A Gentleman of Fortune Page 9

  Its shutters were open now that the first stage of mourning was over. In the thick creeper that covered one corner of the building, swallows were busy about their nests. It was a very pleasant, respectable prospect.

  But there were secrets hidden here. She was sure of it… There was certainly something very odd indeed about this burglary…

  She shook her head at the house. What did it have to hide? And how could one penetrate such respectability, to come at the truth? She dared not approach its door and question its master. Nor could she think of any reason to enter the kitchens and pursue her enquiries among the servants. And how else was she to discover anything? It seemed an impossibility.

  However, as Dido’s governess used frequently to remind her, we should ‘despair of nothing we would attain’ as ‘unwearied diligence our point would gain’. And, though there might appear to be little diligence in only sighing over the view of a house-front – or at least none which the redoubtable Miss Steerforth would have valued – Dido almost immediately saw an answer to her question: a means of penetration and discovery.

  Kneeling in the shadows by the corner of the house was young Sam, engaged in pulling weeds out of the sweep.

  She walked over to him, bade him good morning and exchanged a few remarks upon the warmth of the day, the likelihood of there being thunder before long and the persistence with which groundsel grew in gravel.

  ‘It makes a great deal of work for you, Sam. Are you employed here all the time now?’

  ‘Oh no, miss, I only come to do jobs now and then – like burying the dog, and helping Pa fix that new name plate on the gate, and pulling up the weeds sometimes.’

  ‘Is there no regular gardener employed about the place?’

  ‘No miss,’ he sat back on his heels and took a welcome rest. ‘There’s precious few servants here at all.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dido, recalling the clumsy maid, ‘I had observed as much. Why is the house so ill-served?’

  ‘Well miss, I reckon the land-agent only keeps on Mr Fraser while the house is empty. And then, when the house is let out, Mr Fraser gets folk in by the day to do the work.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dido, making the best of her opening. ‘That woman I have seen about here then: a large woman in a grey dress and a straw bonnet. I have seen her here talking to Miss Neville. She comes to help in the kitchen I daresay.’

  Sam shook his head so hard the damp hair fell down into his eyes. ‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘that’s Jenny White you mean, miss. Mr Fraser wouldn’t have her sort working in the house.’

  ‘Oh! Then what is her business here?’

  ‘I don’t know, miss, honest I don’t. I wish I did.’ He looked troubled. It was a fact which Dido had frequently observed that labouring people did not like to see their betters valuing anyone beyond their deserts. ‘I reckon it’s very odd the way Miss Neville lets her come around here and doesn’t send her away. Because Miss Neville must know what Jenny White is as well as any one else.’

  ‘And what is Miss White?’ asked Dido with great interest.

  ‘She’s a bad lot, miss, that’s what she is. She’s been in prison. Been in prison a good long while. And my Pa says she was lucky the judge was a soft one or it would’ve been transporting for sure.’

  ‘I see, and why was she sent to prison, Sam?’

  ‘Well, you see, miss, Jenny White is a laundress…’

  ‘And an excellent name she has for one of that profession!’

  Sam gave her a puzzled look. ‘But the point is, miss, every house Jenny worked in got burgled. And at the trial it all came out how she was working for a gang of housebreakers. Telling them all she could about locks and jewels and when the family were going to be away for the evening. That kind of thing you know, miss.’

  ‘How very shocking!’

  ‘It was, miss, and Pa says she’d have been transported for sure – or even hanged – but she made the judge believe she was frightened of the gang. Said she only did what she did because they made her. But Pa reckons…’

  Unluckily, just at that moment, there came the sound of the house door opening. They looked up and there was Fraser standing on the step – watching them severely.

  ‘I’m sorry miss,’ said Sam, shuffling a little along the gravel and attacking a dandelion, ‘I’d better be about my work.’

  Reluctantly Dido walked away – and felt Fraser’s disapproval staring at her back all the way to the sweep gates. She made her way home slowly, reflecting upon what a very remarkable thing it was, that she should have seen Miss Neville talking with – paying – a woman known to associate with criminals and that, the very next day, they should hear that Knaresborough House had been burgled.

  Flora was still above stairs when Dido returned. And there was no sound of visitors. As she entered the hall she looked immediately to the table at the foot of the stairs – to see if any caller had left a card.

  There was no card, but there were several letters just come from the post office. She picked them up – and found among them a letter addressed to herself in an unfamiliar hand.

  She paused, her bonnet in her hand, its ribbons trailing on the floor, the heat of the morning cooling on her cheeks. She turned the letter over thoughtfully: studied its direction. It was not written in a flowing script, but in separated letters – as if it were the work of a child – or a person of little education.

  Frowning to herself, she laid down her bonnet and carried the letter into the bright little breakfast room where everything was fresh and clean from the housemaid’s hands and the french doors stood open upon the garden. She sat down and broke the seal.

  There was but one sheet of paper and only a few lines written in the same clumsy letters.

  Dear Miss Kent

  You wish to discover what happened at Knaresborough House, but I think you had better not. There are some people of whom it may truly be said, ‘The world is not their friend, nor the world’s laws.’ I beg you would remember it.

  There was no name, no signature.

  Chapter Thirteen

  …As you may imagine, Eliza, we have puzzled over this letter a great deal. The writing is so remarkably ill-done that Flora believes it to be the work of a servant or someone of the sort. But I cannot agree with her. For, although it is written badly, the words are spelt very correctly and they are not such words, or expressions, as a person of no education would use. In short, I believe it to be the work of a man or woman who could write a fair hand if they wished, but did not choose to do so for fear of being recognised by it. Which suggests it is the work of someone well known to me.

  It would seem that some acquaintance of mine knows the truth about Mrs Lansdale’s death and is advising me not to enquire into it.

  And then there is the quotation. Is the line at all familiar to you, Eliza? I am almost certain that it is from Shakespeare. But you know how I am about the great bard – I never can remember the names of his characters or plays. And I find that Flora has not a single volume of his work! Please tell me of any ideas that you have – and you might ask Catherine’s opinion too, for she was more lately in a schoolroom than either of us.

  I would dearly love to know just who it is that must be supposed unfriended by the world and its laws. I have determined to ask everyone that I can about it – not only for the sake of discovering the meaning, but also so that I may watch for consciousness in the speaker.

  Well, Eliza, I shall make no more apology for busying myself about this mystery. I consider that this strange letter, by seeking to prevent me, authorises me to proceed. For it proves beyond doubt, that there is something to find out. And I very much fear that it might be something which will put Mr Lansdale in greater danger.

  Though I regret that I still cannot determine even whether the greatest mystery lies in the cause of Mrs Lansdale’s death – or the reason for Mr Lansdale having such an enemy as Mrs Midgely.

  Why is she so vehement against him? I confess that I cannot make out her char
acter at all; which is extremely vexing. For I had thought that my two weeks acquaintance was quite sufficient to see to the bottom of such a woman and it is just too provoking to discover that a fat woman who wears rouge and yellow muslin may have a deep and complicated character! There are so many things about her which I cannot understand. There is, besides this unkindness to Henry Lansdale, her sudden decision to send Miss Bevan away…

  I say as little as I may about all this to Flora, for I do not wish to distress her. But I hope you will forgive me for troubling you about it all, for it is such a very great help to me to write down my ideas.

  I must break off in a moment, for it is almost time for church – we are to go today to St Mary’s to hear the Reverend Mr Hewit, who is, by all accounts, a very fine preacher and is to preach here for two Sundays only before travelling north to take up a new parish. It seems the reverend gentleman has spent some years in France and everyone is in high hopes of a spirited tirade against the iniquities of that country.

  But, before I close, there is one more matter with which I wish, most particularly, to trouble you: the window at Knaresborough House.

  I spoke with the man who mended it. And, Eliza, he was quite certain that no tool had been used to break the catch: that the damage had been done only by pushing – and do you see what this means?

  I am almost sure that the windows in the drawing room at Knaresborough are like every other casement that I ever saw – I mean, they open outwards. In short, if the window was broken open by pushing, then I think it must have been broken open not from outside the house but from within the room.

  So, this morning, in between puzzling over my letter and considering all the obscurities of Mrs Midgely’s character, I must think about the burglary too. Do you see what a multitude of demands there are upon a woman’s attention when once she sets herself to this business of solving mysteries?

  I cannot cease to wonder about the window. Is it possible that someone within Knaresborough House admitted the burglars? And, if so, was that person Miss Clara Neville…

  It being a Sunday, it was perhaps not quite right to be so busy about puzzles and secrets. Though, when she came to consider the matter, Dido could not recall any laws in the bible forbidding the solving of mysteries on the Sabbath. It seemed to be a point upon which holy writ was silent.

  However, she was quite certain that she was straying from the strict path of virtue by allowing her mind to range over broken window catches, corrupted laundresses and unsigned notes during divine service itself. And, as she sat beside Flora in their high-sided pew, she did strive most earnestly to rein in her thoughts to proper contemplation and devotion. But it was exceedingly difficult for just across the worn flags of the aisle, shut into another crowded pew, was Mr Vane himself – providing her with an opportunity for contemplation of a very unreligious kind.

  Sunshine was flooding into the nave of the church through the old leaded windows, very bright against the plain white plaster of the ceiling and the colourful coats and gowns and bonnets of the congregation. And one ray of light was falling directly upon Mr Vane, lighting him up as if he were an actor upon a stage – though whether he should play a hero or a villain, Dido found hard to determine.

  He was certainly not an ill-looking man. Indeed he had a rather handsome face – though it was too broad and habitually smiling to suit her taste. He had a kind of polished look, a gleam of self-satisfaction – and ingratiation.

  He was a very ingratiating man.

  She had first caught sight of him this morning in the churchyard. A black, bowing figure moving restlessly about among the bright colours of the gathering ladies, repeatedly baring his shining fair hair to the sun as he swept the hat from his head. He attended, she noticed, exclusively to wealthy widows – constantly smiling his care and concern at them.

  Watching him, it had been impossible (even with all the virtuous intentions of a Sunday) not to wonder about his motives. They were mercenary. She did not doubt that from his slighting of all his poorer patients in the crowd. But she could not quite determine whether his ambitions reached only to substantial fees, or whether they might aspire to more. To legacies perhaps… Or even to marriage – for, after all, it was not unknown for rich widows to fall in love with their physicians…

  It was just as her thoughts were got to this point that she noticed he was stopped in the shadow of the church porch – and talking very earnestly to Mrs Midgely. He seemed to be giving some very particular piece of information – and she was smiling at what she heard. Dido pressed forward eagerly through the crowd, certain in her own mind that he was telling of his visit to the magistrate and determined to hear what she could. But there were a great many twisting parasols and jealously guarded muslins between her and the porch and before she could come close enough to hear anything, the pair had been interrupted.

  As Dido approached the porch, Mrs Midgely’s broad yellow back was retreating and it was Miss Neville who was now standing beside the apothecary, her sallow face twitching nervously beneath a remarkably ugly grey bonnet as she whispered something urgently about ‘my poor mother’.

  The look of gentle concern was gone from Mr Vane’s face. He seemed very far from sympathetic about Mrs Neville – although he seemed to think that she was very unwell, for he shook his head and said something about it being, ‘A bad business. Very bad indeed.’

  He began to walk away, but Miss Neville detained him with an anxious question. ‘But, you will say nothing about…?’

  Mr Vane bowed abruptly and walked off into the church before she could finish.

  All of which was very strange and interesting; and now, as she sat in her pew, Dido could not help but dwell upon the memory of it – rather to the exclusion of Mr Hewit’s earnest discourse. She could not like Mr Vane – it was weak of him to be influenced by Mrs Midgely – and why should he be so negligent of Miss Neville and her poor mother? But he looked so very much at ease with himself that she could not doubt his motives in going to the magistrate. He had all the appearance of a man who believed he was acting with integrity.

  Her eye slowly moved away from Mr Vane, along the lines of dutifully attentive faces. There was Miss Neville, her hands plucking at her reticule, frowning at the preacher as if she resented his words; and, beside her, Mr Lansdale, one arm resting along the side of his pew, head thrown back, fine blue eyes fixed attentively upon the pulpit. And then, in the row behind, Miss Prentice and Mrs Midgely…

  Dido’s wandering eye was immediately halted. She stared – at least she stared as much as a person can stare while discreetly craning her neck in church.

  The expressions upon both women’s faces were arresting. Startling. Though they could not have been more different. Miss Prentice was enraptured; her eyes were wide and she was so moved that tears were running down her round cheeks. But Mrs Midgely’s face burnt red – the rouge all swallowed up in a flush of fury.

  Hastily Dido turned her wandering attention in its proper direction – and began to listen to the sermon. What was Mr Hewit saying which could produce such widely differing effects in his audience?

  ‘…Charity, my dear friends! St Paul teaches us that it is the greatest of all virtues. “Charity suffereth long and is kind,” he tells us. Charity “thinketh no evil”. It “rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth”. When we have charity in our hearts, my friends, we do not bear grudges, or resentments, we are able – we are willing – to forget the past mistakes and transgressions of others. We are willing to forgive what is past…’

  He spoke gently and feelingly; but there was a great deal of power in his accents – and in the expression of his lined and careworn face. And, Dido noticed that, as he spoke, he was looking very directly at Mrs Midgely.

  ‘That was a very moving sermon, Mr Hewit,’ said Dido, pausing in the shady porch as she and Flora left the church.

  Mr Hewit’s sombre face broke immediately into a very kindly smile. ‘Dear Lady! You are extremely gene
rous to say so.’ He bowed and lowered his voice. ‘And may I say that your approval of my little discourse does you credit. In my experience it is the charitable who take most pleasure in hearing charity commended.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The broad smile had somewhat eased the deep lines of the clergyman’s face; but the sadness lingered in his eyes – and there was something too in the stoop of his slight shoulders, his haggard face and, most particularly, in his rather shabby clothes and his unfashionably powdered hair, which was not like any other popular visiting preacher that Dido had ever met. He was now looking rather despondingly at the departing crowd. ‘I do not think,’ he continued, raising a thick white eyebrow in half-comical regret, ‘that my discourse gave universal satisfaction.’

  Dido found that the man was rather winning upon her. She smiled and stepped closer to him. ‘I fear there may have been a little disappointment,’ she whispered playfully.

  ‘Disappointment?’

  ‘Yes,’ she confided, ‘I believe you were expected to preach against the French.’

  ‘Indeed?’ He looked very thoughtful. ‘But, my dear lady, why do you suppose that there should be disappointment? Did I not preach most eloquently against the French?’

  ‘I beg your pardon? I do not quite understand you.’

  ‘Was not every word which I spoke in praise of charity a rebuke to our neighbours across the channel? Are not a want of charity and compassion at the root of every violent scene lately enacted among them? Is it not the absence of charity which has turned the high ideals of their revolution into tyranny and outrage?’

  ‘Oh!’ said Dido, startled into seriousness. ‘Yes…’ She was quite struck by his words, and she could not help but wonder whether they might not have some bearing upon Richmond as well as France – and whether the lack of charity among her neighbours might not also end in a scene of violence…