Rustication (28 page)

I thought Mother was going to accuse me of having driven her out of the village by my misconduct the other day but in fact just the opposite: her sudden departure is, according to gossip at Mrs Darnton’s, being interpreted as an admission of guilt. I’m sure Mrs Quance and her Myrmidons are encouraging that lie.

Mother spoke of her amazement that Mrs Paytress had successfully hidden the presence of a child in the house. And there could be only one reason for concealing the fact that she was a mother.

We were still talking about that when the old letter-carrier brought a letter addressed to Effie. The postmark was Thurchester and the handwriting was crudely formed.

I handed it to my sister saying that I believed it was one of
those
letters. She opened it and after a few seconds threw it from her with a scream. I picked it up but she rallied and snatched it from me, snapping at me for wanting to read “such nasty stuff”. I said I only wanted to see if I could work out who had written it.

I watched her studying it. It rattled her badly. It’s not like Effie to be bowled out by something in that manner. The letter is a horror. But is she upset because it’s cruel or because what it alleges is true? She gave it to Mother but wouldn’t let me see it.

Then after a while she started saying that what was in the letter was so completely deranged that it could have no more effect on a sane person than the ravings of a lunatic in Bedlam. She was now angry and determined to track down the author. She said:
I’ve had certain suspicions for a while and this letter virtually confirms them
.

I guessed which way the wind was blowing. I asked:
Does this person live within three miles of Stratton Peverel? If not, he could not possibly know as much as he does
.

She ignored that and said to Mother:
It’s someone who has pursued our family ever since he was introduced to us
. (Here a glare in my direction.)

I said:
Since you haven’t allowed me to see the letter, I can hardly agree or disagree
.

She handed it to me.
See what you make of it
.

· · ·

That’s when I hurried up here and copied it.

The author obviously hates Mother and Effie. Should I be relieved that I am neither addressed nor even named? He hates my sister’s lover even more.

But whoever wrote it, it’s confirmation that Effie is still meeting Davenant Burgoyne at the tower. The writer must have followed them, and if I can catch him doing that again, I can unmask him.

The letter itself offers few clues to its authorship. The pretence of illiterateness, however, has been virtually abandoned. The writer has forgotten to misspell a number of words, has used mainly correct grammar, and has neglected to omit the apostrophe. In fact, I now realise that the writer was only pretending in the most superficial and transparent way to be illiterate.

I can see why Effie thinks that the “Harrow” reference points to Bartlemew. But she’s wrong. He is too distant to know what is happening here. I see no reason to change my mind: The writer is that spiteful old Bittlestone cat. Yet she must have a male collaborator who is posting the letters in town and savaging livestock. I’ll confront the evil old witch this afternoon when she comes to tea.

2 o’clock.

I have made a conquest! I saw it in her face. If only she were prettier.

I went up to the Battlefield to see if I could spot either Effie’s inamorato or some skulker spying on them. I saw nobody and was almost at the tower when I noticed the little governess with her gaggle of children. I hurried after them and when I caught them up, she looked round at the sound of my running feet. All the children except that damned Amelia were walking ahead of her and had not heard me.

I had to warn Helen of what I had learned at that dreadful dinner-party. Without wasting time I asked her if that meddling shrew, the Rector’s wife, had tried to turn Mrs Greenacre against her. Clearly she found Amelia’s presence inhibiting and told her to run on ahead. The wretched girl disobeyed her. I repeated the instruction and the child just stared at me insolently. So I ignored her. I said to Helen:
The old Quance witch has told Mrs Greenacre that there is a secret attachment between you and her husband
.

She started at my words and I saw a play of emotions on her face. She cares for me, that is clear.

Amelia said:
Should you be talking to a strange gentleman, Miss Carstairs?

To my amazement Helen said:
You are perfectly correct, Amelia. It would be improper for us to continue to enjoy the advantage of Mr Shenstone’s company
.

I could see that she was forcing herself to end the conversation because of that tiresome child. She hurried on, pulling Amelia with her. The little minx turned and gave me a look of triumphant malice.

I came home and then remembered that I had meant to visit the tower.

6 o’clock.

Old Miss Bittlestone had barely removed her topcoat and shawl before she delivered an astonishing piece of news.
Do you know why Mrs Paytress drove into Thurchester yesterday morning?
she asked Mother. She hurried on without waiting for an answer:
She went straight to a doctor with her child in her arms
. She stopped and gulped and then went on falteringly:
The most dreadful thing. Quite, quite dreadful
. She paused again and then almost in a whisper she said:
He pronounced it to be . . . to be no longer alive
.

Mother glanced at Effie who had turned her head away. Then she said:
The death of a child is the most terrible thing. And I cannot help feeling sorry for that woman. She must have felt a mother’s grief. Even for a child conceived in sin and whose existence she was ashamed to acknowledge
.

Miss Bittlestone said with uncharacteristic sharpness:
That is not correct. If you’ll pardon me, Mrs Shenstone, I believe we were all wrong. And Mrs Quance most of all
.

What a change of tune! The child, she said, was born to Mrs Paytress and her husband while they lived together and there was not the slightest reason to assume any irregularity. Mrs Paytress had fled the marital home with her child because of the conduct of her husband. She had taken refuge in Salisbury. There was no substance in the idea of a liaison with the earl and that misapprehension was based simply on the fact that he had once owned a house in that city. The truth was that he had sold it some years ago. She went on to explain that the child, a boy of about ten or eleven, had suffered seizures all his life. His mother had taken measures to protect him from being seen by strangers whose reaction caused him distress, and that was why he never left the house. The mysterious woman-servant was his constant nurse.

There was silence when she had finished.

(
Sacrifices for someone I love
. I hope Mother was ashamed.)

I got up and crossed the room and shook the old lady by the hand. She blushed and said:
Why, bless my soul, Master Shenstone. I have done no more than tell the truth
.

I said:
Telling the truth about that lady requires courage in this neighbourhood where she has such a powerful enemy
.

She smiled ruefully and said:
I have already been cast into utter darkness though I have no notion why
. She sighed:
Whenever my eyes fall on the chair Mrs Quance used to occupy, I am reminded of our lost friendship. I don’t want to see it ever again. Yet it’s a fine piece of furniture. Would you like to have it, Mrs Shenstone?

Mother said she would be glad to and suggested that I could borrow a hand-cart and fetch it one day. What have we come to that I should find myself carrying old chairs around the countryside!

After a few minutes, at an unignorable signal from Mother, I rose and handed old Bittlestone the letter I had borrowed from her with my expression of regret for ever having caused her unease.

She said:
Oh yes, of course. I meant to tell you that I did manage to find the envelope after all
. She reached into her battered reticule and handed it to me. I was astonished. It is genuine since the hand is unmistakable and the date clearly legible and it was posted in Thurchester. Would she have bothered to pay for the postage if she had no need to? Perhaps she is not, after all, the author of those letters?

If it is not she, then who is it? Who could get to Thurchester so often and rely on being able to post a letter unobserved? The Lloyds do not go into town frequently enough and Lucy would surely not entrust such a letter to anyone else.

I stood up and took my leave. I had to get to Monument Hill. I had to find out about the tower.

7 o’clock.

There is a single window and it is on the western side but is about fifteen or twenty feet up. I have no way of reaching it unless I can I climb an oak-tree that stands nearby. I could not do it today because I was wearing my boots and would not have been able to get a foothold.

As I walked home I was thinking about the puzzle of how the letters are posted and I suddenly saw how the trick might be done and who might be doing it. All that is needed is a friend in Thurchester and Lucy has plenty of those.

10 o’clock.

I went down for dinner. As soon as I walked into the room I knew that Mother and Euphemia had been talking about me. I’m sure my sister knows what is in that letter Mother has received from Uncle T. It’s so unfair that she knows and I still don’t.

I asked Mother:
What has Uncle Thomas told you?

He said the authorities in Cambridge are still looking into the circumstances of your friend’s death
.

Since I’m not going back, it doesn’t matter what the College—or even the University—might have to say
.

It’s neither of those, Richard. It’s out of their hands now. It’s the police and magistrates who are investigating. There is some document they have been shown that casts a new light on the matter. It bears on the motive
.

I hope they couldn’t see how alarmed that made me.

Euphemia asked:
Your friend, Edmund Webster, how did he die?

He swallowed poison
, I said.

Deliberately
, Euphemia said with only the slightest interrogatory intonation. I said nothing. Then she looked meaningfully at Mother and asked:
Was he alone when he swallowed it?

I was saved having to answer because an extraordinary thing happened. The house shook suddenly as if thumped by a giant’s fist and in a moment the room was filled with a loud drumming—steady and inexorable—which seemed to be growing in intensity. We all gazed at each other in horror. It was impossible to know where the sound was coming from. It became deafening. At that moment the strangest thought came to me: that we have tried to lock danger out but in doing so have sealed ourselves in with something that is mad and dangerous and filled with hatred. And then it became clear that the noise emanated from the great chimney, for a rapid thudding reverberated from deep in the wall.

Suddenly some creature was spewed out of the mouth of the chimney and the foul thing—whatever it was—hit the carpet with a thud and lay twitching and jerking on the floor. It had a tiny head with staring eyes and a blackened body with shrivelled legs. What seemed to be arms were spread out with skeletal webs hanging from them. It was still twitching and juddering as it lay there scattering ash and heaven knew what else on the carpet.

Mother stood frozen staring at it but Euphemia stepped back and then screamed and hid her face. My calm, rational sister was having a fit of hysterics.

Get it out of here! Get it away from me!
she cried. It lay on the floor between her and the door of the room jerking spasmodically and it was clear that she was too terrified to step past it.

It was a complex structure of tiny bones, white as teeth in a barrel of pitch, with a scattering of black specks and trailing filaments of something leathery and unclean.

Betsy came running in, drawn by the noise. She pulled off her pinafore and flung it over the thing saying:
It’s just a bird, ma’am. Just a dead crow
.

And she was right. It was a great crow that must have become trapped in the chimney. How long it had stuck there flapping its wings and causing the noises we had heard it was impossible to guess. Then it had been dislodged by the sudden gust of wind and the movement of its wings had been in response to the change in temperature when it fell into the room.

Betsy cleared up while Mother took Effie up to bed.

A ¼ to midnight.

Did the crow fall into the chimney tonight while it was perching on the rim and was blown in by the sudden gust? Or was it there much longer? Did it become trapped in the flue that day the smoke blew back down the chimney?

On this occasion Effie’s horror seemed completely authentic and made me more suspicious of some of the earlier scenes of outrage or shock.

· · ·

Herriard House,

by Stratton Herriard,

near Thurchester.

January the 5
^th
, 1864.

Dear Uncle Thomas,

I am most grateful for your generous offer of free passage abroad. However, to accept it would be to run away from my obligations. Instead, I beg you to be so generous as to settle with my creditor. I give you my most solemn and binding promise that I will repay you if it takes the remainder of my life. I ask this for the sake of my mother and sister rather than for myself. If Mr Webster seeks vengeance by pressing the authorities into bringing charges against me, the consequences could be dire for all of us.

Your affectionate nephew,

Richard Shenstone

· · ·

Have been trying to avoid Betsy and have had to walk past her a couple of times without looking at her. Don’t know what I feel about her. Angry with her. Disgusted with myself.