A moment of silence

should have been played so badly. Pollard might only be a friend of Mr Montague’s impressed into the scene, but why had he played his part so badly? Why had he not spoken? An appearance of conversation had been necessary to make the charade believable – and yet he said nothing.

No, even though she was forced to believe Tom about the entail, she could not believe the conclusion he had drawn. Mr Montague had not set out to deceive Catherine. It was, after all, a lie which could easily be detected, for it seemed everyone in the house knew about the settlement of the estate.

But that only left the possibility that Mr Montague had told the truth when he said that he was a poor man. And how could that be? Since even if Sir Edgar was a bully who had no affection for his son, he could not disinherit him.

It made no sense at all – or else she was too stupid to understand the sense that it made.

It was while she was in this state of despair that a letter was delivered to her. And its contents did nothing to raise her spirits. It was from her sister and had been written two days ago.

Dearest Dido,

I take up my pen with a heavy heart, for I know you will not like to read what I know I must write and I cannot remember when I have ever written to you before without being sure that you will welcome my letter.

Dearest, are you not being as blind as poor Catherine? You are so very tender-hearted, for all your pretence of being satirical, that I fear you are failing to see guilt where it is most obvious. It is quite natural that you should do so, of course, for it seems to me that the guilty man is particularly plausible and charming. And I do not mean to set up my opinion against yours, nor pretend to possess your quickness of mind, but it may be that some things are seen clearer at a distance.

To own the truth, I distrust your Mr Lomax. I mean Mr Lomax senior, not the son, who, by your own account, you do not trust, and very rightly I am sure. Though he is, of course, still very young and it is to be hoped that he may turn out well in the end. Oh dear, I am getting quite off the point, but one should always try to think the best of one’s fellow creatures, which makes it all the harder to say what I am quite determined to say – even though you may be as angry with me in the end as Catherine is with you.

Dearest, have you considered the possibility of Mr Lomax’s guilt? I know that it is very difficult to do so. But we have to believe that someone is guilty. Unless it is possible that the poor woman died through some terrible accident. Has that possibility been properly considered? I think that it should be.

But to return to Mr Lomax. If we have to think someone a killer, then why not him? We have reason to suppose him an adulterer. Now, maybe it is to Tudor House that his carriage conveys her ladyship. Perhaps that is the purpose of that establishment. Perhaps Mr Blacklock is not Richard Montague, but William Lomax. After all, Mr Lomax is not always at Belsfield. Do you know where he resides when he is not in his employer’s house?

Do you not see how likely all this is? I have been thinking about it a great deal. Mr Montague, you see, discovered what was carrying on. That was the family shame that he wrote of in his letter. The visitor to Tudor House, Mr Pollard, who was probably, by some coincidence, a friend of Mr Montague’s, informed him (I mean Mr Montague) of it at the ball and he immediately told his father about it.

Now, in order to preserve the honour of the family – for you tell me that nothing is of greater consequence with Sir Edgar than the honour of the family – he was all for smoothing matters over and covering up the business. But Mr Montague is moral and religious – for I cannot believe that dear Catherine, for all her little faults, would attach herself to a man who was not moral and religious – and he quarrelled with his father over this matter. Mr Montague left the house – perhaps he went with his friend to Tudor House – yes, I think that he must have done, because that is how Miss Wallis – who was, of course, Mr Lomax’s housekeeper – discovered that the lady who came regularly to visit her master was none other than Lady Montague. And so she pursued Mr Lomax to Belsfield, threatening, no doubt, to expose him unless he paid her a considerable sum.

And he killed her. Though I don’t doubt that the poor man is very sorry for it now…

Dido dropped the letter into her lap and stared along the polished length of the gallery, momentarily overwhelmed by such a variety of emotions that she did not exactly know what she felt.

There was anger at her sister for suggesting such an unlikely course of events. But the anger was not lasting. Eliza was not the sort of woman one could be angry with for long and soon Dido was more inclined to smile over the sorry conflict that there was in the letter between natural good nature and a desire to try her hand at mystery solving. And then, when she reread the letter, she found that, fanciful though much of it was, there was a small kernel of sense in it.

It was, she realised with shame, very true that she had not considered properly the likelihood of Mr Lomax’s guilt. She had not considered it because – and there was no escaping this horrible truth – because he was a very charming man and she was foolish, foolish in a way that she should have left behind her when she gave up curling her hair and began to sit out dances in the ballroom.

Well, she thought with determination, I shall consider the matter now. But still she found that she was strongly inclined to argue against the suggestion. She could not help it. To clear her mind she drew a pencil from her pocket and noted down on the cover of the letter her arguments against Eliza. They consisted of:

There is no appearance of affection between Mr Lomax and her ladyship. I have observed them closely and they do not exchange more than the simplest civilities with one another.

The other gentlemen swear that Mr Lomax did not leave the shooting party.

How did Mr Pollard convey the information of Mr Lomax’s adultery without saying a word?

She read through what she had written and found it singularly unconvincing. Points two and three could, of course, be argued with equal force against the guilt of any other member of the household. Nor would point one stand up to examination, for the show of indifference between the couple was entirely consistent with a guilty, clandestine affection.

So she wrote down everything she could think of that supported Eliza’s position.

Gossip about her ladyship.

Catherine’s observation of her ladyship going out in Mr Lomax’s carriage.

Her ladyship’s medicine.

Mr Lomax has a post-chaise with yellow wheels – like the one which visits Tudor House.

Well, she thought looking over the list, it is hardly enough to convict a man.

She sighed and passed a weary hand across her face. Relieved, in spite of herself, that she did not have to suspect Mr Lomax so very much.

The problem was that there was still a great deal that she did not understand. There seemed to be so much afoot – so much amiss – at Belsfield that one scarcely knew who to trust and who to suspect. As Annie Holmes had said, every family has its secrets. But there was no denying that the Montagues of Belsfield Hall seemed to have more secrets than most.

Dido stared along the ranks of old Sir Edgars and all the Annes and Elizabeths and Marys that they had married. The autumn sun, shining in through the window, was warm upon the nape of her neck; dust-motes floated in its light and a warm, pleasant scent of beeswax rose from the polished floor.

Somewhere here, if Annie Holmes was to be believed, there was a clue to one of those secrets. Somewhere among these paintings was the key to the trouble between father and son. She stood up and walked along the gallery, studying the pompous, painted faces as she had done many times before. None of them suggested any kind of solution to her.

The gallery ended in a wide staircase, which led down to the best bedrooms at the front of the house, and just to the left there was a dark, narrow passageway that led to the back stairs. As Dido reached this point she heard a voice raised on the landing below. She paused beside the banister.

 ‘Ah, boy! D’you mind coming here, sir!’ It was undoubtedly the colonel’s voice; there was no mistaking the hearty, archaic tone of it. But it had a pleasant, far from ill-tempered sound – indeed, it sounded almost