Hall. But which owner? And how in the world had it come to be in a crypt which was rarely visited, if Mr Harrington were to be believed?

  He walked to his portable writing desk, an object which no one but himself was allowed to touch, and unlocked the small drawer beneath its lid and placed the ring inside it before re-locking it. Finally, he rang for his valet and only when he was à point ordered him to find Mr Stammers and ask him to come to m’lord’s room at once.

  How to raise the matter? It would not do to blurt out apparently pointless questions about a ring which he had found in a supposedly unused crypt. And how stolid Rob would stare at him if he babbled about fresh candle grease!

  Devenish sat down. He picked up a book and began to read—to little avail—because pecking away on the edge of his mind like a bird worrying at a meaty egg, determined to open it, was the suspicion that the ring had something to do with Drusilla’s late husband.

  And, if as he was beginning to suppose, Jeremy Faulkner’s death was linked to the mystery of the missing girls, then he must try to fulfil his promise to Sidmouth by pursuing the matter.

  He was still in a quandary when Rob entered. ‘I understand that you wish to see me.’

  ‘True. I’m bored. Unbore me, Rob.’

  Now this was cavalier, even from Devenish. ‘That sort of demand,’ Rob declared, ‘is enough to drive any notion of how to entertain you out of my head. Will the weather do?’

  ‘I think not. Perhaps we could discuss this morning’s damp squib. What a nothing of a thing the visit to the crypt was. Although I suppose that your belle amie found it exciting.’

  Rob swore at him. ‘If by my belle amie you mean Lady Cheyne, she finds everything exciting. And I will forgive you for sending for me to talk nonsense because it enabled me to get away from her. Failing you, she seems to think that I would make her a useful second husband.’

  ‘Why not?’ drawled Devenish. ‘Think of her lovely money.’

  ‘You know, Hal, there are times when I find you intolerable. I heard that you had a slight fall after we had gone. Harrington was troubled that you were concealing an injury.’

  ‘Oh, I conceal many things, but injuries are not usually among them. Let me be truthful. I was thinking about Mrs Faulkner—which led me to think of her husband. You knew him, you said. Have you no notion why anyone should wish to murder him?’

  Rob thought that when Hal said ‘Let me be truthful’, he usually meant the opposite! On the other hand, he seemed to have Mrs Faulkner on his mind.

  ‘The only explanation was robbery. That he was set upon by a thief or thieves and his money and belongings were taken. They were all missing—and some of his clothing.’

  ‘Hmm. I doubt that he would be carrying much money. Was he the sort of man who wore flashy jewellery?’

  ‘Not at all. A fob watch and a signet ring were his only ornaments. They were not on his body when he was found. Why?’

  ‘Why what?’ Devenish was languid.

  ‘Why are you interested?’

  ‘I was thinking how disappointed the murderer must have been to have committed such a grave crime for nothing.’

  Rob shrugged. ‘The only real mystery was how Faulkner came to be so far from home when all his horses and his carriages were in the stables and coach house at Lyford Hall.’

  An even bigger mystery, thought Devenish, as he accompanied Rob downstairs to take lunch, was, how did Jeremy Faulkner’s signet ring arrive in the crypt at Marsham Abbey if he was killed miles away from both Marsham and his home?

  Chapter Seven

  ‘I wonder,’ said Leander Harrington to Devenish after cornering him in the drawing room before supper was announced, ‘whether your careless words about the Devil last night provoked him into putting you in some danger in the crypt this morning. I trust you are recovered.’

  ‘I am not recovered since I was never damaged. Besides, although I am well aware that the Devil is wicked, I had never thought him to be petty! His revenge on me would surely have been more dramatic and certain. Something like a mysterious bolt of h
ellfire which would have left me dead and smoking before the altar would have been his way, not a minor stumble!’

  ‘You are pleased to jest, but such frivolity might be dangerous, you know.’

  Devenish fished out his quizzing glass and stared at him. ‘I had understood you to be a man of sense, the essence of reason, the late Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s disciple in person. A belief in the Devil hardly sits well with his version of theology!’

  ‘I believe in God,’ enunciated Mr Harrington gravely, ‘which means that I must also consider the existence of the Devil. How else can we explain the inexplicable acts of the wicked?’

  ‘How else, indeed?’ drawled Devenish. ‘It is enough to put one off the splendid supper which you have ordered for us.’

  ‘There, I was sure you would agree with me,’ smiled Mr Harrington a trifle triumphantly. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but a man who is nicknamed the Devil is scarcely in a position to deny him.’

  Now, what the deuce is he getting at? wondered Devenish. He thought that there was a double meaning in his host’s words and the look which he was offering his guest was a meaningful one.

  But what sort of meaning? It was like reading a book in a strange language, or hearing someone speak it as though you were expected to understand what was said.

  ‘I didn’t give myself that nickname,’ he said at last, for Mr Harrington was plainly expecting some sort of reply. ‘Others did. I make no claim to his attributes, or to his name. On the contrary, Vade retro Sathanas.’ He wondered what sort of answer this plain speaking would provoke.

  He was not to know for even as Mr Harrington translated his Latin into ‘Ah, yes, “Get thee behind me, Satan”,’ Lady Cheyne, who had just entered, interrupted him and the moment was lost.

  She was all charming vacuity. ‘So pleased,’ she trilled, ‘to have been allowed to visit your holy of holies. I mean the crypt. I could quite persuade myself I was back in Henry the VIII’s time and imagine the pageantry which has, alas, disappeared from our prosaic age.’

  Her intervention had one benefit. It allowed Devenish to make his escape—but he was not allowed to escape very far. Toby Claridge buttonholed him and, like Mr Harrington, began to twit him about having raised the Devil who had then pursued him into the crypt. His small accident, thought Devenish morosely, seemed to be the sole topic of conversation of a house party which was desperate to have something to talk about.

  He evaded Toby by offering him the same explanation which he had given Leander Harrington: that he had never thought the Devil petty. Giles came up to him as he finished and opened his mouth, doubtless to make some similar remark.

  ‘Master Giles,’ he said, ‘as you love me, do not mention the word Devil, nor ask me how I fare.’

  ‘How strange, that was what Dru said. She told me not to mention this morning’s mishap or link it with the Devil, for you would be sure to be displeased.’

  ‘Did she, indeed? She has the most damnable habit of being right—but we must not tell her so.’

  ‘Rather not. Females get above themselves so easily if you praise them. Or so Parson Williams says.’

  He stared, puzzled, when Devenish broke into uncontrollable laughter after he had come out with this profound statement.

  ‘I was not funning, sir, I assure you,’ he said earnestly.

  ‘I know, that was the joke, Giles. When you are older I will explain it to you.’

  ‘Why not now? I say, Dru, you were right, Devenish does not like to be twitted about the Devil.’

  Drusilla, who had been watching Giles talk to Devenish and was sadly aware that he was probably displaying his usual lack of tact, said gently, ‘That being so, why do you dwell on it?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to, Dru. Somehow it slipped out—but for the life of me I cannot see why he should mind.’

  To Drusilla’s relief Devenish laughed again, and patted Giles on the head. ‘Honest boy, go and amuse yourself by baiting someone besides me with the truth.’

  Drusilla said quickly, ‘I am sorry if he has been troubling you—he speaks without thinking.’

  ‘Not at all. I needed Giles to show me the folly of my own vanity. Twit away at me, do. Why should all the world stick darts in me—but not you?’

  Drusilla could not resist his charm. ‘Perhaps it is because I have already stuck so many in you.’

  ‘And you wonder why Giles is honest? He catches it from his sister—but he has not yet learned to refine his delivery. He is too blunt—but time will change that. You are very much alike, you know, and not only in looks.’

  Rob Stammers listened to this conversation with some amazement. He had never known his acid-tongued friend to be so easy with anyone.

  He said, ‘It is only natural that your slight mishap should arouse such interest.’

  ‘Granted, Rob, but tell me this, and if you cannot offer me an answer, then perhaps Mrs Faulkner might. Why is everyone so hipped on the Devil that, since I mentioned him last night, everyone is including him in their conversation?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Drusilla slowly, ‘it is because we are in a spot which was once devoutly religious, and when one speaks or thinks of God, his adversary, the Devil, may not be far away.’

  The looks both men gave her were respectful. ‘Well said, Mrs Faulkner,’ was Devenish’s offering, whilst Rob nodded his head slowly. George Lawson, who had come up to them while they were speaking, said a trifle disagreeably, ‘I had hoped that we might have another subject for discussion tonight, but I see that Lord Devenish is determined that we shall not.’

  ‘I?’ said Devenish, his tone haughty. ‘It is not I who am obsessed with him—he may rest unmentioned for all I care. Let us talk of idle matters, the piff-paff of the daily life of society, whether it be in the country or the town.’

  This rebuke from the great man silenced Mr Lawson—to Drusilla’s secret amusement. She was beginning to discover why Devenish found her and Giles so entertaining—it was their lack of cringing respect for him.

  Devenish, however, had his wish granted. The Devil disappeared from the supper-table conversation. Unfortunately he was replaced by something equally repulsive. Someone had informed Lady Cheyne of the disappearing girls—but not of Jeremy Faulkner’s murder.

  She began a loud and tactless speech on the subject. ‘Here I was,’ she declaimed, ‘contrasting the quiet life of Surrey with the lurid events of which Mrs Radcliffe and her sister authoresses wrote, without knowing how mistaken I was to do so. I am given to understand that there have been several mysterious disappearances of young girls of the peasant sort, as well as murders involving the better part of society. Has no effort been made to trace the miscreants? We are, after all, not living in the wilds of central Europe!’

  Leander Harrington looked up. From his expression, the discussion of disappearing girls was as distasteful as talk of the Devil.

  ‘Oh, I understand that there is no mystery connected with their disappearance. It is to be supposed that, as a consequence of rural poverty, they have run off to London to seek their fortune.’

  The lady nodded her over-curled head. ‘Ah, yes. A reasonable supposition. But the murders, what of them?’

  Mr Harrington avoided looking at Drusilla’s white face. ‘Thieves, ma’am, thieves. I have spoken to the Lord Lieutenant on both matters, and he is quite satisfied with this explanation.’

  Not quite, thought Devenish, remembering his conversation with Sidmouth, but perhaps he had told Harrington a different tale. The difference between his version of events and Sidmouth’s troubled him.

  The unease he suddenly felt rendered the food he was eating distasteful. He put down his spoon, leaving most of his soup untouched. With one part of his mind he was listening to Lady Cheyne, with the other he was trying to identify the source of the unease.

  His answers to the lady were mechanical. He suddenly became aware that Drusilla Faulkner’s thoughtful eye was on him, and he knew immediately that his unease was visible to her if no on
e else.

  Devenish pushed this disturbing thought away. He had never wanted such an intimate tie with another, but it was becoming increasingly apparent to him that, from the very first moment that he had met Drusilla Faulkner, a rapport had sprung up between them which was increasing every time that they met.

  So strong was it and so upsetting that once supper had ended and he and the rest of the men rejoined the ladies who had left them to their port, he went over to her, sat himself opposite to her and murmured so softly that no one could overhear them, ‘You are not to do that to me, Mrs Faulkner—particularly at the supper table.’

  Drusilla, who had indeed registered his strange disturbance and wondered what had caused it, said, as innocently as she could, ‘Do what, m’lord?’

  ‘Do not pretend that you do not know what I mean, madam, it does not become you. It is the outside of enough that I should have someone walking about my head, trying to read my inmost thoughts.’

  Her head swam. How could he know that she had read him? She had kept her face as impassive as she could whilst watching him and feeling his unease. What had given her away? Was he inside her head?

  It was his turn to read her. ‘Now you know of what I speak. You cannot easily deceive me, as it seems that I cannot deceive you. If I asked you to take a turn outside on the terrace with me, would you answer a strange question which I wish to ask you?’

  Drusilla felt as though the mesmerist whom she had once seen on her solitary visit to London was exercising his powers over her. Devenish’s blue eyes were holding hers after a fashion which left her helpless to refuse him anything.

  ‘If you wish,’ she said and as he stood up and put out his hand to assist her to rise, it was as though it was not her will which brought her to her feet, but her emotions.

  They left by the glass doors which led to the terrace and he walked her along it until they reached the end where they could see the ground falling away before them, down to the stream which had been the Marsham monks’ supply of water long ago.