A Gentleman of Fortune

by Anna Dean

  And why does she associate with a woman of bad character like Jenny White?

  The next morning saw Flora and Dido driving along a narrow street in a rather shabby part of Richmond, in search of Mrs Neville’s home.

  There had been some reluctance on Flora’s part; she had not wanted to pay the call. Her acquaintance with the lady was ‘very slight’; and she had been intending to drive to town this morning to call upon a particular friend in Harley Street; and, from all she could remember, Mrs Neville was quite the dullest woman in the world. And that had been when she was in her right senses, you know. Now, by her daughter’s account, they must expect to find her confused as well as dull. It would be perfectly dreadful!

  But Dido had persevered, assuring her that it was all done for Mr Lansdale’s sake, and had given an account of everything Miss Neville had told her at Brooke.

  ‘Oh, and so you do not believe her?’ Flora asked when the tale was finished. ‘You do not believe that it was in order to visit her mother that she left Knaresborough House that evening?’

  ‘I am still not sure,’ confessed Dido. ‘A call upon her mother would be of great use to us. At the very least we can discover whether it is true – whether Miss Neville did go there that evening.’

  ‘Oh well, I daresay I can go to Harley Street tomorrow instead. We shall go to your Mrs Neville today; though I confess, I did not know that helping poor Mr Lansdale must involve so many visits to tedious old women.’

  So here they were, in a street of small, unprosperous looking houses and shops; and it seemed that nearly everything that Dido had heard of Mrs Neville’s circumstances was true. She did indeed live in a very small way. The house which she occupied was small and the portion allotted to her use was even smaller, for the house belonged to people in business and Mrs Neville had only two tiny apartments on the drawing room floor.

  There was however one circumstance for which Dido was quite unprepared. Flora had told her that Mrs Neville employed no servant; but when they arrived at the house a woman appeared to show them up the stairs – and that woman was none other than Jenny White.

  They exchanged very wondering looks as they climbed the narrow stairs; but there was little opportunity for talking.

  ‘I assure you I have never seen her here before in my life!’ was all that Flora could whisper as they waited on the dark landing to be announced. Then the door was thrown open, Jenny had given them a look which suggested she suspected them quite as much as they suspected her, and they were walking into the parlour.

  It was a poor, threadbare, little room; low ceiled, very dark from the smallness of the windows and the extreme narrowness of the street outside, and so very noisy that the pewter candlesticks rattled on the chimney-piece whenever a carriage passed over the cobbles below. But the old lady in her chair was straight-backed and bright-eyed under her white cap. She was smaller than her daughter, with more regular features. She certainly had an air of more intelligence. She was knitting; but she set down her pins and threw a look of some keenness at them – and at her servant – as they were shown into the room.

  She expressed gratitude for their visit and fell easily into conversation. The first subject, after being seated, was her work.

  ‘Well, my dears, you find me very busy,’ said she. ‘I have not the eyesight for the fine work that I used to do. Which is not at all to be wondered at, at my age, is it? But I have lately learnt to knit and I find it suits me very well. And I can make all manner of little things that are of use to myself and to the poor people hereabouts.’

  Her voice was as calm and rational as her appearance, and Dido was surprised. She had expected the confusion which the daughter had spoken of to be more apparent. They talked a little more of how she passed her days. And everything she said, marking as it did either her gentility, her sense, or her gentleness, was adding to Dido’s surprise.

  ‘I daresay you miss the society of your daughter a great deal,’ she asked at the first opportunity.

  ‘Well, yes, I daresay I do, my dear,’ was the quiet reply. ‘But I was very glad for her to go to the Lansdales, you know. She has had so little opportunity for change and variety.’

  ‘Of course. And no doubt she has been able to visit you tolerably often?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Neville, ‘Clara is very good. She comes to me without fail every week – on a Tuesday evening.’ Quite suddenly she dropped her voice to such a whisper as they could barely hear. ‘I rather fancy…’ she said, setting aside her knitting and leaning very close, ‘…I rather fancy that she conditioned with Mrs Lansdale for coming on Tuesdays from the very beginning.’

  Dido wondered at this sudden bid for secrecy; but then she followed the direction which Mrs Neville’s eyes had taken and saw Jenny White, not gone away to the kitchen as she had supposed, but standing still beside the door, her stout, red, laundress’s arms folded across her breast. ‘Jenny,’ whispered Mrs Neville, ‘takes her evening off on Tuesday, you see, and Clara does not like me to be left alone.’

  ‘Oh!’ Dido looked from the eager, elderly face before her, to the broad, red, expressionless one beside the door, which had something of a prison warder’s watchfulness.‘That is very thoughtful of her, I am sure.’

  Mrs Neville pursed her lips, picked up her knitting and studied it for a moment. ‘Yes,’ she repeated, still speaking in a whisper. ‘Yes, Clara fears that if I am left, I may go out on my own and there will be trouble. That is why she insisted that Jenny should come here while she is at the Lansdales. Either she or Jenny must be with me all the time.’

  ‘I see.’ Dido was whispering now too. ‘I am sure it is very kind of your daughter to take such great care of you.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ She sighed. ‘But you know sometimes it is very hard. It is a very dull life. Sometimes I quite long to walk out as I used to do. I do so love to walk out – and take a little look at the shops, perhaps.’

  ‘Of course…’

  ‘And I am quite sure,’ she ran on in an eager whisper, ‘that I could accomplish it safely – if I only had a companion to go with me. I say often to Clara “I do not doubt one of my neighbours when they come to call, would be so kind as to lend me their arm and walk with me as far as the green, or to Mrs Clark’s shop. I am quite sure one of my visitors would oblige me…”’ And she looked very significantly from Flora to Dido.

  ‘Well…’ began Dido uncertainly. But there was a loud cough behind her and she turned to see that Jenny had taken a step nearer and was frowning darkly at her mistress.

  Poor Mrs Neville sighed, seemed to shrink a little, and pretended to be engrossed in her knitting again. ‘It is so very dull, to never go out at all,’ she said a little more loudly.

  ‘Why, I am sure it is,’ said Flora with gentle sympathy. ‘I am sure it is very dull indeed.’

  ‘You must look forward to your daughter’s visits very much,’ said Dido.

  ‘I do,’ she said with another sigh. ‘For you know, my eyesight is not good enough to even allow me much pleasure in books – except when Clara is here to read to me.’

  ‘And you say that she always comes on Tuesdays. She came to you on that Tuesday on which Mrs Lansdale died?’

  Flora’s casting up her eyes told Dido that her questions were becoming too particular. But Mrs Neville did not seem to be at all offended. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, more loudly, ‘Clara certainly came here the night Mrs Lansdale died.’

  …And you see, Eliza, I have been wondering ever since just what she meant us to understand by that. Did she mean in fact to assure us that her daughter had come. Or by speaking so loudly, did she mean to remind us that we were being overheard – and so quite deliberately make us doubt the truth of her words?

  I have been puzzling over Mrs Neville ever since we returned. And, though I fear my account may be insufficient to convince you of the strangeness of the encounter, I assure you that, if you had been present, even your trusting heart would have been suspicious. If you had seen the wa
y that woman stood in the room all the while the poor lady was talking: the look upon her face – and her manner entirely!

  Flora has suggested that there may be fears for Mrs Neville’s safety: that she might be subject to sudden attacks of some kind – which would explain her being constantly attended. But there was nothing about the lady to hint at such a danger – any more than there were signs of the confusion her daughter talked of. She seemed to be not only as healthy but also as sensible as you or me, Eliza.

  And there is this too to consider: why should Miss Neville employ such a woman as Jenny White – with such a reputation – to care for an invalid? It is highly unsuitable and I still do not know what to make of this confederacy between Miss Neville and a woman of bad character. I have seen her myself making payment far beyond what ought to be expected in a servant waiting upon a sick old woman. And it cannot be a coincidence that Knaresborough House was robbed after Jenny White had visited it!

  Is it possible that Clara Neville has employed thieves to search the house for something that is hidden there – something she very particularly wishes to obtain…something such as a will…?

  Oh Eliza! I see now how you will shake your head over this letter and smile that particular smile – all affection, disbelief and exasperation. But I am not ashamed of my suspicions, nor can I consider them to be so very unreasonable. After all, we know that the window of the drawing room was broken open from the inside.

  And, if Mrs Lansdale had upon that last evening carried out her threat to her nephew and drawn up some rough and ready will – might that document not have bestowed upon Miss Neville some of the wealth which was lost to him?

  Miss Neville would have as powerful a motive for wishing to find such a will as Mr Lansdale would have for ‘keeping it safe’.

  And such an account would also explain the extraordinary situation of Mrs Neville – who seems to be imprisoned in her own home. Why is she never to be left on her own when she is as rational as you or me? Why can she not talk freely to her visitors without fearing that that woman will overhear? I can think of only one reason. There is something she knows which she must not tell.

  Well, I doubt I have convinced you, Eliza, but I am quite determined to find out more about the burglary and, to that end, I would particularly like to speak with the butler Fraser who discovered the villains in the drawing room. However, Flora tells me that that will not be possible, as the fellow has been dismissed for stealing Mr Lansdale’s cigars. Which is very vexing indeed, for I would have been very interested in hearing his account.

  So instead I shall go to town with Flora tomorrow when she makes her call in Harley Street. I shall go to Bond Street to see what I may discover about the emerald necklace.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It had rained again in the night and Bond Street was wet and crowded: the gutters awash with water and dirt, the paving stones shining and steaming in the sun. The noise of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves, and of voices raised so as to be heard above the din, was almost unbearable to Dido’s country-bred ears and she was very near regretting that she had asked Flora to set her down there.

  In the cool and quiet of the breakfast room it had seemed rather a good idea. Since the carriage was coming into this part of town to convey Flora to Harley Street, why should she not take the opportunity of pursuing some enquiries relative to the burglary at Knaresborough House – and the necklace which had been dropped? She would, she had decided, visit as many fashionable jewellers as she had time for and attempt to discover the one which had supplied the necklace. If she was very fortunate she might even learn who had purchased it.

  So now Flora was gone on to pay her visit and Dido was in Bond Street – but not quite alone because Flora had insisted upon leaving her servant to protect her cousin from the indignity of solitude.

  ‘Will you wait here at the door, Robert,’ she said as she turned into the first shop. ‘I shall not be long.’

  She was not long – not in that shop individually. But there were a great many jewellers’ establishments in Bond Street and the streets surrounding it. By the time she approached Gray’s in Sackville Street her ankles were weary and her head was aching – and Robert had begun the look-out for the carriage.

  She climbed the stairs slowly, thinking that perhaps Mr Lansdale had been mistaken in believing the necklace newly made, or perhaps it had not been bought in London at all…

  The room she entered was as bright and colourful as a jewellery case and as noisy as the room at the Exeter Exchange where the wild beasts are kept. The place was full of finely dressed people and they were all talking loudly, for when gems and gold and expense are under discussion, the talkers are seldom unwilling to have their conversations overhead.

  Behind the counter there was only one person disengaged: a tall, ageing man. Smiling, Dido approached him with the tale which she seemed to have told a hundred times that morning.

  She had had the misfortune to lose a jewel – an emerald – from a necklace, and was hoping to find a matching stone, and she had been advised that it would be best matched by the jeweller who had originally supplied the piece. But, you see, it had been a gift from her brother so she did not know where it had been bought. And, of course, she could not ask her brother, for she did not wish to confess that the jewel was lost. So she wondered – had the necklace been purchased at Gray’s?

  She described the piece of jewellery which Mr Morgan had stumbled upon in the folds of the curtain, but received in return what must surely be the morning’s hundredth shake of the head.

  No, he was almost sure that Gray’s had not supplied the piece. But, if she would have the goodness to wait a moment, he would consult the ledgers to see if there was any record of it.

  She thanked him a little absently for, while he was talking, she had noticed that the young shop-man who was next at the counter – a thin, loosely built fellow with a shock of reddish hair, who was waiting patiently while two young ladies dawdled and exclaimed over a tray of earrings – was stealing sidelong glances, as if he was attending to what she was saying. He now began to cast anxious looks at his customers. He could not address himself to someone else before their business was complete; but Dido was sure he was wanting to say something to her.

  The older man returned from his ledger. ‘No madam, I am afraid your necklace was certainly not bought in this shop.’

  Dido thanked him and turned away. The young ladies were still consulting and laughing over the earrings.

  She stepped away from the counter. She did not want to leave. She was almost certain the young man had something he wished to say. She began to find fault with the ribbons of her bonnet. She untied them, smoothed them out, retied them. She drew off her gloves and studied their buttons before pulling them back on.

  Still the girls were chattering over the earrings like a pair of magpies…

  Dido began to look about her as if she were waiting for someone to join her.

  At last the girls were leaving the counter – without having spent sixpence between them.

  ‘I beg your pardon, madam,’ said the young man behind the counter.

  ‘Yes?’ Dido stepped back.

  ‘I beg your pardon, madam,’ he said eagerly, his wide pale eyes blinking rapidly, ‘I could not help but hear you describe the emerald necklace and I wondered – has the other lady changed her mind?’

  She stared at him. ‘I am sorry, I do not quite understand you.’

  His face blushed red, but he stumbled on. ‘The other lady who came in this morning asking about just such a necklace – has she changed her mind? Does she wish us to make one for her after all?’

  ‘There has been another lady asking about a necklace like mine?’

  ‘Yes madam. Not two hours ago. Is she… Is she a friend of yours?’

  ‘I do not know. What was she like?’

  ‘Quite tall,’ he said, ‘and brown-haired and…’ he hesitated.

  ‘And?’

 
‘And rather plainly dressed.’

  ‘No.’ Dido shook her head. ‘I cannot think who she might be. Our asking about a similar piece of jewellery must be no more than a coincidence.’

  ‘Oh.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘I hoped maybe…’ He stopped and smiled shyly, his cheeks still glowing. ‘The poor lady seemed so very worried about it,’ he said. ‘I was sorry we could not help her.’

  ‘Did you tell her that you could not make such a necklace?’

  ‘Oh no madam. We could make it. But unfortunately, when I told the lady the price she found that it was more than she could afford.’

  …Well, Eliza, I have been at my needlework all morning – and so have had a great deal of time in which to consider matters. And, by the by, it occurs to me that there is more danger in sewing than most people suppose. Moralists, I believe, quite mistake the matter when they advise against novel reading in young women as a disturber of the mind and a creator of wild imaginings; they would do better to consider fancy-work. For I do believe that by only occupying a woman’s hands and leaving her mind free to wander where it chooses, sewing is a great disturber of the imagination.

  Not that I would have you believe that my imagination has been disturbed this morning. My musings have, naturally, been entirely rational.

  To begin with – and this subject took me all around the hem of a handkerchief – there is the matter of the emeralds. It is so very strange that another woman should enquire about an identical necklace… Of course, it might really be no more than a coincidence. If you were here with me you would probably seek to assure me that it was.