Place of Confinement (9 page)

Martha paled. ‘Tish never said a word to me about there being a ghost in our room.’

‘Well, you need not look so very frightened. For our ghost is a harmless little fellow. He died a very sad death during the civil war.’

Martha stared in wide-eyed silence. She licked the butter from her fingers and picked up her knife – leaving a trail of grease across the white tablecloth.

‘I believe Miss Fenstanton is right, you
are
about to tell us a ghost story,’ said Dido, as she briskly buttered her own toast.

‘Now then, now then,’ interposed Mr George firmly. ‘There is no need to repeat Francine’s foolish old tale, Lance. My poor sister had a wild and melancholy fancy. She read too many old books in the library – and said a great many things which are better forgotten.’

But Lancelot was not to be dissuaded. ‘Do not listen yourself if you do not wish, George. But don’t prevent the rest of us from enjoying a good fright!’

Mr George assumed a tone of rather ill-judged authority – as if he believed his nephew to be still no more than twelve years old. ‘Come now, my boy, there is no need to distress the ladies.’

Lancelot’s smile did not falter as he met his uncle’s eye. ‘But I am determined,’ he said, ‘for I am very proud to have a ghost in
my
house.’

The emphasis upon the possessive was very slight, but Dido did not fail to catch his meaning – and nor did Mr George; he threw down his napkin, excused himself to the ladies, and stalked out.

Mr Lancelot laughed at his retreating back. ‘Well, it is a dreadful tale!’ he said, leaning back in his seat and hooking his fingers around the buttons of his waistcoat. ‘The little boy’s parents, you see – Sir Mortimer Fenstanton and his lady – were loyal through and through to King Charles.’ He had lowered his voice to that sort of trembling half whisper which is universally acknowledged to be the proper delivery for a tale of terror.

‘And so Cromwell’s soldiers attacked the house,’ he continued. ‘They carried away the knight and his wife. But, before she was taken, Lady Fenstanton’s last act was to conceal her baby son from the Roundheads. Only one other person – an old and trusted servant – knew where the child was hidden…’ He paused dramatically.

‘Yes?’ urged Martha breathlessly.

‘And that one old servant was so overcome by the attack that she died of a seizure within an hour of the soldiers leaving the house.’

‘Oh!’ cried Miss Gibbs in a kind of refrain.

‘And so no one could find the baby – though they could hear him crying fit to break a heart of stone!’

‘Oh!’

‘And,’ he added, raising his finger, ‘his poor little skeleton was not discovered until many years later.’

Little Miss Emma ostentatiously smothered a yawn with a very large handkerchief, and reached for another chop. Her disapproval seemed to be making her remarkably hungry. She leant towards Miss Gibbs and in the pretence of a whisper – which in fact carried easily along the length of the table – she said, ‘Of course, my cousin speaks of what he understands. Lance knows all about the killing of little innocents.’

That was a remark to cloud even Mr Lancelot’s sunny countenance and he immediately demanded an explanation.

‘I mean, of course, your shooting of innocent woodcock and pheasant,’ Emma replied composedly. ‘What else do you suppose me to mean?’ She raised her little face in a dangerous challenge and a rather uneasy silence filled the breakfast room.

Dido considered the tale, quite refusing to shiver over it, though the temptation to do so was great. And she wondered why it was that, while a child dead now, a fortnight ago, even a year ago, would be sad and shocking, there was something about the distance of a century and a half – assisted no doubt by the addition of Mr Cromwell’s name and all the panoply of history – which gave the account a kind of dark fascination. ‘And now,’ she said, breaking the silence, ‘this sad little ghost keeps the household awake with its weeping?’

‘It does,’ cried Mr Lancelot putting aside his frown. ‘And sometimes, Miss Kent, there is another sound – the sound of footsteps. And some people say that they have seen the dark shape of the poor mother returning to find her lost child. Now, what do you say to that?’

‘I say that I do not believe in ghosts.’ Dido looked him in the eye and shook her head.

He began to protest and might perhaps have attempted to persuade her into belief. But his attention was drawn away first by the arrival of Mrs Bailey and then by the bringing in of the morning’s post.

There was a small heap of letters for Mr Lancelot. He gave them no very welcoming look, and left them unopened beside his plate. Mrs Bailey, Dido noticed, received no letters at all, which was perhaps a little odd for such a very popular woman. For Miss Fenstanton there was a book – a copy of
Blair’s Sermons
sent fresh from the bookbinders – which she opened eagerly.

For Dido herself there was but one letter and, as the cramped hand immediately declared it to be written by Margaret, she did not hurry to break the seal. Instead she sat for a moment or two drinking her coffee and considering the events of the night, events which resembled rather closely the haunting which her host had just described …

She would not believe that the figure in the garden was the long-dead Lady Fenstanton, any more than she would allow the crying to be produced by a ghostly infant; so her thoughts were necessarily complicated – and not a little suspicious.

She studied Mr Fenstanton as he sat brooding over his unread letters. One hand rested on his coffee cup and his first finger beat an impatient rhythm on its rim, as if he were displeased with his correspondents; the dark hair fell forward over his eyes and the morning sunlight brought forward gleams of grey which were not usually to be seen.

Was it possible, she wondered, that he had told her this tale in order to explain away a scene which he feared she had witnessed? Had he so far mistaken her character as to think she could be persuaded into a belief that any odd appearances in his house were of a supernatural origin?

It was impossible to tell, she thought, as she reluctantly opened her letter; she must know
his
character a little better before she could determine his motives.

Margaret’s handwriting was not easy to read. It was designed to fit as many words as possible on only one sheet of paper, for she was violently opposed to either the stationer or the post office profiting from her correspondence. This morning’s letter began with an assurance that the family were all in good health, moved rapidly to a complaint upon the cost of butchers’ meat, with an enquiry as to the price of shin beef in the Charcombe neighbourhood, and proceeded to minute instructions upon the purchase of calico – if Dido should chance to visit the shops in Exeter and there was anything tolerable to be got for less than three shillings a yard, which she (Margaret) doubted, for drapers were all become so very greedy these days …

Dido sighed, turned the page and began to make out that part which had been written crosswise.

*   *   *

… Well, I daresay you pass your time very pleasantly indeed at Charcombe Manor, for I understand that Mr Fenstanton keeps a good table and everything is very comfortable there. But I am sorry – and very surprised – that we have not yet heard one word from you. For you must know that we are particularly anxious to hear how dear Mrs Manners bore with her journey – and whether she keeps in tolerable health. And whether you have yet been able to discover
why
she has gone to Charcombe Manor; for, as I have told you, I see no reason for her to visit a place which she has not been near these
thirty years
. Unless it is because of the Fenstantons’ persuasions and hypocritical attempts to win upon her affections. I do so hate encroaching people! I have no opinion of the Fenstantons; they are all for what they can get. I have no doubt but that they have some scheme to get money from the poor lady; and so, Dido, you must be upon the lookout and see what they are about. For it would be a great disgrace to us all if they should succeed in imposing upon her. As everybody knows, her fortune was all her husband’s and the Fenstantons certainly have no rights in it. And I consider their behaviour to be very suspicious indeed …

*   *   *

Dido laid down the letter, looked thoughtfully along the breakfast table, and found herself for once in agreement with Margaret. There was every reason to doubt the behaviour of Charcombe’s residents. There was not a person here against whom a suspicion could not be raised.

There was Miss Gibbs with her heavy sleepless eyes – and those curls which, Dido noticed, had been burnt again; why had she been the only person kept awake by the weeping of the ‘ghost’? And beside her was the merry Miss Fenstanton bowing her little head with truly remarkable eagerness over her dry tome of sermons, though looking up from time to time to throw an odd little look of disdain in her cousin’s direction. Then there was the popular Mrs Bailey, trying to busy herself with an egg and pretending that she did not care about receiving no letters. And at the head of the table their host was still scowling at his correspondents – very much as if they were pressing him for the payment of debts …

Chapter Ten

… It pains me to confess it, Eliza, but I cannot help but think Margaret is in the right. The Fenstantons are certainly in need of cash. Their building scheme is costing them dear and I think it very likely indeed that they are seeking a reconciliation with our aunt for the sake of her fortune. The ring has already been given up – though I cannot understand at all why it should have been given to Mr George, when it is her nephew to whom our aunt shows a degree of affection.

But I fear I lack Margaret’s nice discrimination in all this and find myself quite unable to distinguish between the
mercenary schemes
of others and the
prudential concerns
of my own family. Are we not all equal in guilt? Do we not all court Mrs Manners for the sake of her money?

Are we not, every one of us, ‘all for what we can get’? And every time I place a cushion or pour a draught of medicine am I not tainted by interest? Oh Eliza, I despise myself for being poor! And I despise myself even more for being dependent upon the poverty of my brothers. For I find I cannot, for their sakes, neglect our aunt – or even speak my mind to her. I fear to injure their interest as well as my own.

And, after all, I think we debase ourselves for nothing. For, quite apart from the ‘encroaching’ claims of the Fenstantons, we – I mean my Uncle Manners’ family – are so very numerous that I doubt any portion of the money he has left will ever fall to you or I, or our brothers. I calculate that there are, surviving our uncle, three brothers and a sister (all senior to our mother), sixteen nephews, twenty-one nieces and two great-nephews. In all this tribe I do not rate our chances very high; in short, Eliza, there are a great many other devoted relations who have a stronger claim and are able, I do not doubt, to place cushions and measure medicine with much more grace than I can ever achieve.

And yet, what am I to do? Insult and neglect my aunt? But then you know, when the will is read and all those dearest to me are left as poor as ever, will I not always wonder how far I am to blame?

And rudeness is never excusable. And the rich are as deserving of kindness as the poor …

Oh dear, Eliza! I shall torment myself – and you – no more with this. I shall return instead to the much more agreeable subject of someone else’s poverty, and consider Mr Lancelot’s debts – for debts I am sure he has.

That he should be embarrassed for money argues for his need of Miss Verney’s fortune. Has he been pressing her too hard for an answer?

Perhaps the ‘elopement’ is not what it appears at all. Perhaps Miss Verney was reluctant to make the match with Mr Lancelot, had refused – or was upon the point of refusing – and this removal was either an escape, or else a part of some plan to coerce her into acceptance …

All in all I think escape more likely. I do not feel justified in harbouring such dark thoughts against my host … Though his cousin hints at his cruelty … But I believe that must be some secret jest of Miss Emma’s. Her statements are mostly fantastical …

No, I cannot believe Lancelot Fenstanton such a thorough-going villain as would shut away a young lady in some distant farmhouse until he can bend her to his will …

Mr Lancelot has not the look of a character in a horrid novel. And besides, I cannot comprehend how he could have accomplished such villainy … Nor how he could convince Mr Tom Lomax that there had been a return to Charcombe Manor …

But if it is only an escape on the part of the young lady – one in which Mr Tom
might
, I suppose, be complicit – why have Mr Fenstanton and Mrs Bailey been so very dilatory over pursuit?

I cannot hit upon a satisfactory theory; and all in all I can only agree with Margaret – there is suspicious business carrying on here and, for once, I intend to do exactly as she orders: I intend to be very much ‘upon the lookout’.

And I only wish that I might remain here this morning looking out for the arrival of the mysterious Mr Brodie. I wonder very much what he shall have to say about Miss Verney. And who among the company here he will claim as an acquaintance.

But I must set off now for Charcombe village to search out brown medicine and discover whether the town’s physician is such a man as my aunt might approve …

*   *   *

There was no brown medicine to be had in the village of Old Charcombe – for there was no longer a medical man there to make medicine of any colour.

‘Doctor Sutherland has gone away up the hill,’ Dido was told when she made enquiries. And at first she supposed this to be some local method of softening the discussion of death; but at last she was given to understand that the doctor was not deceased but had only moved his business a half mile away, onto the cliff top where the Fenstantons’ new town was building – ‘on account of all the sick people that are to come there.’