Place of Confinement (32 page)

‘I was! I was!’ cried Martha, wringing her hands together. ‘I did not go anywhere.
Please
believe me.’

‘I wish that I could. I wish with all my heart that I did not have to torment you with these questions. But Miss Verney’s safety and a man’s life depend upon the truth coming out.’ Dido turned away from Martha and peered into the dark mirror on the toilette table. Her own face, pale with weariness, stared back: eyes seeming overlarge and haunted in the poorly lit reflection. ‘The truth is that after you accompanied your friends to the gates, you did not turn back at all, did you, Miss Gibbs? You continued on the walk.’

‘Lord! What are you saying?’ The mirror showed that Martha had risen up in the bed in great agitation. ‘Do you think I would lower myself to follow them? To spy on them? Do you think me so mean-spirited and nasty?’

‘No,’ said Dido gently. ‘I do not believe you mean or nasty at all. But I do believe you to be in love with Mr Tom Lomax.’

Martha put her hands to her face and Dido drew the necklace from her pocket. She turned and held it out. ‘I found it on the beach,’ she explained quietly. ‘The locket was open – I could not help but see the picture within.’

Martha took the locket in a shaking hand, tears starting to spill down her long cheeks. This was one point which she could not – would not – deny. And for that Dido honoured her.

‘It explains a great deal. You have always admired and trusted Mr Lomax, but your friend did not. She was cautious; she suspected him of mercenary motives—’

‘But she was wrong!’ Martha burst out. ‘He don’t care about money. I told her he don’t. But she was horrible cold and suspicious.’

‘It is in her nature. It is the character which everyone gives her. And in her caution, I believe, lies the explanation for her seemingly impossible disappearance. You see, I believe this engagement with Mr Lomax came about through a kind of trick – or perhaps “test” would be a better word. Miss Fenstanton tells me that Miss Verney is fond of “testing” her suitors.’

Martha stared fearfully at her interrogator. ‘I did not want to be part of it!’ she said wretchedly. ‘From the first I did not like it. But Tish had got her heart set on it, and Melia said it would be a great laugh.’

‘Ah yes, Amelia – Mrs Hargreaves – played an important part, did she not? It was in her house that the scheme began. And a very fine scheme it was! Such a very clever “test”. One which would try the motives of any suitor. A way in which to discover whether they were disinterested, or mercenary—’

‘But she should not have been so cold and suspicious!’ cried Martha. ‘Not of
him.
’

‘You mean Mr Tom Lomax?’

‘Yes.’ Martha released her hold of her legs, threw aside the covers and knelt up on the bed – her cap was askew and the curl papers writhed from under it; the light of the candle made the lotion on her nose gleam. ‘He ain’t got a mercenary thought in his head,’ she said earnestly. ‘He told me he don’t care about the fortune one little bit. Oh, Miss Kent, if you had but heard him yourself, I know you would believe him! His feelings, he said, was as fixed as the stars. And if there was no money it would make no difference at all, he said – he would still love me…’

She broke off, put her hands over her mouth and sat back among the pillows. But, above her linked fingers, her eyes shone out with a look of confused defiance. Silence filled the room.

Dido closed her eyes and knew a moment of pure pleasure in the discovery that her calculations had been correct, before her mind moved to much more sober considerations.

‘He said that he would still love
you?
’

Martha bit her lip and hung her head. But her hands dropped and lay motionless in her lap. They did not writhe about as they did when she told a lie.

‘It is you that is in love with the gentleman, is it not? You to whom he became engaged?’

Martha nodded.

‘And this is how it was possible for a lady to pass through a door and never appear upon the other side of it. It all becomes simple if one small detail is changed. And that detail is not a time – it is a
name.
This is a possibility which has haunted me ever since Miss Fenstanton’s extraordinary book taught me how easily a title may be changed. Mr Lomax watched
Miss Verney
walk along the drive and pass through the door. But
Miss Gibbs
appeared upon the other side of that door.’

Martha covered her face. ‘He thinks,’ she whispered miserably through her fingers, ‘that I am Miss Verney.’

‘Because that was the trick played in Worcestershire, was it not? This was the “last trial” of romance which Miss Verney meant to make before resigning herself to a loveless match with Mr Fenstanton. At your friend’s house – in a country where neither of you were known – you and Miss Verney changed names. There you appeared as the heiress Miss Verney, and she took the part of the penniless Miss Gibbs. If any man courted her in that guise she would know that his motives were pure. That was the purpose of the trick, was it not?’

‘Yes.’

‘But it was not Miss Verney that was courted – it was you. And you consented to the engagement.’

‘Because I love him so much! But I swear I meant no harm. I did not mean it all to end like this. Tish was not supposed to disappear. We had agreed that I should walk with Mr Lomax that day; she would turn back and come straight back here to our chamber. She was to hide here until I returned. I swear to you I don’t know where she is. When I got back and found her gone I didn’t know what to do … And then there was the note … and that man was found dead … and poor Mr Lomax…’ Martha covered her face and began to cry in earnest.

Dido went to her and took her hand. ‘I am sure you meant no harm in the deception of Mr Lomax and you are innocent of everything but wishing to oblige your friends. But you must help me find out the truth. Because for some reason, which I cannot yet understand, your girlish trick has cut across the much darker schemes of someone else in this house – and placed you, Miss Verney and young Mr Lomax in very great danger indeed.’

Chapter Thirty-Four

The sun had not been half an hour over the horizon when Dido, hot and breathless, gained the highest point of the downs and threw herself upon the wide, flat stone which marked the summit. From here she could look in one direction over the woods in the valley where the rising sun was touching on the new leaves and calling forth the ruddy autumnal tint which is peculiar to oak woods in spring. In the other direction she could see the muddled buildings of New Charcombe and the grey, restless sea beyond. The sun was warm on the stone, but a great bank of cloud was gathering over the sea, threatening a storm.

She was weary, for, after returning from Martha’s room, she had passed the night curled upon her narrow bed endlessly reviewing the difficulties which beset her. And dawn had found her crouching in the thin grey light from the window, endeavouring to order her thoughts into a letter.

*   *   *

… the scene has changed entirely,
she had written
. It would seem that Miss Verney did not take her leave of Charcombe Manor when she walked out with Tom Lomax; nor did she mysteriously vanish before the young man’s eyes upon her return.

In fact, she disappeared from this house during the time which Tom and Martha spent walking upon the downs. Something happened during her friend’s absence; something which resulted either in her fleeing the house – or else being removed from it; something which has endangered Miss Gibbs; something which, I believe, has also resulted in murder.

And there is another consideration which I hesitated to mention to Miss Gibbs: the possibility of Miss Verney having another secret – one which she has not communicated to her friend. Why was she taken with the strange fancy of putting her mirror in the darkest corner of the room?

Her lowness of spirits since returning from Worcestershire is explained, I think – for it must have gone hard with her to find herself neglected when she was thought to be poor. But it seems unlikely that her disappointment would result in a dislike of her own reflection …

*   *   *

She had stopped and read through the letter; but this morning there was not the usual comfort to be found in the orderly lines upon the page. They did nothing to clear her weary brain. And the breaking dawn had reminded her that another day was gone without the identity of the murderer being uncovered; that she was come another day closer to the time when the assize judges would parade with all the pomp of authority through the crowded streets of Exeter to dispense justice – and judicial death.

*   *   *

I have been considering,
she had continued miserably,
how the case now stands against Tom Lomax. And, since I at last have some proof that he did not abduct Miss Verney, I might hope that the jury would look favourably upon him,
if it were not for the existence of Mr Bailey’s letter
.

But, regrettably, the letter is still damning. The jurymen may think that Tom is a fool to be deceived into courting the wrong lady. But I doubt they will think him an
innocent
fool. For the fact remains that he
believes
himself engaged to an heiress, and the letter from Antigua cuts across all his ambitions.

The letter alone will probably hang him, unless I can discover the whole truth about Mr Brodie’s death …

*   *   *

It was upon reaching this point that Dido had decided escape from the house was essential. But fresh air had done little to improve her ideas and now she sat upon her stone wishing that she might remain here for ever, facing nothing more complicated than the vagaries of the weather. She wished she could run and run on the downs, scream aloud like an unruly child …

Though, when she considered the matter rationally, she could not see how such an indulgence would actually help in the present case. It would not bring her any closer to an understanding of Charcombe’s mysteries – nor would it restore Mr Lomax to her …

The separation from Mr Lomax was complete. And, after a sleepless night, Dido had no power to resist despair.

The trouble in which Tom now stood would make every acquaintance draw back from his father, and there was not a member of her own family who would not cry out against her attachment if it were known to them.

And now, when it was certain that he would never again ask her to be his wife, the ‘yes’ rang out clear and true in her head. Yes, she would do anything, bear any shame for the privilege of being with him. Yes. She spoke the word aloud into the empty air. If only she had spoken it months ago and publicly joined her fate to his – then she could now claim it as a duty to share in his disgrace.

And this, of course, was the very worst of it. There are few miseries known to mankind which cannot be made worse by the knowledge that a simple action of our own might have changed everything. There is more wretchedness contained within ‘what if’ than there is in any other two words of our language.

Dido was so absorbed in wretched thought that she did not see the man on a tall bay horse ride out of the wood below; and the sound of hooves did not intrude until horse and rider were almost upon her. She sat up, hastily brushing away tears, and saw that the rider was Mr Lancelot Fenstanton.

She had had no opportunity for private conversation with the gentleman since she had put Mr Bailey’s letter into his hands, and, as he dismounted beside the rock, she eagerly searched his face for signs of anger or reproach.

But the suntanned face with its eyes narrowed against the light gave little away and she realised that Lancelot Fenstanton’s countenance might not be an easy primer to decipher. The expression of good humour and gentle self-mockery was so very unvarying.

He bowed a greeting, threw the reins onto the horse’s back and stood for a while looking down upon her in silence. His smile had questions in it. And there was rather less of the bewildered boy about him this morning; he looked more knowing.

‘I wished to talk to you alone,’ he said. ‘About the letter, you know.’

‘I am sorry to put you to the inconvenience of riding out.’ She looked away towards the sea. ‘How did you know where to find me?’

‘My gardener informed me that you had set off in this direction.’ He tapped his riding whip against his boot. ‘In his own house, a man is pretty well placed to spy upon his guests.’

‘I am sure you do nothing so discourteous, Mr Fenstanton.’

‘Ha! I admit it freely. Though,’ he added, ‘I confess I am a little uneasy when one of my guests repays the compliment and begins to spy upon
me.
’

‘I am sorry,’ she said, catching immediately at his meaning. ‘It was unpardonable of me to keep your letter from you – and to read it.’

‘Well, well, I did authorise you to pry into anything you wished, did I not?’ He smiled easily; his manner was calm – but for the powerful forefinger which continued to tap his whip against his boot. ‘Perhaps I should have been more cautious. But I did not quite expect you to be so very
thorough
in your investigations. Nor, if you will permit me to say, quite so prejudiced. You seem determined to prove young Lomax innocent. Innocent of abducting Letitia – and innocent of murder too.’

Dido was extremely uncomfortable, but her consciousness of having concealed the letter would not allow her to deny him an answer. He had every right to question her behaviour. ‘I am by no means convinced that Tom Lomax is the author of either crime,’ she said cautiously.

‘And why are you not convinced? Upon my word, Miss Kent, it seems like the damned fellow’s guilty to everyone else in the world!’

‘Oh, but—’ she began eagerly enough, but was brought to an abrupt stop. She had little enough evidence for Tom’s innocence and the little that she had, she dared not yet communicate.

‘Why are you so determined to prove he didn’t do it?’ persisted Fenstanton. And then, when she still remained silent, he added quietly, ‘Of course, young Tom is a very handsome fellow. Got that kind of way about him I fancy all women like.’