A Moment Of Silence Part 5

'Oh, that is kind! Now let me see. What kind of woman might this stuff be suited to?' She thought of those hands with the healed chilblains. A working woman who had achieved a better post? 'It might perhaps do for the cook,' she mused. 'And then there is the upper housemaid.' As she named each post doubtfully she studied the shopkeeper's face hoping for a response or a word of encouragement; but she received nothing but a small nod. She began to wonder how large she could make her friend's imaginary establishment.

'And maybe it would do for the housekeeper.'

That brought an encouraging little smile.

'Mmm, now I wonder about the housekeeper,' pursued Dido a and she was beginning to rather enjoy her own inventiveness. 'She really is a most superior woman, you see, and she has been in my friend's employ for nearly twenty years. I would not wish to offend her.'

'Oh, I don't think she would be offended, madam. I think she'd be pleased to get this dimity.'

'Do you truly think so?'

'Oh yes, I'm sure she would. You see, Miss Wallis a that's Mr Blacklock's housekeeper a she bought some for herself just a few weeks ago. And very pleased she was with it, I a.s.sure you.'

Chapter Seven.

...And so, you see, Eliza, I am now convinced that the dead woman was actually housekeeper in the house where Mr Montague's mysterious visitor stayed. This brings Mr Montague dangerously close to the murder and I must own that I rather wish I had not discovered it. It has already lost me Catherine's favour; she has hardly spoken to me since I told her about it. Of course, it was raining heavily when I reached Belston again, and she a.s.sures me that her yellow bonnet is now quite ruined because I was so late in returning with the carriage. But I think that my worst offence lies in mistaking her instructions. When she said that I must find out what was happening here, she did not, of course, mean that I must find out just anything, but that I must discover things that pleased her.

How foolish of me to misunderstand.

However, as somebody says somewhere in Shakespeare a and I believe it is in connection with a murder a 'what is done cannot be undone.' And I certainly cannot undo my morning's work, nor cease to know what I know. I believe that all I can do now is to carry on my enquiries and discover what I may. Though I shall try not to tell Catherine any more until I am quite certain of what has happened here. Perhaps it will all yet work out well and I will discover a solution that Madam Catherine approves. And if not a well, I shall at least have the comfort of knowing that I have saved her from an unfortunate alliance a and, though she may hate me for the rest of her life, she will no doubt recover from the loss of the young man within a few months.

For what, after all, is this 'love', Eliza, which can be supposed to arise from such very slight acquaintance and which is often described as being felt before two words have been exchanged with the object? Any girl is authorised to say she 'loves' a man she has danced a few dances with and sat beside during a half-dozen dinners. I doubt whether Catherine has ever conversed with Mr Montague upon a serious subject...

But this is quite by the by and I must be wearying you with my strange ideas a and with telling over all the events of my day. But truly I feel that I must tell it all, for I do not know what is of importance and what is not. It is getting late now and if I do not finish soon the bricks in my bed will be cold. Rose has brought me three bricks tonight and I expect to be very snug indeed. It seems that she has had an extremely pleasant day, sitting in the housekeeper's room and telling her story.

But, before I close, I shall lay before you all the little unconnected questions which keep returning to my mind, in the hope that if I communicate them to you, they will not trouble me so much as to keep me from sleeping. Here they are: Firstly (and maybe this is not such a very little question), there is the matter which has long puzzled us, and which has particularly troubled me since I have become better acquainted with Belsfield and its ways: why has such a man as Sir Edgar a one who sets more store upon dignity and ancestry than anything else a promoted the match between his son and Catherine a a girl of small fortune and no alliance at all?

Second: why does it pain Sir Edgar to talk about his son?

Third: why did Annie Holmes look so uncomfortable when I asked her if she had seen Mr Montague?

Fourth: why has Annie Holmes' daughter got such a costly doll?

Fifth: why does Lady Montague seem so languid and yet play such difficult games of Patience? One can, after all, play simple undemanding forms of Patience. When Catherine said this morning that her ladys.h.i.+p was the last woman in the world to be conscientious about business, it occurred to me that she was wrong a that my lady might indeed be very conscientious about something that interested her. And yet she chooses to be so very supine that one almost forgets she is there.

Sixth: is Mr Tom Lomax up to no good?

Seventh: what do the constant looks pa.s.sing between the Misses Harris signify? They make me uneasy and make me suppose that they have some secret and are determined to play a part or ensure that they tell a story correctly.

And lastly: what exactly was the colonel looking for in the garden yesterday morning?

If you have any answers to offer to these questions, then I hope you will write to me straight away; but I suspect that you will think me ridiculous for worrying over trifles. I cannot help myself though, Eliza, for I believe that the very air of this place breathes suspicion. It seems to be a house of secrets and I see mystery and intrigue wherever I turn.

It rained very heavily during that night, but the morning showed a blue and white sky with raindrops gleaming on the storm-battered roses of the terrace and puddles s.h.i.+ning in the worn hollows of the lawn steps.

All the gentlemen were gone to the inquest and the ladies were left with nothing to do but to settle the verdict among themselves without the inconvenience of considering any evidence. By about three o'clock Dido had become weary of their speculations, which ranged freely over burglars and gypsies and highwaymen without any regard for what was probable, or even possible, and she announced her intention of walking into Belston village.

'You will be ankle-deep in mud,' cried Catherine.

'I shall wear my pattens and my old pelisse.'

Catherine looked pained and lowered her voice to a hissing whisper. 'Aunt Dido, no one but maids and farmers' wives wear pattens now!' She glanced quickly around the comfortable room and its elegant inhabitants. 'Do you mean to shame me in front of everyone?'

'No, my dear,' said Dido calmly, 'I only mean to stop my shoes being spoilt by the dirt.'

'Well, I tell you honestly that in that shabby pelisse and pattens, you will look like a servant.'

'If that is so, you will not wish to accompany me?'

For answer Catherine turned away and picked up some needlework. (Which Dido considered to be a mark of how deep her displeasure was; for it must be an extreme emotion which could make Catherine willingly open her work-box and sew.) Unfortunately for Dido, who had been counting upon a solitary walk, Mrs Harris did not shrink from the shame of being seen in company with a woman wearing pattens. She had a bit of ribbon she wanted to match at the milliner's and she was sure that an airing would 'set her up nicely.'

'For, would you believe, I have not stirred from the house these last two days, Miss Kent,' she said comfortably as they walked up the drive, 'and to own the truth, my dear, it doesn't suit my digestion to be always sitting down. Doesn't suit it at all.'

Dido was saved from any further details of Mrs Harris's digestion by the servant's dinner bell, which rang out from the little tower above the stables just then, and when speech was again possible she began to remark with energy upon the pleasantness of the afternoon. But Mrs Harris was one of those women to whom the notion of friendliness is quite inseparable from confidences and who are determined to demonstrate their regard by sharing the most intimate details of their lives. She was, with the best will in the world, forever boring and embarra.s.sing her most favoured companions and, since she had taken rather a fancy to Dido, it was not long before praise of the day had proceeded to her hope that her eldest daughter would be able to walk out with the colonel later in the afternoon, and that led very naturally to her other hopes upon the colonel.

'Just between ourselves, my dear, I think Amelia will be disappointed if he does not come to the point during this visit. Poor girl, she will be three and twenty next month.'

'The gentleman does seem to be very attentive...'

'Oh, my dear, he is! He is very attentive and quite struck with Melia, I am sure. Though I confess I am rather surprised it is her and not Sophie. For he has been very attentive to her too and, of course, he shares her pa.s.sion for music. But then, there is no understanding love, is there, Miss Kent?' she said with an arch smile.

Dido agreed that there was not.

'Well, I don't mind telling you, that I shall be heartily glad to see either one of them settled with the colonel, for I don't know quite why it is, but there seems to be a little difficulty. Not that there is any shortage of beaux a but somehow it seems so difficult to make them come to the point. I don't know why it should be. They are dear girls and so very accomplished and, bless them, they try as hard as any mother could wish. And they are certainly pretty... Well they are, are they not, Miss Kent? I don't think a mother's pride is blinding me, is it?'

'Oh no,' said Dido civilly. 'They are pretty girls.' And that, she reflected was not quite a lie. The Misses Harris were, as the saying went, 'pretty enough'. Certainly they were more than pretty enough for girls who had twenty thousand pounds apiece. Pretty enough, under those circ.u.mstances, to bring any reasonable man 'to the point'. Or so one would have supposed. It crossed her mind that 'the little difficulty' might lie with the mother a her manner perhaps? Or her low origins? But gentlemen were not usually so fastidious a not when twenty thousand pounds was at stake.

'And it is such a compliment to the girls,' continued Mrs Harris. 'Such a compliment that the colonel should have seemed to quite make up his mind to have one of them as soon as he met with them here two weeks ago. For you must understand, my dear, that the colonel does not generally fall in love. He is well known for not doing so. Indeed, I once overheard the gentlemen talking about him a you know how gentlemen talk in those unreserved moments when they think that there are no ladies present a well, from what I overheard they were all quite sure that Colonel Walborough would never marry. That he had no wish to do so at all and was quite set against the idea. And bless me! I remember clearly how Mr H struck the table a as he does when he is very sure of something a and he cried, "No, no, Walborough is not interested in the ladies. His interests take quite a different direction." And all the gentlemen laughed and laughed! Which I thought was strange, for I do not see why it should amuse them so much that the man should be too devoted to his career and like his own company too well to marry. But there is no accounting for gentlemen's jokes, is there, Miss Kent?'

'No, indeed, there is not,' agreed Dido, who was more concerned with the colonel's recent change of heart than impenetrable masculine humour. 'It is quite remarkable, is it not,' she said, 'that he should now have decided to marry after all?'

'Oh yes, my dear, it is,' exclaimed Mrs Harris, her pink cheeks glowing in triumph. 'And so romantic, don't you think? Why, I heard him telling Melia that he had waited because he had not yet seen the woman he could be happy with a which I thought was very charming. Though, now I think of it, it was Sophie he said that to, because it was before he had settled on Melia, you see. "Well," he said, "I should have married years ago if I had been so fortunate as to make the acquaintance of the right lady." Which was very pretty.'

'Very pretty indeed! I congratulate you; he must be very much in love.'

'And a very comfortable establishment it will be for Melia. For I don't mind telling you, Miss Kent, though I wouldn't mention it in general, that the colonel is rather richer than most people suppose. That is to say that he has prospects. For besides his four thousand a year, there is his uncle's estate in Suffolk which he is almost sure to get for there is no one else the old man can leave it to.'

'Indeed? I am very glad to hear it for Miss Harris's sake.'

'Oh yes.' Mrs Harris lowered her voice to a suitably respectful whisper. 'Five thousand a year,' she mouthed. 'Mr H reckons that the Hunston estate clears five thousand a year after land tax, and a very pretty house it is too...'

Mrs Harris talked on happily, but Dido gave her as little attention as she safely could. Her mind was full of suspicions. For, lacking the mother's partiality, she could not help but wonder why the colonel should have decided so suddenly to break through his resolution of not marrying. And why should he have fixed upon the Harris girls, whose charms were, it had to be admitted, nothing out of the ordinary?

Dido did not accompany Mrs Harris to the milliner's, she went instead in search of the village's apothecary. She had need of some aromatic vinegar and was also anxious to get a new cough mixture made for Jack, the footman.

She found the place about halfway along the muddy street. It was a small dark shop sunk five steps below the level of the street, with the name of Bartley just visible in faded black letters above the door. The many shelves and drawers of dark old wood that were ranged behind the counter, together with the bottles and jars and boxes of pills displayed in the small window, made it seem very gloomy indeed. There was a smell of herbs and aniseed and horse liniment. Dido did not like the place. It was her experience that dark apothecary shops dealt too much in patent medicines of dubious character and too little in good old-fas.h.i.+oned stuff.

Nor was she pleased to see that the apothecary himself was absent. Behind the counter there was only his a.s.sistant a an extremely thin youth with a bad complexion and an ap.r.o.n which had perhaps, long ago, been white. He was talking to a gentleman a in fact he was talking to Mr Tom Lomax. As soon as she recognised him, Dido stepped back into the shadows, though she hardly knew why.

Tom was impatiently tapping a silver-headed cane against the counter and demanding a supply of horse pills. But there seemed to be a difficulty.

The shop-boy was red in the face and rubbing his hands together with discomfort. 'I'm sorry,' he kept saying. 'I'm sorry, Mr Lomax. You know I would if I could. Truly I would. But Mr Bartley was very definite. He said I wasn't to let you have anything at all. Not till your account was settled. It seems he has spoken to your father...'

'My father,' began Tom hotly, 'is an interfering old...' He recollected himself and said, with an effort at calmness, 'It is all nothing but a misunderstanding. A temporary lack of funds. It will all soon be put straight.'

'I'm very glad to hear it, Mr Lomax.'

'In fact, Robert...' Tom clasped his hands over the head of his cane and leant across the counter familiarly. 'In fact, I don't mind telling an old friend like you that I shall soon be coming into a fortune of twenty thousand pounds. It is all quite settled.'

Robert grinned proudly and rubbed his hands harder than ever, looking as if he did not quite know what to do about being so honoured with a gentleman's confidence a and being called a friend into the bargain.

'So if you could see your way to just letting me have a dozen of the pills...' said Tom.

And then it was all, Well, Mr Bartley did say... But then, sir, with you coming into money... And it's always a pleasure to do a favour for a friend...

And the upshot of it all was that a few minutes later Tom walked out of the shop with a package of horse pills whistling cheerfully to himself. Dido quickly turned her face away as he pa.s.sed and he saw only an insignificant female in pattens and a shabby pelisse. A creature not worth a second glance.

And, much to her mortification, it seemed as if the shop a.s.sistant received a similarly unfavourable impression, for no sooner was she alone with him than he began with, 'Are you the maid from the hall? Mr Bartley has my lady's stuff ready,' and produced a package wrapped in brown paper.

Chagrined at having Catherine's unkind remark confirmed, and still occupied with what she had overheard, Dido spared herself the pain of an explanation and, for the next ten minutes a as she gave detailed instructions for the making of her cough medicine a the boy fumed inwardly against the arrogance and self-important airs of great ladies' maids.

However, as she stepped out into the sunny street carrying her two parcels, Dido found that she was not sorry the mistake had been made; indeed she was very much tempted to take advantage of it.

She hesitated and looked up and down the street; Mrs Harris was not to be seen. There was a small boy eyeing gingerbread in the little bow window of the baker's shop and a stray dog lapping rainwater from a dirty puddle. Two housewives with laden shopping baskets hurried by deep in conversation. She caught the words 'murder' and 'inquest' and 'Sir Edgar' as they pa.s.sed. Then she was alone again with the dog and the child. No one was watching her.

Should she look at the package she had been given? She was almost certain that her ladys.h.i.+p's languor was aided by laudanum. One quick look in this parcel might confirm that suspicion. Of course she should not do it. But it was for Catherine's peace of mind that she was acting. She had to find out all that she could. It was all done in a very good cause.

As usual, her curiosity triumphed over her manners.

Very quickly a before her conscience could argue against her a Dido unpicked the knots in the string and pulled the paper away to reveal the bottle inside. She read the label.

And then, thinking that she must have been mistaken, she read it again.

'My dear Miss Kent! Are you unwell?' Mrs Harris was at her side now, looking concerned. 'You are very pale.'

'Oh no, no, I am quite well, thank you. Just a little tired perhaps.' Dido hastily pulled the paper back about the package and did her very best to smile; but the shock she had received had been so great that the rutted street and the little black and white shopfronts, and even Mrs Harris's plump pink cheeks, were all swimming together in a kind of mist.

'I think we had better go home.' Mrs Harris linked arms very kindly and set off on the road to Belsfield. Dido was glad of her support a and glad, too, to find that she had heard enough gossip in the milliner's shop to keep her occupied all the way in retailing it, without expecting many answers from her companion.

'For it seems the inquest is over and still no one knows who that poor woman was. And there's no one missing from the village that it might be. Though Judith Jenkinson, the milliner, was almost certain it was Clara from the Crown because no one had seen her for almost a week, and everyone in Belston has been quite sure that she'll come to a bad end these last two years; but then she came home safe and well this morning and it seems there's a young sailor at the bottom of that little mystery.

'So you see, my dear, the verdict the jury gave was that the poor woman was killed wrongly...or unlawfully...or something of that sort because Judith Jenkinson says it can't be murder on account of them not knowing whether it was planned beforehand or whether someone just took it into his head to shoot her all at once a because then it would be only homicide a so Judith says. Which seems very strange to me for the poor soul is just as dead whether the fellow was thinking about it before or not...'

Dido let her run on unchecked while she struggled for comprehension of what she had seen inside the parcel. Never had she expected to see such stuff sent to a respectable woman. What use could a prosperous married woman have for it? Indeed, a gentlewoman ought not even to know what it was...

She paused there, recollecting that she herself had recognised it.

In fact, she remembered seeing such medicine twice before a on charitable visits to the homes of the poor and despairing, but...

'So, there you are, my dear, what do you say to that?'

Mrs Harris was looking at her, her little dark eyes sparkling. Dido was obliged to ask her to repeat herself.

'What do you say to Sir Edgar's generosity?'

'His generosity?'

'Why yes, my dear. Did you not hear me saying? You see, there being no kin to come forward and prosecute the case, Sir Edgar has taken all the trouble upon himself a and he has offered a reward. Two hundred guineas,' she mouthed with a significant nod.

'Oh! Indeed, yes, that is very generous.'

'It is, and I am glad to say that everyone in the village seems to agree that it is. Everyone is full of praise for Sir Edgar. Which is just as it should be and, just between ourselves, my dear, it does not happen often enough. People are too much inclined to speak against the poor man, in my opinion. For they say he is proud and his tenants call him hard, which I do not believe is true...'

Dido could not attend any longer. Her own thoughts made her deaf. She was certain...yes, she was quite certain that this was the same stuff she had seen in those wretched, overcrowded cottages. And she knew how it had been used. She was not deceived by the benign-sounding message on the label: Guaranteed to speedily relieve all female irregularities. She knew that the irregularities it cured were the sort which would, in the natural course of events, result in the birth of a child.

And why would her ladys.h.i.+p use such stuff a in defiance of the laws of G.o.d and man a unless the gossip about her was true?

Dido remembered now that that gossip had seemed to have its origin among the tradesmen of the village. Perhaps the supplying of medicine like this had begun it.

She thought again of that pale face lolling against the green brocade: its beauty and, above all, its discontent. Yes, she thought, my lady might be capable of an indiscretion.

But could Mr Lomax be her fellow sinner? Dido found that notion much harder to countenance.

Chapter Eight.

The party presently collected at Belsfield was much inclined to play at cards; it was perhaps her ladys.h.i.+p's influence. Every evening ended with the tables being set and, while Lady Montague was careful to gather about her whist table the most serious-minded and the best players a her husband, Mr Harris and Margaret a the cheerful Mrs Harris was left to preside over a round game where the slight demands of play allowed for a great deal of flirtation and gossip.

There was only one exception to this general pa.s.sion for cards and that was Mr William Lomax. When the tables were brought forward, he would excuse himself and retire to the fireside with a book.

Having observed this, on the evening after her walk to Belston, Dido pleaded a slight headache and moved away from Mrs Harris's table as the first cards were being dealt. She had no particular aim in view, other than to try what a little conversation with the gentleman might produce. She could hardly make direct enquires; she could not ask whether he was my lady's lover. But, she thought, she would see where their talk might lead.

'You do not play at Speculation this evening?' Mr Lomax enquired, politely laying his book aside as she took a seat near the fire.