Flowers Stained with Moonlight E-Book

Catherine Shaw

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Vanessa Duncan
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 522

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Cambridge, 1892. Four years have passed since Vanessa Duncan's memorable introduction to detective work, and her success at proving the innocence of the wrongly accused has not gone unnoticed. With the arrival of the formidable Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, Vanessa is once again called on to help solve a perplexing mystery. Mr George Burton Granger has been found shot dead at the edge of his manor estate. His wife Sylvia, daughter to Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, appears to be the police's main suspect. But could the fragile Sylvia really be capable of such an act? And who is the mysterious young man sighted on the day of the killing? Vanessa must delve into the innermost secrets of the suspects if she is to find the hidden solution.

Leseprobe

FLOWERS STAINED WITH MOONLIGHT

CATHERINE SHAW

To my eldest daughter, always my first and best reader

I dreamed I stood upon a little hill,

And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemed

Like a waste garden, flowering at its will

With buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamed

Black and unruffled; there were white lilies

A few, and crocuses, and violets

Purple or pale, snake-like fritillaries

Scarce seen for the rank grass, and through green nets

Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun.

And there were curious flowers, before unknown,

Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shades

Of Nature’s wilful moods …

– Lord Alfred Douglas, 1894

Contents

Title PageDedicationFLOWERS STAINED WITH MOONLIGHTMATHEMATICAL HISTORY IN FLOWERS STAINED WITH MOONLIGHTAbout the AuthorBy Catherine ShawCopyright

FLOWERS STAINED WITH MOONLIGHT

Cambridge, Monday, June 6th, 1892

My dearest Dora,

Please forgive me for not having written before; several days at least must have passed since I last wrote, but oh dear, the days sometimes seem to resemble each other so, that I quite lose count. Only today – today is the sixth of June, and that date will always be the most unforgettable one of my life! It was four years ago today that I invaded the Courts of Justice, confronted the judge, and confounded the whole of a stolid British jury. How well I remember it all, and also the days that followed! Borne upon a cloud, I envisioned myself plunging into the adventure of turning my little school into a daring and audacious experiment, while my heart was overflowing with the joy of being engaged to be married. How happy I was! The prospect before me enchanted me so, that I believed myself content to wait any length of time before taking the next step and discovering the secrets of the wedded state.

Today, looking back, I begin to realise that four fullyears have come and gone since those days, four years that sometimes seem to weigh heavily upon me. Do you not ever feel so, Dora, you who have been waiting just as long for your betrothed to return from overseas? You never speak of impatience, you always seem tranquil and full of joy, but in your heart of hearts, do you not feel with a pang that we are getting older, Dora, you and I? Why, we will be twenty-five in just a few more months! Here I spend all my days with children, and have none of my own – and I long for them more with every passing hour. The very sweetness of my little pupils makes me ache all the more. They are so delightful, and it is so rejoicing to see all their big eyes fixed seriously upon me as I read to them of goblins, or explain the ins and the outs, the ups and the downs, of the many marriages of Henry VIII. I have come so far in these last four years; read so much, studied so hard, working each night by candlelight, that I sometimes feel like a different person from the ignorant girl I was when I first arrived in Cambridge – I am certainly a much better teacher than I used to be!

And yet, I am not altogether different after all. Rereading now what I have just written, I do seem to perceive some traces of the old impatience which used to seize me whenever life seemed to advance too slowly for my rushing blood.

Oh – a knock at the door! Who could it be?

Dora, how strange! A small boy has just delivered a message from a lady called Mrs Bryce-Fortescue; the name is perfectly unknown to me. It says that she wishes to know when she can call upon me for a matter of discretion and importance. Goodness – whatever can it mean? I have told the boy that I will be at her service tomorrow evening.

Perhaps it has something to do with the school. Yet why would discretion be necessary for that? I do hope it will be something more mysterious and exciting! Oh dear. I sound quite childish. Do I really deserve to become a respectable married lady?

Your very intrigued sister,

Vanessa

Cambridge, Wednesday, June 8th, 1892

My dear sister,

I am sure you are wondering about the mysterious Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, and what she could possibly have wanted with humble me!

I certainly wondered greatly myself, but I could not rid myself of the dampening idea that she simply must be a lady, perhaps newly arrived in Cambridge, who had heard of my school and was considering enrolling a daughter or even a son there. A pleasing prospect, but not one liable to set the heart beating. Still, the idea that the reputation of my little school should be spreading was a flattering, not to say inspiring one, and I put a great deal of energy into the day’s teaching. The children will very soon be free as birds for the remainder of the summer, and in the (probably vain) hope that they will not immediately forget all that they have learnt, I multiplied the tasks I set them, so that they became increasingly nervous, especially in view of the warm sunshine and blue sky which beckoned them so invitingly out of doors.

The day finally came to an end, I shooed the children outside, bid goodbye to Mrs Burke-Jones and Annabel, who was helping her tinier charges into their summery wraps, and hastened home more quickly than usual, eager in spite of myself for a little novelty.

I bustled about my rooms, vaguely trying to occupy myself, but lending a tense ear to the goings-on outside my door the while, until finally I heard a ring, then a rather decided voice speaking to the landlady, and finally a sharp knock on my own door. I opened it speedily.

There stood a lady. Tall, forceful, with black eyes in a sharp yet handsome face, dark hair very slightly streaked with grey, gathered into a fashionable knot, and clothes most beautiful in every detail, if not absolutely fashionable nor absolutely new. Something strong-willed in her forehead and nose gave her a faint resemblance to an eagle.

This lady remained silent for a long moment, fixing me with her eyes as though guessing and analysing my thoughts. I waited for her to speak, but as she did not, I quelled a faint feeling of dismay, and proceeded to emit some welcoming noises.

‘You must be Mrs Bryce-Fortescue,’ I stammered. ‘I was expecting you. Please do come in and sit down.’

She did so, with a sweep of her skirts, closed the door behind her firmly, motioned me to sit in front of her, and began once again to stare at me closely and alarmingly.

‘Yes, you are as I remembered you,’ was her first, unexpected remark.

‘Why, have we met before?’ I queried, surprised.

‘No, we have not met, but I have seen you before,’ she answered. ‘I saw you in court, four years ago, when you presented your evidence to the judge and boldly rescued a certain rather wilted young gentleman from a most disagreeable and apparently quite undeserved fate. Such cases interest me, and I come into town purposely to follow them on occasion, although I do not live very near. I live well off the beaten track, in the countryside, in a manor that has belonged to my family for many generations. Ahem—’ and she broke off suddenly, as though she had meant to say more, but hesitated.

‘Oh!’ I said, enlightened but greatly embarrassed by this speech. Dear me, how bold and unladylike and visible it made me sound! I felt quite like the Hottentot Venus, poor girl, brought thousands of miles from her native Africa to be gaped at in wonder as some sort of extraordinary phenomenon.

‘But what has brought you here today, after so many years?’ I asked after a moment of awkward silence.

‘It is a long story,’ she said, and then, after another hesitation, she amended, ‘Or no, not such a long one, but a complicated one, and more than anything, it is a story requiring the greatest of discretion and delicacy. I need help, and I need a certain kind of help, and I could not think of anyone who could afford me the exact kind of help I need. Someone who could be both daring and discreet, and also understanding of … of good taste. I could not bear a scandal.’

She paused, waiting for my response. Clearly the service she had in mind to ask of me had nothing to do with enrolling a new student in my class. My spirits began to rise.

‘Please, do tell me exactly how I can be of help to you,’ I encouraged her politely.

‘Yes, I shall tell you,’ she answered, her tone suddenly firm. Sitting rigidly, she spent a few moments choosing her words.

‘I must get to the point immediately. There is no sense in beating about the bush. No matter how unpleasant it is for me to recount the facts, obviously it must be done.’ She stopped briefly, and seemed to brace herself somewhat. I had the impression that she was rehearsing a speech prepared beforehand.

‘I am here to ask you, Miss Duncan, if you would be willing, in an entirely private capacity, to undertake an investigation for me. Namely, to investigate the death – no, the murder – of my son-in-law, Mr George Burton Granger. He was found shot dead just three days ago; that is, last Sunday. His body was discovered in the early afternoon, lying in a grove of trees bordering his estate, where he was in the habit of taking a daily constitutional. The police appear to be foolish enough to suspect my daughter of the crime, which is perfectly ridiculous. Sylvia is of a weak and fragile nature; quite incapable of murdering anybody. However, I perceive that the police suspect her, and I am greatly afraid that they will harass her and accuse her, and perhaps even browbeat her into making all kinds of foolish declarations. I do not know who killed Geo—Mr Granger, but I am perfectly certain that it was not Sylvia, and unimaginably anxious that she should not undergo the experience of an arrest, let alone the public shame, scandal and agony of a trial, whatever the outcome. It is not only the harrowing nature of such an experience, which she is but ill-equipped to endure, that I fear. No, worse – I see that the primary wish of the police is to arrest and convict a culprit as quickly as possible, so as to preserve their reputation of efficiency, as you well know from your own experience. They have not yet arrested Sylvia, but I feel impending disaster in the way they treat her; indeed, I believe that only the fact that I insisted on being present the first time they interviewed her prevented them from accusing and even arresting her at once! It hangs over us like a Damocles’ sword, and this situation simply cannot go on; a stop must be put to it immediately. I am asking you to come and stay with us, and to employ your particular talents in order to exculpate my daughter once and for all.’

‘I!’ I gasped, truly startled by what could, after all, however well-controlled, still be termed an outburst. ‘I am not a detective! I should have no idea what to do.’

‘I am aware that you are not a professional detective. I should not have come if you had been. I am simply asking you to try to do for me exactly what you did four years ago; apply your mind and your efforts to seek for the truth. I cannot count on your success, I can only ask you to do your best for me, if you are willing to try. My idea is to invite you to stay with us, ostensibly in the capacity of a friend, of course, or perhaps a daughter of friends. As far as financial considerations are concerned, if you succeed, no reward would be sufficient to express my gratitude! But in any event, I would undertake to cover all expenses you might incur, should you need to travel.

‘I realise that you are surprised and taken aback by my offer, and I see plainly from your expression that you are filled with doubts. But I have seen and known many people in my life, and I recognise something in you that is enterprising and trustworthy. I cannot trust the police, and I have not the means nor the necessary indiscretion to have recourse to a private detective – I need someone who, appearing as a friend of Sylvia’s, can gain the trust of everyone connected with my son-in-law. I am at my wits’ end, and I cannot see what can be lost by asking for your help. Anyone who knows my daughter can see that the mere idea of her shooting anyone is plainly absurd, but the police do not see things in the same light, and we are threatened by the horrific danger of her being arrested and tried. I am not beyond believing that it could end in an unjustified conviction! And even if it did not, it would bring down a most unendurable scandal upon us all. Do try to recall exactly how you felt four years ago, and I am sure you will wish to help us.’

‘Oh, I do wish to help you!’ I exclaimed. ‘But I am so worried that I shall not be able to do it.’

‘Let us simply begin at the beginning, then, by having you come to us for a week or two. You will meet Sylvia, who has returned home, as naturally she could not bear to continue on in her husband’s house after what happened. She has a friend down to keep her company, and that is the extent of our small household at the moment. You will learn what you can from them, and can easily travel back and forth to Haverhill, the village where my son-in-law resided, if you should find that to be useful. Come to us and see what you can do, and if in the end you come to feel that you cannot make any progress, we shall terminate the arrangement and bend our heads to endure the storm as we may.’

‘Yes, I shall come,’ I said, deciding it suddenly and completely. ‘Only, I must wait for the end of this week, as my teaching duties continue until then.’

‘But today is only Wednesday! I am afraid to wait; every moment is important. When is the soonest that you can come – must you teach until Friday? Can I send a carriage for you on Saturday morning, then? I shall count the days.’

I felt dismayed, distressed, worried, incapable, incompetent and certain to fail and disappoint such expectations, but at the same time, a wave of eager excitement impelled me to give a resounding assent to this proposition. Although I will surely turn out to be hopelessly unable to unearth the slightest piece of useful information, still, I do not seem to be able to prevent my mind from being invaded by heroic visions of astounding success, rescuing of maidens in distress and so on. And then deep down, my darling twin, in those recesses of the mind that only you can understand, there is another feeling. Perhaps she is not wrong, perhaps I have some ability, some talent, some special perspicacity which remains sleeping and unused within me, and which longs only to be awakened, once again, after so long – awakened and employed, so that I might fly with my own wings …

I feel humble and also guilty about the secret excitement within me, as though I were profiting somehow from murder, and from its accessory, suffering. Yet, if only the energy in the excitement can be converted into a meaningful search for the truth, it will be worth it, I believe.

Your confused, worried, distressed yet hopeful

Vanessa

Cambridge, Thursday, June 9th, 1892

My dearest sister,

Oh, I was bursting with my news today, as I joined Annabel, Emily and Charles after lessons for our weekly tea together. How difficult it was, at least at first, to say nothing! But I was determined not to, for it was only right that Arthur should be the first to know, and I was not to see him until he should come to fetch me and walk me home.

Fortunately, my secret seething was quite smothered – and I myself quite distracted – by Emily’s news.

‘Oh, Miss Duncan!’ she cried, seizing me by the sleeve the moment I entered the room, after having seen the last fluttering ribbon of my departing pupils disappear down the street.

‘Guess what – no, you’ll never guess – never! I’m to take the examinations to enter Girton College! I’m to take them this very September, a year before I even thought any such thing was possible. I am so excited, but so frightened, I shall do nothing but study like a mad thing for the whole of the summer.’

‘Is such a thing possible?’ I exclaimed. ‘So many difficulties to overcome – so much to learn, and your mother to be convinced as well!’

‘Oh, that was thanks to you, or rather to your good advice. You were so right, long ago, when you told me that with mother, the best way was to keep silent and wait rather than ever insist on anything I dreadfully wanted. I have been keeping silent and waiting for ages, but Mother knew perfectly well the whole time, of course. She would! I know she was against it at first, but without a word ever being said, I came to feel that something in the air was changing. At any rate, we’ve told her, and all she said was “So the time has come. You will have to work very hard.” Well, there’s certainly no doubt about that!’

‘And what has made you decide to try it out so very soon?’

‘Ah, that was me,’ interposed her uncle radiantly. ‘I’m very confident in my star pupil – I know what those examinations are like, and she’s ripe and ready for them!’

Emily exhausted my own humble store of mathematical knowledge long ago, and her uncle has been teaching her privately for the last two years.

‘Uncle Charles says I’m ready for them, but I can hardly believe it myself – there are so dreadfully many things I don’t know! And then, I’ve never sat for an exam before, well, not a real one, anyway. What if I’m paralysed and can’t think at all! And what is even worse, I’ve got to pass an oral exam. That means I’ve got to do a problem right up at the blackboard in front of a professor who will listen to me make a frightful mess! Uncle Charles has been making me practise, and it’s simply awful – either I have no idea what to say, and fail miserably, or else I keep wanting to laugh! Last time he put on a false beard so I could imagine he was a real professor (oh, I’m so sorry, Uncle Charles. You are a real professor, of course! But you know what I mean) and it was worse than ever. What shall I do if I want to laugh during the examination? The more I think about it, the more I’m sure I will.’

‘Oh, my dear girl,’ said Annabel a little sadly, ‘I have a solution to that problem, at least. Self-control can be learnt through hard practice, and I have many exercises to suggest. You have talent, for look at the way you were able to keep silent about your ambitions for so long.’

‘Oh, but I wasn’t really! Only to Mother. I’d have died if I hadn’t been able to talk about things with you, and Uncle Charles, and Miss Duncan!’

‘Well, let me train you a little over the summer, and you will be astonished at the results.’

‘Poor Miss Forsyth,’ said Emily, glancing at her governess with some surprise, ‘have you had to practise so very much self-control in your life? What for? How does one do it?’

‘Il faut d’un vain amour étouffer la pensée …’ murmured Annabel, so softly that I hardly caught the words and Charles not at all. Emily, however, who was all ears, flushed suddenly.

‘That’s from Phèdre,’ she stammered, ‘really, I – do you mean—’

‘Oh, I mean nothing,’ Annabel said, with a tiny smile. ‘The words came to my mind; Phèdre betrayed a singular lack of self-control, didn’t she, in spite of all the efforts of her poor Oenone. But not everyone can afford the luxury of dishonour and death.’

‘Dishonour and death – a luxury?’

‘Well, not in themselves, but considered as the price paid for the luxury of declaiming aloud what the world would prefer hidden.’

There was a long, rather embarrassing silence. Even Charles, who had begun to pay attention to the conversation, seemed wordless.

‘It sounds like you’re talking about my father,’ said Emily after a while, breaking the silence.

‘My dear child, no! I didn’t mean to. Please, forgive me, and forget everything I said! I meant only to give a literary reference to the evils of self-indulgence.’

‘Well, I shall draw a lesson from it, I believe,’ mused Emily. ‘The very next time I feel like laughing at Uncle Charles, this conversation will come back to me and wipe it away at once.’

Everybody smiled, even Annabel.

‘Come now,’ intervened Charles, with the tone of one who is determined to be cheerful in the face of adversity, ‘a little laughter is not harmful, and I’m sure you need not be worried either about making a fool of yourself at the exam, or failing it. Why, you’ve had an easy time of it altogether, preparing for your university studies! I’m sure all the girls in history who’ve ever felt a yen for mathematics should be envious of you. We were talking about just such a one the other day.’

‘Who do you mean, “we”?’ enquired his niece with interest.

‘Why, I was talking with this fellow Korneck. He’s an odd one; I’m not sure what he is or does. He bobbed up in our department one day and he’s so overflowing with eagerness that I’m positively tired sometimes, after talking with him!’

‘Bobbed up? How so? Where from?’

‘From Prussia, I believe, but he seems to be some kind of amateur; well, I’m not quite sure. But the man certainly knows a lot of mathematics, at least in his own topic. He’s gone and resurrected an old, well-nigh forgotten problem – Fermat’s last theorem, they used to call it. It’s ridiculously simple to state, yet so diabolically difficult that everyone’s given up working on it for donkey’s years. It used to be all the rage forty or fifty years ago. The history of the problem is chock full of stories, what with secret identities, sealed manuscripts and so forth. Unfortunately, it was all but killed by the birth of modern number theory; considered to be uninteresting, or impossible, although my new friend Korneck seems to devote his life to seeking a solution.’

‘Sealed manuscripts!’ I exclaimed. ‘I have seen enough of those to last me a lifetime, I believe. They can do so much harm, the foolish things – whatever do mathematicians keep wanting with them?’

‘Always the same thing, Vanessa,’ Charles replied, glancing at me meaningfully. ‘Capturing the glory and keeping it for oneself – you know that as well as anyone, I should think!’

‘Oh, you’re talking about that old three-body problem again,’ interrupted Emily. ‘What I want to know about is the secret identities! What use could that be to a mathematician, I wonder?’

‘Ah, I’ll tell you,’ replied her uncle. ‘To start with, you have to imagine someone who loved mathematics, and wanted to study them more than anything, but who was prevented from attending university by law.’

‘Prevented from attending university by law? Why, that doesn’t make sense – what kind of law could that be?’

‘You ought to know, you silly goose! Don’t you realise that if you were just a few years older than you are, you’d be the one who was prevented! Imagine not realising that.’

‘Well, but that’s because I’m a girl. Oh! I see what you mean – you must be talking about a girl! All right, I am silly. But do tell about her! Did she have to disguise herself to go to university? How exciting! What did she do? Who was she? When was it?’

‘Oh well, I’ll tell you, even though it’s all rather old hat for us mathematicians. We all hear her story sooner or later; in fact the tale was actually written and published by some officious family friend or other. Well, the name of this enterprising creature was Sophie Germain, and she lived in France at the end of the last century and the beginning of this. She must have been just about your age during the French Revolution. Probably didn’t get to spend a lot of time out of doors as a young thing, I’ll bet, what with the sans-culottes bloodthirstily overrunning the streets and all. At any rate, not being an aristocrat, she preserved her head, and after it was all over, Napoleon arrived and took over the world (more or less), and among his many activities he also found time to create a glorious brand new university to train glorious French military men in the glorious sciences. It was the École Polytechnique in Paris, and of course there was no question of anyone but men being allowed to attend. However, the mathematics courses were taught by the most famous mathematicians in Paris, and poor Sophie, who had gotten interested in mathematics while spending all her time indoors, longed to take them, so here’s what she did. She didn’t actually disguise herself, but as I imagine it, she must have started frequenting the cafés around the school, trying to get to know the students who had their coffee there, all dressed up in their fancy military garb with their swords hanging at their sides, and trying to impress the girls. I imagine her trying to get them to tell her about what they learnt in their classes. Eventually, by a stroke of luck, she came to hear about one student, Monsieur Auguste Le Blanc, whose name has gone down in history simply for being such a mediocre student that he ended up dropping out of the school altogether. He went off somewhere, but the lecture notes and problem sets that were printed and distributed to all the students weekly kept on coming for him, and as he didn’t take them, they just sat in his mailbox until some kind soul took to picking them up and delivering them to Mademoiselle Sophie. She then proceeded to solve all the problems under the name of Monsieur Le Blanc, and posted them in every week to be corrected by the eminent professor who taught the course. She made tremendous progress and everything was going beautifully until one fine day, the professor came to ask himself what on earth had happened to the idiotic M. Le Blanc, to make him so brilliant all of a sudden! And he dashes off a letter which he includes with the next problem set, requesting the reformed student to pay him an urgent visit. Poor Sophie! She must have been frightened out of her wits, and so upset about the risk to her lovely arrangement. Nonetheless, off she went to confront the professor, and discovered that although the governing bodies may have been dead set against girls in universities, a real mathematician cares nothing for such rules and prejudices, and looks right past it all to what is important. He was pleased as Punch, and let her go on as before, and she finished her studies and went on to original research. Her alternate identity came in useful there, again, when she used it to submit some of her results to Gauss, the greatest mathematician of the day. He received them with enthusiasm, but then found out the truth, when she arranged to have him specially protected during Napoleon’s invasion of Germany in 1806; he became curious about who was behind the elegant treatment he was receiving at the hands of the French generals and began to make enquiries. “Mademoiselle Sophie Germain specially recommended you to my protection, sir.” “Mademoiselle Sophie Germain? Never heard of her – who the devil is she?” “A young lady fiercely interested in mathematics, sir. She has apparently been in correspondence with you upon the subject.” “Has she really? I wasn’t aware of it! I must get to the bottom of this. Can you oblige me with her postal address, please?” Well, you get the picture.’

‘So, did he write?’

‘He most certainly did, and she answered, telling him the truth.’

‘And was he furious to find out that she was a woman?’

‘Not at all – he was simply delighted! I’m ashamed to say it, but it seems that the worst country in Europe for prejudices about the higher education of women is the one you have the poor luck to find yourself in this instant! Why, Girton College is still struggling to have its students awarded degrees, even those who pass the Cambridge Tripos as brilliantly as any man. It’s probably a good thing for old Sophie that she wasn’t here in England. Still, let us count our blessings: times are changing, even here. Professor Whitehead teaches at Girton now; he’s a great champion of the feminine cause.’

‘Well, you seem to be a fine champion too, Uncle Charles.’

‘Oh no, I’m not really. I mean, I’m all for it, but I don’t actually do anything about it, you know.’

‘Well, you taught me.’

‘Ah, but that had absolutely nothing to do with any cause, or theory or principle of any kind! I’ll teach anyone as talented and interested as you are, my dear, whether boy, girl, dog, or cat. It’s a simple matter of pleasure.’

Emily turned pink.

‘Well, that’s even better,’ she said happily. ‘That puts you on a par with the French and the German professors who helped Sophie Germain. I’m proud of you, Uncle. Now if only I can do proper justice to your teaching, and manage to pass the entrance exams! It would be so wonderful to study enough to be able to work on problems that no one else has ever managed to solve – just like being the first to walk on new-fallen snow!’

‘Yes, it is extraordinary. I’m glad you understand that. Sophie certainly thought so; she studied and worked day and night, though her parents tried everything to stop her. They tried depriving the poor girl of heat and candles, in the naive hopes, I suppose, that she would employ the wee hours to get a little sleep, but it was no use. She would huddle over calculations in the dead of night, wrapped in blankets, until she wore them down and they gave up and let her work to her heart’s content. And she never stopped right through to the end of her life.’

‘She never stopped,’ repeated Emily dreamily, pouring tea into her cup until it overflowed.

‘I didn’t say she never stopped pouring tea!’ laughed her uncle, mopping up the puddle with a cloth. ‘Who’s knocking? – Ah, that must be Arthur, come to pick up Vanessa.’

My heart jumped inside me, for believe it or not, I had positively forgotten about my own news. It flowed back into my mind, and it suddenly struck me that telling Arthur about it might not turn out to be as easy as I had supposed.

As soon as I had put on my shawl, and Arthur and I had taken our leave, shut the door behind us and walked down the path in the balmy evening air, I turned to him, and fearing that if I did not begin immediately, I might never get up the courage to address the subject, I blurted out –

‘Arthur, I must tell you something very surprising that happened to me.’

‘Really?’ he said, raising his eyebrows slightly.

‘Yes, a – a lady came to visit me, and – oh dear, this does sound quite unreal – she asked me to help her find out who has murdered her son-in-law! And,’ I continued hastily, as some instinct told me that I had better get the worst out at once, ‘she has invited me to go down and stay with her starting Saturday.’

‘S-stay with her? Saturday?’ said Arthur, with his slight stammer, which was the more endearing as it has all but disappeared in the last years, and recurs only in moments of distress, of which, indeed, it is often the only sign.

‘Yes,’ I answered a little meekly.

‘But what for?’

‘Well,’ I mumbled uncomfortably, ‘she … well, I don’t know why, but she seems to think I can help her – she wants me to prove that her – that her daughter is innocent of the crime. Arthur, I don’t know why she came to me – I really don’t know. She – she knew about four years ago, and she seemed so very certain I could do something now as I did then, and she tried so hard to convince me to come that I … that I said I would.’

There was a silence, while Arthur digested this information.

‘But Vanessa,’ he said thoughtfully after a while, ‘it doesn’t sound like much of a good thing. Not at all.’

‘Oh dear,’ I sighed, not so much because of his opinion, which was much what I had expected, but because of the unpleasant necessity of arguing and defending my decision, which in any case – I admit it – was already firmly taken.

‘I mean to say, what do we know about this lady?’ he continued. ‘Who is she? What do you know of her? What does she know of you?’

‘I only know what she told me,’ I said humbly. ‘She says her son-in-law was shot last Sunday in a woods. His name was George Burton Granger.’

‘Ah, George Burton Granger. Well, that rings a bell at any rate; I read about that in the paper. This lady must be the mother of the wife then, of Mrs Granger, I mean. But Vanessa – here you are meaning to rush off to stay with perfectly strange people, and furthermore, you’re trying to get mixed up in a murder – a murder, Vanessa! And what if this Mrs Granger really is the murderer, whatever her mother may believe? Mothers have been mistaken about their children before! And if you start finding out about it, what’ll happen to you? No, you mustn’t go – it’s unthinkable! Whatever can this lady mean by coming to you?’

‘She – she was, well, there, four years ago, you know,’ I stammered. It is never easy to evoke the memory of that difficult time, least of all with Arthur.

‘What do you mean, “there”? Ah, at the trial.’

There was a long and awkward silence. I didn’t know how to break it. But Arthur did not seem disturbed at the resurgence of old and painful memories; he appeared to be considering the situation, or mulling, perhaps, over the best arguments to dissuade me.

‘Vanessa, think about what you’re getting into!’ he said, suddenly emerging. ‘Have you forgotten what it was like, to know that someone around you was a murderer – a murderer! a killer – and that you might be the next victim? Have you forgotten how frightened you were?’

Dora, I had forgotten it. I remembered only my desperate fear for him, and the rush of conviction when I finally felt that I understood what had really happened! But his words brought something else back: the moments of blind terror and frantic suspicion, moments when I trusted nobody, moments when I thought I was being stalked and hunted, moments when noises in the night caused my hair to rise upon my head. And the darkest moment of all, when it was suddenly borne in upon me what it meant for one human being to have dealt out death to another. All these things had receded into the background of my mind, blotted out by the happier memories of the subsequent events. They came back to me as he spoke, and I realised with some horror that I had not properly reflected about what I was going to do.

‘And then – how can you tell if this lady is really sincere?’ continued Arthur, a wrinkle of worry between his brows. ‘It’s very strange for her to come to you – what does she really want? What if she wants to use you in some way that we cannot conceive of? Why can she not simply let the police do their job?’

‘Oh, Arthur,’ I cried, reacting only to the last sentence, ‘how can you ask that? She – she thinks they suspect her daughter, and she knows, like a mother would, that her daughter is innocent, but of course she is terrified that the police will be so eager to show results that they’ll hurry to take the easiest step, and arrest her.’

Again there was a silence. Who better than Arthur should know that such a fear is perfectly justified?

‘I’m afraid too, Vanessa,’ he said softly. ‘Afraid for you. I don’t want you to go. Think! You’ll be far away from me, alone there with a strange family, a dead man, and someone who killed him, and the more you seek to discover, the more you’ll be risking your life. No, I can’t let you go. You mustn’t. Vanessa, p-please! How can I stay here and wait for you?’

He reached for my hand. I gave it to him, and answered slowly.

‘Oh, Arthur, perhaps I’ve been silly and precipitate. But what you say makes me feel more than ever that I must go. I shall be careful. I’m not going as a “detective”, of course, how could I? I’m no such thing. I’m simply going as a friend. Apart from Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, no one will have any idea of what I’m really doing. But you … what you’re saying is making me realise that a life may be at stake here; a real, human life. I cannot stand by, now that I have been called to act! I don’t know why I’ve been called, but I can’t ignore it. I can’t stand aside and do nothing. I can’t even wait, for Mrs Bryce-Fortescue says that the police may arrest her daughter at any moment.’

We had reached our own front door, and stood at the entrance, hesitating to enter and separate, each to our own rooms, as Mrs Fitzwilliam would never tolerate any other behaviour from her lodgers, even if they are respectably engaged. Arthur looked down at me, and his brown eyes were troubled.

‘To change your mind would be like changing yourself,’ he said softly. ‘I wouldn’t want you any different, and yet …’

‘Goodnight,’ I said quickly before he could continue, reached up to kiss him, and slipped quickly into my room. I have not convinced Arthur that I am right to go, of course, but … in fact, he has convinced me that I am right! Before speaking to him, I merely thought that I would go, and now I feel that I must go. Before, I saw it as it as a kind of strange chance or opportunity, but now, it appears to me more like a manifestation of destiny. As for the danger, I cannot, now, perceive it as a serious threat. I do hope I am right!

Your loving sister,

Vanessa

Maidstone Hall, Saturday, June 11th, 1892

My dearest Dora,

I have come – I am here – I have arrived! At this very moment, I am settled in a bedroom in which a certain chill and unused look persists, in spite of the family’s best efforts to cheer it up for me with lamps and candles, and fresh sheets and a pretty spread upon the iron bedstead. The day has been long, and I have been impatient for some time already to find myself alone. I must reflect on what I have seen and learnt (little though it is for the moment!) and look over my newspaper clippings once again.

The clippings are the work of Arthur. He woke me, early this morning, by tapping gently on my window, and by the time I had drawn the curtain and peeked sleepily out into the garden, he was beckoning to me from the garden table, where he was to be seen casually installed in a ray of sunshine filtering between the leaves, which quivered gaily in the light summer breeze. In front of him stood a lovely steaming teapot, a basket of rolls, sundry pots of jam and a large sheaf of newspapers. It would be difficult to conceive of a more tempting prospect; breakfast in the garden is a rare treat, as one does not, generally, have the courage to beg the use of her personal table from Mrs Fitzwilliam (and this in spite of the fact that she never sits at it herself). Arthur had gone to a special effort for me, and I made haste to dress and join him, wondering within me what turn his thoughts had taken over the night, and how he would address the burning issue which still lay unresolved between us.

‘What a lovely breakfast,’ I said, as I took my place across from him and reached for the teapot. ‘But why all the newspapers?’

‘The newspapers are for you, Vanessa,’ he responded, looking at me with a restrained twinkle in his eye. ‘I picked up the whole week’s worth from college, where they lie about on the coffee table. What you are undertaking is anything but amusing, but the way you go about it is another story! Are you going to dash off into the middle of things without even finding out what it’s all about? Don’t you think you ought to try and learn at least the basic facts before being served up the local version of the story?’

I was all ready to feel properly indignant at these remarks, but it occurred to me that, after all, he was right enough, and more, his very words carried a gentle indication of a decision to renounce any attempt to change my intentions. His tone was almost light, but I felt the weight of his unspoken thoughts. Still, if his easy manner did not fool me as to the difficulties he may have felt in forcing himself to adopt it, it certainly smoothed some away for me! I accepted his speech like a gift, therefore, and answered laughing,

‘Yes, of course – I meant to! Well, all right, Arthur, I didn’t mean to, but simply because I hadn’t thought of it. I should have if I had. But I don’t suppose the newspapers are really likely to contain anything more than what I shall soon learn, and even less that they are accurate or trustworthy! Still, let us have a look.’

‘I already have, actually,’ he said, laying aside several pages. ‘There is only one article of real interest, frankly. It dates from Monday, the day after the murder, and appears to contain the main facts with less sensationalism than the others.’ And he handed me the page containing the clipping which I enclose for your perusal.

MURDER STRIKES THE QUIET COUNTRYSIDE

George Burton Granger of Haverhill Manor in Lower Haverhill, on the outskirts of Cambridge, was found shot dead yesterday in a grove of trees on his estate. A self-proclaimed country squire hailing from Manchester, possessor of a respectable fortune from dealings in the City, Mr Granger acquired Haverhill Manor two years ago from Miss Emmeline Haverhill, last remnant of the Haverhill family who built the manor in the sixteenth century. ‘It was a sad day for me when I had to move out,’ said Miss Haverhill, 87, when asked to describe the new proprietor of her ancestral home. ‘Mr Granger had money, to be sure, and he transferred a sizeable quantity of it to me on the day he bought my house, but I don’t think he quite realised that no buying of houses can change who you are and where you come from. If you’ll allow me to say so, the man was not to the manor born. I expect all the old homes in England will pass to such people sooner or later. Birth no longer has the rights and privileges it used to. I don’t know what the country is coming to, I’m sure. Mr Granger talked all kinds of nonsense about central heating and bathrooms. Why, make life too easy, and you lose all the force of it, and the hardships that sculpt people into what they are! What kind of a person expects to be warm while dining! A proper dining room is large enough to seat at least forty; it’s silly to want to heat such a place, you might as well heat the garden. Why, that’s what the wine and spirits are served for! Little did he know, that Mr Granger. He thought that the things we did were things a person can learn. Riding and hunting, for instance. He actually learnt those things. What’s the point of that? Anyone can see that you’ve learnt it, that you weren’t born to it, from a mile off. It isn’t the same thing in the least. Installing a groom and all, thinking he was doing the same as my dear father, never realising how silly he looked, poor man. But he would go hunting. Well, it all caught up with him in the end, didn’t it? Here he’s gone and gotten himself shot. Dear, dear.’

Mr Granger’s body was actually discovered by the very gamekeeper referred to above, who was crossing the grounds on his morning rounds. He is not available for interviewing as the police have forbidden him to discuss the case because of the importance of his testimony as a witness in a possible forthcoming murder trial. However, this journalist has succeeded in learning from the police that Mr Granger was shot in the chest at quite close range, by a very small foreign firearm which has not been found anywhere on the premises. The lack of any particular expression of fear on the face of the deceased, and the position of his body, quite as though he had been shot in the middle of an ordinary conversation, have led the police to believe that the person who accosted him was a familiar. The police have a theory, and a very simple one, but are presently engaged in collecting testimonies from every person who can possibly have been within hearing distance at the time of the crime.

Mr Granger leaves a widow, Mrs Sylvia Granger née Bryce-Fortescue.

‘What a peculiar article,’ I mused. ‘I almost feel like laughing! What nasty things old Miss Haverhill says about poor Mr Granger – she really seems to feel he was killed because he was the wrong kind of person for her house! Yet I can understand how sad it must be to have to give up one’s old home. I expect one simply must exercise a little irony to put up with such a loss. Still, fancy wanting all those remarks to be published in a newspaper! And I wonder if he really has learnt all that he hints from the police. Do they really talk so much to journalists about their private theories, or is he just making it up? I wonder who he is; the article is signed merely “PO”. Do you think there’s any way one could find out?’

‘I have a little theory about that, actually,’ replied Arthur. ‘I had occasion to meet a journalist on the paper last year, during a mathematical event of note; his name was Patrick O’Sullivan, and he was a freckled Irishman of the purest sort – dashing all over the place, talking and asking questions till your head ached! He had a bit of a strange sense of humour. I shouldn’t be surprised at all to find he was the author of this piece. If you like, I could try to locate him.’

‘Oh yes!’ I cried, ‘I’m sure that would be good. He seems to know what the police are doing, at least he hints so, although perhaps that’s just for the glory of it. But if I met him, maybe I could find out what he really knows. And how useful it might turn out to be, if he had some real information. Look, Arthur, at what it says about a “simple theory”. It seems clear enough that it is Mrs Granger who is hinted at! And that, of course, is exactly what poor Mrs Bryce-Fortescue most fears. So she is not inventing it.’

‘It does sound like that’s what is meant, with that last sentence,’ he admitted. ‘But Vanessa, don’t forget this: the police might be right. Listen, I’ll try to look out Pat, and I’ll write you if I succeed. I shall write you anyway, and you must write to me as often as they carry the post – if you write to me half as often as you do to your sister, I shall be content. Now you had better finish packing your things, for they’ll be coming to fetch you quite soon, and I must go to work.’

He rose and kissed me rather solemnly. The kiss was quite intense enough to clearly communicate the disproportion between his feelings and his words.

‘Oh Arthur, I am grateful,’ I murmured into his ear.

‘It would be harder if … if I didn’t feel that you are trying to do something which may, which must surely be a good and necessary thing, however … disturbing and even frightening it is to me to see you mixed up in such things. I thought last night about the first time you came to me in prison – it seemed wrong then, to me, for you to have come. A wrong place for you to be. And yet in the end it was right, and you could have done nothing better. So how should I presume to judge? Still, I cannot help feeling very worried. You’re too d-daring, Vanessa. I wish you were more easily afraid. Remember Laertes: be wary then; best safety lies in fear.’

And he turned from me and went into the house rather more quickly than necessary, leaving me to carry the crockery in to Mrs Fitzwilliam.

I returned to my rooms and prepared a small suitcase. I did not know how much to take nor exactly how long I should be away, but I decided that surely I should return to Cambridge no later than next Saturday, even if just for a night, to see Arthur. So I packed economically, and then sat down rather tremblingly to wait for Mrs Bryce-Fortescue and her carriage.

I did exactly nothing but wait, straining my ears, for a good half an hour, yet so startled was I when the knock finally came at my door, that I leapt out of my seat, heart pounding! I hastened to the door, was greeted and invited to depart with no further delay.

‘If I had known, I would have put this off until tomorrow,’ she told me as soon as we were seated within. ‘The police are sending their inspector over this afternoon, yet again, to speak with Sylvia. I cannot think of allowing them to see her alone, and am quite worried that they may come whilst we are still on our way, although in principle they should not be at the house before four o’clock. Sylvia is under strict instructions to say that she has a headache and cannot see them until I am home. Make haste, please, Peter!’ she added in a slightly louder voice, addressing herself to the red-headed driver, whom I now observed for the first time.

He made a peculiar impression upon me. I would not, somehow, have expected Mrs Bryce-Fortescue to have this style of servant. Tall and young, with immensely long legs stretched before him, he leant back in his seat, a straw between his teeth, and drove the horses with a je-ne-sais-quoi attitude; it sounds ridiculous to say this, but it was quite as though they belonged to him. He did nothing wrong or impolite, to be sure, and yet his whole bearing and expression radiated a certain calm and cheerful ease which nearly verged on disrespect! Definitely not a youth from the country, it was easy to see, in spite of his familiarity with the horses. I could not resist putting a delicate question to Mrs Bryce-Fortescue.

‘Has your coachman been with you long?’ I said lightly. ‘He doesn’t look like someone from these parts.’

‘No indeed,’ she replied with a very slight touch of asperity. ‘I may as well tell you, since you are bound to learn a great deal about my family, and it will surely be necessary for you to ask a certain number of questions, some of which may be disagreeable, that my financial situation is really not one which could permit me to keep my own carriage and driver. In any case, you will easily be able to observe our train of living, once you arrive at the house. Peter Middleman and this carriage belonged to – to Sylvia’s husband. I – it is most disagreeable for me to speak of these things, but I realise that I myself have begged you to come, and I truly believe you may be able to help us, and I really do not know where else to turn, so I simply must force myself to do what does not come naturally to me. In a word, you must know that as long as the police inquiry is going on, my daughter cannot – her inheritance is blocked. Not only is she not yet the legal owner of her husband’s estate, but she is not even allowed to set foot there, which I suppose is normal enough, given that the house and grounds are being searched and studied for clues. However, the police have deigned to allow Peter to drive her to my home in her own carriage, and to stay with us until the – difficulties – shall be resolved. He is a peculiar young man, I agree, and I cannot say that I feel comfortable with him. I believe that he also comes from Manchester, and became acquainted with Geo—with Mr Granger there.’

‘Mr Granger was from Manchester, then?’ I knew it already, of course, from the newspaper article, but it seemed expedient to let Mrs Bryce-Fortescue tell me everything she could or would in her own way.

‘Yes, he was born there and lived there for many years before moving to this part of the country,’ she answered soberly.

‘It is embarrassing to ask questions – it does seem like prying,’ I said with some hesitation, ‘but I will certainly need to know as much as I can about Mr Granger’s background. Could you – could I know how old he was?’

‘I quite understand your hesitations, but we must both of us understand once and for all that such considerations will be nothing but a handicap. We had better leave them aside entirely,’ she answered, with a rather forced smile. ‘With me, at least, you can and should feel free to pry. With the others, that is to say, my daughter and her friend Camilla, and the servants, and perhaps Mr Granger’s servants – with them you will of course need to exercise a little more delicacy, as naturally none of these people have the slightest idea of your purpose in coming. Indeed, it is necessary for you to know that I have told them that you are the daughter of old friends, and that as you have come to live in Cambridge, they asked me to befriend you. If you find yourself obliged to invent any further details, please have the kindness to let me know. Now, about Mr Granger. What did you ask?’

‘How old was he,’ I insisted awkwardly. I felt rather than thought that she disliked the question, and wondered vaguely why.

‘Ah. Yes. He was … let me see, I do not know his exact age.’

‘But roughly?’

‘Roughly speaking, he must have been nearing – near fifty years old.’

‘Oh!’ My exclamation was not very discreet, but the information surprised me. As the husband of her daughter, I had naturally imagined a much younger man. Why, Mrs Bryce-Fortescue herself did not look so much.

‘Yes,’ she replied calmly. ‘You seem surprised. I suppose you expected my daughter to be married to a man closer to her own age.’

‘Yes, but it was a foolish prejudice,’ I answered humbly, disliking to have my thoughts read, even if they were very silly and obvious thoughts. ‘Can you tell me how Mr Granger became acquainted with your daughter?’

There was a faint pause. She seemed to be recollecting, or collecting, her thoughts.

‘He met her through me,’ she said. ‘I met Mr Granger at the home of some mutual friends, some seven or eight years ago. I was intrigued by him, for he was very unlike the men I was used to meeting. He had a strong and dominating personality, the kind of personality which leads a man to success no matter what his background. He had done far more, with far less advantages, than any other man of my acquaintance, and I felt a certain … admiration for him. He became a frequent caller at our house; Sylvia was then a girl of fifteen or sixteen. She was not in the least bit interested in him, but she was a very lovely girl, and I see now that he may have been … fond of her from the beginning, although he said nothing about it for many years. Indeed, he never said or hinted a word of any such thing until two years ago – all at once, and most unexpectedly.’ She flushed.

‘What happened then?’

‘Then he asked to marry her,’ she responded drily.

‘Was she pleased? How did she feel about it?’

‘I do not wish to speak for my daughter,’ she replied with a shade of coolness. ‘Naturally, she was pleased, as she accepted the proposal. The age difference certainly did not constitute an insurmountable obstacle. But I cannot give you any details about her feelings or about the marriage. Neither my daughter nor I are given to the expression of transports of feeling. You must see if you can learn directly from her what you wish to know.’

There was something curious in her attitude; something strange, contradictory. She seemed to wish to enlighten me, and yet something blocked the flow of information, as though there were something about her daughter’s marriage, or about private affairs in general, that she seemed to feel and yet to be unable to pronounce, maybe even to herself. Perhaps she was simply obeying the impulse of discretion and the need to present a certain face to the world.

At any rate, one thing appears clear: Mrs Bryce-Fortescue is not going to drown me in a spate of worldly chatter. She will put her house at my disposal, and answer factual questions to the best of her ability, but I do not think she is sincerely capable of doing more. Her character forbids it.

At length, and after a good deal of mutual silence, the carriage drew up in front of Mrs Bryce-Fortescue’s imposing home. The house is indescribably full of charm; summer roses fall in clusters over the low, projecting southern wing, and the warm stone of an unusual rosy hue, bringing to mind the ‘Maidstone’ of the house’s name, peeps through them in the sunshine. Light glints on the casements and large trees cast shade over a wild little garden surrounded by a low, moss-covered wall, with a gate giving onto the vast fields and lanes beyond. I stopped, delighted, and stared about me.

‘Here we are: welcome to Maidstone Hall. I am afraid that it is in rather a sorry state,’ said Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, leading me up the somewhat overgrown garden path. ‘I have not been able to keep it up as it deserves, since my husband died.’

‘But it’s lovely!’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s one of the loveliest houses I’ve ever seen!’ The sun glanced over its irregular stone surface, burnished by time and enlivened by wild flowers and grasses spilling out of the many nooks and crannies.

‘Lovely, but rotting slowly from within,’ she replied sadly. ‘The entire part of the roof over the west wing leaks, and that part of the house cannot be used. We have no gardener, and the garden is sadly neglected. Mr Huxtable and I occasionally work in it, but purely for the pleasure that a sunny garden can bring – we are no professionals! Snowdrops in January, crocuses in February, daffodils in March, wisteria in April, and then the roses – all these come by themselves, year after year, through no effort of ours other than a mild pruning. In my grandfather’s time, a bevy of servants, workers and gardeners kept the place in order; it is not a very large house, but it is extremely old and has a great deal of history. It has belonged to my family for many generations, and each one has added some dramatic event or another to its story.’

‘It is enchanting, just as it is,’ I told her. ‘It would be almost a pity for it to be kept neat and orderly.’

‘It would be a pity if the roof fell in entirely! And the day that will happen may not be so far away,’ she responded tartly. ‘But the rather small part of the house that we occupy is in good enough condition, fortunately. Please come inside. I shall introduce you to the servants, and take you around.’

We entered the front door, bending our heads slightly to avoid the overhanging bunches of roses, and found ourselves in a cool hallway. A very elderly man stood there, greeting us with smooth politeness. Behind us, Peter had unhitched the horses and was leading them towards the rickety stables that could be seen at some little distance.

‘This is Mr Huxtable,’ said Mrs Bryce-Fortescue with great formality. ‘Mr Huxtable, this is our new guest, Miss Duncan.’

Mr Huxtable welcomed me with great, if slightly doddering, polish, and took my shawl and hat.

‘Miss Sylvia and Miss Wright are in the parlour. Luncheon will be served very shortly,’ he informed us, before disappearing through a swinging door at the end of the passage into some mysterious nether regions of the house which I immediately determined to investigate at the soonest opportunity.