Place of Confinement (35 page)

Martha’s eyes rolled about as she absorbed the new idea. ‘And so you think it was the note which made Tish run away?’

Dido took a rapid turn across the room. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘I do not believe she read the note. Why should she? It did not have her name upon it. No, I do not think she needed any threat. The secret she had heard was enough to frighten her in itself. I believe it shocked her so badly she decided she must escape.’

Martha stared. ‘But what could it be that was so shocking?’

‘That,’ admitted Dido, ‘is something which I do not yet entirely understand … But I believe I almost have it.’ She put a hand to her head. ‘It is all to do with my aunt’s jewels, and some letters cut in stone … and the directions on some letters and Miss Fenstanton’s book of sermons…’

Miss Gibbs looked bewildered. ‘What do you mean to do?’ she asked rather fearfully.

‘I mean,’ said Dido, ‘to make a small experiment.’ She turned briskly towards the hall door.

But Martha called her back. ‘Miss Kent,’ she said slyly, ‘may I wish you happiness upon your engagement?’

‘As to that,’ said Dido pulling open the door, ‘apply to me again in two days’ time. I shall tell you then whether your good wishes are needed. But I sincerely hope that they will not be.’

*   *   *

Dido ran across the hall and up the stairs, her heart beating fast. She sped along the gallery and paused briefly outside her aunt’s chamber. She set her ear to the door. From within came the low, comforting voice of Doctor Sutherland. ‘You may rest now,’ he was murmuring. ‘There is nothing to worry about.’

Satisfied that she would not be needed for a while, Dido hurried on to her own room where she took her penknife from her writing desk. Then she set out with an air of great determination for the east wing to make her experiment.

If the outcome of that experiment was as she expected, then, she believed, everything would begin to make sense …

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The experiment was decisive.

Dido stood beside the little barred window at the end of the east wing staring out, half seeing, onto the bright spring green of the lawns where the company had begun upon a game of bowls; Mrs Bailey’s pink silk bonnet bobbed about beside Miss Fenstanton’s white straw and the scarlet shawl had been laid aside with a parasol upon a bench.

At last, she thought, she understood why Mrs Manners gave money to a brother she despised; and why the secret which they shared was so important as to have cost Mr Brodie his life.

She studied the window ledge. The afternoon sun was lighting up the grey stone and the old carved letters; the slanting light deepened the cuts, giving them a distinction they had not had in the early morning. She ran her finger over them, and then turned her attention to the new carving which she had just completed – untidy scratches, ill-formed letters; but a very practical proof of her theory.

There was but one doubt remaining in her head – though that was a substantial one. How was the truth ever to be made public? For it must all depend on Mrs Manners confessing. And, even if Dido could find the courage to confront her aunt, she lacked the authority to enforce compliance. What was she to do?

There was a great temptation to do as poor Miss Verney had done and run away from the wretched complication of guilt which was the rotten core of Charcombe Manor. But that was not possible; the peace and safety of others depended upon her actions.

She folded her penknife, slipped it into her pocket and turned towards the half-open door of the prison room. But as she did so, she became aware of a creaking footstep in the passageway beyond the bedchamber. Someone was walking slowly and cautiously; but the ancient floorboards were defeating the attempt at stealth and crying out so loud that only Dido’s preoccupation could have kept her deaf to them so long.

She looked out through the prison bars into the colourful ordinariness of the garden – counted the bowlers. There was Mr George, and Miss Gibbs – with her locket still clenched in her hand – and Mr Lancelot. Miss Fenstanton was just putting off her shawl and stooping down to roll a ball, and Mrs Bailey was in a great flow of inaudible words.

Unless one of the servants had broken the injunction against entering this part of the house, then the footsteps were certainly those of Mrs Manners – come again to visit this room which held such terrible memories …

With rising panic Dido looked around at the dusty floor, white walls and narrow bed. There was no hiding place here. The footsteps came on, hesitated at the door of the outer room, and then began to cross the bedchamber.

The door was pushed open – niece and aunt faced one another in silence.

‘What, pray, are
you
doing here, miss?’

Dido groped behind her, pressed her hands for support against the cool stone sill. The scene which she had most dreaded was forced upon her without any opportunity for thought or preparation. But it must be gone through; there are some matters which must transcend respect and deference.

‘I am waiting for an answer.’ Mrs Manners crossed to the table and sat down slowly on the narrow little chair, with the air of a queen taking her place on a coronation throne. ‘I insist that you tell me what you are about.’

‘Aunt,’ Dido began, striving against the tremor in her voice, and determined to get immediately to the heart of the matter. ‘I believe I know why Miss Verney left this house.’

‘Letitia?’ cried Mrs Manners with a look of great astonishment. ‘You know what has become of her?’

‘I believe I do. And I hope that you will not blame me for investigating the matter. For you have yourself been most anxious that she should return to her friends. The idea of an elopement has made you extremely uneasy.’

Mrs Manners sat very straight in her chair. She had an air of fragile dignity in her black silk gown, with a mass of grey curls piled upon her head, prettily set off by a tiny white lace cap. ‘And am I to suppose that
that
is the cause of your impertinent intrusion upon this room?’

‘I have not meant to be impertinent.’

Mrs Manners waved aside the protest. ‘Very well, miss, I daresay I can guess at what you have found out. Letitia has run away to marry young Lomax, has she not?’

‘No, I do not believe she has. The reason for her departure was quite different.’

‘Oh?’ There was a steely challenge in the single word. It seemed intended to remind Dido of her aunt’s power – her consequence in the family; the necessity of pleasing and placating.

It cost her a struggle, but Dido continued quietly, intent on getting the worst over as quickly as possible. ‘Miss Verney left this house – she ran away – because she heard Mr Lancelot and Mr George talking about money; and she heard something she should not have heard.’

The words were a blow to Mrs Manners; it was detectable – not from any sign of pain, but rather from an increase of dignity. Her back straightened, her head lifted and poised itself as if the pile of grey curls was a heavy burden which must be carefully balanced. ‘And what was it that she should not have heard?’

‘I believe she heard Mr George Fenstanton’s scheme of getting money from you. The reason why you have been giving him your jewels.’

‘That is enough, miss! I insist that you say no more. I am not accustomed to such impertinence. You will say no more about the affairs of my family. We shall have no more of your disgusting
investigations.
’

‘I am sorry for taking such a liberty, Aunt. But it is necessary.’

‘Necessary? I know why you think it necessary. It is for the sake of young Lomax. Are we all to be allowed no privacy on
his
account?’

‘I do not believe that he should pay with his life for your convenience,’ cried Dido with spirit. ‘And,’ she added more calmly, ‘I can neither stop my enquiries – nor cease to know what I have already discovered.’

Mrs Manners caught at the danger in this speech. ‘And what have you discovered? I insist that you tell me about it immediately.’

‘I doubt it will please you.’

‘I doubt it very much, miss. But you will tell me none the less.’

Dido looked about her – at the bolted door, the barred window. ‘Miss Fenstanton has told me,’ she began quietly, ‘that your sister, Miss Francine, had a chamber in this wing.’

‘Yes. She had.’

‘Knowing so much, and observing that Miss Francine is always spoken of as “sickly”, I could not help but wonder whether it was her illness which called for the means of restraint which are still to be seen here.’

‘Francine was not mad!’ Mrs Manners’ little hand struck the table.

‘No, she was not,’ said Dido quietly. ‘I understand that now. There was no madness. This room was made into a prison for another reason entirely. It’s purpose was to break the spirit of a young woman who was determined to marry for love rather than the convenience of her family. She was shut away here until her brothers had gained their point.’

Mrs Manners face remained impassive. She folded her little hands neatly upon the deal table.

Dido longed to know the thoughts behind the soft, faded prettiness of that little face. Because everything must depend upon a confession. And not only a confession spoken in this secluded place, but repeated to the world – to the assize court.

‘Pray go on,’ said Mrs Manners quietly.

‘Doctor Sutherland,’ continued Dido, introducing the name rather fearfully, ‘was Miss Francine’s medical advisor. He was a constant visitor to this house.’

‘Yes.’

‘Constant visits produce a kind of intimacy within the family – intimacy which can lead to affection.’

Mrs Manners stared down at her hands.

‘Affection which would certainly not have been approved by two brothers determined upon their sisters making grand alliances. A plan of elopement to Gretna Green would be a natural recourse.’ Dido stopped and looked upon her aunt; she had bent her head a little now, as if desirous of hiding her face. ‘There
was
an elopement thirty years ago, was there not? There is still a rumour of it remembered in Charcombe village.’

In the silence that followed, Dido could hear the laboured breath of her aunt. She watched the slight tremor of the thin little shoulders in their black silk and reproached herself for unkindness. She was breaking every code of behaviour. Here was insolence where there should be deference; honesty where there should be polite dissemblance. But she would not – could not – retract.

‘It is a very old tale,’ said Mrs Manners quietly at last. ‘It ought to be forgotten. Common delicacy ought to make you shrink from mentioning it.’

‘But I must. I am sorry to cause you pain, but there is a higher good to be served here.’

‘A higher good! Upon my word, this is modern cant! When I was a girl, young ladies did their duty and were not so immodest as to concern themselves with
higher goods.
Why must you recall it? The escapade was short-lived; my brothers had it all smoothed over. There is nothing to be gained from remembering it.’

‘But your brother has a great deal to gain from remembering it. It is his threat of publishing this old tale which puts your jewels into his hands…’ Dido paused, then added very quietly, ‘Why?’

Mrs Manners raised her head; the little white face looked like a child’s in the slanting sunlight, the burden of hair almost too great for the fragile neck to support. ‘Why?’ she repeated. ‘Are you so lost to all natural feeling that you cannot guess my reason? Naturally I wish to protect my sister’s reputation.’

‘At such a high cost? Thirty years after her death? Indeed, Aunt, I think you might let Mr George do his worst. I doubt anyone would care about the old story now. Why, even the women selling fish in the marketplace seem to know it already!’

‘You do not understand, miss! You know nothing about family loyalty.’

‘But I think I do understand why you must pay so dearly for your brother’s silence.’ Dido turned away to the window sill. ‘The explanation lies here. In these initials cut into the stone.’

‘Initials?’ The word was a little cry of fear. The chair on which Mrs Manners had been sitting scraped back, toppled over and crashed to the floor. She was on her feet now, beside Dido. ‘They are not still there? There is nothing which can still be read!’ She peered short-sightedly at the window ledge. ‘I can make out nothing.’ She waved an imperious hand at Dido. ‘Fetch my spectacles,’ she said – the ingrained habit of command surviving even the extremity of the moment.

‘I cannot supply your spectacles just now, Aunt, but I can tell you what the letters seem to be.’ Dido ran her finger along the clearest of the carvings. ‘FF,’ she said.

‘Oh!’ Mrs Manners held out a shaking hand and touched the letters with the kind of searching gentleness a blind woman might employ upon a loved face. ‘Francine Fenstanton,’ she said.

Dido waited, hoping that she might continue; hoping that the rest of the tale might be taken out of her own hands. If only Aunt Manners would tell it herself. She searched the little white face for any sign of weakening; for a sign that true feeling – old feeling – might triumph over the rigid mask of dignity and propriety which had been worn for thirty years. But, after that one burst of emotion, the mouth and jaw were set firm once more.

‘Francine Fenstanton,’ said Dido reluctantly. ‘That is the interpretation which occurred to me. But now I have examined the letters more closely. And I have also carried out my own experiments in stone cutting.’

Mrs Manners threw her a look which accused her of officiousness, but she said not a word.

‘And, I am quite sure that
this
…’ Dido ran a finger over the first letter ‘… is not an
F
at all.’ She did not look at her aunt, but sensed her emotion. ‘It is an
S
written long and straight – in the old-fashioned way.’

Mrs Manners turned away unsteadily. Dido hurriedly retrieved the chair and righted it. Her aunt sat down and folded her shaking hands in her lap.

‘You still write your
S
’s in that style, Aunt. It – and your rather careless handwriting – bewilders the poor postmaster and turns the word Bristol into something resembling Beef-tea. To a modern eye your
S
looks very like an
F;
there is only a slight difference in the cross-stroke.’