Place of Confinement (22 page)

‘No. For she called out to ask him, but he said there was nothing.’

‘But she was expecting to receive a letter?’

‘Perhaps she was. I don’t know.’

Dido put this consideration aside for a time when she would have more leisure for it. ‘And the young lady was not unwilling to walk alone with you?’ she continued. ‘She did not think it improper?’

‘No,’ said Tom sulkily. He turned his eyes up to the low stone arch of the roof and seemed to study the little cushions of moss which grew there. ‘She did not think it at all improper,’ he continued quietly, ‘to take a walk with the man to whom she is engaged to be married.’

‘Engaged!’ Mr Lomax’s cry echoed so loudly about the cell that Dido turned anxiously to the grille of the door. But the gaoler did not appear to be listening.

Lomax struggled for composure. ‘Engaged?’ he repeated with less force but no less incredulity. ‘You claim to be engaged to the young lady?’

‘Yes,’ said Tom with a pretence at bravado. ‘We have been engaged these past five months. While we were in Worcestershire, Miss Verney … did me the great honour of agreeing to be my wife.’

‘You are a fool if you think her friends will ever agree—’

‘All that,’ interposed Tom quickly, ‘can only be decided by Bailey himself – and since he is in the Indies no one here can know his mind. Fenstanton and his confederates have no say in the matter – for all they might wish they had.’ He hesitated, ran a finger round the chafing iron on his leg. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is why I have written to ask for his consent. So that I may have an answer from him before any of his friends here can poison his mind against me.’

Mr Lomax let out a cry of impatience and spun about on his heel, meaning no doubt to relieve his feelings by taking a turn about the room. But he had forgotten where he was. The cell allowed for no such freedom and he could do no more than take one small step before he came against the wall, where he stood for a moment staring out of the barred, unglazed window. The cell was beneath the level of the street and all he could look upon were occasional feet hurrying past – and the scarred face of a stray cat who was gazing hopefully into the fish-scented prison.

Meanwhile Dido was struggling to reconcile this new information with everything they had been told of the young lady’s caution and worldliness. And she could make no sense of the business at all.

‘You are engaged?’ she repeated in a puzzled voice. ‘The lady has consented? You have gone so far as to seek her guardian’s permission?’

‘Why should I not?’ said Tom.

And there was something defensive in his tone which prompted Dido to ask: ‘Does Miss Verney know of your application?’

‘No.’ Tom looked sulky; he drew up his legs and touched his sore ankle tenderly. ‘I did not tell her that I had written. Letitia’s plans were more … romantic.’

‘Romantic?’ echoed Dido and Mr Lomax together. They exchanged puzzled looks.

‘Did Miss Verney favour elopement?’ said Dido.

Tom nodded.

‘But, of course, elopement would not suit your plans, would it?’ mused Dido as she struggled for understanding. ‘For though you would gain the lady, you might lose her fortune.’

‘That is a vile insult,’ protested Tom. ‘You will take it back this minute.’

‘No!’ shouted Lomax, turning abruptly. ‘You will mind your manners, sir. Miss Kent spoke nothing but the truth. And if you cannot bear to hear the truth there is no hope of us ever getting to the bottom of this business.’

Tom looked mutinous, but held his tongue.

‘Does anyone else know about this engagement?’ his father asked.

‘Letitia has told Miss Gibbs. She must have betrayed us.’

‘You think that your engagement is known about at Charcombe Manor?’

‘By God, yes! That is the root of this whole business. They have got Miss Verney away from me and they are trying to blacken my name.’

‘That would be a very … remarkable conspiracy,’ observed Dido. ‘Why should—?’

‘Why? So that they can marry her to the lord of the manor, of course!’ cried Tom impatiently. ‘Do you not see? That is why Mother Bailey brought Letitia to Charcombe. I’ll warrant Fenstanton has been trying for it for years.’

‘Yes,’ cried his father mockingly. ‘And I do not doubt he has killed this unfortunate Mr Brodie for no other reason than to spite you!’

This remark seemed to catch Tom off his guard. ‘No,’ he said, just a little too quickly, ‘Brodie has nothing to do with it.’

Mr Lomax only cast up his eyes in exasperation, but Dido could not escape the conviction that Mr Brodie did in fact have
everything
‘to do with it’.

‘We have not much time,’ she reminded them. ‘Can you tell us a little more about the events at the inn? The proprietor says that you and Mr Brodie left the building together at about midnight. Is that correct?’

‘We did both leave the inn about that time. But we did not leave
together.
I walked out on my own – onto the green before the inn – just to escape from Brodie and get the better of my temper. But, within a few minutes, he followed me.’

‘And your dispute recommenced?’ suggested Dido.

‘No, it did not,’ Tom said with emphasis. ‘The fellow did not speak to me at all. He turned away to the back of the inn and hurried off – as if he had business to attend to.’

‘But there was no one else about – no one who can confirm your account?’ asked Mr Lomax.

‘No, there was not! No doubt it was very remiss of me not to obtain a witness; but I did not know that I was to be accused of murder.’

‘Well, if you had not become engaged in a tavern brawl…’

Tom gave a great cry of impatience.

‘Where was he going? What is there behind the inn?’ Dido asked quickly. ‘Was he going to meet someone perhaps? Did Mr Brodie speak of knowing anyone in Charcombe?’

‘There was that doctor fellow. He played a few hands with us.’

Dido shook her head. ‘Mr Sutherland tells me that he had never met Mr Brodie before that night.’

‘Does he?’ said Tom.

But his father was looking anxiously towards the door; he had heard the approach of the gaoler’s steps. ‘Was there no one else that Brodie knew in this neighbourhood?’ he asked hurriedly.

‘No one in the town,’ said Tom. ‘He only spoke of “a friend out at the manor”.’

‘And we still have no idea of who that “friend” might be,’ said Dido.

‘Do you think that is significant?’ asked Lomax.

‘I think it may be. For I know of one thing which is to be found behind the new inn at Charcombe. There is the track which leads over the downs – straight to Charcombe Manor.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

‘It is possible,’ said Dido slowly, ‘that Mr Brodie left the inn to meet his acquaintance from the manor.’

‘And, you believe,’ said Lomax, ‘that that acquaintance might … have been responsible for his death?’

They were standing now upon the little bridge which spanned the stream in Old Charcombe. Around them crowded the low thatched eaves of cottages, sheltering children and dogs from the glare of the sun. Ducks drifted on the slow, weed-choked current below.

Dido was engaged to join the rest of the company at the inn within the half-hour, in order that she might look upon Mr Brodie’s body; but she was unwilling to leave her companion. He appeared stunned, his faculties almost overpowered by the horror of Tom’s situation. He was standing again with one booted foot resting upon the low parapet of the bridge, a hand to his brow, his eyes downcast.

‘Yes,’ Dido declared stoutly. ‘I believe that that
is
the most likely explanation, for we
know
that your son is not guilty.’

‘I do not say that he is guilty,’ he said, with his hand obscuring his eyes. ‘I cannot believe that he is. But there is such an appearance of guilt! He has – by his own admission – entered into a secret engagement with the young lady; and if Mr Brodie intended to expose it…’

‘But everything we have learnt about Miss Verney makes such an engagement improbable. I cannot make it out.’

‘It is odd; but I see no reason why Tom should claim the engagement exists if it does not.’ He sighed and continued to stare distractedly at the water. ‘I fear there is more cause to suppose Tom guilty of this murder than anyone else. I am sure there will be no doubt in the minds of the judge and jury.’

‘Oh! No! I cannot agree,’ cried Dido with energy. ‘There is not a soul in Charcombe Manor against whom a suspicion cannot be raised. Mr George Fenstanton is getting money unfairly from his sister, besides having cause to wish Miss Verney out of the way so that Mr Lancelot may marry his daughter. And then there is Mrs Bailey…’ she held up her fingers and began to count off her fellow guests, her words tumbling eagerly over one another as she attempted to convince him. ‘… Mrs Bailey seemed
very
conscious when Mr Brodie’s name was first mentioned. And Mr Lancelot
ought
to have ridden northward in pursuit of the fugitive, but he has not. And then you know there is Miss Gibbs who is not telling something, but I know not what it is—’

‘Miss Kent, please!’ He held up a hand to stop the torrent of ideas. ‘You begin to sound as if you suspect the entire world.’

‘No, I only suspect that portion of it which will persist in behaviour that merits suspicion. But people will behave so very odd! Do you know, Mr Lomax, I have a great idea that
everyone
has a secret to hide? Why even little Miss Emma is up to
something
 … Though I think I begin to understand what that is. I must have a talk with Miss Emma at the earliest opportunity…’

‘No!’ Lomax shook his head and looked grave. ‘I beg you will make no more enquiries.’

‘But there is a great deal still to be discovered.’

‘I do not doubt it. But I shall investigate alone.’

‘Oh! Would you start the old argument against me? Would you charge me with impropriety?’

‘No.’ He held up a hand against her indignation. ‘Please listen to me. This is by no means the old argument. It is one of much greater force. My son stands charged with a terrible crime; he – and his family – are under a cloud of shame. And it begins to seem that…’ He stopped himself and spent a moment collecting his thoughts before continuing with great determination. ‘I cannot allow you to have any part in that shame, or be tainted by the report of a crime, which will soon be the talk of the entire neighbourhood. You must not be seen to associate yourself with us, or with our cause. Such an association would very seriously injure your credit in the world.’

‘And do you believe that such a base consideration would deter me from performing the office of a friend?’

‘I believe everything which is most honourable to your good nature and compassion. And the belief makes me very uneasy indeed!’

She made no answer.

‘Miss Kent, consider how I should feel if your reputation was damaged by this business. How should I answer to your brother for allowing it to happen?’

‘I am surprised to find that you value my brother’s good opinion more highly than my own!’

‘Oh no! I shall not be drawn into disputing with you. It is too dangerous. I am decided. I shall pursue Tom’s cause alone.’

‘Well,’ she said, turning abruptly from principles to particulars, ‘how do you intend to pursue that cause? You cannot even visit the manor openly. You are in no position to question the people there. But I am very conveniently placed and have already begun to find things out.’

He looked at her uneasily and she knew that he was longing to ask about her discoveries. She smiled invitingly, but he turned away and looked down at the ducks.

She attacked upon another front. ‘Well, I need not be seen to
associate
myself with you at all, if you do not wish it. For Mr Fenstanton has positively invited me to take an interest in the business of Miss Verney’s disappearance and, since that cannot be investigated without some attention being paid to Mr Brodie’s death, my particular interest in your son’s welfare need not be suspected.’

Lomax ran a hand across his brow, tortured by so many sensations and contradictory anxieties that he hardly knew how to reply. At last the concern of the parent prompted him to put aside for a while the scruples of the lover. ‘Have you found out anything which might lead us to Miss Verney?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she said, endeavouring not to sound triumphant. ‘I have found out several things. And if you will only consent to
associate
yourself with me as far as the new inn, I shall tell you everything.’

Lomax looked about him at the sleeping dogs, at a housewife dipping her bucket in the river, at two little boys standing knee-deep in water, hands submerged, still as herons, as they waited to trap the slow brown trout in the pool beneath the bridge. He seemed at last to decide that no one here was likely to take much notice of their conversation. ‘I shall,’ he said very carefully, ‘walk with you as far as the beginning of the new town – but no further.’

He would not, however, allow even the little fishermen, the housewife and the dogs to see him paying any particular attention to her; he did not offer his arm as they turned onto the rutted track and began to walk slowly towards the new town.

Dido tried not to be hurt by the empty space which yawned between them and turned all her thoughts to business. She gave him a clear and faithful account of her odd conversation with Martha Gibbs and of her discoveries in the east wing. But she kept to herself the theory she had devised in the library that morning. It was fragile – untested – and she would not share ideas which might yet prove false.

As he strode along beside her, there was a great deal of comfort to be found in sharing her thoughts: a kind of pleasure in watching his fingertips come together as they always did when he was considering deeply. Every familiar gesture was dear to her and she did all that she could to prolong the conversation. As they neared the edge of the town her feet slowed between the fragrant gorse bushes. She fell silent and looked to him for a response.

‘This chamber with the barred window appears odd, I grant.’ He put his chin upon his fingers as he considered. ‘But I cannot see why it should have any bearing upon the murder.’