thought it? Mr Tom who seemed such a pleasant lively young man – though a little bit too free, perhaps, in the way he spoke; but he was very young and you had to pardon him for that and, to be sure, you wouldn’t want to see him hanged for it, would you? Though, by the by, Mr Harris had never thought very highly of the young man, which was probably on account of the acquaintances he kept. People out in India that he had known, and Mr Harris had known too and had no great opinion of them. But still! Murder!
Dido ventured to hope that it was not quite certain that Mr Lomax must be hanged.
But, bless her soul! It seemed as if he would be. Because she had it on very good authority from her own maid who had spoken to the cook who was the sister of the under-gardener, that the footman – or the gardener’s boy – or someone – had actually heard Tom Lomax in the shrubbery – murdering the young woman! Actually heard him!
Dido suggested that it was perhaps not quite murder which the boy had heard.
But it was. Shouting and shooting and the woman crying out pitifully. He heard it all. And now there was Mr Tom in the library and without a doubt he’d be dragged off to the assizes before he could look about him. And the Lord only knew what the poor dear girls would say about it. They were so sensitive and tender-hearted. It was a shocking thing for them to have to hear.
And with this Mrs Harris hurried away to find ‘the poor dear girls’ so that no one else might have the pleasure of shocking them.
Left on her own, Dido made her way slowly to the main staircase and down into the hall – which seemed to be tranquil and deserted now. The great clock ticked ponderously in its corner, the black and white tiles shone in testimony of the housemaids’ labours, a fire of logs blazed cheerfully in the high basket grate and on the rug before it Sir Edgar’s favourite spaniel dozed, her paws and nose twitching as she sought out woodcock in her dreams. Opposite the stairs was the door to the library and it was, as she had expected, closed. She hesitated for a moment; reluctant to go away, yet not wanting to be suspected of eavesdropping. And as she stood with her hand upon the newel post, she saw that, after all, the place was not quite deserted.
A small movement drew her eye to a chair by the fire, a big, old-fashioned chair with a hood to it that all but concealed its occupant. She stepped forward and saw that Mr Harris was sitting there – in a state of great distress.
He was leaning forward with his hands planted upon his knees and his weather-beaten face had turned to a dangerous purple colour. His mouth was moving frantically, but no sound was coming out of it. He seemed to be experiencing some kind of seizure.
‘Mr Harris, are you unwell?’ She hurried to his side. ‘Shall I ring the bell? Shall I send for your man?’
‘No.’ He made a great effort to control himself. ‘No, no, I am quite well, thank you, my dear. Just a little overcome, just for a moment.’
‘Let me call for help…a glass of wine perhaps.’
‘No,’ he said more firmly. ‘No, there is no need at all to distress yourself, Miss Kent. I am only resting for a moment.’ He got to his feet. ‘There is something I must do. A duty. Not pleasant, but it must be done.’
And with that he put back his portly shoulders, crossed the hall, knocked upon the library door and entered without waiting for an answer from within.
As the door closed behind him, Dido sank thoughtfully into the hooded chair. Now, what, she wondered, was Mr Harris’s business with Sir Edgar and Tom Lomax? Something unpleasant.
There were, she thought, two possibilities. Firstly there was the business of how Tom could have been in the shrubbery when everyone had been led to believe that he had not left the spinney. She recollected that, according to Mr Lomax’s account, only Mr Harris had been able to vouch for Tom’s remaining with the shooting party. Was Mr Harris now having to admit that he had not told the truth about that?
And secondly, if Mrs Harris was to be believed, there were acquaintances her husband had in common with Tom. Was it possible that, through them, he knew of something to Tom’s disadvantage? Something which he now felt it was his duty to communicate to Sir Edgar?
Dido sank back as far as she could to hide herself in the hooded chair and resolved to wait until the men left the library. Despite what she had just written to Eliza, she could not be uncurious on this subject. Nor could she quite believe that it had no bearing upon the trouble between Catherine and Mr Montague.
She would wait until the gentlemen emerged. Then she might be able to judge from their behaviour something of what had passed between them.
But concealment proved difficult for, no sooner had she settled into the chair than the dog woke and came to sit beside her, with a hot, friendly paw placed upon her lap. Catherine, coming down the stairs a moment later, saw immediately that there was someone sitting in the chair. And, rather unfortunately, Catherine seemed to be in a very good temper. She was all smiles and friendliness.
‘Oh, there you are, Aunt Dido!’ she cried peering around the hood. ‘I have been looking everywhere for you!’
‘Well, now that you know that I am safe, you may leave me in peace to think, may you not? And you can take this dog away with you.’
‘There is no need to be so peevish,’ said Catherine, dropping into a chair on the opposite side of the hearth. ‘It is very ungrateful of you, when I have been all morning spreading your fame as a future-gazer. Mrs Harris is particularly pleased with the notion and now she is telling everyone how clever my old aunt is.’
‘I am not anybody’s
‘No, perhaps you are not so very old. But you are odd; I am sure people here were beginning to notice your strange ways. But now, you see, it does not matter how odd you seem, because you have remarkable talents and remarkable talents excuse all manner of oddness.’
‘I see. If I can predict the future then I am allowed to be poor. I can wear pattens and have a shabby pelisse.’
‘Yes.’
‘And this is why you are friends with me again! I am not at all sure that I welcome such popularity, Catherine.’
‘Upon my word! You are quite determined to quarrel with me this morning.’
‘On the contrary, I do not wish to quarrel with anyone. I wish rather to be left alone.’
‘But I need to talk to you,’ persisted Catherine.
‘What do you wish to talk about?’
‘Well, I have been thinking over what you asked me when you first came to Belsfield. Where might Richard have gone? Do you remember?’
‘Yes,’ said Dido, wondering what might follow. ‘I remember. Have you thought of where he might be?’
‘Yes, I think perhaps I have. Of course everyone believes he has gone to town. But I do not think so. Richard does not like town, you see. When he goes away – as he does when he feels unwell – he likes to be quiet. Somewhere in the countryside. But I could think of no particular place. Nowhere that he had mentioned as somewhere he liked. And then I remembered!’
‘Remembered what exactly?’
‘Lyme!’
‘Lyme?’
‘Yes. Once, when he was a little boy of about six years old, he was sent to a tutor at Lyme. He had been ill with scarlet fever and he was sent to Lyme to recover. To a house overlooking the sea. He told me about it. He said it is a beautiful place and the summer he spent there was the happiest summer of his life.’
‘I see. And you think perhaps…?’
‘No, no I don’t think at all, Aunt! I am sure. Absolutely sure. Richard is at Lyme.’
‘I do not see how you can be sure.’
‘But I am. I know Richard, you see. You would not understand…’
‘No, of course I would not, because I have never loved a man.’
Catherine looked a little ashamed. ‘I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Aunt Dido.’
‘It is of no consequence. But I think your idea is worth considering…’
‘We must do a great deal more than consider it. We must go to Lyme.’
‘Must we indeed? And how are we to accomplish that? It is more than twenty miles off.’
