A Woman of Consequence

‘In point of fact,’ she said, ‘your uncle’s journal does not prove that Miss Fenn was suffering from melancholy when she died; but only that she had suffered such a complaint twenty-six days earlier.’

Chapter Eight

Dido walked on slowly to Madderstone Abbey, her mind full of Mr Paynter’s tribute of roses – and those six and twenty days during which Miss Fenn had, quite contrary to her habit, sought no help from her physician.

In order to establish whether or not this was a case of self-murder, it would be necessary to discover how the lady had appeared during those six and twenty days. Was she happier than usual – or sadder? Was it possible that, after fifteen years, anyone would be able to remember such a detail?

She passed through the park gate and came into the spoilt gardens. The sun was sinking low, casting long shadows from the fallen trees and turning the many puddles a deep, bloody red. The path from the gate ran above the bank of the old pool – and was particularly difficult to negotiate for a woman determined upon keeping her petticoat clean. But at the end of it there were four stone steps which led down to the pool, and it had been Dido’s intention to descend these steps to look at the place from which Miss Fenn’s body had been taken.

However, when she was only halfway along the path – and balancing precariously on a stone beside a deep patch of mud – she heard footsteps and the booming voice of Mr Harman-Foote down by the pool. ‘Well it must be put to rights at once, d’you understand?’ he was saying in a tone of grave displeasure.

She paused, swaying dangerously on her stone. Another, quieter voice was murmuring an apology. She looked down the bank and saw Mr Coulson, the landscape gardener, scratching anxiously at his head as he spoke.

‘Well, well,’ cried Mr Harman-Foote, a little mollified, ‘I daresay you meant no harm; but you’ve caused a great deal of trouble. You should not have …’

Unfortunately he never finished his speech, for just as he reached this most interesting point, Dido overbalanced and gave a little cry as she trod deep into the mud. Mr Harman-Foote stopped speaking immediately; both gentlemen turned in the direction of the sound and bowed when they saw her. She was obliged to call a greeting and hurry on – doomed never to hear what it was that Mr Coulson should not have done.

Which was very provoking, for she was almost sure he was about to be upbraided for draining the pool. At least, that is what she thought at first. But, by the time she reached the ruined cloister, she had begun to revise her opinion. For, she reasoned, the draining of the pool could not have taken the owner of the grounds by surprise. He must have seen that it was to happen when plans for the improvements were first drawn up; and if he had not wanted it done, he would certainly have vetoed it immediately …

She was shaken from this engrossing reverie by the sight of other dinner guests. Ahead of her on the gravel sweep, Silas Crockford was handing Lucy out of his chaise. And just rounding the corner of the cloister was Mr Portinscale, walking up from his vicarage.

‘Ah Miss Kent!’ he began immediately upon seeing her, and bowed with great formality. ‘This is indeed a heaven-sent opportunity! I had been very much hoping that I might, in the course of the day, avail myself of the pleasure of a few minutes private conversation with you.’

‘Indeed?’ she smiled up at him politely. He was a tall, very solemn man who had, no doubt, been rather handsome in his youth; but his youth was almost twenty years distant now and in those years he had grown thin and dry. And when he removed his hat, it was clear that his hair – though still tolerably black – was so thin atop as no amount of brushing about was quite able to disguise.

‘Yes, I fear,’ he clasped his hands in the small of his back and rocked himself forward on his toes – very much as if he were about to preach a sermon, ‘I fear that you have been suborned.’

‘Suborned? Oh dear! I hope that I have not, for it sounds very disagreeable.’

‘It is, my dear,’ he continued seriously as they walked on. ‘Very disagreeable indeed. It appears that your good nature has allowed you to be imposed upon. You have been led into error, Miss Kent, and, as a clergyman, I feel it incumbent upon me to set you right.’

‘Oh!’

‘I am aware,’ he said, sinking his voice almost to a whisper to prevent it being heard by the Crockfords – or by Mrs Harman-Foote who was now come out onto the steps to meet them. ‘I am aware of the service which your friend,’ a glance here towards the steps, ‘has asked you to perform – I mean, of course, with regard to her dead governess. But you do wrong to interfere. Suicide is a grievous sin.’

‘It is indeed, Mr Portinscale,’ said Dido, matching his solemnity, ‘and no one should be accused of it falsely.’

He shook his head and a little colour tinged his thin cheeks. ‘These matters should be left in the hands of God, my dear.’

‘But they are not in the hands of God,’ Dido pointed out gravely, ‘they are in the hands of the coroner.’

‘Who would not be suffered to remain in authority if God did not will it,’ he answered quickly. Then he seemed to recollect himself and spoke more calmly. ‘We must trust in the Lord,’ he insisted. ‘We must not meddle with what He has ordained.’

‘No! That is nonsense!’ The words burst from Dido involuntarily as the weakness of his position struck her. The colour in his cheeks deepened with displeasure. She forced herself to speak less violently. ‘This philosophy, sir, would argue against all good works and make inertia the greatest of all virtues. I cannot believe but that we are sometimes required to exert ourselves in the cause of charity.’ She drew a long breath. ‘I do not doubt Mr Wishart’s good intentions. But his verdict may be mistaken. An injustice may have been done. I cannot believe it wrong to try to discover the truth.’

He was about to reply, but he was prevented by the approach of their hostess.

They all walked on into the house together and it was not until some time later that Dido was calm enough to wonder just why Mr Portinscale should interest himself so much in the business. Why should he care so very much that the coroner’s verdict remain unchallenged?

* * *

… Well, Eliza, there were nine of us at dinner, for besides the Crockfords and Mr Portinscale there was Henry Coulson, the landscape gardener, and of course Captain Laurence, who is staying once more with his cousins at Madderstone. (By the by, I do not know whether Captain Laurence has a home of his own when he is not aboard ship, but, if he has, I fancy it is not so comfortable as Madderstone Abbey.)

Well, as you may imagine, Mrs Harman-Foote’s duties as hostess did not allow for any conversation between us while we remained in the dining room, beyond an assurance, almost shouted along the table, of her intention of taking me to see Miss Fenn’s bedchamber as soon as she should be at leisure.

Indeed it was hardly possible for female voices to be heard at all. For Mr H-F himself pays his compliments, talks about poachers and tells his jokes so loud that, if you do but listen carefully, you may hear the glass drops on the chandelier tinkling in answer to his speeches.

And then there was Mr Coulson braying down his nose and shouting ‘Quite so!’ and ‘Very good, sir!’ whenever the master of the house might be deemed to have said anything clever. Mr Coulson, by the by, is an addition to our society since your going to London, so I had better introduce him. He is a very young man – a relation, I believe, of both the Harmans and the Crockfords and the ward of old Mr Harman at whose expense he has been educated. He is not long finished at Oxford and intends to make his mark upon the world. He fancies himself very clever in the landscape gardening line and, once he has demonstrated his skill at Madderstone, he means ‘to make a mint of money at it in no time at all’.

It would seem that at one time or another Mr Coulson  has considered devoting his talents to every profession from the navy to the church, and does not doubt that he could have, ‘made a pretty fine show’ at anything he set his mind to. But – as he gave the whole table to understand – it is in medicine that his genius might have had full rein. And he would have done a great deal more good than that ‘dunderheaded sawbones Paynter’, who is ‘as dull-witted as any medical fellow he ever met’.

I rather wondered why he should wish to speak so slightingly of poor Mr Paynter – a gentleman he can hardly know – but I had no opportunity to enquire. For meanwhile Mr Portinscale was busy denouncing the