A Ring of Truth

by Michelle Cox

  “It is, Henrietta. You said some strong things last night.”

  “Yes, I did, rather. But . . .”

  “Well, I’d like to talk about them, about Highbury, about us. Agreed?”

  “Yes,” she sighed, “agreed.” Though Clive’s manner was congenial now and accommodating, Henrietta couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still tense and preoccupied, and a part of her worried what he might yet have to say.

  Henrietta hurriedly drank some coffee and ate a piece of cold toast before they began their walk to the cottage, which was surprisingly pleasant despite the somewhat-serious undertone that still existed between them. Alone, now, in the crisp air away from the confines of the house, they became almost giddy and walked hand-in-hand along the path by the beach, Clive leading, with his arm stretched behind him, pulling a laughing Henrietta along, as the path was too arrow to allow them to walk side by side. Before long, the cottage came into view.

  When they finally reached it, Clive paused outside the little front door to pull his jacket down into place and straighten his tie. He gave Henrietta a quick wink, thrilling her, as he knocked loudly. When no one came, Clive knocked again, louder this time, and called out, “Mrs. Schuyler?”

  Clive waited a few moments, poised, but then relaxed his stance when still no one came. Again he knocked.

  “She must be in there!” Henrietta said under her breath. “Where else could she be?”

  Just then a face appeared from behind the gingham curtains at the window, and a moment later the door opened and a frightened-looking Helen stood before them.

  “Oo, Mister Clive!” she said enthusiastically after she took a moment to deduce who it was. “Wha’ are ya doin’ ’ere an all?!” She glanced back at the interior of the cottage. “I’m in a bit of a state. I’m jis’ doin’ the ironin’, like. Kin I ’elp ya wit somethin’?” she asked, peering up at him.

  “Hello, Mrs. Schuyler,” Clive said, removing his hat. “I’m sorry to intrude, but Miss Von Harmon tells me you’ve lost a rather precious ring,” he said inclining his head slightly toward Henrietta. “I thought I might look in and inquire about it.”

  “Oo, aye! Course ya kin!”

  Helen looked over Henrietta now as if seeing her for the first time. Yer ’ere as well, are ya?” she said, a partially toothless grin appearing on her face. “Come in, come in!” she muttered, hobbling out of the way for them to get past.

  Clive and Henrietta stooped to get through the tiny front door and stepped inside.

  “’Tis true enough wha’ she tells ya,” Helen said, wringing her hands. “But I didn’ mean to bother ya wit me troubles, tha’ I didn’, sir,” she said meekly.

  “Nonsense, Helen! Mr. Clive wants to help, don’t you?” Henrietta said, nudging him.

  “Yes, of course I do,” Clive smiled politely. “Now then. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Na a tall, Mister Clive. Na a tall!”

  Clive opened his mouth to speak, then, but before he could utter any words, Helen interrupted him, “Would ya like a spot a tea, mebbe?”

  “No, thank you, I’ve just had my breakfast.”

  “Jis’ ’ad breakfas’! Lord, Mister Clive! But then, again, all ya up at the big hoose always did rise late, like.”

  “It is rather shameful, isn’t it?” Clive smiled patiently.

  “Ach, noo, me lord, ’tisn’t. I didn’ mean anythin’ by it,” Helen said, her nerves getting the better of her now. Henrietta tried valiantly not to smile.

  “I’m not a lord, Mrs. Schuyler. Remember? Just ‘Mister Clive’ is fine.”

  “Tha’s right. Sorry, sir,” she mumbled, her face flushed with embarrassment.

  “Perhaps you could tell me about the ring. Can you describe it?” Clive asked.

  “Describe it?”

  “What did it look like?” Clive asked, biting his lip.

  “Oo, aye! Well,” Helen said, shuffling over to the table so she could lean against it. “It’s aboot sa big,” she said, gesturing with her thumb and forefinger. “Dare’s a big pearl in the center wit purple stones all around it, ya see.”

  “And it’s very old, right, Helen?” put in Henrietta.

  “Oo, aye! ’Tis old. It belong ta me grandmother, ya see. An who knows afore tha’?”

  “When did you last see it?” Clive asked.

  “Well, ’spose it were a couple a weeks ago. I don’ rightly remember,” Helen said, wringing her hands.

  “And you searched the house with her?” Clive asked Henrietta, who nodded eagerly. She was pleased that he was at least pretending to play the part of the detective.

  “Ach, Mister Clive, I’ve searched nigh’ an day, I ’ave. I jis’ knows ’e took it!”

  “Tell him about the scratching, Helen.”

  “Oo, aye, Mister Clive,” Helen agreed, her voice suddenly dropping to just above a whisper. She glanced fearfully toward her bedroom window. “Terrible scratchin’ noises I ’ear, Mister Clive. They frighten the life out a me, they do! Like some kin’ a beast, ’tis.”

  Henrietta felt a chill just listening to her.

  “Scratching?” Clive asked. “What sort of scratching?”

  “Almos’ ever nigh’ I ’ear the scratchin’ ooutside the cottage, all differen’ places, but usually jis’ by me window. Like an animal in soome ways, but na wild, na frantic, jis’ slow an steady, like. Na animal would scratch tha’ way, Mister Clive!” she said, and to their surprise, she burst into tears. “’Tis somethin’ evil!”

  Henrietta hurried over and put her arm around Helen. “It’s all right, Helen. Mr. Clive will figure it out; I’m sure of it. He’s very clever, you know.”

  Helen eventually wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Well, I’ll give ya tha’, Miss Sophia. Or are ya Daphne?” she said, peering at her. “Noo, yer na Daphne,” she said after a moment. “Yer na Sophia, though, are ya?” Not waiting for an answer, as if it no longer mattered who Henrietta was exactly, she went on, “Aye, Mister Clive’s always been a clever one an all.”

  “Want to tell me about Sophia?” Henrietta asked, her eyebrow arched as she looked pointedly at Clive.

  Clive gave an uneasy, halfhearted shrug. “She’s just someone that I used to know. It doesn’t matter now.” He turned his attention back to Helen. “I’ll just have a look outside, shall I?” he asked with what might be construed as excessive eagerness.

  As Clive ducked through the little door, Henrietta followed close behind, trying to decide if she should pursue the Sophia conversation. Her attention was diverted, however, when Clive stopped just outside of Helen’s bedroom window. Henrietta watched him as he stood a few paces back, looking at the woods and then back at the window.

  “There’s an awful lot of footprints,” Henrietta said, pointing toward the ground just below the window and moved toward them. Clive gently grasped her arm to hold her back.

  “Not just yet,” he said, still observing. He made a complete circle around the cottage and then came back to the bedroom window.

  “There’s a lot of footprints everywhere,” he said, putting his own shoe next to one of them to gauge their length. “About my size,” he said, almost to himself. He walked closer to the window ledge now and observed what indeed looked like deep gouges just under the sill. After looking closely at them for a few moments, he ran his finger along one of them as if to feel their depth. “Strange,” he said. He pulled back some tall grass growing along the base of the house and revealed what looked like a burrow just under the house, with crumbled bits of earth near it. “Looks like an animal’s been digging,” he mused. “That would explain the scratching and the marks.”

  “But they wouldn’t be up by the sill,” countered Henrietta. “And what about the footprints?”

  “Well, that is strange, I’ll give you that. But there has to be some explanation.” He turned to Helen, who had been standing off at a distance as if she didn’t want to get too close. “Mrs. Schuyler, you say you think someone
took the ring. Why do you say that?”

  “Ach! ’Cause I sees ’im all the time, creepin’ roun’. An it were jis’ after tha’ tha’ me ring went missin’, like.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Why, tha’ lad from the gardens. Tall, ’e is. Thin. Blond hair. I sees ’im all a time when I goes up ta the big hoose ta ’elp. Always in the garden, ’e is.”

  “She’s talking about Virgil,” Henrietta explained.

  “And Virgil’s the one who gave Edna the ring, correct?” he asked Henrietta.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Wha’s this?” Helen asked. “’E’s gone an given it away? Ta young Edna, ya say?”

  “We think he may have done,” Henrietta answered tentatively.

  “Ach, tha’ swine!” Helen despaired.

  Clive rubbed his brow. “It’s quite easy to clear this up. Mrs. Schuyler, do you feel up to a walk to the house?”

  “Wha’? Now?” she asked fretfully. “Wha’ about me ironing?”

  “You’ll have to come back to that later,” Clive said, a shade of impatience registering in his voice.

  “Well, I suppose I could. Why? Wha’ are we doin’ up dare? I’m not in trouble, am I, Mister Clive?” she said, wringing her hands.

  “No, Mrs. Schuyler,” Clive said in a softer tone. “Of course you’re not in any trouble. I’d just like you to take a look at Edna’s new ring and see if it’s yours.”

  “Oo, aye! I see. Well, if ya think it best, Mister Clive,” she said hesitantly. “Let me jis’ get this pinny off,” she said, reaching behind her to undo her apron strings as she walked back toward the cottage.

  “Do you lock the cottage, Mrs. Schuyler?” Clive called after her, almost as an afterthought.

  “Lord, noo, Mister Clive! The cottage don’ lock. Never ‘ad a need of it afore,” she said, coming back out now and giving the door a good tug.

  “I see,” Clive mused and led the two women back to the house.

  As fate would have it, Edna was seated in the kitchen helping Mary to shell peas when the three of them arrived back at the house, having gone straight to the kitchen’s back door. Both Edna and Mary stood up when Clive entered.

  “Mister Clive, sir!” Mary exclaimed. “Is there something wrong? We didn’t hear the bell.”

  “I didn’t ring, Mary. I’m sorry to interrupt you. It’s Edna I’d like to talk to.”

  “Me, Mister Clive?” Edna said nervously and glanced at Henrietta in despair.

  “What’s she done?” Mary asked, exasperated.

  “No, no,” Clive smiled. “It’s nothing like that. Miss Von Harmon, here,” he said, gesturing with his hat, “has told me what a lovely ring Edna received for her birthday.” Edna turned a deep shade of red and looked at the ground. “And it just so happens that this ring seems extraordinarily similar to the one Mrs. Schuyler misplaced not some two weeks ago.”

  “Oh, Helen! It’s yours?” Edna asked, confused.

  “Don’ rightly know,” Helen said, the hurt in her voice clear. “Tha’s wha these two lords and ladies is sayin’.”

  “I’m not a lord, Mrs. Schuyler,” Clive reminded her, giving Henrietta an exasperated look.

  “Ach! Sa yer na, Mister Clive. I firgit sometimes, like. Don’ pay me na mind.”

  “Perhaps you would show us the ring, Edna?” Clive asked her kindly.

  “Certainly, Mister Clive,” Edna said, putting down the bowl of peas she was still holding with an unusually tight grip. “I keep it in my pocket, if you must know,” she said, blushing again. She slipped her small hand into the front pocket of her uniform and pulled out a small object wrapped in a handkerchief. Silently she walked over and handed it shyly to Clive. “Here you are, sir,” she said, curtseying slightly.

  Clive carefully unwrapped the bundle in his hand, Henrietta and Helen looking on anxiously beside him. Helen gasped when she saw the ring. “Tha’s it! ’Tis mine, it is!” she nearly shouted.

  “Here,” Clive said, placing it in her hand. “Look closely. Make sure it really is yours.”

  Helen eagerly grabbed it and held it up before her dim eyes, feeling it carefully with her fingers as she did so. “Oo, aye! ’Tis it! Yuv found it, Mister Clive! God bless ya!”

  “Wait a moment, Mrs. Schuyler,” Clive said, laying a hand gently on her arm. “I need to hold on to that for a bit.” When Mrs. Schuyler seemed to hesitate, Clive added, “No need to worry. But we haven’t quite gotten to the bottom of this. For example, how exactly did this Virgil come to be in the possession of such a piece?”

  Edna blushed a deep red. “I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm, Mister Clive,” she said pleadingly.

  “No doubt there’s a simple explanation,” Clive said, though his face, Henrietta noticed, was drawn tight. “Mary, perhaps you’d give Mrs. Schuyler a cup of tea while I look for Virgil.”

  “Yes, Mister Clive!” Mary said, bustling over to the stove where the kettle stood, and Edna pulled out a chair, helping Helen into it. “He’ll be out in the gardens this time of day,” Mary offered.

  “Thanks, Mary,” Clive said and looked at Henrietta, inclining his head toward the door.

  “Won’t be a moment,” Clive said to the little group at the table and strode out the door, Henrietta following him.

  “See what I mean?” Henrietta said breathlessly, trying to keep up with Clive’s determined strides across the grounds. Clive didn’t speak, however, until they came around the side of the house to where the kitchen gardens lay, various workers bent over the crops.

  “Which one is he?” Clive asked impatiently.

  Henrietta furtively looked out over the gardens. “I don’t see him,” she said, finally. “He must be here somewhere, though,” she put in eagerly, not wanting to give up the chase now. “He always is.”

  Together they walked closer to the gardens until they spotted Mr. McCreanney attending a small fire, burning twigs and garden refuse. He was leaning on a rake, smoking a cigarette, but he stood up straight when he spotted Clive striding toward him. He quickly took off his cap.

  “Mister Clive, sir! I didna know ya were home, sir. Wery good ta see ya, it is, sir.”

  “Thanks, Edward.”

  “How kin I ’elp, sir?”

  “I’m looking for one of your men, actually. Virgil is his name. I’m not sure what his surname is.”

  “Aye, Virgil, sir. Virgil Higgins. ’E’s feelin’ poorly t’day, sir. Toll ’im ta ’ave a lie down fer the morn. ’E’s not in any trouble is ’e, sir? Can’t imagine it of that lad, though. Good as gold, ’e is. ’Ard worker; never a moment’s trouble, ’e is.”

  Clive studied Mr. McCreanney’s face. “No, he’s not in any trouble necessarily. I just need to ask him a few questions. I daresay your word goes a long way toward my opinion of his character, though, Mr. McCreanney.”

  “Thank ya, sir,” Mr. McCreanney answered, genuinely pleased. He slipped his cap back on. “I best be gettin’ back ta work, then, sir. You’ll find Virgil in ’is room above the garage,” he said, crushing his cigarette underfoot now as he picked up the rake he had set aside.

  Clive nodded his thanks and turned back toward the stables, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  “I don’t like this one bit, Henrietta,” he said, irritated, looking at the ground as they hurried toward the stables. The wind had picked up now, and Henrietta strained to hear his words as they walked. “McCreanney’s a good man. He’s probably the most honest man on the estate, and his word means a lot.”

  “Well, there has to be some explanation, Clive,” Henrietta said, frustrated herself. “How did Virgil come by the ring, then?”

  “I don’t know. I just hope this isn’t a waste of time. Well, it is a waste of time, actually. We have some rather important things to discuss, but instead I’m chasing after a two-bit piece of jewelry.”

  “So . . . so you don’t think it has any value? The ring, that is,” she asked, choosing to ignore his reference to what was surely to be
the uncomfortable conversation he alluded to.

  “Well, of course it doesn’t have any value!”

  “Clive! I’m surprised at you,” Henrietta said sternly, but deep down she felt guilty that she had ruined his plans. But if Clive were going back to the city soon, as well as herself . . . perhaps . . . she didn’t see any other option but to get to the bottom of Helen’s anxiety right now. They might not have another chance.

  “Well I’m no expert, but I don’t see how it can,” he added grimly.

  They had reached the stables, and Clive looked up at the dark windows above the garage.

  “Perhaps I should let you lead the way, since you apparently know your way around,” he said, gesturing with his hand.

  “That was uncalled for, Clive,” Henrietta said hotly, surprisingly stung by his words.

  Clive rubbed his eyes. “Forgive me. You’re right, of course. I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I am not really up to a confrontation just now, with Virgil or with Fletcher, actually,” he said, his eyes roaming the garage and beyond. “Fletcher doesn’t seem to be here, though, so let’s just find Virgil and get this over with.”

  Henrietta decided to let his comment go as they climbed the outside stairs leading to a small balcony of sorts that ran the length of the building, several doors to what were presumably bedrooms leading off of that.

  “Mr. Higgins?” Clive said loudly as they stood on the balcony, looking at the row of doors and wondering which was his. “Virgil?” he called again, louder this time. “This is Mr. Howard. I need to speak with you, please!”

  They heard a squeak, then, as one of the doors toward the end of the row slowly opened. A pale blond man in a thin plaid bathrobe stood in the doorway.

  “Mr. Higgins?” Clive asked, walking toward him, Henrietta following closely.

  “Yeah?” he asked dourly.

  “I’m Clive Howard,” he said respectfully. “You are employed by my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Howard.”

  “Yeah?” Virgil asked again, his jaw slack and unshaven. “Heard of you. Seen her,” he nodded toward Henrietta.

  “Yes. Indeed,” Clive said stiffly. “This is my fiancée, Miss Von Harmon,” he added briskly, inclining his head toward her.