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Authors: Robin Paige

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BOOK: Death at Rottingdean
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“What a selection!” Kate cried admiringly. She fingered the samples at length, although she had never had much interest in such things and hated to spend money frivolously. “I shall of course have the Chantilly—it is exactly what I am looking for. Ten yards, please.”
“Ten yards!” Mrs. Howard's eyes widened. “But—”
“I shall, of course, wish to pay you today,” Kate said smoothly. “I find that it is such a nuisance to ask his lordship to handle my dressmaking accounts.” She waved her gloved hand with a confiding little laugh. “You know how husbands are, Mrs. Howard. They make such a fuss over little extravagances like laces and ribbons and gloves, although they spend twice or three times as much on their favorite tobacco and brandy.” She trilled another laugh.
“To be sure,” Mrs. Howard said warmly. “Oh, I fully agree with you, your ladyship. It is far better to handle one's personal accounts oneself.”
“And I am tempted by this charming Valenciennes,” Kate went on, “although I should like it in black, rather than ivory, and I shall require, oh, say, fifteen yards.” She glanced up. “Do you have it in black?”
Mrs. Howard seemed taken aback, but recovered quickly. “Not ... not in stock, I'm afraid, your ladyship. That is, not in the shop. But I know where it is to be had. That is, if you wouldn't mind waiting a few days—”
“Oh, not at all!” Kate said. “In fact, I shouldn't object to paying a little extra for a special order, and paying ahead of time in order to ensure prompt delivery.” She paused, and touched the delicate lace pensively. “And if the price were right, I might also have some of this Maltese guipure. Later, of course, after I have seen the quality of the other laces.”
Mrs. Howard's frown cleared. “Then I shall be delighted to obtain what you want,” she said. There was something beseeching about her smile. “I cannot say how deeply honored I am by your patronage, your ladyship. I have hoped that the ladies from the Green—Lady Burne-Jones and Mrs. Ridsdale and now Mrs. Kipling—might be enticed to visit my shop and see for themselves that my goods are as fashionable as any they can purchase in Brighton. Perhaps,” she added delicately, “you would do me the honor of recommending me to them. and to other ladies of your acquaintance?”
“I shall be more than pleased to do so, Mrs. Howard,” Kate said with enthusiasm, and drew forth her purse. “Now, shall we reckon up how much I owe you? I promised his lordship that I would shop for a supply of his favorite tobacco this afternoon, although I am afraid I shall have to disappoint him. In such a small village—”
“Oh, but you should ask Mr. Knapton across the way,” Mrs. Howard said, picking up her receipt book. “I happen to know that he has several very good tobaccos, and is able to obtain others upon notice.”
Kate beamed as she took out her pound notes. “Well, then,” she said, “both lace
and
tobacco! My little shopping expedition has been quite an amazing success.”
19
It is the duty of responsible citizens cf means to look to the proper schooling of the children. Too many of these poor unfortunates are turned out into the streets at an early age to fend for themselves without education, without purpose, and without hope. While one should be mindful of the pride of the benighted poor, their needs must be met, often in spite of their unenlightened resistance.
—ROBERT CHARLES DOBEST “Toward a More Perfect Society” (1893)
 
 
 
 
 
A
s he always did, Patrick followed Aunt Georgie with alacrity when she asked him to spend the afternoon doing odd jobs for her in the garden at North End House. He took pleasure in the frequent garden work, for Aunt Georgie usually stayed to supervise and would often read to him in the intervals, bits from grown-up books by men like Ruskin, or from Mr. Kipling's
Jungle Books.
But today, he was especially glad to retreat to the garden. He did not want to go to the stables, where he would surely be confronted by Harry Tudwell; and he did not want to be met by any who might have been at the Black Horse the night before and be asked a question he could not answer. In fact, Patrick would have run off to hide in the old windmill if he hadn't feared he might be discovered by someone who wanted to poke around the site of Captain Smith's murder.
The garden at North End House was not much larger than a tennis court, but it had been laid out as a series of little garden rooms contained by walls and corridors of shrubbery, so that it seemed to go on forever. Each of the little rooms had a particular kind of interest: roses, or herbs, or ferns, or plants mentioned in Shakespeare or the Bible, or plants loved by bees or valued for their fragrance. Beyond the pergola planted with climbing roses was a small trellis-fenced plot where each of Aunt Georgie's grand-children had a place to sow their penny-packets of mustard and cress and nasturtiums. The whole thing was surrounded by a flint wall and was quite private—as secret a place as the windmill to spend a hidden afternoon, and much more pleasant.
Aunt Georgie was a skilled gardener, but she had one special adversary to combat: snails, some quite tiny, some as large as florins. They left their slimy trails on the window panes, roosted under the roof of the wooden pergola, and a party of them could always be found under the overturned pots. Patrick's usual job was to harvest these creatures and deposit them into the large porcelain pan under the rain butt, then add a handful of salt and watch them curl. When they were adequately pickled, he tipped them onto the rubbish heap.
Today, Aunt Georgie gave him a berry bucket and set him to picking snails from the dahlias, while she went into the house. Glad for the work, he went straight to it, eager to forget what he had heard and seen at the Black Rock coast guard cottage. But although he resolutely shut the widow's accusations out of his mind, he kept hearing her voice and seeing the little boy hunched on the step, crying for his father—a cry with which he could certainly sympathize. These recollections pulled him one way while old loyalties tugged him another, and he felt torn between them, like a piece of meat yanked at by a pair of hungry village dogs. If only he knew what he should do! But surely he couldn't do much because he didn't
know
much, at least not for certain. All he had were guesses, and he had already decided that nobody would want those. But that didn't lighten his guilt.
Patrick had dumped his second bucket into the snail-pot when a tray of ham sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade appeared on the table in the pergola. He had breakfasted early, so he sat down on a wooden bench and began to eat eagerly. He was finishing the second thick, meaty sandwich when Aunt Georgie sat down in the wicker chair opposite, clearly intent on carrying on a conversation. But her opening remark did not bring him any comfort.
“Patrick,” she said, settling her shawl around her shoulders, “I have been giving serious thought to your future.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Patrick returned warily. The last time Aunt Georgie had opened a similar conversation, she had ended by giving him a copy of a political tract which argued for the establishment of trade unions for the working class.
She cocked her head to one side and regarded him gravely. “You are an intelligent boy and clearly much above the other village children in your potential for improvement. What have you heard from your father recently?”
Patrick looked away. “Nothing, ma'am.”
“He is still in arrears to Mrs. Higgs?” At Patrick's reluctant nod, Aunt Georgie pressed her lips together and gave a disapproving shake of her head. “I do not suppose, then, that he has sent your tuition to St. Aubyn's, as he promised to do.”
“No, ma'am,” Patrick said, feeling a chilliness in his stomach that was not attributable to the lemonade he had just drunk. Aunt Georgie liked to take charge of other people's affairs, and he had the feeling that she was about to take charge of his. He set down his glass. “Thank you for the lunch,” he said, and stood. “I'd best get back to work now. There are
buckets
more snails.”
Aunt Georgie lifted her chin. “Sit down, Patrick,” she commanded. “We have not finished our talk.”
Unwillingly, Patrick sat on the edge of the wooden bench.
“Now,” she said, in a stern tone. “I have it on reliable authority that you are no longer attending Mr. Forsythe's school. Instead, you are spending your days frequenting the stables, and your evenings running through the village and over to Brighton.”
“No, ma'am,” Patrick said. “I work for Mr. Tudwell at the stables, and I do errands for him.” He took a deep breath. She wouldn't stop until she had dug it all out of him, so he might as well tell her. “The money goes to Mrs. Higgs, to pay my board bill.”
“To pay—” Aunt Georgie began in a half-horrified tone, and then stopped. “I see,” she said, after a moment, and in a kindlier voice. “Yes, yes, I
do
see.” There was another silence, and then: “Well, I cannot say that I believe Mr. Tudwell to be a good influence upon you, Patrick, nor Mrs. Higgs a fit guardian of youth. You need someone who can direct you toward a productive life. And a boy of your promise most certainly
should
continue his education, whatever his father's regrettable failings. I have therefore—”
Alarmed, Patrick started to speak, but she held up her hand and continued, in a magisterial tone, “I have therefore determined, Patrick, to become your guide and sponsor and undertake to support you at St. Aubyn's.”
Patrick gulped. “Oh, but I couldn‘t—That is, I don't want—” He stopped, faltering under the dreadful sense that his earlier dilemma, wrenching as it was, had taken on a new and even more threatening dimension. He could not for the life of him imagine being confined to a dreary life of scholarship at gloomy St. Aubyn's, with only those seven sallow boys and two lackluster masters for company. But he could not imagine returning to the tender mercies of Mr. Tudwell—not after what he had seen and heard. What
was
he to do?
“I understand that you don't want to accept anyone's help, my boy,” Aunt Georgie was saying in a now quite kindly tone. “This speaks very well of your sense of responsibility. Your father may not be much, but you must have had a decent mother who taught you to stand up for yourself.” She gave him a beneficent smile. “Surely you can see, however, that you must be properly educated if you are to make anything of yourself in the world. I have the means, and I wish to help, and you must allow me to do so.” Her voice took on a ringing quality, and he began to hear echoes of the trade union tract she had given him. “It is my duty to society to prevent the destruction of a perfectly good life. It is
my
responsibility as a laborer in the vineyard, as Sidney Webb tells us so clearly, to help a fellow-laborer in distress. I am confident that you will repay this debt many times over, Patrick, as you grow to manhood and turn your own hand to the betterment of the world in which we dwell as fellow-creatures.”
Patrick felt that Aunt Georgie must be speaking allegorically, for he knew that he had never labored in a vineyard and he was pretty sure she hadn't either. He tried to reply, but nothing would come out.
“It is decided, then,” she said, obviously pleased with herself. “I will speak with Mrs. Higgs this evening and write straightaway to your father, telling him what is to be done, and why. I will also inquire of Mr. Stanford and Mr. Lang how soon you may be admitted to St. Aubyn's as a boarding scholar. In the meanwhile, there is the matter of clothing and shoes.” She glanced with distaste at his corduroys. “You must have a new wardrobe, of course. And it would be much better if you were to come at once and stay with me until we have heard from the masters. I am quite adamant that you should not return to Mrs. Higgs. I shall explain this to her myself, of course.”
By this time, Patrick was entirely speechless with dismay, which Aunt Georgie interpreted in quite another fashion.
“I see that you are overwhelmed with gratitude, dear boy,” she said gently. “Perhaps no one has ever offered to help you before.” With a gesture of unconscious condescension, she smiled and patted his head exactly as if he were a small dog. “Well, then. Since you cannot find your tongue to thank me as you might wish, perhaps you will be glad of a little more fruitful labor. Come, and I will show you the refuse that is piled up to be burned. I have calls to make in the village regarding this unfortunate affair of the coast guards' deaths, but I am quite sure that this is a task you can manage for yourself.”
A half-hour later, Patrick was standing at the brick incinerator just outside the flint wall, poking the last sticks into the fire, when Mr. Kipling joined him, hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers, a troubled look on his face. Without preamble, he said:
“Look here, Paddy. The Aunt tells me she is planning to school you at St. Aubyn's. What do you think of the idea?”
His eyes watering from the acrid smoke, Patrick turned to Mr. Kipling. “It's what my father wants,” he said. “But I ...” He brushed his eyes with his sleeve. “I don't s'pose I have much of a choice.”
Mr. Kipling regarded him gravely, his mouth working under his brush of a mustache. “Well,” he said at last, “the best we can do, young or old, is to play the cards as they are dealt. But it does seem to me that a fellow ought to have a choice.” He was silent for a moment longer. “It is true that there has been no word from your father in nearly a year?”
Patrick nodded wordlessly.
Mr. Kipling fell silent again. Then he said, “I was boarded myself, you know, as a young person. My mother and father lived in India, and I was sent to a house in Southsea, to a woman who took in children. She was married to an old Navy captain who had been entangled in a harpoon-line while whale fishing, and had a terrible scar on his—” He shook himself, as if to cut loose from a painful memory. “It was a house of desolation. I hope Mrs. Higgs treats you a good deal better.”
BOOK: Death at Rottingdean
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