Place of Confinement (26 page)

‘But you will help me whatever I say – for the old man’s sake. And for your own sake too,’ he added with a sneer. ‘I know my father and his unreasonable sense of honour. If I hang, he’ll cut himself off like a hermit, and you…’ he pointed a dirty, broken-nailed finger, ‘will have lost the last chance you are likely to get of not dying an old maid.’

Every impulse of wounded pride demanded that she walk out of the cell without another word. But affection held her rooted to the spot. She forced herself to speak calmly. ‘For your father’s sake—’

‘The best thing you can do for
him,
’ interrupted Tom with a sly look, ‘is to burn that letter you’ve got in your pocket.’

‘You know I cannot do that.’

‘Good God! It is a pretty kind of love which has such scruples!’

Dido was prevented from defending herself by the sound of a key rattling in the outer door, followed by the gaoler’s footfall.

‘I shall deliver the letter to Mr Fenstanton,’ she said. ‘But I shall also convey your explanation of how it came into your possession.’

‘Christ!’ Tom kicked at the wall. But then as the footsteps neared he said urgently, ‘There is something else I must tell you. Sutherland was lying when he told you he didn’t know Brodie.’

‘Lying?’ Why ever do you say so?’

‘I have been thinking the matter over.’ He leant forward eagerly and winced as the iron chafed his leg. ‘Sutherland and Brodie
had
met before. I am sure of it.’

‘Why? How can you know?’

‘You can always tell by the way fellows play cards whether they have sat down together before. They know each other’s little tricks and weaknesses. I’ll swear to it that Brodie and Sutherland had played one another before – and played often too.’

‘Hmm.’ Dido turned away as the heavy door behind her swung open to reveal the gaoler’s ruddy face.

‘You don’t believe me?’ cried Tom angrily, starting forward so that the chain on his legs pulled tight, almost overbalancing him.

‘Oh yes,’ said Dido calmly. ‘I believe you understand all about tricks at the card table.’

‘If you were a man—’ shouted Tom.

‘If I were a man you would be obliged to blow my brains out.’ She turned towards the door. ‘But, as I am a woman, you may leave them in my head where they might, possibly, be of some use to you.’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dido almost ran from the gaol – along the village street, over the bridge upon which she had stood with Mr Lomax, and into the shady lane, where Mr Fenstanton had delayed her. It seemed an age since she had come this way; her thoughts were now so different.

In her head she heard still the insults of that sly voice: ‘interfering, unfeminine little harridan.’

Her spirit had risen against him in the moment; her tongue moving quickly to her own defence. But now she felt the wound – and felt it deeply. She was doubting her own motives for pursuing Tom’s cause, doubting whether she was justified …

Tom’s cruel words had given her such a very ugly picture of herself as she could hardly bear to look upon.

Her feet flew along the road, obeying the prosaic tyranny of the dinner hour and her aunt’s displeasure; conveying her back to the measuring of medicine, the placing of cushions and all the other proper occupations of an impoverished niece and sister. But she knew that her mind had been straying very far from these womanly obligations from the moment that she heard of the murder. There had been from that moment an urge to protect, an impulse to activity which might – in one light – be considered ‘unfeminine’, an intrusion upon the territory of man.

And no woman who is sincerely attached would wish to appear ‘unfeminine’. Was she, in her very efforts to secure a future with the man she loved, rendering herself unlovable? Was she becoming such a woman as any man of taste must turn from in disgust?

‘Unfeminine’, ‘harridan’. Try as she might she could not silence the clamour of the words in her head.

She slowed her steps as she came within sight of the manor gates. Tired and worried, she was inclined to concede that it would be a great deal more
pleasant
to be as ‘feminine’ as she could: to do nothing – to sit in a bower like the ideal heroine in an old romance, passively waiting to be claimed by her loyal knight …

Until, happily, she recollected that she had no bower, and the heroines of old had not to contend with brown medicine and cushions – much less the likes of Doctor Prowdlee and his pew and a half full of children. No, she concluded, a certain degree of activity would seem to be
necessary
in a modern woman.

Femininity, like everything else, must adapt itself to the times. And, since philosophers seemed to be in agreement that ‘moderation’ should be the watchword of the present day, it followed that even femininity was to be indulged in only moderately …

She had reached the stone gateposts now and, breathless with haste and emotion, she must pause a while to collect herself before entering the house. It would be as well to decide now what was to be done next – for, once she walked through the door, there would be little opportunity for thought. Her aunt would, no doubt, have a great deal to say about her lateness.

But there was much to be done – she must be ‘getting on’.

The letter must, of course, be delivered to Mr Fenstanton, though the very thought of it turned her heart cold. The evening would furnish little opportunity for private conversation with her host; but she must seek an interview early tomorrow morning. And once that was over, Tom’s situation would be …
desperate.
She could think of no better word to describe it. But it was too painful an idea to dwell on long.

She turned instead to the bad character which Tom had given Mr Brodie – and the acquaintance he suspected with Mr Sutherland. What, she wondered, had been the business Mr Brodie had claimed to have in Charcombe? Had he come only to deliver – or sell – Mr Bailey’s letter? Or – she tapped her hand thoughtfully against the stone pillar – had he other interests to pursue?

She found herself remembering the note which Mr Brodie had written to Mr Fenstanton. In it he had spoken of
papers
which were of the utmost importance. She was sure it was ‘papers’ not ‘a paper’. Yes, he had certainly used the plural. Perhaps he had some other business to transact – business which might be connected with his acquaintance among Mr Fenstanton’s guests …

This was a useful notion for it must strengthen her suspicions against the inmates of the manor house, and her mind rapidly recurred to her patchwork of the morning …

All at once her resolution was taken and she could see her way forward. Some more penetrating questions must be put to Miss Emma Fenstanton without delay.

She smiled as she started down the carriage drive. Miss Emma’s clandestine reading might provide some very pertinent insights into ‘femininity’, but – what was of greater consequence – she might be made to confess that she too harboured suspicions against one of Charcombe’s residents …

*   *   *

It was whilst the company was at loo that evening that Dido seized upon her chance of talking with Miss Fenstanton.

She certainly had no place at the card table. They were playing too high for her and, besides, Mrs Bailey had been so good as to observe to Aunt Manners that she did not suppose ‘your little companion will join us’. And Mr George Fenstanton, without even waiting for a reply, had dealt only five hands.

She was not sorry to be excluded – though she had pride enough to wish she had been consulted. She had already observed the quiet exit from the room of Miss Emma – with the little Tunbridge-ware workbox under her arm. And, as soon as everyone’s attention was fixed upon the cards, she rose quietly and followed her.

The hall was silent and empty, lit only by the glow of one large log lying in a deep bed of ash on the hearth. But the light of candles showed around the door of the library which was standing ajar.

Dido approached cautiously, stepped into the room as quietly as she could, and came to a standstill immediately, arrested by the scene before her.

On a table near the centre of the room there were candles and the workbox stood beside them with its lid thrown back. But Emma was not by the table, she was kneeling upon the floor at a little distance. A small bundle wrapped in a grease-stained napkin lay beside her; one hand was raised and resting against the wooden panelling of the wall.

As Dido watched, Emma leant closer to the panel and began to talk in a low, reassuring voice. ‘Do not be afraid…’

But at this point Emma looked about her – and saw Dido. She jumped up and stepped in front of the bundle to hide it from view.

‘No! No!’ Dido smiled, but spoke with firmness. ‘You cannot conceal anything from me, Miss Fenstanton. I know what you are about.’

‘Oh?’ Emma clasped her hands behind her back and returned the gaze with an odd mixture of defiance, laughter and anxiety. ‘And what am I about, Miss Kent?’

‘You have come to bring food to your friend who is hidden here in the library.’

‘Hidden? Here?’ Emma raised her brows in playful surprise. ‘Can you see anyone here?’ She looked about in a great pretence of wonderment.

Dido merely shook her head and looked towards the panel. ‘That is the door, is it?’

‘Door?’

‘The door to the priest’s hole.’

‘Who told you about the priest’s hole?’ cried Emma in genuine astonishment. ‘No one here knows about it – except, perhaps, Lancelot. Letitia and I discovered it years ago when we were children, but told no one.’

‘The Elizabethan lady in the long gallery told me,’ said Dido. And when Emma only looked more puzzled, she explained: ‘The lady was, quite clearly, a Catholic – for she holds a rosary, and a rosary is no part of Protestant devotions. And yet she lived in staunchly Protestant times. Therefore, her devotions must have been performed in secret; and, since she seems to have used this room as her chapel, I concluded that there might well be a hiding place behind the panels in here. It was a usual convenience in Catholic homes – a place where the priest could be concealed if Queen Elizabeth’s men came calling.’

‘How very clever of you to think of it!’

‘Thank you. And then I remembered Mr Fenstanton’s ghostly tale. A hidden child crying and no one able to find him.’

‘Crying? You heard crying?’ Emma spoke lightly. Her eyes danced about elusively. ‘Do you suppose it was the ghost?’

‘No, I do not,’ said Dido firmly. ‘Though I think it likely that you and poor Lady Fenstanton hit upon the same hiding place.’ She took a seat beside the table. ‘I first heard crying last Sunday night. And that same night I saw somebody coming in secret through the garden door into this room.’ She paused. ‘Somebody who appeared to be carrying something concealed beneath a cloak.’

‘Oh!’ Emma sat down and faced Dido across the table. ‘You say that you believe I have a friend concealed here, Miss Kent. Who do you think that friend is?’

‘The character which you gave yourself the other day first alerted me to the identity. You said that you could never bear to see anyone condemned unjustly. So I had only to look about me for such a being. Who in this house might have been condemned to an undeserved fate? And I realised that I had seen you pleading for such a cause with Mr Lancelot Fenstanton on my very first day at Charcombe.’

Emma smiled and turned her eyes upon the table. She did not seem very much afraid of Dido’s deductions – but neither was she willing to give away anything which might be concealed. Secrets were delightful to her.

‘I recalled that on that occasion you had come from the direction of the stables. I also remembered that, after you had failed in your pleas to your cousin, you attempted to come in here. I think you meant to look into this hiding place which you remembered from your childhood – to ascertain whether it would suit your purposes.’

‘Miss Kent! You see a great deal too much – and remember too well!’

‘Perhaps I do, for I also recall the scratch upon your hand that day – a scratch which had certainly not been got from gathering roses.’

‘And how had I scratched myself?’

‘I regret to say that it was your friend herself who had injured you. The friend for whom you steal food – food which you sometimes leave in a bowl beside the garden door.’

‘But we have been very careful! Mrs Matthews takes the dish away every morning.’

‘But the mark which it makes in the moss remains – and also the slugs which are drawn there by the meat.’

‘Oh.’

‘But perhaps I should speak of
friends
rather than
friend.
For besides the lady herself there is a baby, is there not? A baby who cries when he is left alone.’

Miss Fenstanton tilted her head to one side. Her cheeks dimpled. ‘You do not mean to expose us, do you?’ she said. ‘Lancelot has been just too cruel!’

‘No, I shall not expose you; but…’ She was stopped by a little scratching from within the library wall. Emma turned anxiously towards it. ‘I think your friend is hungry,’ said Dido. ‘You had better deliver her dinner.’

Laughing Emma jumped up and went to the wall, feeling along the edge of the panel until she found just the right place, then pressing firmly. The panel swung inward, forming a door no more than three feet high.

Beyond the door, Dido could see a dark, dusty space and, laid upon the stone floor, an old flannel petticoat. Standing on the petticoat and stretching herself was a small, thin, very worried-looking black cat; and, curled beside her, were three fat, sleeping kittens. The cat ran out, writhed gratefully about Emma’s ankles and turned towards the napkin. Emma unfolded it and the cat set to work upon the slice of mutton within.

Meanwhile a little black kitten with white paws had woken and raised himself onto unsteady legs; his mouth opened in a tiny pink wail. Emma scooped him up, hushed him and planted a kiss upon the top of his head.

‘You will not betray them will you?’ she begged. ‘You would not see the little ones drowned?’

The kitten, seeming to recognise the gravity of the situation, fastened anxious blue eyes on Dido and opened his little pink mouth again in a completely silent cry. A little dust from the hiding place adorned his ridiculously long whiskers, and his tiny paws rested upon one another as if folded in supplication. It would have required a harder heart than Dido’s to give him up to his persecutors.