by Issy Brooke
Such idle trains of thought kept her amused as she walked, and she was still smiling to herself as she knocked on the door of the manse and found, according to the housekeeper, Reverend Staines asleep but Reverend Newbolt “probably around if you’ll just wait here.”
“I should start looking for him in the garden,” Adelia said to the flustered housekeeper, a woman who was clearly not enjoying the additional work brought by the recent houseguest. The woman shot her a smile topped off with a roll of her eyes, and led Adelia to wait for the reverend in a cosily-furnished and somewhat overheated parlour.
Reverend Newbolt bounced into the parlour and immediately flung open a window, but that was not enough for him. “Oh, I simply cannot linger in here; would you like to talk a walk?” He barely waited for her reply before leaving the room.
Well, she was dressed for walking and didn’t mind the extra exercise, so she followed him. They wandered across the green and as soon as she was sure they were out of earshot of everyone, she told him of her plan to send money to the school if he were willing to do so. “Might I also trouble you to take this letter to Harriet if you are going to see her when you return? It does not matter if not; I can send it in the general post.”
“It hardly counts as a return anywhere,” he told her, grinning. “I have nowhere to come from or return to. It’s all an endless pilgrimage and I am not in charge. But wait! Do not look so unsure, as if you think I shall veer off sideways and disappear with your money.”
“I thought no such thing.”
“You did; I know that you did, but more importantly, your own heart knows that you have lied and the Holy Ghost is willing, yet, to forgive you...”
She didn’t know how to answer that. She said, in some embarrassment, “I am glad to hear that you won’t go off with it.”
“Of course I won’t. It is a matter of trust.”
They left the village and wandered, seemingly aimlessly, down the track that took them to the river. Here they were out of sight of anyone and she passed him the envelope containing the money and a note, and the letter for Harriet.
She slowed her steps, thinking that she ought to go back to Dovewood now her task was done.
But Reverend Newbolt was waiting for her, a few paces ahead, and smiling. She realised that he had something in mind for her.
“One good turn deserves another, does it not?” he said, and pointed ahead to the bend in the river.
“Of course. What might I do for you?” She trusted him as a man of the cloth but she had also read far too many unsuitable novels in her time, and was therefore a little reluctant to be persuaded to continue alongside him now that he had made that sort of ambiguous comment.
Once again, he read her mind and this time he laughed out loud. “It is not a good turn for me that I seek. You must remember who is camped around this bend?”
“Ahh, the travelling folk?”
“Yes.” And without another word of explanation, he walked ahead and she had to follow. Today there seemed to be fewer people around the encampment. There was a circle of six wooden wagons, and the piebald and skewbald horses were grazing on a fresh patch of grass, having already worn large circles in other parts of the field as they mowed down the meadow as far as their tethers would let them reach. A group of men were leaving in an open cart, on what mission Adelia could not guess. A dog barked furiously at them from under one of the wagons, but seemed reluctant to actually emerge. She thought it was half-starved but another glance showed her it was of a lurcher-type, half sighthound and bred to hunt, and naturally lean. It eyed her warily, growled once more and retreated out of sight.
Reverend Newbolt whistled a merry tune and it seemed to serve as some kind of signal, drawing out three young children around the ages of eight or nine. Their clothes were patched but, to Adelia’s surprise, quite clean except for their cuffs, which was only to be expected in children who were effectively living in a field. They had a fresh-faced and well-fed look about them quite at odds with the usual look of a town child in the same sort of situation. No wonder her daughter Mary romanticised this lifestyle so much. Adelia could feel herself apt to do the same if she weren’t careful.
“Hello!” she said brightly, feeling full of pastoral charm. “What are your names?” Up close, she could see pox-marks and scars. One child had a squint. The idyll was not entirely perfect.
The children stared at her, clustering together, and refused to speak, looking instead at the reverend and then to one side, from where a matriarchal elderly woman was approaching. She was wearing shades of blue and red, with a headscarf tied tightly over her bouncing black and grey curls, and her face was brown from sun and heritage. She folded her arms tightly over her bosom and said to the children, “He’s a kengeri-mush, so you better speak to him right, you see?” And then turning to Reverend Newbolt she said, “You’re welcome, as always, Parson, and glad I am to see you, too. The fever worsens. I’ve done what I can. It ought to be enough but it’s in Devel’s hands now.”
Adelia was shocked and wanted to run away. The devil’s hands? “Reverend, I cannot be here,” she said, firmly, backing away.
“Lady Calaway, have no fear. These are Christian people, in truth; their souls are with God even if the outward appearance might seem unusual. Why, one of their own, Wester Boswell, has been transcribing the Scriptures into their own language!”
The older lady cackled. “She’s afeard of the word Devel. It’s only our word for God and it’s the same God as yours, isn’t that right, Parson?”
“It is indeed, Thursza. Let us see the patient and perhaps we can help. Lady Calaway, if you would?” He extended his hand and she took his arm, grateful suddenly for someone to cling to as they walked behind the woman called Thursza although Adelia was not sure if that were a given name or some kind of title or honorific. From being a sparse and unpopulated camp, now she felt eyes upon her from every direction. The use of a different language and unfamiliar customs made her very aware that she was out of her depth, and could not fall back on her usual social niceties.
Then she chided herself. People were all the same, underneath, as the Reverend himself had alluded to. And what was more unifying, more common to all peoples, than a care for their children?
For it was a child that they found lying under a canvas shelter, a boy of about five years old, wrapped in a blankets and sweating profusely. Reverend Newbolt knelt at his side and placed his hands on the top of the swaddled child to say a prayer. After they had all murmured amen, Adelia approached, and asked what the matter was.
There was a flurry of conversation between the Reverend, Thursza and the child’s mother, all conducted in English and smatterings of their own language. The boy had always been sickly, and was unusually prone to upset stomachs, and their usual treatment of milky drinks and bundling him in blankets to provoke sweating only seemed to make him worse. Now he had come down with a fever and they were worried.
“Have others here been struck by summer head-colds?” she asked, thinking of her mother-in-law. “I think he might be ill from that and be ill from something else, perhaps. It is confusing, but I have heard of other cases where milk cannot be tolerated by a person. Try only bread, and avoid even butter. Perhaps loosen the blankets? He must drink as much as possible but let it be beef stock and clear soups, at a lukewarm temperature, as much as you can. No fruit, of course.” Everyone nodded. That fruit was dangerous to the weak of constitution was common knowledge.
“May I come again with some things that may help?” she asked, politely directing it to Thursza. She was given permission, and though she had not done anything except make a few suggestions, she felt quite good about herself as she left with Reverend Newbolt.
Already, the Reverend’s butterfly attention had fixed on other things and he was talking enthusiastically about the uses of a plant called willowherb as they left the camp behind and worked their way to the public road. Adelia half-listened but she was eyeing the darkening sky with s
ome alarm, too. Rain was imminent.
There was another figure up ahead, walking briskly, and she recognised the gait of her husband even at the distance of a quarter-mile. She was too ladylike to halloo at him, but he was approaching and soon spotted her. He picked up his pace, and she was pleased to be able to make introductions between Reverend Newbolt and Theodore.
Theodore said, after tipping his hat to the clergyman, “I have been to Dovewood; they sent me to the manse; and after extricating myself from the Reverend Staines, I came along here, hoping to find you somewhere between the places that we know. What luck!”
“Providence, indeed,” Reverend Newbolt said.
Theodore twitched but kept his atheistic views to himself, for which Adelia was somewhat grateful. The Reverend passed her into her husband’s care and took his leave of them both, striding off across fields in spite of the incipient rain.
She told him where she had been and what she had been doing, and he was immediately interested, insisting on coming back with her to the encampment. She felt awkward without the protecting figure of Reverend Newbolt but Theodore seemed to feel no such discomfort and Thursza seemed happy to let him talk to the child, his mother, and a positive gaggle of other folk who gathered around. As soon as they heard he was a doctor, and one inclined to charitable acts, he was inundated with bunions, sore throats, rheumatism, head lice and stomach aches. Not all in the same person, thankfully.
She let him get on with his ministering to the sick, glad for once of the occasional language barrier. Theodore’s problem was his plain speaking, but at least many of the people did not understand what he was saying – or at least, did not seem to. There was a look in the dark eyes of one man, standing close to Thursza, that suggested he understood everything although he did not speak.
It was beginning to rain when they finally left. Theodore said that he would escort her to Dovewood, as it was slightly closer than the Grey House by road – they could not cut across fields in this weather – and she was happy to accept.
She could not bear it any longer.
She had to tell him of her suspicions about Mary.
“Theodore, I do not think that Mary is sleepwalking.”
“She is found at night, wandering the house. We have both seen her with our own eyes.” He looked at her with worry and confusion in his face, as if he was now afraid his own wife was becoming senile. He spoke calmly, just in case.
“Oh yes; we have seen her. But I believe she is awake when she does it.”
He shook his head in disbelief, laughing. “Why would she pretend?”
“I don’t think she is pretending, except when she is caught, as it is then a convenient excuse.”
“But why would she walk the house at night?”
“I think she is ... leaving the house.”
“Preposterous. She is delicate and prone to illnesses. She would not risk her health like that. Oh, Adelia. You can come back to the Grey House if you are truly so concerned.”
“You mean, you think that Lady Beaconberg’s whims and vagaries are getting to me, and making me unwell and causing me to fancy strange things,” she said.
“No, not at all...”
“Yes, but...”
He took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “Leave medical matters to me, dear heart.”
She bit her tongue.
They reached Dovewood and she hesitated on the front steps.
“I ought to get back,” he said.
“And I ought to see to Lady Beaconberg. I have neglected her dreadfully today and yesterday.”
“Go and do your duty,” he told her.
“And you, yours.”
He stepped a little closer and she tittered, thinking he was going to steal a kiss like a young lover. Instead he whispered in her ear, “And don’t forget to find out as much as you can about Lady Beaconberg and the horse business!”
He was gone and she deflated with a sigh.
Thirteen
Theodore got thoroughly caught in the rain before he was able to get back to the Grey House. Smith, Adelia’s lady’s maid, emerged from some hidden door like the phantom that she was, and attended to him with all the efficiency and suppressed silent judgment of a valet until he dismissed her to attend to his undergarments himself. She had laid out fresh clothing for him already, knowing in advance that he was going to come in soaked.
She was probably a witch, Theodore thought, if any do exist. And I am happy with that, because it makes our lives run so much more smoothly. All households ought to have a soothsayer. He smiled to himself and turned to share the joke with Adelia.
Except, of course, the constant companion of his last thirty years was not there. He had registered and re-registered her absence three times an hour or more and he still wasn’t used to it.
He wondered then how long they were going to have to carry on like this. He was tired of it. He enjoyed seeing his daughter and her family, but he felt that he had exhausted all potential topics of conversation with the quiet but increasingly dull Cecil, and his mother was ill and staying mostly in bed, and he missed his books and having his own staff around him.
Well, he thought, now wrestling with his collar, the thing to do is to get to the bottom of this murder case – yes! For it is a murder, no doubt about it, and now the police themselves see foul play at the root, then it must be solved quickly and accurately. He ran through everything that he knew so far.
First he asked himself, who has motive to kill Lord Beaconberg? Sir Arthur, of course. He now owns the business that he was trying to get full control of.
And by extension, the lad Douglas Mackie. If he is the cause then Sir Arthur is in danger of being next.
But Lady Beaconberg looms in this list too, he reminded himself. He knew that people would scoff at the idea. Women poisoned their lovers, of course, on a semi-regular basis if the Illustrated Police News was to be believed. But orchestrating a carriage accident was a feat on another level and would have involved accomplices, surely. If Lady Beaconberg is the instigator, he thought, then we must find other actors in this sordid play.
Could she be in league with Sir Arthur?
Yet she’d made her antipathy to the man quite plain.
Unless that had been an act.
Once more Theodore found himself at a loss to see beyond people’s outward appearances. Although he knew on an intellectual level that people often behaved in duplicitous ways, when confronted with a real live flesh and blood person, he knew he would not be able to see anything other than what they presented to him. Only afterwards, in conversation with Adelia, was he able to perceive the layers of meaning that had been present all the time. It was as if only distance gave him clarity.
Up close, in the actual moment of dealing with another, he was too overwhelmed by the sheer presence of a living person and all the complicated social niceties that he had to remember to follow.
Such difficulties could even sometimes plague him when dealing with his own family. Only with Adelia was he truly free of his curious constraints. He tried to be open and relaxed with his daughters but he was too aware, all the time, that he was a father and that was a word heavy with responsibility.
Yet it was a responsibility that was no burden, but a pleasure. He thought about Adelia’s comments about Mary and her sleepwalking, and went to find his daughter to get to the bottom of the matter.
MARY WAS STANDING BY a window in a comfortable sitting room on the first floor, looking down at the gardens through a sheet of rain that blurred the window. She turned when she heard the door open, and smiled in greeting at her father. He joined her and gazed through the smeary glass.
“You’ll tire yourself, standing up,” he said at last. “Let’s sit down.”
A sigh came up from deep within her and he took it to mean that yes, she was indeed tired. But when he went to a couch, he was surprised to find that she had not followed him. Now she had her back to him as she continued to look out over the grounds
.
“Mary,” he said, “Is there anything the matter?”
“The rain is so tedious.”
“It is but it won’t last.”
“This is Yorkshire. It’s all we ever get.”
“But that is not true. This is the first day of rain since your mother and I arrived.”
“Oh, logically, it is not true. But it is a feeling and feelings are true too, papa.”
“Of course they are. Mary, I can see that something is troubling you and I would urge you to speak to someone about it, if you cannot speak to me.”
She turned at that. Maybe there had been a waver in his voice, a note of hurt, a sense of rejection. She said, “Papa, it is not that I think you won’t understand. It’s just that there really isn’t anything to say. In a way, that’s part of the problem. Is this it? Is this all there is? Life, day to day life ... you know.”
“I ... I wonder if you’ve spoken to the reverend?”
“Reverend Staines?” She laughed and shook her head. “No, I have not. He is a dear man but one can hardly unburden one’s soul when one has to shout like a fishwife selling her wares at a market, simply to be heard.”
“I can see how that is a problem. But you could find another spiritual advisor. Arrange for someone to take you into York. Spend some time at the Minster in reflection.”
She was still shaking her head slightly. “Papa, I know you don’t even believe in the advice that you are giving me. You’re just saying what ought to be said. Anyway, I do not think it’s a spiritual matter. It’s more to do with ... me. Here, this house, my life. Oh! Don’t think I am not grateful, for I am. I am perfectly aware that no one even expected me to live this long, and as for marriage and a family, well, it is a gift which I am thankful for every single day. But...”
“Children?” Theodore said, sadly, his heart aching for her.