Rustication (37 page)

He looked at me sadly over the top of his spectacles.

In that instant I understood why Euphemia was listening at the door when I quarrelled with Davenant Burgoyne and why she had run off by herself as we were walking back to the inn. I had already guessed by whom that letter had been written and put in the posting-box and now I saw how Euphemia had supplied Lyddiard with its contents.

I said:
I understand completely. You have a dozen witnesses who can attest that they heard me address more or less those precise words to Mr Davenant Burgoyne a few hours before he was killed
.

He nodded with a melancholy expression. A loving uncle whose hopes have been betrayed by a promising nephew.

I said:
But there is an absurdity involved. Why would anyone put such a letter in the post knowing it would not arrive until at least the afternoon, and then set off to kill the person to whom it is addressed?

You’re very sharp, sir. You’ve given it some thought. It’s true that there is an apparent anomaly and it had struck me in my own ponderous labouring manner though it took me a great deal longer to see it. But one possibility is that the individual decided to do what he did only after posting that letter
.

But had already taken the precaution of hiding the weapon several miles away!
I exclaimed.
It must be clear to you that that letter was written and posted for another purpose entirely: to incriminate me further
.

He shrugged.
In every investigation there are always a few tangled threads that we never unravel
.

I said:
Then here’s a reef knot for you. From what you’ve read out, the author seems not to have bothered to feign illiteracy
.

He looked at me with interest. I explained that the letters I had seen were pretending to be the work of an unlettered person.

He waited until I’d finished and then said:
What do you conclude from that?

I said:
As you will find out when you look at the letters you’ve collected in their order of sending, the writer began by impersonating someone who was barely literate and then successive letters gradually revealed more and more education. The intention was to draw out the process of speculation in the neighbourhood before narrowing the pool of possible authors. The letters were designed to make it look as if the libeller was pretending to be unlettered but failed to keep up the illusion as he became carried away by his hatred of his victims. This last letter threw off the pretence—or, I should say, pretended to throw off the pretence—because it was written in order to inculpate me more unequivocally than all its predecessors by quoting words that a number of witnesses had heard me utter
.

He made no response and seemed to be considering my point. Then he said:
The individual who wrote that letter must have been present at the confrontation between you and Mr Davenant Burgoyne
.

Many people were present
, I pointed out.
And in fact the writer need only have spoken to someone who heard—or overheard—what I said
.

I thought of Euphemia listening at the door and then hastening to tell her fellow-conspirator what I had said.

He was silent for a while and then said:
You’ve given me something to chew over. I won’t deny that. Frankly, you don’t strike me as someone who would commit such an act. I need to read through all the letters I’ve collected. I’ve got a couple from Mrs Quance and one from poor Miss Whitaker-Smith and a number of others. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mr Shenstone. I’ll talk to a few more people tomorrow. One of them will be the old gentleman who is so sure that the weapon that was used against Mr Davenant Burgoyne is the tool that was stolen from him. It’s Mr Fourdrinier, as you must know. He hasn’t seen it yet but he says he knows it from the description. And he’s convinced it was you who took it because there was nobody else in sight at the time—apart from that young lady of his who is his niece on Mondays and his ward on Tuesdays. Now if Mr Fourdrinier is wrong about his precious hoe or dibber or whatever it is, then I’ll pay more attention to the possibility that the crime was committed by some passing rogue or vagabond and has no connection with the letters despite all the apparent links. But if he recognises that thing, then I’ll have no choice but to get a warrant. Is that reasonable?

What could I say? I said nothing.

He stood up and I followed him out. As we went along the passage and then down the stairs he asked conversationally:
Do you have any plans for leaving the district today or tomorrow?

None at all
.

Just as well. Would you oblige me by staying within a mile of this house? I’d be quite anxious if you went any further than that
.

I indicated my agreement. He knows as well as I do that since the house stands on a peninsula, there is no way out except by the single path to the mainland and I imagine he will have it watched.

We went back into the parlour and found Mother and Euphemia sitting as we had left them.

Wilson smiled and said:
Your son and I have had a delightful little tate-a-tate, Mrs Shenstone. But there is something you might be able to assist us in. That recent trip he made to Thurchester to book the rooms and arrange the hire of the carriage and to visit Mr Boddington—there is some uncertainty about the date. Your son is convinced it was Tuesday the 5
^th
. Neither mine host at The George and Dragon nor the ostler at the livery-stable has the slightest idea of which day it was. Rather surprisingly, Mr Boddington says he can’t remember and that he made no note of it in his daybook
.

(Good for the old man!)

Wilson went on:
Fortunately his clerk—a smart fellow who should go far—remembers distinctly that it was the 4
^th
. So there we have it. Evens on both sides. Do you happen to remember, Mrs Shenstone?

The most extraordinary thing. Trembling and speaking in a small voice, Mother said:
It was Monday the 4
^th
of January and I recall it distinctly because it was the night my son came home with his clothes ripped and stained with blood
.

Wilson turned to me in surprise.

I stood paralysed in a state of complete shock. My mother could only have said that if she believed I had murdered Davenant Burgoyne. And that I had written the letters and maimed the beasts. In a desperate attempt to save myself, I said:
No, Mother. You’ve confused that occasion with an earlier one. It was another time that I lost my way in the mist and fell into a ditch beside the road
.

Almost whispering, Mother said:
I’m quite sure of my dates, Mr Wilson
.

I grabbed Wilson by the arm and muttering that I would see him out, I led him into the hall. When I was sure we were far enough from the parlour not to be heard I said:
I admit it, Sergeant Wilson. I’ve been lying to you. It was very foolish of me but I simply assumed you would not believe the truth. You are right. It was I who attacked Mr Davenant Burgoyne a week ago. We blundered into each other in the fog and mist and I did not know it was he and thought that whoever I had collided with intended to harm me and merely defended myself
.

He raised a sceptical eyebrow.
You had no idea it was he?

He must have guessed that I was holding something back. Did I expect him to believe that it was by chance that I had run into the one man of all the inhabitants of Thurchester whom I was now suspected of murdering?

I had to say:
I knew I was in the street where Mr Davenant Burgoyne lodged but I could not know whom I was fighting. I have frankly admitted that I lied to you about that incident but that is the only lie I have told you
. I stopped. With a kind of recklessness, I clutched at the truth to save me from drowning:
No, there was one other lie. The fact is that I arrived here at one o’clock on Sunday and not earlier. I tried to lie about that because I was frightened when I came to understand the whole case against me and see how strong it is. And yet I am entirely guiltless. I did not write those foul letters nor maim cattle and I did not kill Mr Davenant Burgoyne
.

His face conveyed neither acceptance nor disbelief.

With an increasing sense of my predicament I went on:
The evidence has been constructed to incriminate me. Let me give you an example that you are not yet aware of. When you see him tomorrow Mr Fourdrinier will certainly identify the murder weapon as the tool that was stolen from him. But I did not steal it. I can explain all of that just as I can explain every shred of evidence against me. The trouble is that I’m not sure if anyone will believe me
.

Wilson had listened attentively. Now he said:
I’m a just man, Mr Shenstone. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I won’t apply for a warrant merely because Mr Fourdrinier confirms that his tool was used to commit the murder and that he is sure you stole it. Though that would be
prima facie
evidence for any justice of the peace. No, what I’ll do is I’ll look into another matter, one that I haven’t mentioned so far. Some of the revolting communications received in the district seem to have been written by a man who felt that a young woman—apparently a close relative—had been seduced and abandoned by Mr Davenant Burgoyne. Now I know you accused him of having behaved discourteously to your sister during your confrontation with him at the ball, but of course the letters started a couple of weeks before that. So I’ll ask my new friends and see if you had any reason to think that the murdered man had impugned the virtue of your sister in the weeks or months before the ball. Is that fair?

It’s very fair, Sergeant Wilson
, I said with feigned cheerfulness.

I’m going back to Thurchester now and I’ll drive out to Mr Fourdrinier’s house first thing tomorrow and show him the weapon. I need to establish the truth about that. Then I’ll talk to some of the kind neighbours like Mrs Quance and Mrs Greenacre who have asked to speak to me and give me some more of the letters and I’ll get to the bottom of this business of who wrote them and who had a grudge against the deceased. If I decide I need a warrant, I’ll have it in my hand by the evening
.

I managed a smile and Wilson shook my hand and I saw him out. This time there was no constable waiting for him and he walked up the lane alone. He had mentioned a pony-trap but I could not see one.

I went back into the parlour and found Euphemia and Mother sitting where I had left them—the former holding a book and the latter bent over her embroidery-frame. I said:
Mother, I want to speak to you in private
.

Still looking at her work she said quietly
: Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of your sister
.

I said:
I just want to ask you, how could you have told the detective about the blood-stains?

She wouldn’t look at me.

I said:
I am innocent. How can I make you believe that?

She just shook her head.

Suddenly Euphemia said:
Stop bullying Mother, Richard
.

I looked at her and she stared back impassively and after a long while during which we held each other’s gaze, she dropped her eyes to her book.

½ past 2 o’clock.

Why did Mother say that? Even if she thinks I am guilty—which is an astonishing reflection anyway—why did she volunteer that damaging piece of information?

The trap is closing around me. Now more than ever in my life I need to keep calm and think this through rationally.

Could I put pressure on Euphemia by threatening to reveal to our mother the iniquity of her actions? Would she be swayed by that? No, of course not. How ridiculous to think she could be shamed into condemning herself! If she were capable of feeling shame she would not have embarked on this undertaking.

Could I frighten her into betraying Lyddiard? What argument or strategy could I use? She would impeach Lyddiard only if she were sure that I could prove that they conspired to commit murder and that her only chance of escaping a guilty verdict would be to turn Queen’s Evidence against him and plead that he had forced and tricked her into it. Yet I cannot prove that Lyddiard was anywhere near the scene of the murder at that time. He has crept about at night and hidden at the house of Lady Terrewest so that nobody can testify to his presence in the neighbourhood. That time I saw him hiding in the cart as he went back to Thurchester, he was in the guise of Tom the Swell and I cannot even be sure of proving that they are one and the same man.

Apart from Euphemia, only Lady Terrewest and her servants know that he hides at her house. And perhaps even they did not realise he was there on the night of the ball since he has a key to his own part of it.

I can imagine how enthusiastically the Quances and the Greenacres and other wagging tongues will provide all the evidence against me that Wilson needs: Davenant Burgoyne publicly compromised my sister and then abruptly threw her over when the scandal of our father’s wrong-doings threatened to erupt. Everything points to me as the defamer and the murderer: the abusive letters, the tool stolen from Mr Fourdrinier, my foolish threats against Davenant Burgoyne at the ball that were echoed in the last letter.

The one chink in the armour of the conspirators might be Betsy. She knew that Lyddiard was here—even slept here. And if she knew that, then Euphemia might have told her things that could be used in evidence against her. But would Betsy tell me anything? She is as offended and upset with me as I am with her.

Odd how concerned I am to think that she is unhappy because of me. Can’t forget her miserable little face when she said
This is my home
.

I suppose I treated her badly. She is only fourteen. But I can’t apologise to an illiterate servant-girl. And yet I keep thinking of the way she took a handkerchief and mopped up what I had spilt on her belly with such intense concentration and then when she had done that, she smiled at me as if to reassure me that she was not annoyed. And it’s not her fault that her father and brothers did those things to her.