The Imaginary Gentleman (31 page)

W
HEN TOLD THE GENTLEMEN WERE
to accompany the magistrate to Longpan, Laura felt greatly cheated of the adventure. She watched through the window, as the men cantered up the street to their rendezvous.

“It is my mystery as much as anyone's. How I wish I could go with them!”

“So you shall, my dear,” said the countess.

Laura turned in surprise, and Elspeth cried, “Impossible, your ladyship!”

“A young lady cannot gallop about the countryside, a pistol at the ready, but she might take a gentle excursion, by carriage, in a similar direction.”

“The occasion may prove ill fit for the presence of ladies,” said Elspeth.

“I do hope so! My position will afford your sister immunity from talk, my dear.”

Laura's eyes glowed. “I shall be very happy to accompany you.”

“I would not miss this for all the world!” cried the countess. “Ah, do I hear the carriage?”

“It is ordered? I shall be in agonies of fear every moment,” said Elspeth.

“You must stay behind, poor love.” Lady Clarydon patted her friend's cheek. “Mrs. Bell, come or we shall be short of a widow. Ladies, let us don our coats and bonnets.”

“Why am I singled out as unfit for the journey?” sniffed Elspeth. “I am every bit as courageous as my sister!”

“Then I deem you worthy,” said the countess, laughing. “Make haste, for I do not like to be so far behind the gentlemen.”

Shortly, the ladies entered the blue barouche, and a maid hurried out with a picnic basket, placing it under Mrs. Bell's seat. In a matter of minutes, the horses were struggling up the hill to the Axminster road.

“Was there ever such a frightening adventure?” said the countess. “I am quite diverted.”

“We will, of course, keep a ladylike distance?” said Elspeth.

“Are you not as consumed with curiosity as I?”

“Naturally, my dear. We are all delighted to partake of these thrills,
as ladies do
—watching the gentlemen from a distance.”

“Like perching on a hillside to watch the hunt?” said Laura.

The countess was vastly amused. “We might each put on an elegant habit, mount a great hunter and urge him on, to overtake the gentlemen,” said Lady Clarydon.

“It would be wonderful, I suppose, for the more hardy of our sex,” said Elspeth, “but unlikely to add to our allure in society.”

“Like the Melmont sisters,” the countess said, with a peal of laughter. “I recall watching them thunder into the field, and Lady Eliza had the boldness to pass all the gentlemen in the hunt!”

Elspeth put her hand to her heart in horror.

“The silly girl,” said the countess. “How I cheered her on!”

“The sisters are unmarried still, for all their excellent connections,” said Elspeth.

“We will have our little adventure and remain in favour with the gentlemen,” replied her friend, always one to have the best of everything. “Now, Miss Laura, pray tell us why the goodwife, Mrs. Whichale, may have written that abominable epistle.”

“Some person wished to separate Mr. Templeton from me. We do not know the reason. This person went further, seeking to discredit me, and to drive both of us from the district.”

“Perhaps a jealous rival!” said the countess, with a certain relish.

“Mrs. Whichale is hardly that!” said Elspeth.

“Let us say there is a jealous rival,” said Laura. “How do we then explain Mr. Whichale's lies to my brother and Sir Richard, when they asked if Mr. Templeton came to the house?”

“Well …” said Elspeth.

“I doubt they cared anything for Mr. Templeton or for me,” said Laura. “We must take a new perspective to see the motive for keeping us apart.”

“You mean that we have been concentrating on the disruption of the friendship itself, as the motive?” said Mrs. Bell. “Instead, the underlying reason might be wholly unconnected with Mr. Templeton or you?”

“You clever little person!” said the countess. “Have you penetrated Miss Morrison's thoughts?”

“No—indeed not,” said Mrs. Bell.

Laura looked sidelong at her, surmising that the lady had come to a conclusion similar to her own.

“I shall save my little theory, for the present, lest I defame the innocent,” said Laura.

“I call that very unfair,” said the countess.

“It seems so obvious!” said Laura.

“Not to me,” said Lady Clarydon. She opened the picnic hamper. “Won't you have a piece of cake, Miss Morrison?”

Laura took the slice of fruit cake, and turned to look out at the passing fields as she ate it. She knew not to which parts of her journal the countess was privy; she now enjoyed tormenting her with a secret.

 

The gentlemen, accompanied by the constable, had stopped to refresh themselves at the Crossroads Inn near Longpan. The landlady informed them that she had some of her famous pies in the oven, but they could not wait for them, and contented themselves with cold meats from the previous day's dinner.

In a matter of half an hour they had left the main road, and were cantering towards Mr. Whichale's estate. The five horsemen clattered into the walled forecourt of the house, and found that no boy ran out to hold the horses. They dismounted, the constable groaning after the long ride. Mr. Grahame handed his reins to the constable, and went to knock on the door, which gleamed in new green paint. It remained unopened so he banged the knocker harder.

“Open up!” he called.

The door swung slowly open to reveal an old manservant.

“Sirs,” he said. “Won't you step in?” He looked into the yard.

Mr. Templeton, who had handed his horse over to Sir Richard,
came forward and the old man peered at him. A perceptible look of fear crossed his face. Two boys, under-gardeners by their appearance, came running around to take the horses.

“Where is Jem?” said the butler.

“Jem's run off, Mr. Moreley, in the night,” said one of the lads. “His things are a'gone too.”

“Damnation!” The magistrate cursed quietly.

“Foolish lad—he'll lose his wages,” said the butler. He shook his head.

“Jem be a noggerhead, Mr. Moreley.”

“Or a scamp!” muttered Mr. Grahame. The gentlemen entered the house, leaving the constable outside.

They discovered Mr. Whichale seated in the library, putting down the newspaper and picking up their cards. Edward, the first to enter, was struck by something odd in the gentleman's demeanour as he rose to greet them: he had the distinct impression that Mr. Whichale had only picked up the paper a second before.

He's just sat down, he thought. Why this pretence of being at his ease?

“Captain Morrison!” said Mr. Whichale. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Good morning, Mr. Whichale,” he said.

“Sir Richard, I am honoured, sir!”

“And this is …?” He looked questioningly at the magistrate.

“I am sorry, Mr. Whichale,” said Sir Richard. “May I present Mr. Grahame?”

The name was familiar, and Mr. Whichale's eyes flinched slightly as he bowed. “Mr. Grahame, indeed I am honoured to receive you here.”

They watched keenly as he finally turned to Mr. Templeton, wondering how he would greet this phantasm. He was perfectly natural, however.

“Mr. Templeton, I am pleased to see you again,” he said.

Sir Richard and Edward looked at one another in amazement at this coolness.

He turned to Edward. “You have found your friend, I see. I said it would be so.”

This was too much for the captain. “Two months ago you denied to my face ever having even heard of Mr. Templeton!”

“Sir, I hope you do not call me a liar. I may have discreetly steered the facts. Gallantry demands that a lady's reputation must be protected,” said Mr. Whichale.

“No situation calls for outright untruths!”

“I hope you will take back those words when you hear how I attempted to protect the name of your own sister.”

“Do not dare mention my sister!”

“Cousin, wait a moment,” said Sir Richard. “What reason can you give, Mr. Whichale, for telling us that story?”

Mr. Whichale's anger appeared to dissolve. He looked around at his four visitors with a genial smile, and gestured to the chairs near the fire.

“Won't you all sit down?” He rang the bell and the butler came in.

“Moreley, bring in wine—send Harry for it.” He turned to his guests. “Moreley is training another to take over his role. His retirement is well and truly due.”

The magistrate and Mr. Templeton sat on upright chairs, Sir Richard took an armchair, while Edward maintained his angry stance opposite their host on the hearth.

Mr. Whichale coughed delicately. “I was very careful to express no actual untruth.”

“You claimed you never saw Mr. Templeton!” said Edward.

Mr. Whichale shook his head. “I only refuted your statement that my uncle had called him in for spiritual guidance in his last hours. Had you pressed further, I may have been forced to admit seeing him.”

The captain could not recall the exact words spoken at the time. “I believe you implied an untruth, sir.”

Mr. Whichale glared, but Moreley entered, followed by a younger man carrying a laden tray. The butler poured the wine and offered sweet ginger cakes to the gentlemen. The other three took their
glasses but Edward curtly shook his head and the footman placed his glass on the mantle. Both servants left the room.

“Now,” said Mr. Whichale, adopting his hospitable tone once more, “I arrive at a matter of some delicacy. It came to my ears that in Lyme a young lady was seen several times alone with a gentleman in the streets of the town. We live quietly hereabouts and take interest in every little adventure.”

The captain replied to the affable tone of these reflections with a stony expression.

The host pressed on. “I sent for Mr. Templeton in the hopes that my relative might repent at the last.”

“Why ask me, a stranger, to come such a distance?” said Mr. Templeton.

“Our parish curate and his vicar, both familiar with my uncle, would have been difficult to persuade.” He turned down his mouth comically. “One does not readily forget an attack by dogs, or the threat of a whipping!”

“Carry on, sir,” the magistrate said.

Mr. Whichale turned to him in annoyance. “I wish to know why you interest yourself in this matter, Mr. Grahame. What is the young lady to you? You seem to think I am before the court.”

“Such investigation is not my usual role but I have involved myself for reasons of the very delicacy to which you refer. This enquiry is not within the scope of a constable's duties.”

“Very well—I see your point. I sent for the clergyman known to be holidaying at Charmouth. When Mr. Templeton himself informed me that he must urgently communicate with a lady in Lyme, I imagined a romantic entanglement at once, and realised that this was the very gentleman seen walking with the young lady.”

A slight flush lit Mr. Templeton's cheeks.

Mr. Whichale said, “The next day, he left very early, and a letter arrived addressed in a lady's hand. Imagining it to have been written by the young woman, I discreetly sent it on to Charmouth.”

“I cannot agree that you have been discreet, sir!” said Edward.

“It seems foolish now. When the young lady's relations visited me
to pose questions about her admirer, I sensed she was in disgrace with her family. I felt honour bound to put you off, sirs, for such is my feeling of sympathy for the weaker sex.”

“Sir, you do not know the trouble you have caused her,” said Sir Richard.

Mr. Whichale mimed great concern.

Edward took a step forward angrily. “This tale would do very well, sir, if it was my sister who wrote the letter.”

Mr. Whichale leant back in his chair, in a pretence of cowering in fear. “Kindly temper your manner, sir. You say the letter was not written by Miss Morrison?”

“It was not and I can prove it.”

Mr. Whichale raised his hands in protest. “I demand no such proof from a gentleman, Captain. Your word is good enough for me. The letter was in a lady's hand and I made a false assumption that it was hers.”

He looked from one to the other, singling out the magistrate for a friendly glance.

“I believe the letter originated from this house,” said Edward.

Mr. Whichale's face reddened. Blustering, he said, “Do you dare suggest that an act of forgery could have taken place, in my house!”

Mr. Templeton, having kept his cool, was quick to see what Edward's anger made him miss, and he said, “Why assume it to be a forgery? Do you know the contents?”

“What? No! That gentleman seems to suggest that Mrs. Whichale—the only lady in the house—is capable of disreputable interference!”

“Interference in what?” said Mr. Templeton reasonably. “What was the subject of the letter, Mr. Whichale?”

“Well … how should I know?” He had talked himself into the trap.

There came a tap at the window and they all looked over. The constable pointed out a lady walking across the garden towards a picket gate, leading to a kitchen garden beyond. She wore a straw bonnet and carried a flower basket.

“That is the lady whom you accuse of infamy,” said Mr. Whichale.

The magistrate indicated that the man was to stay close to the house. “No one mentioned names, sir,” he said.

Mr. Whichale got up ponderously and walked over to his desk. From a drawer, he withdrew a bundle of yellowed letters, and handed one of them to Mr. Templeton.

“This was written in June of the year 1784, when Mrs. Whichale visited her sister in Kent. Pray compare this writing to the one you received.”

Mr. Templeton winced slightly in distaste, but took his own letter from his pocket book. He looked at the direction, then Mr. Whichale opened his letter to display the conclusion.