A gentleman of fortune mdk-2 Page 3

  As he talked, Miss Neville sewed and smiled.

  Flora had explained to Dido that Clara Neville was a cousin of the Lansdales who had been living with her mother in Richmond in ‘very reduced circumstances’ before her grand relations came to Knaresborough House and she was invited to join them as a companion. She was a tall, bony woman of perhaps five or six and forty who could not, even in her youth, have been thought pretty – having rather more forehead and less chin than is usually considered desirable.

  The smile which occupied her mouth was at odds with the deep lines of discontent and ill-humour on her brow. And, since her mouth was small and her brow wide, the discontent and ill-humour rather got the better of it.

  Her speeches too were a mixture of perfunctory pleasantry and irrepressible discontent. She lamented the death of her cousin loudly, but Dido could not help but suppose that the loss of her own comfortable position was the saddest part of the business, from her, ‘I suppose I shall have to return to mother soon,’ following on almost immediately.

  After a while there was a pause in the conversation and Dido took the opportunity to politely regret the death of the dog – watching Mr Lansdale closely for any sign of consciousness or guilt, as she spoke.

  But he only seemed as puzzled as she was herself. ‘That,’ he said turning from the window at which he was standing, ‘is a very strange business indeed. I cannot account for it at all.’ He began to pace about the room once more.

  ‘Oh dear!’ cried Flora. ‘I am very sorry! We have raised a subject which distresses you.’

  ‘No,’ he said in a softened tone, ‘my dear Mrs Beaumont, please do not be uneasy on that score.’ He sat down beside her. ‘The subject does not distress me,’ he said very gently. ‘It merely puzzles me. I cannot get it out of my head. You see, I know the creature was alive at seven on the evening that my aunt died.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’ asked Dido, rather more abruptly than she intended.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘because I took it down to the kitchen at that time and fed it as I always did. Then I let it out to run about in the garden. It was still in the garden when I left at about half after seven to keep my evening engagement in town.’

  ‘You were from home that evening?’ asked Dido keenly.

  ‘Yes,’ he said looking at her in some surprise.

  She blushed. ‘I am sorry. I only meant to say that I suppose you were not able to search for the dog.’

  ‘No, I was not. But Miss Neville was here all evening and she says that the butler, Fraser, searched the lawns and called for it. Did he not, Miss Neville?’

  ‘Oh!’ Miss Neville dropped her work and put her finger to her mouth. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I was telling Mrs Beaumont and Miss Kent about the little dog. He was searched for during the evening, was he not?’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes. Several times.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dido, with her eyes fixed upon a little spot of fresh blood on the white linen lying in Miss Neville’s lap.

  ‘And I suppose,’ she said, carefully, ‘I suppose you have asked everyone who visited that evening whether they saw the dog?’

  ‘There were no visitors that day,’ said Mr Lansdale unhesitatingly. ‘Nor had there been for some days past.’

  ‘Were there not?’ said Dido with some surprise, remembering the signs of company which they had found in the drawing room.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mr Lansdale, ‘we kept hardly any company.’

  Dido could not let the opportunity pass her by. ‘Did you not?’ she said, her mind upon Mrs Midgely’s calling card. ‘Your aunt was not upon visiting terms with any of her neighbours?’

  ‘Oh no. They were not such people…’ He stopped himself and smiled. ‘My aunt, you see, was very particular about the company she kept. It is an invalid’s privilege, is it not?’

  ‘And of course,’ added Miss Neville in her whining voice, ‘we were not allowed visitors on account of her nerves… Though I am sure,’ she added hastily, bending over her work once more, ‘for my own part I did not mind it one bit. It is much pleasanter to be private, is it not?’

  There was another short silence which was broken by Mr Lansdale’s sighing. ‘I am grateful,’ he said feelingly, ‘that my poor dear aunt never knew what had happened to the pug. She was extremely fond of the animal.’

  ‘Oh dear yes! I am sure you all were,’ cried Flora politely.

  He made a strange noise and covered his face with his hand. It almost seemed that he might be smothering a laugh.

  At the same time Miss Neville’s grating voice burst out with: ‘Yes, to be sure it is a very great pity. My poor cousin would have been quite heart-broke… Though it was not a nice little dog – barking away every time there was a knock on the house door. And it bit me once. I only picked up and returned a length of sewing cotton which Mrs Lansdale had dropped, and it bit me! And I am sure the servants disliked it too. I doubt there is one of them who has not been bitten by it.’

  ‘Do you think perhaps one of them…?’ began Dido.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Lansdale quickly. ‘Its death would have upset my aunt to such a degree…put her into such a passion. She would…’ He recollected himself again and stopped. ‘I am sure you understand, Miss Kent, that the state of the mistress’s temper must be of the first importance to her servants.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Dido, noticing once more his determination to always speak of his aunt with respect – and the effort which it sometimes cost him. She did not doubt that the lady had been just as difficult to defer to when she was alive.

  Mr Lansdale drummed his fingers on the side of his chair for a moment. Miss Neville continued to sew and smile. But there was something uncomfortable about her smile which Dido could not understand.

  Nor could she quite form an opinion of Mr Lansdale. He seemed all handsome appearance and proper feeling; but how deep this manly beauty went – whether it was a matter of person and manner only, or whether it was rooted in his character, she could not yet tell.

  He was certainly unreserved. He had, while talking about his aunt’s death, already alluded to the unkind gossip concerning him and now, after sitting thoughtfully for a few moments, he gave a wry smile. It seemed his youth and high spirits could not long be held in check even by death and danger. ‘What I cannot quite determine,’ he said, ‘is whether the death of the dog will exonerate me in the eyes of my neighbours, or whether it will confirm me a murderer.’

  ‘A murderer!’ cried Flora. ‘How perfectly horrid! I beg you will not say such things.’

  But Dido held his gaze and said quietly. ‘Yes, Mr Lansdale, I am finding that point difficult to settle myself.’

  The remark served to fix his attention upon her. Until that moment she had been only the lovely Mrs Beaumont’s poor cousin; but now, all at once, she had an existence of her own.

  ‘Miss Kent!’ he cried, smiling, ‘I do believe that you suspect me!’

  Flora hastened to assure him that her cousin had no such doubts, that it was just too horrid for words to even suggest it.

  But Dido waited until she had finished speaking and then, finding that the young man was still regarding her with slightly raised brows and shining eyes full of questions, she said, very seriously, ‘No, Mr Lansdale. Upon consideration I do not think that I suspect you. From what you have told me, the evidence seems to be in your favour.’

  He shook his head and became suddenly solemn. ‘I am very glad to find that I have your good opinion, Miss Kent – and,’ turning with a softened voice, ‘yours too Mrs Beaumont.’ He sighed deeply. ‘And you are quite right. Those who can suspect me of lacking affection for my aunt quite mistake the matter.’ He paused again. ‘If I am guilty of anything,’ he said with great feeling, ‘it is certainly not a lack of affection.’

  It was said very quietly, very properly and Dido did not doubt he meant to convey regard and respect for his dead relation. But, all the same, she could not quite like the way in wh
ich his gaze fell upon Flora as he spoke.

  It started a new – and entirely unwelcome – suspicion in her head.

  Chapter Four

  ‘“Something”,’ said Dido thoughtfully as the door of Knaresborough House closed behind them, ‘“something is rotten in the state of Denmark”.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Flora anxiously. ‘I am very sorry to hear it… But what has Denmark to do with us?’

  ‘It is a quotation from Shakespeare,’ Dido explained. ‘It is said by…one of his characters, in…one of his plays.’

  ‘Oh, that is all right then.’

  ‘I meant that, in the present case, for “Denmark” we should substitute “Richmond”.’

  ‘Oh yes! “Something is rotten in the state of Richmond”,’ Flora mused. She looked about her at the smooth lawns and the raked gravel of Knaresborough House, and, beyond the sweep gates, the new-built villas which lined the hill, sloping down to the slow, wide river with its willows and hayfields. A heat haze shimmered over everything and all was still but for one fashionable gig driving past at a smart pace, its high yellow wheels a blur of dust and speed. It all appeared very ordinary and proper. The warm air was full of the scents of hay and lilac – and still, just a hint of that other, less pleasant smell. Flora looked towards the cedar tree and the raw grave beneath it. ‘Yes! Of course!’ she cried. ‘“Something is rotten”. Yes, I quite see what you mean. Something is very rotten.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Dido, ‘I did not mean that. I meant to say that something strange is carrying on here. Something is wrong. Very wrong indeed.’

  ‘Oh. Is it?’ Flora considered a moment. ‘It certainly is strange that Mrs Midgely’s card should be in the drawing room.’

  ‘Yes, it would seem that there is, after all, an acquaintance of some kind between the two families. Is it, I wonder, the cause of Mrs M’s vehemence against Mr Lansdale? And, besides the card, there are the other evidences of visitors – of powdered gentlemen and a lady who played upon the pianoforte – on the very evening before Mrs Lansdale died. Altogether it would seem that Mrs Lansdale was much better acquainted with her neighbours than we have been led to suppose.’

  ‘But Mr Lansdale said that she did not receive calls – that there had been no visitors for many days.’

  ‘Yes. Precisely so,’ said Dido, pacing along the gravel. ‘And the great question must be – was he lying when he said…?’

  ‘No!’ cried Flora, hurrying after her, in a flutter of muslin and anxiety. ‘No, no, you must not say such things! You have seen him, Dido. How can you suppose such a man capable of a falsehood? There is truth in all his looks!’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Dido, unconvinced by this powerful argument, but reluctant to press the point. ‘Maybe he knew nothing about the visitors. After all he was absent on the fateful evening. And it may be that his aunt was quite in the habit of receiving secret calls.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Flora firmly, ‘it may.’

  Dido judged it best to say no more of Mr Lansdale. ‘However,’ she pointed out, ‘one thing is certain: Miss Neville must have known about the visitors. She was at home all evening.’

  ‘Miss Neville may be lying,’ suggested Flora.

  ‘She may indeed, for she has not a handsome face to prevent her telling falsehoods.’ Dido threw her cousin a sidelong look as she spoke.

  But Flora was thinking and twisting her finger in her bonnet’s ribbon. The result of her musing was: ‘I do not like Clara Neville. She has a nasty, unhappy look.’

  ‘You are quite right; the woman is certainly guilty of unhappiness – and a very grave crime it is. But I think there may be something else besides. A greater guilt. Did you see how she started and ran her needle into her finger when that last evening was spoken of?’

  ‘No, I did not. Do you suppose…’ Flora stopped. They were come now to the cedar tree at the end of the sweep and she was disconcerted to find that her cousin was once more staring thoughtfully at the grave. ‘You are thinking about the dog again?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Why are you so very interested in it? It was only a dog – and rather a horrid dog too.’

  Dido’s mind was full to overflowing upon this subject. She was thinking of the mystery of the creature being killed at the very same time that its mistress died. She was thinking of the character it had been given by Miss Neville – a noisy little thing which had bitten anyone who came near it. She was thinking that it would have sounded the alarm if anyone had tried to harm Mrs Lansdale: thinking that it was just the kind of animal which a murderer might wish to destroy.

  She looked at Flora’s little white face tipped questioningly to one side: blue eyes wide as a child’s, one shining curl slipping prettily across her smooth cheek.

  ‘The death of the dog,’ said Dido cautiously, ‘does rather suggest that there was something…strange…suspicious about the lady’s death…’

  ‘Dido!’ Tears sprang immediately to the wide blue eyes, hung upon the lashes. ‘You are not saying…?’

  ‘No, no. I am not accusing Mr Lansdale. Did you not hear me tell him that I believe the evidence to be in his favour? For, if someone did kill the dog in order to harm its mistress undetected, I do not think it was Mr Lansdale.’

  ‘Oh…’ Flora hesitated, looked puzzled. ‘Why do you say so?’

  ‘Because he told us that he regularly fed the dog. And I think you will agree that, however ill-tempered a dog may be in general, it will usually tolerate the presence of the person from whom it receives food. I cannot see that he would have had any cause to kill the dog – even if he intended harm to his aunt.’

  ‘Yes. Quite. I see.’ Flora blinked away her tears. ‘Then that is all right then?’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘Well, perhaps not. For, if a murder should come to light, then I fear Mr Lansdale will certainly be the one accused. He has, after all, gained a great deal from his aunt’s death. And the rumour which Mrs Midgely is spreading…’ She stopped, shivering a little in spite of the warmth of the day. ‘Flora,’ she said firmly, ‘we must put a stop to these rumours.’

  ‘Of course we must. That is just what I have been telling you.’

  ‘And we must find out exactly what has been carrying on here.’

  Flora looked less certain about that. But Dido was now walking on, deep in thought. At the end of the sweep she stopped.

  From here they could clearly see the windows of the houses opposite and in one of them was visible a white cap which Dido recognised as belonging to Miss Prentice – Mrs Midgely’s little boarder. She paused for a moment, looking at the window, then turned and looked back up the sweep to the sombre lawns and the red-brick front of Knaresborough House.

  ‘Flora,’ she said suddenly. ‘What do you say to paying Miss Prentice a morning call?’

  ‘Well,’ came the puzzled reply, ‘I daresay I owe her the attention. I have not set foot in that house once since our coming down from town. But, why should you wish to call upon her? She is such a very dull woman!’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Dido cheerfully, taking Flora’s arm and steering her towards the house, ‘I think she may prove very interesting indeed. For she has a remarkably interesting view from her window – and she spends a great deal of time looking at it. In fact, I do believe that if anyone can tell us who has been visiting Mrs Lansdale, it is Miss Prentice.’

  They crossed the road and followed the path which led along the side of the house. The front parlour window was open and there was music drifting out among the severely clipped hedges of box and yew. Mary Bevan was playing upon the pianoforte and singing so beautifully that both women could not help but stop for a moment to listen…

  ‘What’s this dull town to me

  Robin’s not near

  What was’t I wish’ d to see

  What wish’ d to hear

  Where all the joy and mirth

  Made this town heaven on earth

  Oh, they’re all fled with thee

&
nbsp; Robin Adair…’

  Flora merely smiled appreciatively; but Dido raised an interested eyebrow as they walked on to the front door.

  The visit did not begin well.

  Miss Prentice was not alone when they were shown into the back parlour; Mrs Midgely was sitting with her and, at first, Dido despaired of being able to ask any of the questions which were filling her head. There was no breaking in upon the torrent of Mrs Midgely’s tedious prosing. At first there was nothing to be done but to take their seats upon hard, narrow chairs and to listen.

  Attending with only half an ear, Dido looked about her. The room certainly had an excellent view of Knaresborough House; but that was the only thing to be said in its praise. It was not a pleasant room. It was very small and, facing backwards, it received no sunlight even now in the middle of a day in June. And into it there seemed to be gathered all the oldest and shabbiest articles of furniture that might be found in any moderately sized house. The only handsome piece was a gentleman’s broad mahogany desk – very fine, but with its drawers badly scratched and scarred – pushed into one corner, occupying a great deal of space and offering in return little convenience for the room’s present mistress. And there was also an air of incongruous masculinity in the stains upon the wallpaper which had, almost certainly, been made by tobacco smoke…

  The name of Lansdale caught her ear and she returned all her attention to Mrs Midgely.

  ‘…I believe the business must come soon to the attention of the magistrates,’ she was declaring happily as Flora turned pale. ‘It is a very shocking business, and much to be regretted for the sake of the whole neighbourhood.’

  ‘Though I can hardly understand how the neighbourhood has been injured by it,’ said Dido sharply, ‘since it has only gained a subject about which it may talk at a time when news from town is rather thin.’

  Colour mounted in Mrs Midgely’s broad, rouged cheeks. But, luckily, she was prevented from replying by the arrival of a note which sent her hurrying off in high spirits to ‘consult with Mary directly.’