A Moment of Silence E-Book

Anna Dean

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Dido Kent Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 364

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Belsfield Hall, 1805. The sudden disappearance of her niece's fiancé at their engagement ball leads Miss Dido Kent to worry that something sinister may have occurred. Before long, her fears are confirmed. Family secrets, long consigned to the darkest recesses of the past, begin to emerge as Dido attempts to unravel the strange happenings. But with the discovery of a body in the shrubbery, Mr Richard Montague's unexplained absence becomes all the more suspicious, and when she finally arrives at the startling truth, it is to change the lives of all involved for ever.

Leseprobe

A Moment of Silence

ANNA DEAN

For Peter, with love.

Contents

Title PageDedicationChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourAbout the AuthorBy Anna DeanCopyright

Chapter One

Belsfield Hall, Monday, 23rd September 1805

My dear Eliza,

I must begin another letter to you, although it is not six hours since I sent my last. I have some news to communicate which I think will surprise you not a little.

Miss Dido Kent hesitated, her pen suspended over the page. All her education and almost thirty years’ experience of writing letters had not quite prepared her for this situation. As well as she could recall, the rules of etiquette said nothing about the correct way in which to convey the news that she now had to impart. However, her governess had once told her that the very best style of writing was that which gave information simply and clearly without any excess of sensibility.

She dipped her pen into the ink and continued.

There has been a woman found dead here – in the shrubbery – this evening.

She read what she had written, thought for a little while, then added:

It was the under-gardener who found her.

Her sister would wish to be reassured that it was not a member of the family, or one of their guests, who had made the horrible discovery.

Looking at the words gleaming blackly in the light of her candle, Dido thought for a moment how strange it was that something so extraordinary should be contained within the familiar, flowing pattern of the script, looking no more strange than a report upon the weather or an account of a sermon heard in church. Then she continued, her pen beginning to move more steadily as she found herself drawn away from the simple giving of information to that commentary upon men and women which seemed to come most naturally to her whenever she had a blank page before her.

No one knows who the dead woman can be. Sir Edgar and Lady Montague are quite sure that they know nothing of her. They are both, of course, deeply shocked. He, as you may imagine, is very much exercised over ‘what people will think,’ and how a dead woman in his shrubbery is likely to reflect upon ‘the honour of the family name’. Altogether, I think it is the novelty of the event whichdistresses him more than anything else; if only his ancestors – those innumerable previous Sir Edgars who stare at one from dark portraits in every conceivable corner of this house – had suffered the shock before him, then dead women in shrubberies would be a family tradition and hold no horrors for him at all. Meanwhile, her ladyship sits upon her sofa and wrings her hands and declares that ‘one does not know what to think’, hoping, I suppose, that someone will tell her what to think and so save her the trouble of forming an opinion of her own.

Her sister-in-law, Mrs Harris, is quite as animated upon the subject as my lady is languid and has been occupied with relating every shocking detail which she has been able to gather or can imagine – details which a woman of more sense would not give credit to, and one of more breeding would certainly not retail in the drawing room. Her husband, though one must believe he is a sensible man – or at least a clever one, or else how would he have made such a fortune in India? – instead of trying to check her, hangs upon her words and laughs over her extravagances as if they were the pinnacle of feminine wit and vivacity – a very disgusting display of conjugal affection which I think we might be spared from a husband and wife with more than twenty years’ married life behind them – and two grown daughters into the bargain.

The daughters in question are, I believe, as undecided as her ladyship over ‘what one should think’ and want to know whether interest, horror or indifference would be most becoming – or at least which Colonel Walboroughwould find most becoming. Although I think it might be a kindness to just mention to them that neither Miss Harris’s pursed-lip silence, nor Miss Sophia’s excessive sorrow over the death of ‘the poor, poor unfortunate woman,’ are likely to charm a sensible man.

The colonel himself seems to have expressed all that he feels upon the subject with a long, rather dull story which he told us at dinner about a similar incident that occurred when he was stationed in Bahama – at least I think it was Bahama. It was somewhere that has very hot weather and odd diseases. The colonel has not quite that power of narration which chains the listener’s attention. And then, when the story was done, Mr Tom Lomax must try to enliven our dessert by calling on Mr Harris to better it, since he was sure, from all he had heard from his numerous acquaintance in the place, that India was ‘as full of strange and shocking events as ever Bahama was.’ That sally did not amuse anyone, least of all Mr Harris, who seemed to be extremely discomposed by it; though I confess I liked it rather better than Mr Tom’s next attempt at wit, which was to lament that his friend Richard was not at home to ‘see all this carry on, which by G_ _ is as good as play!’ Which distressed poor Catherine terribly and I thought it quite unpardonable of him to draw attention to Mr Montague’s absence in that way. I was glad when Mr William Lomax – his father – spoke the only bit of sense we had heard all evening, calling him to order and reminding him to show a little respect for the dead. By the by, I am excessively fond of Mr William Lomax; he is so kindly and so well madeand he has a very fine profile. He has also the very great recommendation of being a widower. And, all in all, I am rather sorry that I gave up the business of falling in love some years ago.

Well, I have given you a picture of them all now – except those who, I make no doubt, you most wish to hear of. And I expect to be thoroughly called to order by you in your next letter for abusing my fellow creatures so dreadfully. Remember that I quite rely upon your strictures, for why else do I allow my pen to run on so cruelly, but that you may prove yourself my superior in candour and liberality as you are in everything else?

And as for our nearest relations, well, they are as you have probably imagined them. Margaret is almost as concerned for the health and welfare of the name of Montague as Sir Edgar can be, for, ever since Catherine’s engagement to Mr Montague, she has considered the name as pretty much her own. And I daresay Francis feels the same; though I have not seen him. He left on business to town some hours before I arrived here. And dear Catherine? Well, to own the truth, she is too distressed over the business I explained in my last to notice much what happens around her. And yet, if this matter is not settled soon, I fear it will hurt her dreadfully.

You see, there is to be an inquest. It seems it cannot be avoided because of no one here even knowing who the dead woman is. Even the servants – and I have spoken to most of them myself – cannot guess who she might be. Though I suppose they may be lying.

* * *

She lifted her pen and smiled wryly at the last words, reflecting that she had not, as she wrote, thought to question the truth of the account which the baronet and his wife had given. She wondered whether to scratch the last words out, but decided that there was no need to spoil her neat white page, for Eliza would certainly see nothing amiss in what she had written. It was only her own strange mind which noticed such things. She continued.

So how she came to be in the shrubbery is almost as much of a mystery to us all as how she should be shot. For she was shot.

Another pause, for such details seemed indelicate. But Eliza would, quite naturally, wish to know, so: give the information simply and clearly and, of course, avoid excessive sensibility.

Well, it seems there was a great deal of shooting here today for the men from the house were out above three hours with their guns this morning. As is usual in these places, shooting is very much the order of the day and the gentlemen regard the birds as a kind of enemy army upon which they must wage a continual war. However, they are quite sure that there can have been no accident, for they were at the top of Cooper’s Spinney and there is the hill and the Greek Temple and the ha-ha too between there and the shrubbery.

We understand that the body was not to be seen atnine o’clock this morning when two of the gardeners were on the very spot trimming the laurels, and no strangers are known to have come to the house. No one from the house set foot in the shrubbery all day. I do not believe that this is much of a walking household. The Misses Harris are too much engaged in being accomplished to take a great deal of exercise and their mother must save all her breath to gossip with. Catherine, as you know, lost her taste for gardens when she lost her taste for dirt. Lady Montague does, I understand, usually walk out in the shrubbery at about three, but today she was indisposed and spent the whole morning in her dressing room.

And, by the by, this isolation of her ladyship did arouse the delightful fancy in my mind that perhaps she had found from somewhere the energy to creep out into the shrubbery with one of her husband’s shotguns and commit murder. However, I was obliged to abandon this intriguing idea when I discovered that her maid was with her all the time and the footman visited her repeatedly to take, at different times, logs for her fire, a letter and chocolate.

So, the main point is that no one has been able to give any information about what happened. The constable was here above an hour and searched the shrubbery with enthusiasm; but, finding no murderer concealed among the laurels, he has gone away again declaring that it is a mighty strange business and he ‘never saw the like of it before, and that’s a fact!’

And now Sir Edgar, who is the magistrate here, has told the coroner, Mr Fallows, that an inquest must be held – which will be of great interest to thewhole neighbourhood, I don’t doubt, for no one can remember when there was last an inquest held here. Poor Catherine. I would hope that such an event, terrible though it is, might at least serve to divert the gossips from her sad affair; but with the woman dying within the very grounds of this house, I fear it may only fix their minds upon her. And…

She stopped and this time decided that the smoothness of the page must be sacrificed. She scratched out the last word. Some things were best left unsaid and her fear that the idle chatter of the neighbourhood might connect this dreadful event with Catherine’s disappointment was one of them.

She did not want to think that such a connection was possible.

She finished her letter with a hasty promise to write again as soon as there was more to tell, and blew out her candle – for she was a thrifty woman and wax candles were too costly to be wasted. Then she turned to the hearth where – even though this was the smallest and humblest of all the guest bedrooms in the house – there was a fire burning. It was but a small grate, and a small fire, giving little light and throwing long shadows from the old bed-curtains and turning the cloak and bonnet hanging on their peg behind the door into a hunched little fairy-story witch. But it was a fire nonetheless and a fire in a bedroom was a wonderful luxury. Dido held her hands to it gratefully as she turned matters over in her mind.

It was Catherine that she worried about. Which did not seem quite right with that unfortunate woman lying dead somewhere out in the stables. But, she reflected, it was really very hard to care for someone you did not know. One tried, of course – it was a Christian duty to show compassion for all God’s creatures; but the truth was that a dead woman without a name was more a puzzle than a grief. And Catherine’s anguish was much more immediate. After all, Catherine had asked for her help; she would not be here at all – she would have known nothing about the dead woman – if her niece had not asked for her.

Or ‘summoned’ her, as she had said herself to Eliza when she first received the letter.

For an invitation to Sir Edgar Montague’s country seat would most certainly not have found its way to Miss Dido Kent at Badleigh Cottage if the woman that Sir Edgar’s only son was engaged to had not demanded her presence.

Catherine had told her father, ‘I want Aunt Dido.’ The invitation had been requested, and Francis had sent off an express informing his sister of the precise hour at which the carriage would be at the door to bring her here. No one, least of all Dido herself, had considered that she might refuse to come. For family was family, she loved her niece dearly and, besides, since Francis paid as large a share of her allowance as any of her other brothers, he considered, like the rest of them, that her time was entirely at his disposal when it came to illnesses, lyings in, funerals, house removals or, as in this case, wayward daughters. 

Catherine has always been difficult, he had written, and now, when she is at last to make us proud of her, I would not have anything go wrong through one of her strange fits of temper. This morning she has done nothing butweep and shut herself away from us all. You must talk to her, Dido, and, if there is any danger at all of her breaking off this engagement, get her to see sense. Make her see how foolish she would be to give up such an alliance.

Alarmed for her niece’s happiness, Dido had travelled in some uneasiness. It was a wretched journey and the final stage, enlivened as it had been by the company of Margaret, Catherine’s stepmother, was the worst part of all. For in between a lecture on Sir Edgar’s extreme wealth and a minute description of Belsfield and its grounds which encompassed almost the history of every window in the house and every tree in the parkland, Margaret repeated very determinedly, ‘She must not give up this engagement. I tell you, she must not!’

But, on arriving at the Hall, Dido had quickly discovered that Catherine had no thoughts of ending her engagement. The difficulty lay in quite a different quarter.

‘I think,’ Catherine had wailed tearfully within minutes of the two of them being alone together, ‘I think that he does not love me any longer.’

And then, before the distressed Dido could say a word about the danger of holding a man to a promise when his affection was lost, the girl had contradicted herself.

‘But he does love me,’ she sobbed. ‘I know he does. It is only…’

‘Only what, my dear?’

‘Only that he has taken a foolish idea into his head about it being better if we part.’

‘But why should he do that?’

‘I don’t know!’ Catherine thrust out her bottom lip, reminding Dido irresistibly of the three-year-old Catherine who, on the death of her mother, had been entrusted to the inexpert care of her young aunts. She used to look very much like this whenever they had had to drag her from rolling about and making mud pies in the garden to be scrubbed and presented to company in the parlour.

‘I don’t know,’ repeated Catherine, her blue eyes shining through her tears and her curls trembling with every little sob. ‘That’s what you have got to find out for me, Aunt.’ She mopped at her eyes and gave the smile which she had learnt could usually get her whatever she wanted. ‘You’re so clever. I know you can do it.’

The fire was burning low. Sighing deeply over the task she had been set, Dido bent to replenish the grate from the basket which was piled high with logs.

It was a curious fact that just at that moment Colonel Walborough, far away at the front of the house in the grandeur of the very best guest chamber, was reaching into his log basket and finding it empty. As he went shivering and cursing to his cold bed, the colonel would have been mortified to learn that the shabby little maiden aunt whom he had not thought worth talking to at dinner was comfortably toasting her toes before her fire, secure in the knowledge that there were two hot, flannel-wrapped bricks warming her small bed. But then, Colonel Walborough had had woodcock to kill today; he had not been able to spend any portion of his valuable time in talking to the housemaids, or administering cough mixture to the footman, or writing a letter for the kitchen maid to send to her brother in the army.

Dido had long ago learnt the trick of being comfortable in a great country house, and she usually enjoyed her visits to them very much indeed. But this time things looked bad and she doubted very much whether she would look back on her visit to Belsfield with much pleasure. For the story which half an hour’s questioning had got from Catherine had an unpromising sound to it.

Things did not bode well for her niece’s future happiness, even if – as she prayed would be the case – the late discovery in the shrubbery should prove to be quite unconcerned with her affairs.

Chapter Two

By Catherine’s account, her troubles had begun at the ball three nights ago, the ball which had announced her engagement to the neighbourhood.

Before the ball there had been nothing to concern her? Dido had wanted to be clear about that.

No, there had been nothing… Well, almost nothing. Once or twice in the weeks before the ball, Mr Montague had been a little quiet, but he had said that it was nothing but the headache. She had had no reason to suppose he was unhappy in the engagement. And even at the ball…for most of the night he had seemed very well satisfied.

It had been a very grand affair and it ought to have been one of the happiest nights of Catherine’s life. A memory to store up for the future; a triumph of successful love and beauty.

For Catherine would have been beautiful; she appeared to particular advantage in a ballroom. Her figure was light and graceful; her complexion was clear and delicate and, though sometimes thought lacking in colour, it had at least the advantage of not reddening in the heat of a country dance; and her hair, curling naturally, did not, like many fine coiffures, become lank and disordered as the evening wore on.

And her character, too, was as well suited to a ballroom as her person. In company, with a great many to please and be pleased, the sunniest aspects of her disposition were in full play and the little peevishness was hidden.

Dido could imagine her moving elegantly through Sir Edgar’s state rooms, among his hothouse flowers and his well-bred guests, charming everyone; even Margaret, watching eagerly from her seat by the fire with the chaperones, had probably found remarkably little to criticise.

Of the young man on whose arm she would have leant, Dido had a less distinct vision, for she had never met Richard Montague. But the descriptions of Catherine’s letters and the miniature portrait that she carried did something to supply what was lacking. She could picture a tall, black-haired man of just three and twenty, with rather fine brown eyes and a face that broke easily into a broad smile.

In short, she imagined him as that phenomenon which, at sixteen, Catherine had declared she did not believe in.

‘I do not think,’ she had said solemnly once after a dance at Badleigh had proved a disappointment to her in some way which Dido could not now recall, ‘I do not think it is possible for a man to be handsome, agreeable and rich. I put it down as a kind of law of nature that he will always be lacking in one of those three cardinal virtues.’

Indeed, for several years Eliza and Dido had feared that Catherine had no wish to discover such a paragon and intended to marry – as the phrase went – to disoblige her family. It was a fear that Margaret had certainly shared. And when Catherine – after only a two-week acquaintance – wrote to announce her partiality for Mr Richard Montague, the only son of a baronet, she had acknowledged that her stepmother’s approval did rather tell against him. However, she had continued, I do not think I could give him up now, even for the very great pleasure of offending Mama.

Dido’s greatest concern had been for the suddenness of the attachment, but Eliza had foreseen trouble in its inequality. She had shaken her head sadly over that letter. ‘I fear it will be rather a matter of him giving up her,’ she had said. ‘She is in a fair way to get her poor heart broke.’

And Francis himself had admitted that his daughter fell short of any equitable claim to the match by at least ten thousand pounds and a knighthood in the family as near as, say, an uncle.

But, to the surprise of them all, Mr Montague had very soon not only asked Catherine to marry him, but had also gained his father’s consent to the marriage with remarkable ease.

It had taken four closely written pages to express all the young lady’s delight to her aunts. He is very kind, she had written – no doubt like many a young lady in love before her – and gentle and it is quite remarkable how we agree upon everything. It is impossible that we should ever quarrel. Indeed we have decided between us that we never shall.

She had found perfection!

And the ball had been her moment of public triumph. For three hours or more it had been blissfully happy. Catherine knew she was in good-looks, Mr Montague was charming and affectionate, and she felt that she had the approval of the entire company.

It was after midnight that the change happened.

In the ballroom the set had shortened a little, but very few guests had yet left. The company in the card room was animated and, under Lady Montague’s influence, everyone was playing high. The fiddlers were still hard at work and the french doors were open on to the terrace, letting in the air of a remarkably mild September night and the scent of the last over-blown roses. Catherine had been dancing with Mr Tom Lomax. She did not like Mr Lomax, but, she said, dancing with him had been a necessary attention on two counts: firstly because he was Mr Montague’s particular friend, and secondly because he was only the son of Sir Edgar’s man of business, and so was blessed with Margaret’s disapproval.

As her dance with him ended, Mr Montague came to her.

‘I have you again,’ he whispered as the musicians started a new tune and the set reformed. ‘I believe even your esteemed stepmother would agree that it would be quite proper for us to dance together again now.’

She laughed and leant on his arm as he led her to the dance. Her feet were hot and tired, but her head was light with dancing and night air and the smell of roses – and love. She gazed at him across the set, charmed even by the hair falling down into his eyes, the cravat slightly unravelling.

And it was then, before they started to dance, while they were still working their way up the set, that it happened.

A man appeared at his shoulder…

‘Appeared? Appeared from where?’ Dido asked quickly.

‘I don’t know exactly,’ said Catherine. ‘From among the lookers-on, I suppose. There was still a little crowd of people standing by, watching the dancing.’

‘And who was this man? Did you know him?’

‘No. He was a stranger to me. I had not been introduced to him. I do not even remember seeing him before during the evening – but there were a great many people, you know. I may not have noticed him.’

And yet he was a rather noticeable man. Catherine described him as being red-haired and strikingly tall; but with a thin face and a ‘business’ look about him.

‘And what, pray, is a “business look”?’ Dido enquired.

‘Oh, Aunt, don’t be tiresome. You know what I mean. He did not look quite a gentleman of property. He had that worried, fagged look of a professional man: a clergyman perhaps, or a lawyer – maybe even a medical man.’

‘A professional man? Like your father? Or have you got too grand since your engagement to remember that?’

Catherine coloured and looked conscious; but she only said rather crossly, ‘Do you wish me to tell you the story or not?’

‘Yes, yes, please continue.’

‘Well, this man came to Mr Montague and it was as if…as if he had thrust a knife into him. He staggered – almost fell. And when he turned back to me, the look on his face was like death.’

‘My dear, you are sounding like a character in one of Mrs Radcliffe’s books. You have read a great deal too many “gothic” novels.’

‘And if I have, Aunt, it is because you lent me the volumes!’

‘Well, well,’ said Dido, ‘just carry on with your story and tell me what happened as simply as possible. This man came and spoke to Mr Montague as he was standing in the dance?’

‘Yes… No, no, he did not speak. That was the strangest thing. He touched Richard’s shoulder and Richard turned to him – and smiled. But the man did not say anything. I was watching his face all the time. He looked into Richard’s face but he said nothing.’

‘Did he perhaps show him something?’

‘Maybe… But I think not. If he did show something, he must have put it into his pocket very quickly when Richard staggered backwards, because I remember I saw the man’s hands very clearly then and they were empty.’

‘How very strange. And did Mr Montague speak?’

‘No – at least I don’t think he did. His back was turned to me, but I think I would have heard if he’d spoken – even through the music. You do, don’t you? I mean you can hear a voice you love when any other would be lost to you.’ Fresh tears welled in Catherine’s eyes and hung gleaming on her lashes.

Dido’s mind was working quickly. ‘Let me be clear about this,’ she said. ‘It was not simply the sight of the man that shocked Mr Montague?’

‘No. When he first saw him he seemed surprised – but pleasantly surprised. As if he had not expected the man to be there, but was pleased to see him nonetheless. It was only afterwards, when they had stood together for a moment, that Richard became distressed.’

‘I see. Go on,’ said Dido patting her hand. ‘What happened next?’

‘It was all so quick. The man walked away – I think he did, at least. I didn’t see because Richard seized my hand and pulled me out of the set. We went onto the terrace and he told me… He told me everything was over between us.’

Dido pictured the scene. The two of them out in the mild night, the music of the dance they had just abandoned still playing in the room behind them. There had been candles out on the terrace that night; she had seen the pools of wax they had left on the stone balustrade between the urns of roses. She imagined their light playing across the young man’s troubled face as he said…

‘What exactly did he say?’

It was some minutes before Catherine was collected enough to reply. ‘He said… He said that he and I must part because…because he was ruined.’

‘That was all he said?’

‘He barely stayed two minutes with me. He said he must go at once to his father. “I must talk to him,” he said, “and he will not like what he hears.” He said…’ Little frown lines gathered over Catherine’s eyes as she struggled to remember the words. ‘He said, “It is impossible that he and I can remain friends after tonight.”’

 ‘And then he left you?’

‘Yes. I waited above an hour on the terrace, thinking… hoping he would return. But he did not, and in the morning I learnt that he was gone from the house.’

‘Without speaking to you again?’

Catherine nodded. ‘He left this,’ she said in a flat, dull voice, holding out a folded note. ‘Tom Lomax gave it to me at breakfast.’

Dido opened it and read, in a hasty masculine scrawl:

My dearest Catherine,

As I told you last night, we must part and it grieves me that I can give you no more reasons than I did then. But you must understand that I have broken completely with my father and I have nothing, nothing at all, to offer you. I am a poor man, Catherine. It is right, therefore, that I release you from our engagement. I shall say nothing of the matter so that you may make it known to the world that you have ended the engagement. This is all that I can do for you – except to give you this advice, which I beg you to heed.

Cast me off publicly as soon as you may and leave my father’s house. I would not, for the world, have you tainted with the shame that is soon to fall on the family of Montague.

God bless you and keep you,

Richard

She stared in confusion at the letter. ‘Catherine, this puts you in a very delicate situation. What have you done? Have you spoken to Sir Edgar? Does your father know what has happened?’

‘My father knows nothing,’ Catherine answered quickly. ‘And you must not breathe a word to him – or to Margaret! You must promise me you will not. I have spoken to Sir Edgar and he…he surprised me.’

‘Why? How did he surprise you?’

‘He was very calm. He does not seem to be angry with Mr Montague at all. He says the whole thing is a silly misunderstanding and it is best to say nothing about it and it will all blow over. He has put out a story that he has sent Richard to town on business – which seems strange to everyone so soon after the engagement and of course it gets stranger every day that he does not return. I know people are saying that we have quarrelled. But what can I do?’

‘You have no idea of where Mr Montague might have gone? Some place that he is partial to, perhaps. Or somewhere that he visits often.’

Catherine thought and shook her head.

‘And you do not mean to take his advice?’ Dido continued gently. ‘You are not going to end the engagement?’

‘No!’ Catherine’s nether lip jutted dangerously. ‘How can I give him up when I don’t know what has happened?’

‘But, my dear, supposing there is, in the end, a rupture with Sir Edgar and Mr Montague loses his fortune.’

Catherine glowered at her aunt defiantly and Dido said nothing more on that subject. In point of fact, Catherine was most unlikely to suffer poverty happily; but she was in love and naturally felt equal to any sacrifice.

‘Well,’ Dido said cautiously, ‘supposing…just supposing Mr Montague had done something which, well, shall we say, lowered your opinion of him… Something which showed him to be unworthy of your love.’

Catherine glowered harder.

‘My dear, we must consider that possibility. After all, he seemed to fear his father’s disapproval. What was it he said? “It is impossible that we can be friends after tonight.” And he writes in his note of shame coming upon the family.’

The tears had dried on Catherine’s cheeks; her little chin lifted proudly. ‘I will not believe any such thing until it is proved against him.’

‘And probably not even then.’

Catherine chose not to hear that remark. ‘I certainly will not end my engagement until I understand exactly what has happened,’ she said firmly.

‘My dear, your loyalty is very noble, very romantic. If I was reading about it in a novel I should applaud it with all my heart, but—’

‘I must know why Richard changed so suddenly,’ Catherine interrupted. ‘I must know who this stranger was and why he had such power over him. You must find out for me, Aunt.’

‘Must I?’ Dido echoed irritably.

But, in her heart, she knew that she must indeed. She must find out for her own peace of mind, and because it seemed the only hope for Catherine.

But what could have happened? How could this stranger, with no word spoken, change Mr Montague’s – and Catherine’s – life? Why had the young man become convinced, in that one moment of silence, that he must break with his father and end his engagement? It made no sense at all.

That task had seemed hard enough. But, since this evening’s grim news had broken upon the household, Dido had come to see that she had another as well. Now she must not only discover the cause of Mr Montague’s strange behaviour, she must also prove, to her own satisfaction at least, that what had happened between the young lovers had nothing to do with the terrible discovery in the shrubbery.

And Dido’s last thought as she settled to sleep that night was of how short a time Catherine had been acquainted with Mr Montague and how much there must be that she did not know about him and his family. 

Chapter Three

Dido and Sir Edgar were the first to make their appearance in the breakfast room the next morning and, on discovering that it was so, Dido felt a strong inclination to walk back out of the door – in spite of the tempting smell of chops and eggs and toasted bread. There was something alarming in the sight of Sir Edgar rising ceremoniously from his seat at the head of a table gleaming with silver and white linen to enquire whether she had passed a comfortable night.

He was a rather well-looking old gentleman of only average height; but there was such an excess of dignity in his silver-grey hair and lined face that he seemed large. And, as he made his bow, Dido was struck by his manner. There was a ponderous air about him; as if his land, his money and his importance weighed him down and made him do everything slowly.

‘It is very kind of you, Miss Kent,’ he said gravely, ‘to come to your niece at this troubled time. I am sure you are a great comfort to her.’

 She made as slight a reply as she could for her treacherous fancy was now busily remarking on the similarity that there was between the man before her and the lines of framed Sir Edgars in the gallery upstairs. The resemblance was so striking that she was looking for paint-cracks in his face and, in her imagination, replacing his modern dress with a doublet and ruff. All of which rather distracted her from his words.

‘I believe you are aware,’ he was saying – and all the while watching her closely, ‘I believe your niece has informed you of Richard’s…’ He hesitated and seemed to force himself to continue. ‘That is, I am sure your niece has told you about the manner of my son’s departure?’

Dido acknowledged that she had.

‘Yes.’ He was silent for so long that she began to think that he had done with the subject. But then, with a heavy shake of his head, he continued. ‘It is quite natural, of course, that Miss Catherine should seek a sympathetic confidante. Quite understandable. But I hope, Miss Kent, that you will agree with me that it is a very delicate business and not a matter for general discussion.’

‘Oh, no, Sir Edgar. I understand,’ she said virtuously. ‘I have spoken to no one about it.’ (What she had written was, of course, quite a different matter.)

‘Ah, good!’ He turned away to the window, at which mist was pressing so closely that it was scarcely possible to see beyond the first gravel walk and some stone urns that flanked the steps leading down to the lawns. ‘I hope you will enjoy your stay here,’ he continued smoothly. ‘I hope that the weather will improve and it will be possible for you to enjoy our countryside.’

‘Thank you. You are very kind.’ And then, with her heart beating with trepidation at her own daring, she returned to the former subject. ‘Do you know, Sir Edgar, why Mr Montague felt he must leave – or where he may have gone to?’

There was a long silence in the elegant room. The chops hissed softly in their heated dish; footsteps sounded across an upper landing and, out in the misty garden, a wheelbarrow squeaked and rattled.

‘Well now, as to that…’ said Sir Edgar at last. He stopped and watched a dispirited peacock as it picked its way fastidiously across the wet gravel. ‘The reason… It is nothing of great consequence, Miss Kent. A family matter which can easily be smoothed over. And the less said about it, the sooner it will be forgotten. And as to where he might have gone. Well, it is my belief – and it may be as well, Miss Kent, if you say nothing of this to your niece – I think it very likely that he…that Richard may have gone to town to consult with a physician.’

‘A physician?’

‘Yes. You were perhaps unaware that…’ Again there was hesitation and a forcing of himself to go on. ‘That the poor boy does not always enjoy the best of health.’

‘Catherine mentioned to me that he is liable to headaches.’

‘Yes. Quite so,’ he replied. Then, turning to the door with palpable relief, ‘Ah, Colonel Walborough! Good morning. I hope you passed a tolerable night.’

Dido was left to her own thoughts. And chief amongst those thoughts was that Sir Edgar was far from easy in talking about his son. There was something in his manner as he spoke of him: a hesitation, almost a reluctance – as if he disliked naming or acknowledging him.

‘Oh dear! Rose, are you unwell?’ The clear voice echoed across the gloomy back yard, making itself heard above the sounds of rattling pots in the kitchen and the rhythmic squeaking of the pump in the wash-house.

The kitchen maid wiped her mouth on a corner of her apron and reflected that only a lady would ask you such a question when you were so ‘unwell’ the remains of your breakfast were there for the whole world to see, spread all over the cobbles. But, seeing that it was that nice Miss Kent, she managed not only to give a civil, ‘Sorry, miss,’ but even picked up a bucket of fresh water and sluiced away the mess.

‘You had better sit down for a moment.’ Dido seated herself on a low wall, beckoned the girl to sit beside her and studied her face in the dim light that found its way down between the high brick walls.

She was a well-grown, sturdy girl of fifteen or sixteen with a complexion that was usually highly coloured, but at the moment was drained to a mauvish grey. There were dark shadows like bruises beneath her eyes.

‘Have you eaten something that has disagreed with you?’

‘No, no, it ain’t that, miss. I’ve just been…doing a nasty job.’

‘Oh?’ Dido tilted her little head questioningly, then – apparently – received inspiration. ‘Oh, you mean that poor woman they found in the shrubbery yesterday?’

Rose nodded. ‘They sent old Molly Sharpe from the village to…well, to do what had to be done before they could take her away to be buried. But she ain’t so strong as she used to be and she said she needed someone to help – with the lifting and such. So, of course, it had to be me, didn’t it?’

‘Dear, dear, how perfectly dreadful for you.’ Dido felt in her pocket. ‘There now, have a peppermint; it will help stop the sickness.’

‘Thank you, miss.’ Rose took the sweet and sucked gratefully.

Dido’s little round face puckered thoughtfully beneath the edge of her white cap. ‘You say the woman has been taken away to be buried?’

‘Why, yes, miss.’

‘But I understood – that is Sir Edgar spoke yesterday as if she would be taken to the inquest.’

‘But Mr Fallows came this morning to look at her again and when he’d done he said they should bury her.’ Rose sucked harder on her peppermint. ‘She wasn’t fit to be seen.’

‘But now they will not be able to discover who she was.’

‘Nor would they by looking at her, miss. Her face…’ Rose put her hand firmly over her mouth and prayed that her breakfast was all gone and nothing remained with which she might disgrace herself before the lady.

‘I see,’ said Dido. ‘I had not understood that she was injured in the head.’ It was a detail which even the hardy Mrs Harris had failed to discover. But, she thought, it was a shame that Mr Fallows should order immediate burial; there was surely a great deal of information which a body might reveal… If only one could get at it.

‘Was there anything you wanted here, miss?’ asked Rose. ‘Only I’d better be getting on. There’s all the breakfast dishes to be washed and cook’ll be shouting for me.’

‘No, no, you just sit down until you feel a bit better.’ Dido gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘You have had a shock, my dear, and you need to go about things a little slowly this morning – otherwise I don’t expect you will be able to tell cook and all the others everything they want to know.’