The grave she was seeking was not difficult to find. A little path of downtrodden grass led to it. It would seem that half the inhabitants of Madderstone village had come, like her, to gaze upon the suicide’s resting place.
It lay under the overhanging boughs of an ancient yew, just beyond the low wall of mossy stones which marked the boundary of the church’s mercy: a raw wound of reddish earth among the yellow grass and dead docks of the waste ground. And it was too small; it would seem there had been no coffin to decently house the bones. They had been tumbled into the ground here with no care, no dignity.
Dido looked back towards the church with the graves of all its dead gathered close; even the most humble, grass-covered mound safe within the benediction of the little stone cross which topped the tower. Then she gazed down at the unforgiving wall dividing this one soul from grace. The sight was terrible, even to her. How much worse must it be to Anne Harman-Foote, who had loved this woman like a mother?
Insensibly her fists clenched in the shelter of her cloak. ‘I
She stopped at the sound of the lychgate opening. Footsteps sounded along the path and the figure of a man appeared, walking briskly past the end of the church. There were a few pale-pink late roses in his hand and Dido expected him to stop by one of the tombs, but instead he hurried towards her, making directly for the grave of the outcast.
As he drew closer she saw that it was Harris Paynter, the surgeon.
He was a young man whose firm figure, black hair and dark, heavily lidded eyes had their share of admiration among the ladies of Madderstone and Badleigh; but set against these advantages were his reputation as ‘a precise, plodding fellow’, his being ‘nothing but a surgeon-apothecary’ – and a rather sallow complexion.
Though Dido could not help but notice that, just at the moment, his complexion appeared rather better than usual. There was a slight but becoming flush of colour on his cheeks, a hint of emotion that made him seem rather less dull. There was a happy easy confidence in his stride – and even in the sitting of his hat on the very back of his head. The fine eyes were animated.
‘I am sorry!’ he stopped abruptly as he caught sight of her. ‘Good day, Miss Kent.’ He bowed and, as she returned his greeting, there was an odd little movement of his hand – as if he half-attempted to hide the roses from her view, but then thought better of it. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, he leant across the wall and placed them upon the turned earth and they both stood for a moment gazing down at the delicate flowers lying softly on the ugly brown clay. A drop of water fell from the overhanging branches of the yew and settled in the curve of a petal.
He cleared his throat. ‘I was walking up to the great house, to visit Miss Lambe,’ he said in his clipped, precise voice. ‘And thought I would just stop – to look at the grave.’ He paused, his eyes still fixed upon the little patch of turned earth. ‘This is a very sad business, is it not?’ he said.
Dido tried to study his face, but it was impossible to make out the expression of his eyes. ‘Were you at all acquainted with the lady?’ As she spoke she was busy calculating that he would have been a child of only six or seven at the time of the death – strange, then, that he should seem so very concerned: that he, of all the people who had visited this grave, should be the only one to bring flowers …
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘No I did not know her at all.’
‘Oh …’ Dido’s eyes wandered back to the roses. He looked at them with embarrassment and seemed to feel that some explanation was required.
‘I gave evidence at the inquest,’ he said abruptly. ‘I feel …’ He hesitated; he was a man inclined by nature and by the demands of his profession to choose his words with care, ‘… connected. It is – in part at least – on account of my testimony that she is … excluded from the churchyard.’
‘And you are grieved at the result of your testimony?’
He sighed and put up his hand to lean against a low bough of the yew tree. ‘Yes, I did not foresee this.’
‘It could have made no difference if you had,’ said Dido gently. ‘You were under oath and so had no choice but to tell exactly what you knew.’
He raised his eyes to hers with a very grateful smile. ‘That is true,’ he said.
It was too fair an opportunity to miss. ‘If it were possible, you would be glad to see the verdict changed?’ she ventured.
‘I doubt that it is possible.’
‘Perhaps Mr Wishart cannot be persuaded,’ she said. ‘I know very little of coroner’s courts. It may be that, once it is written down, a verdict is beyond the reach of reason. But this …’ she glanced down at the grave. ‘This is the decision of a clergyman. And it may be that, if we could supply sufficient reasons, Mr Portinscale might amend
She had certainly gained Mr Paynter’s attention. He eyed her keenly. ‘I should,’ he said, ‘be very glad to be of service to Mrs Harman-Foote.’ He spoke simply but with great feeling – as if he was particularly anxious to please the lady – and Dido could not but be reminded of that note he had left upon the hall table …
‘Then perhaps,’ she suggested, still eyeing him suspiciously, ‘you might be so kind as to walk up to the abbey with me – so that we may consult together.’
He looked surprised but, when she turned away, he fell into step beside her and listened very attentively as she told him of her promise to find the cause of Miss Fenn’s death.
‘It is an admirable enterprise,’ he said solemnly. ‘But I do not see how I can assist you.’
‘Well,’ she began carefully, ‘a great deal must depend upon this journal which your uncle kept.’
‘Yes.’
She stole another look at his brooding face, but still could make out nothing of his expression. They rounded the end of the church and emerged, blinking a little, into the autumn sunshine.
‘Miss Fenn’s consultations with your uncle,’ she ventured, ‘when did they begin?’
‘Two years, three months and one week before she died,’ he answered promptly.
‘And were they frequent?’
‘Tolerably frequent. He seems – and I have only his journal to inform me – but he seems to have visited her once every week.’ He checked himself, held up a finger, and proceeded with exactness. ‘
‘Your memory is very precise.’
He looked at her in some surprise. ‘I was required to state these facts in a court of law,’ he said. ‘Naturally I would wish them to be correct.’
‘Yes, of course. And her complaint was always one of melancholy?’
‘Usually it was melancholy: on one occasion he has written “depression of the spirits”. Though
‘And had Miss Fenn asked your uncle to visit her during the last few days before she died?’
‘No. No, she had not,’ he said gravely. ‘It had been …’ He paused under the lychgate as he again sought the exact memory, ‘… twenty-six days since he last attended her.’ He pushed open the gate and began to take his leave of her.
‘But I thought you were walking up to the great house, Mr Paynter.’
‘I am,’ he said hurriedly, ‘but I find there is something I have forgotten to bring with me. Unfortunately I must return home to fetch it – I shall not be able to accompany you.’ He bowed, but then hesitated and stood, hat in hand, staring down at his feet.
‘You seem troubled, Mr Paynter.’
‘I am thinking of Miss Fenn. It is a sobering thought,’ he said, ‘but perhaps if my uncle had attended the lady during those last days … In short, it may have been the lack of his usual cordials and restoratives which drove her to the terrible act.’
‘Yes,’ said Dido thoughtfully. ‘It may have been.’ She paused – thought a moment. ‘However,’ she added, ‘it may be that her not calling upon your uncle’s services in those last weeks argues instead for her feeling better and being in no need of his cordials.’
‘Yes,’ he said doubtingly. ‘Perhaps it may.’
