‘I see,’ said Dido, making the best of her opening. ‘That woman I have seen about here then: a large woman in a grey dress and a straw bonnet. I have seen her here talking to Miss Neville. She comes to help in the kitchen I daresay.’
Sam shook his head so hard the damp hair fell down into his eyes. ‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘that’s Jenny White you mean, miss. Mr Fraser wouldn’t have her sort working in the house.’
‘Oh! Then what is her business here?’
‘I don’t know, miss, honest I don’t. I wish I did.’ He looked troubled. It was a fact which Dido had frequently observed that labouring people did not like to see their betters valuing anyone beyond their deserts. ‘I reckon it’s very odd the way Miss Neville lets her come around here and doesn’t send her away. Because Miss Neville must know what Jenny White is as well as any one else.’
‘And what is Miss White?’ asked Dido with great interest.
‘She’s a bad lot, miss, that’s what she is. She’s been in prison. Been in prison a good long while. And my Pa says she was lucky the judge was a soft one or it would’ve been transporting for sure.’
‘I see, and why was she sent to prison, Sam?’
‘Well, you see, miss, Jenny White is a laundress…’
‘And an excellent name she has for one of that profession!’
Sam gave her a puzzled look. ‘But the point is, miss, every house Jenny worked in got burgled. And at the trial it all came out how she was working for a gang of housebreakers. Telling them all she could about locks and jewels and when the family were going to be away for the evening. That kind of thing you know, miss.’
‘How very shocking!’
‘It was, miss, and Pa says she’d have been transported for sure – or even hanged – but she made the judge believe she was frightened of the gang. Said she only did what she did because they made her. But Pa reckons…’
Unluckily, just at that moment, there came the sound of the house door opening. They looked up and there was Fraser standing on the step – watching them severely.
‘I’m sorry miss,’ said Sam, shuffling a little along the gravel and attacking a dandelion, ‘I’d better be about my work.’
Reluctantly Dido walked away – and felt Fraser’s disapproval staring at her back all the way to the sweep gates. She made her way home slowly, reflecting upon what a very remarkable thing it was, that she should have seen Miss Neville talking with – paying – a woman known to associate with criminals and that, the very next day, they should hear that Knaresborough House had been burgled.
Flora was still above stairs when Dido returned. And there was no sound of visitors. As she entered the hall she looked immediately to the table at the foot of the stairs – to see if any caller had left a card.
There was no card, but there were several letters just come from the post office. She picked them up – and found among them a letter addressed to herself in an unfamiliar hand.
She paused, her bonnet in her hand, its ribbons trailing on the floor, the heat of the morning cooling on her cheeks. She turned the letter over thoughtfully: studied its direction. It was not written in a flowing script, but in separated letters – as if it were the work of a child – or a person of little education.
Frowning to herself, she laid down her bonnet and carried the letter into the bright little breakfast room where everything was fresh and clean from the housemaid’s hands and the french doors stood open upon the garden. She sat down and broke the seal.
There was but one sheet of paper and only a few lines written in the same clumsy letters.
Dear Miss Kent
You wish to discover what happened at Knaresborough House, but I think you had better not. There are some people of whom it may truly be said, ‘The world is not their friend, nor the world’s laws.’ I beg you would remember it.
There was no name, no signature.
Chapter Thirteen
…As you may imagine, Eliza, we have puzzled over this letter a great deal. The writing is so remarkably ill-done that Flora believes it to be the work of a servant or someone of the sort. But I cannot agree with her. For, although it is written badly, the words are spelt very correctly and they are not such words, or expressions, as a person of no education would use. In short, I believe it to be the work of a man or woman who could write a fair hand if they wished, but did not choose to do so for fear of being recognised by it. Which suggests it is the work of someone well known to me.
It would seem that some acquaintance of mine knows the truth about Mrs Lansdale’s death and is advising me not to enquire into it.
And then there is the quotation. Is the line at all familiar to you, Eliza? I am almost certain that it is from Shakespeare. But you know how I am about the great bard – I never can remember the names of his characters or plays. And I find that Flora has not a single volume of his work! Please tell me of any ideas that you have – and you might ask Catherine’s opinion too, for she was more lately in a schoolroom than either of us.
I would dearly love to know just who it is that must be supposed unfriended by the world and its laws. I have determined to ask everyone that I can about it – not only for the sake of discovering the meaning, but also so that I may watch for consciousness in the speaker.
Well, Eliza, I shall make no more apology for busying myself about this mystery. I consider that this strange letter, by seeking to prevent me, authorises me to proceed. For it proves beyond doubt, that there is something to find out. And I very much fear that it might be something which will put Mr Lansdale in greater danger.
Though I regret that I still cannot determine even whether the greatest mystery lies in the cause of Mrs Lansdale’s death – or the reason for Mr Lansdale having such an enemy as Mrs Midgely.
Why is she so vehement against him? I confess that I cannot make out her character at all; which is extremely vexing. For I had thought that my two weeks acquaintance was quite sufficient to see to the bottom of such a woman and it is just too provoking to discover that a fat woman who wears rouge and yellow muslin may have a deep and complicated character! There are so many things about her which I cannot understand. There is, besides this unkindness to Henry Lansdale, her sudden decision to send Miss Bevan away…
I say as little as I may about all this to Flora, for I do not wish to distress her. But I hope you will forgive me for troubling you about it all, for it is such a very great help to me to write down my ideas.
I must break off in a moment, for it is almost time for church – we are to go today to St Mary’s to hear the Reverend Mr Hewit, who is, by all accounts, a very fine preacher and is to preach here for two Sundays only before travelling north to take up a new parish. It seems the reverend gentleman has spent some years in France and everyone is in high hopes of a spirited tirade against the iniquities of that country.
But, before I close, there is one more matter with which I wish, most particularly, to trouble you: the window at Knaresborough House.
I spoke with the man who mended it. And, Eliza, he was quite certain that no tool had been used to break the catch: that the damage had been done only by pushing – and do you see what this means?
I am almost sure that the windows in the drawing room at Knaresborough are like every other casement that I ever saw – I mean, they open outwards. In short, if the window was broken open by pushing, then I think it must have been broken open not from outside the house but from within the room.
So, this morning, in between puzzling over my letter and considering all the obscurities of Mrs Midgely’s character, I must think about the burglary too. Do you see what a multitude of demands there are upon a
