A moment of silence

confusing me. From the very beginning I have been blinded by it!’

‘I do not think I understand you now.’

‘All along I have thought myself too clever to be taken in by such a simple explanation of the killing – or of Mr Montague’s sudden disappearance. There must be more to it, I have reasoned; there must be a great deal which I was overlooking. And then yesterday, Miss Sophia said something to me which made me understand that one small detail could change everything.’ She stopped and shook her head in an effort to make her thoughts – and her words – more lucid. ‘I should have understood. You see I have suspected from the very beginning that Mr Pollard is a clergyman.’

‘I am sorry. What are you talking about?’

‘Marriage, Mr Lomax. Marriage. Yesterday Miss Sophia said, “Marriage is so very final. It changes everything.” And then I saw that if Mr Montague had been persuaded into a secret marriage with his lover; if the child she was expecting was, in fact, legitimate – the future heir of Belsfield – then that would indeed change everything. And provide a motive for murder…’

She stopped. Mr Lomax was holding up his hand and looking down at the dog, who had raised her head with a little whine and was now padding towards the door. Beyond the clicking of her claws on the floorboards, they heard footsteps hurrying away across the hall.

Lomax leapt up and covered the distance to the door in two long strides. He threw it open, but the hall beyond was empty.

‘Do you suppose that we were overheard?’ asked Dido anxiously.

‘I sincerely hope not,’ he said.

Chapter Twenty-One

…Well, like a heroine in a horrid novel, I have taken the precaution of pushing a linen chest against my door tonight. Except that I had to remove it just now when Jack came to bring my chocolate – which is a difficulty that I do not recall any young lady in a novel ever having.

It seems such a very foolish measure to take and even as I was pushing and tugging it across the carpet I was half laughing at myself. And yet the fact remains, Eliza, that someone in this house would seem to be a murderer – and that someone may have overheard my suspicions.

Oh, Eliza, I hardly know what to do next. Though one thing I am quite determined upon. Tomorrow I must persuade Catherine to break her engagement and leave Belsfield. It must be done and reluctant though I am to tell Catherine what I have discovered, I am yet determined to tell her as much as is necessary to make her abandon all connection with the family of Montague. So look for us at Badleigh within these next few days.

Though I confess that, for myself, I shall be extremely sorry to leave the place with so many questions still unanswered.

Was it Sir Edgar or his wife who went to that fateful appointment in the shrubbery? Will it ever be possible to discover exactly what happened?

And then there are two points on which I most particularly wish to be satisfied. Firstly: how could the murderer have walked armed across the grounds of Belsfield without anyone remarking upon the fact? And secondly: how did Mr Pollard contrive to convey his message at the ball without speaking a word?

Dido laid down her pen with a sigh, rubbed at her weary eyes, and blew out her candle.

It distressed her that she must leave Belsfield with these questions unanswered. And that, of course, must be the reason why she found that she was so very reluctant to go. There could be no other cause. She could safely resign the pursuit of justice to Mr Lomax and, even if there were no positive danger in remaining, there would certainly be very unpleasant scenes enacted here soon, scenes which she had no wish to take part in. She ought to be glad to go…

Of course she would miss her conversations with Mr Lomax; he was a very pleasant companion. And it was unfortunate that once Catherine’s engagement was broken there was little chance of her ever meeting with him again. But it was foolish to waste time sighing over that…

No, she told herself stoutly, if only she could answer those few lingering questions, then she would be very happy to return to Badleigh. Very happy indeed.

The little room was full of shadows, and the dark bed-hangings and the little old witch shape of her cloak and bonnet on the door reminded her of her first night at Belsfield, when she had sat here beside her fire, dreading what the next day’s investigations might produce.

It was about two hours after midnight and she was tired, worn out with the agitation and shocks of the day. She could not summon the strength, or the determination, to get herself into bed. She watched the firelight slide across the threadbare rug, her writing desk, the tray with her silver chocolate jug and the cup with its dark dregs, and she turned the two questions over in her mind. She could find no answers – and yet she was sure that they were there, somewhere within her reach.

The fire burnt low. She was on the very edge of sleep now and the questions began to form a kind of rhythm in her head until they seemed almost like a litany repeated in church. How can a gun be carried without it being seen? How can a man speak without opening his mouth? How can a gun…

The scene about her was growing indistinct, the shadows of the curtains seeming to swallow up the writing desk as her eyes flickered and closed…

She was sitting on the green bench in the park, looking across the long shadows of trees to the ploughman and his wheeling cloud of gulls.

‘I like this spot,’ said a voice beside her. ‘I believe it commands the best view on the estate.’

She turned towards the speaker and saw, not Mr Lomax as she had expected, but Sir Edgar Montague. He was standing, feet planted well apart on the short grass, under the broad canopy of a great tree. There was a half smile on his face and he was gazing out over the park with all the pride of ownership; completely in control of everything he saw. And he had the symbols of his status with him – the servile dog and, carried negligently under his arm, the gun…

Dido woke. She sat for some time staring into the grey ash and red glow of her fire; her mind was suddenly wide awake and working very hard.

Yes, of course. The picture. The answers were all there in the picture. How stupid she had been! But she had not wanted to look for the answers because they would involve her in calculations which were particularly distasteful to her.

But now she must face those calculations. There was no escaping from them. And the first thing to be done was to look again at the painting.

Without allowing herself time to think further about it, she took a taper from the box on the mantelshelf and relit her candle from the fire. Then she pushed the chest away from the door, turned the lock and stepped out of her room.

The passage was narrow and very dark. She stood still for a moment, hardly daring to breathe and listening hard. There was an occasional creaking sound, either from beds, or else from settling floorboards; and somewhere not far away, someone was snoring loudly. Beyond the little circle of light that her candle threw upon the plaster walls and old, uneven floorboards, there was utter blackness. Her courage almost failed her and she very nearly turned back. But that would be foolish. There was nothing to be afraid of in a dark house, she told herself firmly. And she crept along the passage, one hand holding her candle high and the other just brushing the wall.

This passage took her down the side of the East wing to a little lobby and three steps which connected it with the Great Gallery at the front of the house, and, as she tiptoed down the steps, she saw that there was more light in the gallery. The big windows at the end admitted long rectangles of moonlight, which fell over the window seat and the highly polished, honey-coloured floor and onto one wall, cutting across the face of a dark, cracked Sir Edgar with a wheel ruff and a pointed chin.

As she passed, she could not but think that his eyes had turned to follow her, and, as the candle’s light fell on