The Keeper of Secrets (14 page)

It was inevitable that those in the house should hear some of the commotion of Matthew’s departure, and I braced myself for the swift arrival of either Susan or Jem. In the event, it was Mrs Trent who emerged, raising an eyebrow and mouthing, ‘Lizzie?’

Deducing from my solemn inclination of the head that this must be the case, she disappeared, returning in an instant with Susan, whose eyes were round with terror.

I walked to meet her, and returned to the bench Matthew had vacated, my arm about her shoulders.

‘My poor child,’ I said, with all the tenderness at my command, as I seated her beside me, ‘I have to tell you that your sweet sister is no more. I found her yesterday afternoon, in the Priory woods. At present her body lies at Dr Hansard’s.’

Susan nodded, having regained her composure commendably quickly. She took me aback with her next question. ‘Has she been dead long?’

‘Why do you ask?’ And why had I never put that question myself to Dr Hansard?

‘I don’t like to think of her falling and getting covered by snow. And it’s been such a very hard winter.’

‘I think she died very quickly,’ I temporised, not judging her
ready for all the facts yet. The rate that the rumour was speeding about the village, however, I was not optimistic.

‘Does my mother know yet?’

‘Dr Hansard and I broke the news to her this morning, before we told anyone else.’

‘And Matthew knows. And Jem?’

‘Not yet. Nor Mrs Beckles. And I would rather you spoke of it to no one,’ I added. ‘I am sure you will wish to spend a few days with your mother so that you may comfort each other.’

‘Must I go?’ she asked, with strong reluctance.

‘Your mother has lost her elder daughter. It is your duty – as you love your mother – to support her at this difficult time,’ I had said firmly, unprepared for the reply that so shocked me.

‘It is your duty to love your family,’ Susan said carefully, ‘but I do not see how you have to like them. Mother never liked Lizzie.’ She lifted her chin with what seemed defiance.

Nonplussed, I said, ‘I’m sure she loved her, as a mother should. And I’m sure you loved her as a sister.’

She nodded. ‘But Mama never did like Lizzie, you see, Mr Campion. At least, that was how it seemed to me.’

‘Not like a daughter who was beautiful and kind and good!’

‘I think she’d have liked her better if she’d been squat and brown like me,’ Susan said, with a tone of voice I could not identify.

‘Why should you think such a thing?’

‘I don’t know. It was the way she looked at her. Everyone made such a fuss of Lizzie, you see. Strangers would toss her a penny just to see her smile.’

‘But would not that make your mother love her more?’

She shook her head.

‘Did you love her, but not like her?’

She shrugged. ‘At least I always had her hand-me-downs,’ she said, implicitly accepting the accusation. ‘Until she went into service, at least. Sometimes she used to smuggle me an apple or some cake in church.’

‘So she was kind?’

‘Someone would always see her doing it and smile. And then they would look from her to me, as if they could not believe their eyes. Do you have a big brother, Mr Campion?’

I was disconcerted by the question, but answered directly, ‘I do. And two sisters older than me, and one younger.’

‘Is your big brother very handsome?’

His portrait by Lawrence certainly suggested so. ‘Yes.’

‘And very rich?’

‘Richer than me.’

‘And did you never want to be your big brother?’

And inherit three titles, more acres that this child could imagine – and more money than even I could comprehend, especially after my sojourn here at Moreton St Jude? Smiling, I shook my head. ‘Did you want to be your big sister?’

‘I would have liked to be as beautiful. But if I had been her, I would be dead now, would I not?’

A hand clenched about my heart. It had nothing to do with Lizzie’s death, but her living sister’s pain, only some of which, I was sure, was caused by her loss. ‘Susan, you are not grown yet. You will become as lovely to look at as Lizzie. And meantime you are just as kind and good.’ Turning her face to me, I smoothed her hair where it struggled from its little cap.

She shook her head resolutely. ‘Lizzie was beautiful from a
baby, they say. Tell me, Mr Campion, sir, did you ever see eyes the colour of hers? Except on angels in church windows? And look at my eyes, and tell me whether men will ever look at me like they looked at her!’

I was astounded. Half of me wished to rebuke her for want of maidenly modesty, the other wished to be able to tell her truthfully that better men would look at her in better ways. If only Hansard had been here – he would have advised me. No, he would have said spontaneously exactly what was right.

‘And it’s no good your telling me that God loves me as I am!’ She gave a violent sob.

‘You know that He does.’ I took her hand, and then pulled her towards me so that she could cry on my shoulder. A casual observer would have seen me comforting a bereaved child. Perhaps I was. But I was also pondering what she was had said about Lizzie’s relationship with the rest of her little family. Moreover, who was it that poor Susan would have liked to be loved by? She was coming to an age when it was usual for young ladies to fancy themselves in love. My sister Harriet, for instance, was once so besotted with the pastry chef that he had to be sent to the London house until she got over him.

She was speaking again. ‘I really do not have to go back to Mama’s cottage, do I? Pray say I don’t, Mr Campion.’ I could see her grasping for a reason. ‘Mrs Trent needs me too much here. You know that she is spring-cleaning, and I do not see how she can get on without me,’ she added with a note of triumph.

‘If your mama needs you, then I fear that the
spring-cleaning
must be done without you – or perhaps when you come back. I will speak to your mother, and to Mrs Trent.’

Defeated, she rose to her feet. Then she turned those big brown eyes to mine. ‘You said that she died quickly. Did she fall and break her neck or did someone kill her?’

‘I can’t imagine why you should think that!’

‘Because you speak as if you are concealing a secret.’

I believe I blushed. ‘I have told you nothing but the truth.’ Not, of course, I conceded under my breath, the whole truth. Perhaps to expiate, I said, ‘Now, Susan, I have a mind to go across to the church to say Matins. It would be an honour if you would accompany me there. Fetch your cloak and bonnet and we will go directly.’

To my sad amusement, Susan was more preoccupied with the state of the church woodwork than with the timeless words I uttered.

‘All that lovely carving, Mr Campion, on those funny chairs in the chancel,’ she said, as she bustled back to the rectory by my side.

‘The choir stalls?’

‘That’s it – it’s sinful that everything’s all clogged up with dust. I don’t know how Mrs Clark let them get like that.’

There was no need to tell her that Mrs Clark was so unwell it was hard for her to lift her hand, let alone a duster, and that none of Hansard’s remedies could arrest her disease.

‘Can’t I take a damp duster to them, and then a nice bit of beeswax?’

‘Of course you can,’ I said, touched that of all those who worshipped regularly it should be she who wanted to take responsibility for the lovely old fabric. On the other hand, it might have been a subtle attempt to persuade me that she was
too valuable to part with. ‘But first we must pay a visit to your mama. Go and ask Mrs Trent to pack a basket of things she may find useful.’

Her walk indoors was far less purposeful.

So, indeed, was my own. I had the unenviable task of telling Jem what had befallen a woman of whom he was not the acknowledged lover but whom everyone told me he adored. My secret but despicable hope was that he had already heard, and would have prepared himself for what he must have known would be an uncomfortable interview.

With a heart heavy at my cowardice and inadequacy, I dawdled into the stable yard.

Hands in pockets, Jem was waiting for me. ‘They say you found her.’

‘And you were the next to be told,’ I said.

‘I’d like to see her.’

‘She’s—’ I glanced to see that Susan could not overhear ‘—she’s not…her body has been—’

‘I shall see worse when I join up, I daresay.’

‘“Join up”?’

Uncharacteristically, he spat. ‘You’re settled here; she’s gone – what’s to keep me?’

Where the words issuing out of my mouth came from, I have no idea, but I thanked the Almighty for them. ‘Because I need you to help me find her murderer!’

Mrs Trent packed a basket of comforting food and drink for Mrs Woodman; it lay behind the seat with the rush-basket containing a few items of clothing I had insisted Susan bring in preparation for a short stay. After much pleading, I had
agreed that it need not be mentioned unless Mrs Woodman particularly expressed her desire for her remaining daughter’s company.

Off we headed in my gig, Jem teaching her how to drive, he said, to an inch. We went via the Priory, in order to break the news to Mrs Beckles ourselves. I, however, would have staked the National Debt that Dr Hansard had been there before us, and indeed, when she heard us arrive, Mrs Beckles ran from the house.

‘It’s a bad business,’ she said, speaking equally to us all. ‘And I am truly sorry for your loss.’ It would have been impossible to say to whom she addressed the words – all of us, no doubt. ‘Susan, I hear that there are some new-hatched chickens in the kitchen garden. Do you think your mother might find them useful? Off you go and get some. Good girl.’ Turning to us, she said, ‘I hear it was an unnatural death.’

‘It was. I am taking Jem to pay his respects to her.’

‘With Susan?’

‘We are taking her to spend a few days with her mother – as a comfort.’

‘Of course. But do not let it be too long a stay, Tobias. Mrs Woodman is not the most sociable of women, and while I dare swear that having Susan’s company might do the mother good, I cannot believe that the mother’s will assist the daughter. Now, I do believe that I could lay my hands on some mourning garments for the pair of them – do you care to come into the house for a glass of wine while I search? No? I will be back in an instant.’

She rightly judged that neither was fit for company. We did not speak until Susan came running, still, however much she wanted to be a grown woman, an energetic child. She had
three chickens in an old trug, covered with what looked like a scarecrow’s hat. Even as we settled our new passengers, Mrs Beckles returned, nodding with pleasure as she watched Susan lift a corner of the hat to stroke a fluffy head.

‘Always balance a death with a new birth,’ Mrs Beckles whispered, as she passed up a bundle of clothing.

Susan was separated from her new charges only by a further driving lesson, Jem as infinitely patient as his father had been when he had taught me.

‘There,’ he said, lifting her down, ‘soon you’ll be a first-rate fiddler. If only the Four Horse Club would admit ladies, I swear you’d be the first to be elected.’

She turned away almost pettishly at his well-meant jest. But soon she was in charity with him again, as he kept her outside Mrs Woodman’s cottage to help repair a primitive henhouse, long since fallen into desuetude.

‘I have brought Susan to keep you company,’ I told Mrs Woodman, who had opened her door sharply at the sound of sudden laughter.

‘So I see. And how am I supposed to feed her?’

I produced the basket of food. The clothing was more warmly received, and, without prompting, she asked me to convey her thanks to Mrs Beckles. At this point Susan, mindful of her duty, or, more probably, reminded of it by Jem, presented herself. With her hands full of yellow fluff, smiling at her benefactor, she conveyed all the excitement of life, not death. At least the child would have something to love while she stayed until just after the funeral, an arrangement we had swiftly agreed on.

As Jem and I regarded the sheet covering the corpse, Dr Hansard called me.

I left the cellar, carefully closing the door behind me, guessing the summons was spurious. Jem should have his moment alone with her.

‘I cannot believe that either young man was responsible for the poor girl’s death. Nevertheless, I discouraged Matthew from doing more than lay a hand on her shroud in farewell.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘What has filled your nose, your eyes, your mind since your sad discovery?’ Hansard asked, holding my gaze. ‘Can you, with such knowledge, imagine continuing your courtship of another young maid? Let the young man be a pall-bearer. Let him – if he can – read a lesson at her obsequies, much though that will offend Jem. But let us preserve him from the present sight of a woman he loved in the flesh…’

‘And Jem?’

‘As you heard, I asked him not to disturb her shroud. If he disregards my request, then—’ Hansard shrugged expressively.

At this moment Jem appeared. He was as white as the sheet with which Hansard had covered Lizzie. He looked straight at me, almost repeating my earlier words. ‘When do we begin our hunt for her killer?’

We adjourned to Dr Hansard’s study to review the situation; this time, he retained his wig. He poured us all wine, including Jem, who was as controlled as he was white.

‘The coroner – Sir Willard Comfrey once more, Tobias – will hold the inquest tomorrow,’ Hansard said baldly. ‘There is no doubt that Sir Willard will direct the jury to bring in a verdict of unlawful killing. Matthew will almost certainly be questioned, and Tobias will be called upon to give evidence about how he found her, but I do not see any need you to be called, Jem, since your admiration for Lizzie was not common knowledge.’

‘I would trust – I
do
trust – Jem with my life,’ I declared. ‘With anyone’s life.’

Jem nodded, but said nothing. He took a sip of wine. ‘Where will the inquest take place?’ he asked with apparent calm.

Hansard replied, ‘There will no doubt be considerable interest. I have left a note asking for Lord Elham’s permission to hold it in one of his rooms.’

‘And you expect Lord Elham to admit hoi polloi to his premises?’ I snorted. ‘When he himself might be the murderer?’

Jem gasped.

‘We can discount no young man in the area,’ Hansard said smoothly, casting a warning look in my direction. ‘The due process of law must be observed, when there are outward and visible signs that poor Lizzie’s death could not possibly have been the result of natural causes.’

‘Who will comprise the jury?’ I asked. ‘And will the questions be any more searching than at the inquest into the late Lord Elham’s death?’

‘They can scarce be otherwise,’ Hansard replied. ‘In any case, I have taken the precaution of asking a fellow doctor to examine the body. He will be arriving shortly. And then we must arrange the funeral.’

‘Another doctor?’ Jem repeated, with anger rather than doubt. ‘It’s obvious how she died! You’ve just said so yourself. Begging your pardon,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘All too obvious. But not how soon after her journey back from London she died. If we are trying to find a killer, we need to know this, do we not? Tobias? Are you unwell?’

I blinked hard. ‘This morning, when I broke the news to Susan, she asked when Lizzie had been killed. She hated to think of her dying of cold.’

‘I take it you did not reveal the true cause of death?’

‘How could I? Or…the other injury…’

We were interrupted by the sound of a carriage arriving. Within seconds, Mrs Page was ushering in a man no older than Jem, with a familiar handsome face topped by a haircut as fashionable as his coat.

‘Dr Toone. Thank you for coming at such short notice. May I introduce two good friends of mine, Parson Campion and
Jem—’ He stopped short: he’d never heard Jem granted the courtesy of a surname.

‘Turbeville,’ I supplied, as seamlesslessly as I could. It was clear that Toone had still not recognised me in my clerical bands. I would not remind him yet of our acquaintance, however, the circumstances having been not altogether auspicious.

Dr Toone beamed delightedly me, seizing a glass of wine as if he had spent a month in a desert and plunging into talk about the European situation before he was even seated. In fact, when offered a chair, he declined it, out of the blue declaring that he was there to do a job, and do a job he must.

Jem and I did not expect an invitation to join the medical men, and would, I dare swear, have declined it had it been forthcoming.

‘You were not serious about joining the army?’ I asked to fill the sudden awkward silence.

‘I cannot see my way forward, Toby, and that’s a fact. Not in any direction.’

‘I understand. By now you should have been in charge of the stables of a great house, with all the responsibility and rewards that such a position entails. Instead, your loyalty to me has made you settle for a backwater like this where you are kicking your heels for hours upon end. I can see that you have transformed the stables that Hetherington left, and that the horses are in tiptop condition, but you must hate the periods of idleness I inflict upon you.’ I would not remark on the difference between our stations in life, even with my much diminished income. Any attempt I had made to be generous had always been rebuffed, with a gentle
admonition that what I offered was not seemly.

‘That’s what a servant does, wait for his master’s call,’ he said, without a note of criticism. ‘And I have you to thank for my being able to read to fill my time. When we come to the Park here, I don’t bother with books, because there’s no denying the stories of India and such Turner tells in the kitchen while away the time nicely. And there’s good companionship too at the Priory, even when Lizzie is – when Lizzie
was
– called away to mend her ladyship’s flounce or some such. But losing Lizzie – even though she and I hardly – has cast me adrift. If only it were harvest time, you’d never see a scythe used so swiftly,’ he gestured, as if extreme physical activity would numb his pain.

I nodded my understanding. ‘At least I have my work about the parish,’ I said, tacitly acknowledging that I understood his grief because I shared it.

‘But I doubt if you’ll want to stay here for much longer.’

‘I cannot quit my place until we have laid Lizzie to rest and seen justice done.’

He clapped me on the shoulder, as he’d done when we were boys, and I’d mastered a cricket stroke he’d been trying to teach me. ‘Yes, Toby, we’ll worry about all this when we’ve done our duty.’ He said no more, withdrawing to stare at the garden, or at something in his imagination.

Rather than disturb the mood by ringing for a servant, I made up the fire myself, and tried to settle beside it. At last I said, ‘I saw you and Lizzie exchange a glance the first day you met. Certainly her feelings for Matthew diminished from that day forth. And – just before her ladyship left – Lizzie wished to speak to me “as a parson”. I think she wanted to talk about you.’

‘Not about you?’

‘She never regarded me as more than a pious schoolmaster. I confess that her new learning would have made her an apter parson’s wife than had she remained unlettered, but she never once looked at me as she looked at you.’

Still staring into the distance, he nodded two or three times. Then he straightened. ‘Thank you, Toby.’

The clock ticked by many heavy minutes before the two doctors reappeared, laughing heartily about something. I could see Jem tighten his jaw in resentment; indeed, it was hard to comprehend how anyone could be mirthful in such circumstances. They both smelt strongly of lavender water, something it transpired that Dr Toone liked to wipe over his hands after washing them.

‘Well?’ Jem asked at last, more master than man.

No doubt Hansard had explained to Toone how someone clearly dressed as a groom should be on equal terms with us, and it was the younger doctor who responded, ‘We have a slight difficulty.’

Jem opened his mouth, a derisive expression on his face.

Hansard hurried to explain. ‘It concerns what Tobias mentioned earlier, the time, not the manner, of death.’

‘But that was only Susan’s fancy!’ I objected.

He shook his head. ‘Sometimes fancies lead to great discoveries. In this case, my distinguished colleague here noticed some damage to the tissues – to Lizzie’s body – that he cannot explain. We are both wondering… But that need not concern us now. I believe we will find a nuncheon in the breakfast parlour, so I suggest that we adjourn there, gentlemen.’

Jem hung back. ‘It would only cause awkwardness, Tobias. So let me be. I shall keep my ears open backstairs, as I’m sure you will do with the medical men.’

There was no doubt that the doctors were more relaxed without him. Whereas Edmund no longer touched cards, it seemed that Toone was still a gambler. Now apparently rusticating, he had a passion for horse-racing that kept him perpetually poor, which was why he had turned his hand – and, I suspect, his considerable intelligence – to medicine. They resolutely kept their conversation general till I had finished my repast, and prepared to leave them. Since there was no doubt that the coroner would release the poor corpse for burial, it was now my task to arrange Lizzie’s obsequies.

Scarcely to my surprise, through his steward, Mr Davies, Lord Elham denied permission to use any part of the Priory for the inquest. Mr Davies added that his lordship was no longer in residence, and that his absence this time promised to be protracted. During this period, a great deal of redecoration had to be undertaken in the larger rooms, an excuse which did not seem even to have convinced poor Davies. So, lacking any other large enough building, the coroner sat in the solemn surroundings of St Jude’s, the lectern doing duty for the witness stand. Despite the continued warm spring sunshine, which positively summoned workers to the fields and to their gardens, many of the villagers presented themselves, with a jury being swiftly selected.

I gave evidence of having found poor Lizzie’s body, and explained my subsequent actions. Edmund described her injuries, beginning with the slit throat and concluding with
the information that brought the temporary courtroom into uproar, that Lizzie had been further violated. One woman fainted. Two men looked as if they were ready to.

Then, very solemnly, Edmund asked the coroner for permission to introduce Dr Toone. ‘I am a lowly country physician,’ he explained, with a self-deprecating smile. ‘My colleague here is an expert in what happens after death.’

‘I take it that you mean what happens to the body, not to the soul?’ Comfrey asked with a smirk.

Edmund bowed. ‘May he have permission to speak?’

Toone hardly waited for permission. In an instant, he was on his feet, clutching the Bible and swearing his oath as the jury and onlookers gave an audible gasp.

Sir Willard viewed him without notable enthusiasm, obviously preferring his medical information to come from older and possibly wiser lips. ‘I cannot see any need for another opinion, Dr Hansard,’ he said, ‘but clearly my objections have been pre-empted.’

Assuredly they had. Dr Hansard had once told me that everything about me declared me to have been born into the
ton
; looking at Toone through the eyes of the villagers, I could see exactly what he meant. His bearing, his demeanour were those of a gentleman, an impression hardly denied by the London elegance of his coat. His cravat was snow-white, tied as exquisitely as if he were bound for Boodle’s or White’s. As for his boots, you would almost believe the claim made by most valets that the only polish to use involved champagne in the recipe. Could anyone believe the word of such a fine buck?

‘Tell me, Dr Toone, do your conclusions differ in some way from Dr Hansard’s?’

‘They do not differ, rather they augment his findings. Dr Hansard has testified that Miss Woodman’s throat was cut and that damage was inflicted on her lower abdomen. What he did not tell you was that her womb was removed.’ Overriding the murmurs of horror, he continued, ‘We found it buried a little apart from the body. Although it had endured the same ravages of decomposition as the rest of the cadaver, it was possible to determine with close examination what I believe to be a salient fact. At the time of her death, Miss Woodman was with child.’

I know not what I said or did. At last, the hubbub erupting around us, I came to my senses sufficiently to catch Edmund’s eye. Surely this could not be true! A slight but solemn inclination of the head confirmed the awful words.

Toone barely waited for a lull before continuing, ‘I fear I cannot give an opinion about the time the poor young lady died. The decomposition is such that in normal circumstances I should have suggested that it was about two or three weeks ago. But there is something about the tissue – something – no, I cannot give my oath as to when she might have met her end. But I would speculate—’

‘We will deal in facts, not speculation,’ Sir Willard said. ‘You may stand down. Mrs Woodman, please take the stand.’

Peering over his spectacles at the poor woman, so blue about the lips I feared for her health, he asked severely, ‘Was your daughter married?’

The mother might not have liked her daughter but the shock of hearing such a question in such a public place was too much for her. She tottered, and would have fallen had it
not been for Dr Toone’s swift response. Sweeping her up, he carried her bodily from the church.

‘I think I can record that as a negative,’ the coroner said.

‘Indeed you may not,’ I objected, rising to my feet. ‘Miss Woodman did not find it easy to write; her mother is almost certainly completely unlettered. Miss Woodman might not have been able to obtain a frank; she would not have wished a poor widow to bear the cost of receiving a letter that would have been useless. Lady Elham,’ I continued, rather more calmly, ‘has informed me that Miss Woodman left her service for Lady Templemead, but soon left that place too. The clear implication was that a young man was involved. For a young lady of Lizzie’s good character that would mean only one thing, marriage.’

‘I fear that that is pure conjecture, Parson. Your idealism does you credit, young man, but let me assure you that in the lower orders, a test of the woman’s fertility before marriage is almost the norm. Common-law marriage—’

‘—which is no marriage at all, not in the eyes of the Church!’

‘—is the nearest many couples get to the legal state. It is enough for them and for their neighbours.’

My head swam. Could I really believe that Lizzie…?

Assured of his audience, Comfrey steepled his hands with a self-satisfaction I would have liked to smash. ‘Miss Woodman would not be the first young woman to give way to the urgings of a man she loved and who promised her love in return.’

I could not argue. It had been true of my predecessor’s serving maid. As soon as Mr Hetherington had discovered the
young lady in the case to be with child, he had married her forthwith and they were now – quite respectably – man and wife. Why, even in more exalted circles like my own family’s, once the heir had been provided, with possibly a second son as insurance, married couples could go much their own ways, provided that discretion – and thus the decencies – were preserved.