A Corpse in Shining Armour (8 page)

That put us on an equal footing, because I didn’t know either.

I went home and changed into my blue cotton print dress and straw bonnet with ribbon trim, both more appropriate to the season.
When I came downstairs, Tabby was loitering by the pump at the end of the yard where the cows were kept. She came running
up to me, stumbling over the cobbles in her too-large boots.

‘There’s a hen got her foot caught up in some string. I can’t get her out of it.’

I followed her reluctantly back down the yard. I didn’t want cow-byre smells clinging to my clothes, and the hens were the
property of Mr Colley who kept the cows and ran a milk-round. Naturally, there was no sign of him or his idle son-in-law.

‘There.’

A big red hen had got her leg tangled in a loop of old string attached to the wooden bars of the chicken coop and was flapping
and clucking.

‘How in the world did she manage to do that?’ I said.

‘Dunnow.’

There was nothing for it in all humanity but to crouch down in the dust and try to free her. I put my reticule down on top
of the coop.

‘Can you hold her?’ I said to Tabby.

Her brown and grimy hands enfolded the hen. The string was frayed and terribly tangled round the scaly leg. I broke a fingernail
and was set coughing by the warm dust from the hen’s feathers, but at last she was untangled.

‘It doesn’t look as if the leg’s hurt,’ I said. ‘Let her go and we’ll see.’

The hen stood for a while, not realising she was free, then shot off to join three or four others that were pecking by the
manure heap. I watched her go and laughed.

‘Well, there’s nothing much wrong with her. It’s a good job you saw her before she died of thirst.’

‘You got straw on your dress now,’ Tabby said.

She kneeled down in the dust and started brushing at it with her hand.

‘No, never mind. I’ll do it.’

I picked up my reticule, adjusted my bonnet and hurried out of the yard, knowing that I’d have to walk fast now to get to
Lincoln’s Inn by four.

Mayfair was crowded and in sociable mood under the blue skies. I had to weave a zig-zag course among the gentry strolling
and looking into shop windows or standing in the middle of the pavement, talking in the loud voices of people who have nothing
much to say but are determined the world should hear it. As I went, I tried to plan in my mind the interview with Mr Lomax.
Through Disraeli, he’d offered me an intriguing and well-paid case, and I’d been minded to accept. But that had been before
the discovery of Simon Handy’s body. Did I still want to accept the case? Yes. Would Mr Lomax still want me to accept it?
That was another question altogether. Simon Handy’s death might have changed the situation for him too. There were things
about it that the Brinkburns wanted hidden, or why had Lomax gone to so much trouble to coach the steward in his evidence?
And he had coached him, I was as sure of that as if I’d heard him doing it.

I was still thinking about it when I got to High Holborn. The crowds were less fashionable there, but just as annoyingly inclined
to drift along the pavements or make sudden changes of direction to watch two cab drivers arguing or avoid argumentative drunks.

‘Hey, stop! Stop, miss.’

The voice came from behind me, a husky female voice. I thought it might be a beggar or an unusually importunate posy seller,
so didn’t turn round.

‘Miss, you lost this–’

I turned round and there was Tabby, red faced and panting. Her shawl had slipped, leaving her bare-headed. She was holding
something in her hand.

‘Your purse, miss. You must have dropped it when you was seeing to the chicken. I’ve run all the way after you with it.’

She held it out to me. Her eyes were as appealing as Whiteley’s had been.

‘You followed me all the way here?’

‘Yes, miss. There’s still all your money in it. I haven’t opened it.’

All my money. Seven pence halfpenny, as far as I remembered. I took it from her.

‘Thank you, Tabby. I’ll see you when I get back this evening.’

Disappointment clouded her eyes. A plump woman who’d stopped to listen looked at me reproachfully. She thought I should at
least give this honest girl a penny for her trouble.

‘Is that all then?’

‘All for now. I’ll see you later.’

I turned and hurried on, aware of a pair of hurt eyes at my back.

Oliver Lomax had not given me his address at Lincoln’s Inn. Was that arrogance, or did he assume I knew it from Disraeli?
If arrogance, it might have been justified, because the first person I asked at Lincoln’s Inn–a clerk weighed down with
bundles of papers–pointed out his staircase at once. I climbed the stairs and knocked on his door just as a clock was striking
four. He was waiting in his clerk’s room to meet me and led me through to his office. It was simply furnished, but the furniture,
carpet and curtains were of fine quality, with touches of comfort that suggested he might spend more time there than at home.
Two leather armchairs with brocade cushions stood either side of an empty fireplace. Instead of a conventional desk he had
a big mahogany table, with books and papers in tidy piles. A drawing in a simple gold frame of a Roman centurion’s head in
a crested helmet was the only picture in the room. It looked to be Renaissance and expensive. A smaller table held a tray
with a silver teapot and two bone china cups. He invited me to sit down at one of the upright chairs by his table.

‘Tea, Miss Lane?’

China tea, served without milk or sugar. That was the way he liked it, so that was the way his business associates would have
to like it.

I sipped and put down the cup, deciding to unsettle him from the start.

‘Did the adjournment this morning surprise you?’

For a moment he let his annoyance show, but his voice was level.

‘In the circumstances, the coroner had little choice.’

‘I was surprised he thought misadventure might be a possible verdict,’ I said. ‘It would have to be a strange kind of misadventure,
wouldn’t it?’

He turned the force of his slate-coloured eyes on me. The temperature seemed to drop by a few degrees.

‘Miss Lane, you know very well that this is not the question on which I wish to consult you. I’m surprised you attended the
inquest.’

‘Why? I was there when they found the body. Did Mr Brinkburn tell you that?’

He gave the faintest of nods.

‘He naturally regrets having caused you to be present at such a distressing occasion.’

I doubted that. Miles Brinkburn still seemed far too shaken to indulge in conventional politenesses. I didn’t say that because
I’d only intended to unsettle Mr Lomax, not antagonise him.

‘The unfortunate death of Handy is not your concern,’ he said. ‘I want to make it clear from the start that, if we do come
to an understanding on the other matter, you are not to ask questions about it or take advantage of your position in any way.’

I let my eyes drop and picked up the teacup. If he wanted to interpret that as agreement, it was up to him. From the way he
settled back in his chair, he did. The atmosphere became less frosty.

‘Mr Disraeli seems impressed by your talents and your discretion, Miss Lane. I’ve made inquiries in other directions that
seem to confirm his good opinion…’ He paused, then added: ‘…on the whole.’

So he’d heard that I’d once refused to complete an investigation when I took a dislike to the client. I said nothing.

‘I take it that your presence here means you’re prepared to accept the commission?’

I met his eyes again.

‘To find out if Lady Brinkburn is mad or misguided?’

‘In a nutshell, yes.’ He sighed. ‘Miss Lane, you should understand that it’s almost impossibly painful for me to have to talk
in this way. I’ve been a friend of Cornelius Brinkburn’s since university days. I was present at his marriage. I’ve known
both sons since they were born. Only the most pressing necessity could persuade me to engage a person to spy on a gracious
lady who has been my hostess several times in the past.’

The distress in his voice sounded genuine. He’d picked up a penholder and his fingers were clenched round it as tightly as
if he wanted to break it.

‘But there are some situations, Miss Lane, in which we have to accept one evil to avoid a worse one. The consequences if Lady
Brinkburn persists in her allegation would be unimaginable.’

I decided to swallow his implication that I was an evil, for the time being at least.

‘If I’ve been informed correctly, these rumours that Stephen Brinkburn is not his father’s son have begun quite recently,’
I said.

He nodded.

‘And their source is Lady Brinkburn?’

A pause.

‘Apparently, yes.’

‘How recently?’

‘This spring, only a couple of months ago.’

‘Before that, had she suggested the possibility to anybody?’

‘As far as I’m aware, no.’

‘You’d known her socially since they were married?’

‘Even before that. To be honest, Lord Brinkburn asked my opinion before proposing to the lady.’

‘And your opinion was…?’

‘There was a difference of some twenty years in their ages, but when the gentleman is the elder party, that’s no great objection.
Apart from that, nothing could be more suitable. Her family owned estates adjoining his family’s in the north-east. She brought
a very considerable settlement with her and was an accomplished and good-natured young woman.’

‘That’s hardly the language of a passionate love match.’

‘Why should it be? It was an arrangement beneficial to both parties. In many respects, it has been a good marriage.’

‘Except that they’ve spent a lot of it living apart.’

‘It suited them both. Lady Brinkburn preferred a more secluded life and Lord Brinkburn found the Italian climate beneficial
to his health.’

‘And in more than twenty years, she’d never mentioned the matter of the stranger on her honeymoon until a few months ago.
Can you account for that?’

He’d abandoned his attempt to break the penholder. It was in front of him on his blotter, and he was sitting back in his chair.
Now that the decision had been made–to employ me, though not to trust me completely–some of the tension seemed to have
gone out of him.

‘Yes, I think I can account for it. Lord Brinkburn returned from Naples last January. Before he left Italy he wrote me what
I regard as a very courageous and honourable letter. He said he’d been conscious for some time of a decline in his physical
and mental faculties. He had consulted several distinguished physicians who had told him that his malady could only become
worse. What had up to then been occasional alarming episodes were becoming more frequent. He was facing the prospect of a
permanent derangement of the mind, probably in the quite near future, and increasing physical incapacity. While he still had
his reason left, he was determined on making his own arrangements. He selected an establishment in Surrey where he knew he
would be permitted to live out his days with all possible comfort and dignity, returned to England accompanied only by his
valet, and took up residence there much as a gentleman might settle into a hotel.’

‘The valet being Simon Handy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did Lady Brinkburn know about this?’

‘It was my sad duty to tell her. I visited Lord Brinkburn at the establishment. It was all too clear that the doctors’ prognostications
had been borne out by events and his mind was irretrievably affected.’

I decided not to mention what Disraeli had told me about the Emperor Hadrian. In spite of the lawyer’s dry manner, he was
clearly distressed.

‘I went down to Buckinghamshire to see Lady Brinkburn,’ he went on. ‘She was naturally affected by what I had to tell her,
but seemed at first to take it quite calmly. I broached with her, as tactfully as possible, the question of who was to take
on the considerable task of managing the estates now that Lord Brinkburn was incapable of doing so. I suggested that, since
Stephen was of age and would inherit, probably within months rather than years, I should set about arrangements for giving
him power of attorney. Lady Brinkburn made no objection to the proposal at the time, but in retrospect I believe it may have
started her on this potentially disastrous course.’

‘How did the story of the honeymoon get into circulation?’ I said.

‘I’m afraid there is no doubt at all that it came from Lady Brinkburn herself. Two weeks after I visited her at Brinkburn
Hall, she came up to London unexpectedly and asked to see me.’

‘Was this an unusual event?’

‘Yes. I shouldn’t want to give the impression that Lady Brinkburn is a recluse, but she prefers country life to the city.
Although she lives a little over twenty miles from London, she usually comes to town no more than two or three times a year
at most, to visit relatives or old friends. I assumed she wanted to discuss some business matters. It would have been quite
reasonable, for instance, for her to want assurance that her tenancy of Brinkburn Hall would continue after her husband’s
death. I looked forward to being able to reassure her on that point.’

‘But that wasn’t what she wanted?’

‘No. The moment she came in and sat down, she launched into the story that you have heard. Needless to say, I was horrified.’

‘Did you believe it?’

‘Not a word, neither then nor now.’

‘Did you tell her you didn’t believe it?’

‘Not in so many words. One doesn’t accuse a lady of lying. I assumed that she was distraught owing to the illness of her husband
and needless uncertainty about her future. I hinted, as gently as I could, that this fancy was the result of being overwrought
and she should return home and rest.’

‘How did she react to that?’

‘Calmly enough, but she didn’t budge from her story. She asked me what I thought she should do about it. In the circumstances,
I thought it would be best to pretend to take what she said seriously. I told her that, before any other steps could be considered,
I should have to ask her to swear an affidavit that every detail of what she’d told me was true. I offered to prepare the
affidavit for her then and there.’