with a dimpled chin and, sitting now beside the hearth in the little kitchen-parlour of the gatehouse with her hands demurely clasped in the lap of her black dress, she had rather the air of a gentlewoman receiving a morning call. And her home did seem remarkably comfortable. The firelight was dancing on two copper pans above the hearth and on the polished wood of a good, solid table and chest; there was a cream jug on the window sill filled with sprays of red leaves. And Dido noticed that the candle in its pewter stand upon the mantelshelf was made of wax, not cheap tallow.
The little girl was sitting beside her mother – and trying to make the china doll eat bread and milk from her bowl.
‘Mr Montague has, I believe, gone to town on business of his father’s?’ said Dido cautiously.
‘Yes, miss, that is what I heard.’
‘Do you know – did he happen to mention that morning – what that business might be?’
‘No, he did not.’ But as she said that she turned away and began to chide the child for spilling milk on her pinafore. ‘Eat it up now, Susan. It’s for you, not the dolly.’
‘Did he say anything else to you?’ persisted Dido.
There was a sigh. ‘He said that he expected to be gone a long while and…’
‘And?’
Another sigh, then Mrs Holmes turned away from the child and her bright blue eyes met Dido’s gaze. ‘He said that…there was trouble between him and his father.’
‘I see.’ Dido held her eyes. Colour was creeping up her cheeks. ‘And did it surprise you, Mrs Holmes, that Mr Montague should confide in you in that way?’
There was silence for a moment, broken only by the ringing of Susan’s spoon in her bowl and the bubbling of the black kettle on the hearth.
‘No, miss,’ came the reply at last, spoken very quietly. ‘No, it did not surprise me. I have known Mr Montague all his life and he has always been a good friend to me.’ There was a pause. ‘And I hope that, in my way, I have been a friend to him.’
‘A friend to whom he can speak without reserve?’
‘Yes, miss. We were children together here at Belsfield, you see, because my father used to be Sir Edgar’s head gardener. And Mr Montague was always a kind-hearted boy.’
Dido smiled. ‘I understand,’ she said. Then after a moment’s thought she added, ‘Since you are so well acquainted with Mr Montague, I wonder if you would be so kind as to tell me a little about him. What kind of a young man is he? You see,’ she added confidingly, ‘I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting him and it seems as if my visit may end before he returns. And since my favourite niece is engaged to him…I would particularly like to be able to tell my sister a little about the young man. She worries so about Catherine!’
Annie’s blue eyes were wary; her fingers wove together tightly in her lap. ‘I would have thought, miss, you could learn more from his ma and pa.’
‘But someone of nearly the same age… Someone who has grown up beside him…’
‘I’m sorry, miss,’ came the firm reply. ‘It’s not my place to speak about him.’
‘Ah well,’ said Dido, drawing her pelisse around her as if preparing to leave, ‘it is a shame. I had so wanted to have something
That shot hit home. ‘And why,’ asked Mrs Holmes sharply, ‘would your sister think badly of him?’
‘Well, because of the way he has behaved, of course. He has been so very thoughtless. Leaving my niece alone on the very day after their engagement is announced – and staying away without any word sent of when he is to come home.’
‘But that was his pa’s doing. He sent him away.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Truly, miss, if Sir Edgar said go, then Rich— Mr Montague, he’d go. And ask no questions about it. He’d do anything to please his pa. That always was his way.’
Ah! thought Dido, at last I am hearing something to the point about young Richard. ‘Do you mean that Mr Montague is afraid of his father?’ she asked.
Annie looked confused. ‘Not exactly afraid,’ she said quickly. ‘He’s just always wanted to make Sir Edgar proud of him, that’s all. And he never could quite manage it. Never. Not clever enough with his books. Not brave enough about riding his pony. It was always the same. I’ve always thought it was because—’ She recollected herself and stopped.
‘What is it that you think?’
‘No, miss,’ said Mrs Holmes with a shake of the head that dislodged a bright curl from her cap. ‘It’s not for me to talk about it. That was hardly fair just now; you tricked me into speaking out. But I hope you will be good enough not to tell anyone what I’ve said.’
‘Of course I will not. Anything you say is quite between ourselves.’ She waited, hoping that this would be enough encouragement to make her go on. But the young woman was in control of herself now and resolutely held her peace, her eyes cast down upon her clasped hands. ‘I believe you were going to tell me why it was so hard for Mr Montague to please his father.’
Mrs Holmes’ cheeks burnt red and she shook her head again. ‘No, miss, I can’t say. In every family there are secrets, things no one talks about.’
Such an opening! Such an invitation for further questions! But looking at the head bowed in the firelight, Dido recollected that, for all her strange, dainty ways, Annie Holmes was a servant and a dependent of the Montague family. It would be unpardonable to force a confidence from her. Reluctantly, she stood up to go.
Mrs Holmes followed her to the door, but at the moment of parting, as they stood together upon the step, blinking in the sudden light of the sun, she turned up a troubled face and said suddenly and all in a rush, ‘Miss, I’d be as glad as you to know what the trouble is with R— Mr Montague and I’m truly sorry I can’t say more – it wouldn’t be right. But I will say this – it’s not so difficult to figure out why Sir Edgar has always been hard on him, miss. If you were to go up into the gallery at the great house and just look about you, I think you might begin to understand it.’
And then she made her bob and closed the door before Dido could recover from her surprise and ask another question.
* * *
Dido walked slowly down the wet drive towards the house. The sun was beginning to break through in bright, sharp rays and blackbirds were busy in the laurels, shaking down little showers of water from the overburdened leaves. She had a great deal to think about: that comfortable little parlour, Mrs Holmes’ assured manner, her way of speaking of Mr Montague… But she had liked the woman. There had seemed to be an appealing honesty about her… No, not honesty exactly, rather a desire to be honest. She had wanted to say more than she dared.
And what was it that she was supposed to discover in the gallery? What was there besides all those old Sir Edgars peering out of their dingy brown paint?
But at least she felt nearer to understanding Mr Montague himself. A nervous young man, lacking in confidence and standing in awe of his father. Perhaps Margaret was right and Catherine’s affection for him was founded on the certainty that he would be easily managed.
She had now reached the steps that led to the front door and there was Catherine herself running down to meet her with a look of great excitement on her face. Clearly something so momentous had occurred as to make her forget, for a while at least, her great displeasure with her aunt.
‘Aunt Dido,’ she cried, ‘I have been looking everywhere for you. Where have you been?’
‘Just talking to the gatekeeper.’
Catherine frowned. ‘I don’t admire your taste in company! But listen, Sir Edgar has just told me the strangest thing! One of the footmen has told him that he heard a man talking in the shrubbery on Monday – at about twelve o’clock – which is about the time when they think that woman was killed.’
‘Indeed? That is very interesting.’
‘It seems the footman had been sent out with a message for the gardener and he went down onto the lower lawn looking for him. And he heard a voice talking quietly within the shrubbery. He could not see, of course, because the hedge was in the way. But he heard the voice clearly and he is sure it was—’
