The Devil in Clevely (Afternoon of an Autocrat) (44 page)

She had got Miss Parsons to bed with a hot brick at her feet and another in the small of her back and a mug of hot blackcurrant tea to warm her inside; and although she was trying to hold fast to the memory of that other place and the glimpse of truth which had been given her, it was fading all the time, just as the pattern on a fabric would fade after repeated washing and exposure to the sunlight.

(Despite all the precautions, Miss Parsons' cold was worse in the morning and by midday she was breathing with a crackling sound as though her chest were stuffed with brittle straw. Damask sent for the doctor, who, when it was all over, said he had never, in all his life, seen more devoted, selfless nursing than that received by this patient. Mr Turnbull, too, happening to pay a visit during this distressing time, was deeply impressed and reassured that in making the new will he had done the right thing. The poor girl hadn't even spared attention for her own appearance and her manner was...well, dedicated. Mr Turnbull disliked high-falutin expressions, but that was the word--dedicated.)

Sir Edward, roused from his bed a little untimely, came down wearing his dressing-gown and nightcap, which gave him a vulnerable look, so that Hadstock found himself breaking the news more gently than he had planned. Even so, Sir Edward was profoundly shocked.

'I'll come back with you at once. What a catastrophe. Have you breakfasted?'

'I didn't feel like it.'

'No, of course; naturally not.' He knew a pang of self-reproach because his own appetite was unimpaired. Still, he reflected, he had positively disliked Mr Mundford on the few occasions he had met him, and had not much cared for Shelmadine except just at first, when his warmth of feeling, he realised later, had been due to relief at finding him less black than he had been painted. Nevertheless this was, of course, a shocking tragedy.

'Poor Lady Shelmadine,' he said feelingly. 'Poor lady! How is she taking it?'

'She is prostrate,' Hadstock said truthfully.

'You look somewhat upset yourself,' said Sir Edward, eyeing Hadstock's haggard, unshaven face and red-rimmed eyes. 'I know what would do us both good,' he went on kindly. He bounced over to the cluttered sideboard and routed about and at last produced a bottle of brandy and two glasses--one clean, one cloudy and smeared. He was rich and the house was full of servants eating their heads off, but he was the worst-served man in England. 'I think we'd better take this up to my room and you can tell me more details while I get into my clothes. This dog, for instance,' he began as he charged up the stairs, 'was it naturally savage? Ever attacked anyone before?'

'Not naturally savage, but it had-bitten Mr Mundford earlier in the day; so Lady Shelmadine brought it over to my cottage and asked me to keep it while Mr Mundford was at the Manor.'

'And didn't you?'

'Yes. I left it locked in, but it broke out through the window.'

'And where were you? Did you not go home last night?'

'No. There is a room above the stables which I use if I have reason to be particularly early in the morning, or if the weather is bad. Last night was foggy.' He was deeply grateful that he had established that habit, otherwise his presence might have given rise to questions.

'Yes, of course. Now there are some points...I was only just awake, you know, and of course vastly shocked. If you wouldn't mind recounting the whole thing again...And I say, do drink that brandy; you look quite grey.' He drank himself and began to climb nimbly into his breeches. 'Now, you heard the dog, you said ...'

So once more, wondering how many times he would have to tell the tale before it was done with, Hadstock told him how he had heard the dog, realised that it had escaped, dressed, lighted his lantern and come down. 'By that time the noise had ceased, but I went towards where I had last heard it, and hunted about and called. I saw the dog first, just on the edge of the park across the drive from the side door of the house. And the bodies lay nearby.'

'Sir Richard stabbed and bleeding to death and Mr Mundford bitten in the throat. What a very terrible thing! And what a mystery. What do you think happened, Hadstock?' Sir Edward shrugged on his coat and buttoned it, his fingers skipping by long practice over the three places where buttons were missing. 'It's hardly for me to say, sir, is it?'

'To hell with modesty, man! This is an inquest. You found the bodies, saw how they lay. Who is better qualified to express an opinion? Wait a minute, I think I hear ...' He went to the window, opened it and poked out his head. 'Brinkley! Hi, Brinkley! I want my horse. What? Yes, of course I mean now. The man's a fool,' he said, closing the window. 'Well now?'

'I can only think that Sir Richard and Mr Mundford heard the dog and went out; that the dog renewed his attack on Mr Mundford, who tried to defend himself; that Sir Richard tried to pull the dog away and was stabbed.'

'With what?' asked Sir Edward sharply.

'Mr Mundford had a carving-knife in his hand. I think the gentlemen were just about to sit down to a late supper. Cards were laid out in the library, and a cold fowl, partially carved, was on the sideboard in the dining-room.'

Sir Edward tested this account, as Linda and Hadstock had done in the small hours, and found it acceptable.

'It might even be that Mr Mundford, knowing the dog's enmity, deliberately armed himself--with what a fatal result,' he said musingly.

'Well, I'm ready now.' But outside the bedroom the good odour of eggs and bacon being fried for the servants' breakfast found its way up the back stairs. He paused and cocked his nose.

'You know, Hadstock, I still think we should have breakfast. By all accounts you've had a shocking night-- and we've a heavy day ahead of us. I'm deeply shocked; old Sir Charles was my closest friend--I was at Clevely when we learned of his sad accident, you know. With Sir Richard I was not, of course, on such intimate terms. Still, it is a shock. But it must be faced, and I think breakfast would help.' He trotted into the dining-room and pulled the bell-rope vigorously. Then, just to show that his mind was still on the affair he said, 'That dog! The dog must be destroyed at once.'

'I have already taken the responsibility for that, sir.'

'Splendid. You seem to have kept your head and thought of everything. How very fortunate for poor Lady Shelmadine that you were on hand.'

Hadstock's lips tightened and a kind of twitch deepened all the lines on one side of his face. 'Yes, the fog served some purpose,' he said.

Sir Edward tugged again at the bell. As he did so another explanation of the affair flashed into his head. Of Mundford he would believe anything, and once or twice he'd seen Shelmadine in a nasty temper. Suppose they'd quarrelled--perhaps over the dog...But even trying that story over in his own mind made him recoil. Gentlemen attacking one another with carving-knives in parks at night...no, no, that would never do. It had all the elements of a first-class scandal, and in these revolutionary times that must be avoided. Sir Edward was regarded as revolutionary himself: he was in favour of a fair wage for a fair day's work; on the Bench he was looked upon as the poachers' friend because he could see what a temptation it was for a hungry man to 'knock off one for the pot'; and he was a ridiculously indulgent employer--but he was a member of the upper class and loyal to his kind. No scandal, no betrayal at any price, he thought stoutly. Even if there were evidence of a quarrel --which, thank God, there seemed not to be--one would have been bound to disregard it, if only for Lady Shelmadine's sake. Poor lady, the shock and the bereavement were quite enough without any scandal. Accidental death in both cases and the whole thing hushed up as soon as possible.

'It'll be a nine days' wonder, I'm afraid,' he said aloud. 'We must try to see it through with as little fuss as possible--for Lady Shelmadine's sake.'

'Yes, indeed,' Hadstock said, and hoped he had not spoken too heartily.

Afternoon of an Autocrat

Sally and Mrs Fuller were waiting supper for Danny. He still rode daily to and fro to Mr Thurlow's office, for he had not yet succeeded in hiring or buying any more land; and anyway they were under notice to quit the house again at Christmas. It had been a shattering blow when, just before Michaelmas, they had been given a quarter's notice and for no reason. Mrs Fuller, too desperate to care whether she gave offence or not, had asked straight out and the new Squire had said, 'I'm not giving reasons, I'm giving you notice!' His death so soon after brought no hope. They'd been through all that before; Sir Charles had given them notice and Sir Charles had died and they'd hoped...but somewhere, obviously, records were kept and Mrs Fuller was certain that notices to quit were written down before they were delivered, otherwise how would anyone have known that Sir Charles had given Steve notice that afternoon.

Danny had said, 'There's a curse on us. Seems we aren't meant to live in Clevely.' He'd talked of selling Cobbler's Corner and all his bullocks and the horse and the furniture and going somewhere farther afield-- America even. And Mrs Fuller had cried and said she couldn't face another move. So then the hunt for land, with or without a house, had become frantic. So far it had been fruitless. But tonight, with the mid-December wind howling about the house, the dumplings gently bumping against the lid of the pot, the babies both asleep, Mrs Fuller and Sally allowed themselves just a little hope as they worked away at a quilt. Tonight, on his way home, Danny had gone to call on Martha Bowyer.

Martha had, in the end, fenced the land that was her heritage. To do that and pay her share of the commissioners' expenses she had been obliged to sell everything else she possessed; every bit of stock, old Clem's plough and wagon and tools, every stick of furniture in the house, and even the gold ear-bobs which her grandmother had left her. And there she was with her neatly fenced barren acres, with not so much as a chicken to run over them, and her snug clodhouse without so much as a stool in it. She'd left them just as they were and gone away one morning, walking to Nettleton to catch the coach, with all the portable goods that she possessed tied up in one of Clem's red handkerchiefs. That had been in June. Then, two days ago, she had appeared again, carrying the same bundle, and gone to her little farm and lighted a fire, borrowed a scythe from the Wellmans and cut down the nettles and docks about the house, and when darkness fell had gone and hired a room at the Black Horse. The news spread about the village, accompanied by the obvious explanation--she was tidying up the place preparatory to selling it. So tonight Danny had gone to make her a bid.

It was no good; they knew that before they saw him. He'd have shouted as he rode into the yard. He came quietly, and when he dismounted his footsteps were as heavy and springless as those of the old, cheap horse. Sally got up quickly and ran to the door. 'I'll see to it You get into the warm,' she said as she joined him. It was her delight to wait upon him now.

'Now, you go in, Sal. It's going to snow.'

'I'll help,' she said. 'You didn't get it, did you?'

'No,' he said, shortly; adding after a moment, 'you'd never guess why!'

'Why?' Her interest was without a tinge of disappointment, Clevely or anywhere else in the world all one to her as long as Danny was there.

'I'll tell you inside. I can't go through it twice.'

They busied themselves with the horse, closed the stable door and crossed the yard.

'Did she ask too much? Mrs Fuller asked in a flat voice, barely looking up from dishing the dumplings. 'No. She's going to be married.'

'What! Martha Bowyer? She must be fifty and more like a cart-horse than a woman,' cried Mrs Fuller.

'Maybe. Nevertheless she's going to be married. And why do you think she's back in Clevely?'

'To sell her place, of course.'

'No. This man she went to keep house for asked her to marry him on Sunday night. She said yes, and left on Monday morning because it wouldn't be right for an engaged couple to be under the one roof. She said that, solemn as a judge; she did, truly.'

Danny leaned back in his chair and laughed. Sally joined in the laughter, and so, after a moment's hesitation, did Mrs Fuller.

'That beats all,' she said. 'But what about her place, Danny?'

'They're going to live there. The man has a bit of money--enough to stock the place anyway.

The last glint of amusement faded from Mrs Fuller's eyes, leaving them cold and curiously empty.

'I see,' she said. 'Then there's only one glimmer of hope left. We'll hev to ask Lady Shelmadine to let us stay on.'

Danny's spirits rushed downwards at this new proof of tenacity to a place; he said, a trifle sharply: 'You can't count on that I She'd be bound to stick to what he said--him dying so lately and the way he did!'

'I don't see it,' said Mrs Fuller, setting her mouth stubbornly. 'I been through all that. Your dad died sudden; but if he'd done something mean and cruel just afore he died--which he never would, as we all know-- I'd of been only too glad to put it right. And if you're too backward to go and ask, then I will.'

'I don't see the point of stopping on at Clevely where I can't get my hands on any arable,' Danny said. 'How can I get on, buying all my winter feed at millers' prices and with nowhere to put my good muck? This way I'll be stuck in that old office till I die!' He looked sulky and attacked his dumplings as though they had done him an injury. Sally waited in vain for a word of praise.

It was then that a knock fell on the door. They all jumped at the sound. It was late for callers.

Danny rose and went to the door and opened it cautiously, gave an exclamation of surprise and widened the aperture, the wind-whipped colour in his thin face deepening a little as he said: 'Hullo.'

'Hullo, Danny,' Damask said. 'I wanted to ask you something.'

'Oh, did you?' said Danny in a rough voice. 'Well, I once asked you something. Remember? Whatever you want with me, the answer is the same as I got.'

'Danny Fuller!' said his mother. 'Step in, Damask. Come to the fire.'