Death at Knytte (9 page)

‘I am going to look at the cloisters again before I return Mr Henson’s keys,’ she said. ‘I shan’t be long, and you have plenty to occupy yourselves. Annie, you’re to stay with the children while I’m gone. Master Rodney, I shall expect to see those notes complete by the time I return.’

‘Yes, Miss Drake,’ the child answered, his mind already on the document he was unfolding, his eyes alight with the thrill of discovery. She smiled, pleased with his enthusiasm, took one last look at the little girl to make sure she was equally engaged, then slipped out of the room. She hurried downstairs, along the corridor to the ancient door that led through the monk’s refectory and thence to the ruins. Going this way, it was unlikely anybody in the house would see her leave.

Jonah was not alone, there were two other men working with him. Phoebe hid in one of the shadowy carrels lining the cloister and watched anxiously; she mustn’t be long, but she was reluctant to leave without having a word with her cousin.
Five full minutes passed before her opportunity came; Jonah ordered his assistants to carry one of the new steps up into the tower.

‘Jonah.’ As soon as he was alone Phoebe called, beckoning him to join her. He came, but there was a frown on his normally open features.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I had to speak to you. I know you have feelings for Lady Pickhurst. I’m sorry but you must listen. You know how dangerous it is. Go on as you are and your life will be ruined.’

‘You’ve got no business spying on me, or trying to interfere with my business!’ He loomed over her, a fist raised in anger.

Phoebe had never seen her cousin lose his temper before. She took a step away from him, tears brimming in her eyes, but she lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed. There might never be another chance to persuade him to give up his folly.

‘If you don’t care about yourself, at least think about her ladyship. If you were discovered together her reputation would be ruined. Who can guess what Lord Pickhurst might do?’

‘Are you threatening to tell tales?’ His face was contorted. It was like looking at a stranger; the boy she had known and loved all her life had vanished.

Phoebe gasped. ‘How can you say such a thing? You’re as close to me as a brother, Jonah, and I care about you. I want to help, that’s all. Please—’

‘Don’t say another word. I didn’t believe Lucille when she told me you were jealous, but she’s right, isn’t she? You’ve set your mind on having me for yourself, because you’re afraid you’ll never find a man any other way. I suppose even a cousin would be better than nothing, even if he’s not a gentleman.’

Shocked to silence, she stared at him. ‘I’ve never …’ she began, struggling to find words. He was already turning away.

‘Jonah,’ she called after him, recovering her voice. ‘I’ve only ever wanted to be your friend, your sister. If you ever need me, I’ll be here.’ He gave no sign of having heard, vanishing swiftly into the tower.

L
ucille didn’t want to attend the garden party. It was being given by Reverend and Mrs Stoppen to celebrate the nineteenth birthday of their daughter, Agatha. The girl was pretty, in a vacuous kind of way, and she flirted outrageously, keeping a dozen or more suitors constantly at her side. As a married woman Lucille was no longer allowed to encourage the attentions of young men, or not openly at least, and she hated to see single girls like Agatha enjoying themselves.

Having considered inventing some minor malady to keep her at home, Lucille decided against it. Since Lord Pickhurst’s greatest wish was for a son, he was tiresomely solicitous whenever she was indisposed, imagining she might be showing early signs of pregnancy and preparing to provide Knytte with an heir.

Putting on a new dress, adorning her hair, neck and arms with some of the jewels he’d bestowed upon her, and her face with a gracious smile, Lucille went downstairs to accompany her husband to their neighbour’s house. Lord Pickhurst took her arm and led her to the carriage, looking as if he might burst with pride.

They went in the dress chariot, bought for their wedding. At least Lucille could be confident that nobody would arrive in smarter style. She had mixed feelings about Mortleigh’s 
absence. Since he was her husband’s friend she could have danced with him once or twice without arousing suspicion, but then she would also have to watch Agatha and her friends competing for his attention.

Dunsby Court was attractive, though small in comparison with Knytte. The grounds were acknowledged to be very fine, the approach being flanked by a double avenue of beech trees, with woodland to the west to act as a windbreak. Lucille stared unseeingly at the trees. Thinking of Agatha had aroused her suspicions. Perhaps Mortleigh had gone to London to see another woman. If so, would he ever come back? The thought tormented her; he’d promised to return. He must return. And once he did he must be persuaded to accept her scheme, and never leave again.

A small movement caught Lucille’s attention. Beyond the avenue, a horseman was picking his way through the wood, only visible for a moment now and then. He was bending low, as if trying not to be seen. It struck her as strange that anyone should choose such an inconvenient approach to the house. She looked away for a second, to see if her husband had noticed the rider, but he was studying the herd of cattle grazing beyond the fence on the other side of the avenue. When Lucille turned back the horseman had vanished.

The chariot bowled on, and very soon Dunsby Court came into sight. Several carriages were drawn up at the entrance, but instead of entering the house, a trickle of guests were strolling towards a large marquee on the lawn, beside which a group of musicians were playing a pastoral melody.

‘How pleasant,’ Lord Pickhurst said complacently. ‘Of course the house has no room to accommodate so many, they have nothing here to rival Knytte, the garden has always been the best feature of Dunsby.’

‘I suppose so,’ Lucille said absently.

‘My dear?’ Lord Pickhurst patted her knee. ‘Is anything wrong?’

‘You will think me petty minded if I tell you,’ Lucille replied, wearing her sweetest smile. ‘I find Miss Agatha Stoppen a terrible flirt. I hate to see such unbecoming behaviour.’

Returning her smile, her husband nodded. ‘She’s been overindulged, but we shan’t be obliged to spend much time in her company.’

Lucille sighed. ‘You’re always so good tempered. To me, garden parties are a trial. The dirt ruins my shoes, and I don’t care to prance about doing country dances.’

‘Poor Lucille. By next season you shall have a ballroom that is the envy of the county, and if you find the local families tiresome, we’ll send to London for better company.’

The event was all Lucille had expected; she found fault with the garden, the heat inside the marquee, the intensity of the sun outside, and almost every person she encountered. Very soon she developed the headache she had considered inventing that morning, and begged her husband to take her into the house, where the light would be less bright.

‘Of course, my dear,’ Lord Pickhurst took her arm as she rose from her seat. ‘That will suit me well. Reverend Stoppen has recently added some new paintings to his collection, and he invited me to inspect them at my leisure.’

With all the guests on the lawns or in the marquee, and the servants tending to their needs, the house was strangely deserted. They saw nobody as they ascended to the third floor, where the gallery filled the west side of the house. Lord Pickhurst instructed his young wife on the merits of half a dozen paintings, and she maintained an air of polite interest, until they came to a semi-circular bay window. A chair was conveniently placed to give Lucille a view of the gardens and
with a blind drawn halfway down to shade her from the sun she was content to leave her husband to continue his tour alone.

From this height Lucille found herself looking down on the woodland where she had seen the rider. The trees were sparser near the house, and there was only a narrow belt of them curving around to the north. Even so, it took her several minutes to spot the dark shape that moved a little amongst the greenery. A horse, completely hidden from the revellers in the garden, and almost certainly the one she had seen earlier, was browsing quietly from the tree branch where it was tied.

Lucille was intrigued. She wondered if Miss Stoppen had an unsuitable lover; it seemed likely that some young man had come to the party uninvited. Five minutes elapsed before the horse made a sudden movement; it lifted its head, ears pricked. Lucille looked to see what had caught the animal’s interest. A figure, muffled and cloaked in a way that was totally unsuitable for such a fine warm day, came hurrying from the rear of the house. He was visible only for a moment, but he reappeared between the trees and she saw him unhitch the horse and step into the saddle. For a second he glanced towards the house, his head tilted up so the sun caught it.

Lucille drew in a gasp of astonishment. Unless he had a twin, there could be no mistaking the man she had just seen; it was Mortleigh.

A hand descended on her shoulder, and she jumped violently.

‘I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ Lord Pickhurst moved around her to sit at her side. ‘What are you finding so fascinating out there? Assignations in the shrubbery perhaps?’ he added playfully.

‘No, nothing like that,’ Lucille said, recalling herself to the
part of doting wife with some difficulty. ‘My thoughts were far away.’ In fact they were riding through the belt of woodland. Mortleigh’s betrayal beat in her head like the thud of a drum, and it was all she could do to hide her fury from her husband. Why had he told her such a blatant lie? He’d never intended to return to London. It must have been his intention to pay court to Agatha Stoppen all the time.

‘Your contemplation seems to have made you unhappy,’ Lord Pickhurst commented, and Lucille at once put a hand over her eyes.

‘You are so good at seeing such things, my love,’ she said. ‘I have the most unpleasant headache. Do you think we might go home without giving offence? The pain is making me weary, and the bright sunlight is really more than I can stand.’

All concern, Lord Pickhurst ordered the carriage at once, and they made their farewells with indecent haste. Agatha Stoppens was nowhere to be seen, which seemed to Lucille to be of great significance. She sat in silence all the way back to Knytte, hiding behind closed eyes. In the red darkness she imagined Mortleigh standing on the road before them, and pictured the body he’d taught her to worship being trampled into the mud beneath the hoofs of the horses. Her fury was almost too much to bear.

As soon as they were home Lucille retired to her room, getting rid of her husband by declaring herself in need of sleep above all else. She couldn’t think clearly. Her mind was filled with images of a dozen acts of vengeance, all of them impossible to carry out. Mortleigh was clever, and physically strong. If she hoped to punish him she needed an ally.

Marching towards the old stairs some minutes later, too angry to be cautious, she heard sounds from the nursery, but the doors were shut. Nobody saw her as she let herself out
into the ruins. She heard the chink of tools. There were men working there, Jonah among them; the slow rhythm of his deep voice was unmistakable. It wasn’t necessary to speak to him, or even to see him. They had long since worked out a system of messages; she had only to work her way to the stone carrel where he habitually left the hat and coat he wore on his way to and from his work. She dropped a glove there, a plain cotton thing, but scented with a perfume he would recognize.

Lucille returned to her room on light feet. In time she would find a way to pay Mortleigh for his betrayal. An assignation with another man was merely the start and Jonah’s adoration would be balm for her wounded pride. The possibility that her faithless lover wouldn’t return to Knytte flickered briefly through her thoughts. She could guess why he’d gone clandestinely to Dunsby Court. Reverend Stoppen was a very wealthy man, and everyone knew he hoped to marry his only daughter into the nobility; a suitor who had no title would be unwelcome. Perhaps, Lucille thought, her fury making her cheeks flame, he planned to carry Agatha off in the middle of the night.

‘Docket, there you are.’ Sir Martin slammed a hand irritably upon his desk. ‘Where have you been? It’s almost time to dress for dinner, and you know how her ladyship hates to be kept waiting.’

‘I’m sorry,’ the young man replied, doing his best to slap the dust from his coat. He’d been riding most of the day, and he was as tired and jaded as his horse. ‘I believe I may have some information regarding Sergeant Beddowes. I fear it’s not good news.’

‘What do you mean? Where is he?’

‘As for that, I still don’t know. The rumour is several days
out of date, and it comes from a source that isn’t totally reliable, but it’s the best I could do.’

His employer scowled. ‘And you call this information? Well, spit it out, man.’

‘A derelict answering the sergeant’s description was seen at the King’s Arms, the day after we left him at the cross-roads. Apparently he was accosted by several men known to be involved in smuggling. My informant tells me he left shortly after with a pair of these rum-runners, one of whom was probably Bragg. If it was Beddowes, I’m afraid he may have received some rough handling, my informant said the tramp didn’t go with his captors willingly.’ He hesitated, looking at Sir Martin as if to judge his mood. ‘I was wondering if you would allow me to offer a small reward for information. The brotherhood is loyal in the main, but somebody may be willing to tell us more, given an incentive.’

‘It would be unwise to betray his identity, so how would you explain our interest in a tramp?’

‘I thought we might suggest that he’s a possible witness,’ Docket said. ‘There can’t be a soul in the county who isn’t aware of the jewellery thefts by now, and it’s quite feasible that a travelling man might have seen or heard something useful to our enquiries.’

Sir Martin nodded. ‘Very well, offer five guineas for information leading to his safe delivery, either here or to my office in Hagstock.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Now, if there’s nothing more …’

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. A message had come from Dunsby Court, and it was marked MOST URGENT. Sir Martin broke the seal and read quickly, his expression darkening. When he had finished he thrust the paper into Docket’s hands. ‘I want Beddowes found,’ he barked. ‘Go to the printer at once and get some handbills out.
Have him work through the night if necessary.’ He strode from the room.

Docket read the message, his eyes widening. ‘Another one,’ he breathed. ‘There’ll be sparks flying if you don’t turn up soon, Sergeant. Mind you, if I was a betting man, I’m not sure I’d risk a guinea on ever seeing hide or hair of you again.’

Phoebe had trouble persuading Rodney to go to bed, and she sat with him for nearly two hours, reading quietly. At last, when her eyes ached with the strain of making out the letters in the flickering candlelight, the boy’s breathing became slow and regular, and with a sigh she straightened her aching limbs and rose, stretching. The boy’s nightmares had diminished a little recently, and Phoebe wondered if she might risk leaving him alone, to spend a night in her own bed.

Annie was shirking her duties as nursery maid again; many of the more mundane evening tasks rightly belonged to her, but with a mistress who cared nothing for the children and even less for their governess, there was nobody to whom Phoebe could report her insolence, apart from the housekeeper. She suspected if she did so the servants would close ranks against her, and make life even more intolerable.

She knelt to sweep the grate. The girl had sulked when ordered to bring up coal, retorting that it was too early to have a fire. True, autumn had barely begun, but Rodney found firelight a comfort, so she’d told the girl to light it and stop grumbling, which was probably why she’d neglected her other tasks.

Those who lived below stairs saw the post of governess as a position of privilege, but there were times when Phoebe wished she was a humble maid, for at least then she might have company in the servants’ hall. With the fire raked to a
dull safe glow she tidied the room and went to close the curtains, another of Annie’s jobs.

No lights shone from the house, although it was only a little after ten. A sliver of moon illuminated the gardens, and Phoebe stopped to look out at their ethereal beauty. It was early for the household to have retired to bed, but she had gathered from Annie, before the girl was overtaken by her sullen fit, that Lady Pickhurst had returned from the garden party feeling unwell. With the lady of the house not joining his lordship for dinner, and no other company, the meal would have been short, and everyone released from their duties sooner than was usual.

The loveliness before her eyes seeped into Phoebe’s spirit and calmed her; she was fortunate to be able to enjoy such a sight, and there was no point worrying about what might happen in the future. She had reasons enough to be content; Rodney was an apt pupil and they both enjoyed their lessons, while Eliza was a permanently cheerful child. Tending the children was a pleasure, and she could be satisfied with that for the moment. A breeze had sprung up and the tops of the trees were moving against the moon. An owl called, before flitting across the lawn like a ghost, flying from its home in the ruins and heading for the rough grass in the park.