A Woman of Consequence

‘I see.’ She was forced to consider his theory carefully. It was possible. ‘And this person who has Mrs Harman-Foote’s best interests at heart, would, I suppose, be her husband?’

‘Perhaps,’ he acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head.

‘Yes – and there was a hint of tobacco smoke in the room when we entered it,’ she mused, ‘which rather leads me to suppose that Mr Harman-Foote had been there just before us.’

There was a fleeting smile from the gentleman at this bit of cleverness, but it was quickly suppressed. ‘And you have suspected him of removing the letters in order to hide his own guilt?’ he asked.

‘You must at least grant that it is a possibility.’

‘A rather remote one, I think.’

‘No!’ she cried, stung by the note of dismissal in his voice. ‘Not so very remote! Not when everything is taken into consideration.’

‘Everything?’ he repeated. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘And what is this “everything” which must be considered?’

‘Oh!’ Dido found herself fairly caught. For now she must either allow him to think her suspicions unfounded and unreasonable, or else put forward her proofs – and reveal the extent of her investigation.

She hesitated a moment over the desire of preserving his good opinion and the pleasure of disputing with him – but the latter won the day. And, fixing her eyes once more upon the turning leaf – which was now beginning to sink beneath the weight of water – she launched herself upon an account of everything which argued against suicide: the coins, the housekeeper’s opinion that Miss Fenn had recovered from her melancholy, the position of the corpse in the pool …

He listened in silence, his hand all the while gripping the wooden rail of the bridge – his knuckles gradually whitening as her tale progressed.

She ended with an account of the letter in the bible. She had meant to leave it out, but, when she came to the point, she found that her case was incomplete without it, and her pride would not allow her to suppress it.

She finished her tale. Somewhere, deep among the trees, the woodpecker laughed to itself.

He became aware of his hand which seemed to be attempting to crush the rail of the bridge. Slowly he uncurled his fingers. ‘And what was the import of this letter?’ he asked stiffly.

She blushed but resolutely drew the letter from her pocket. ‘You may read it for yourself.’

He hesitated and she amused herself by imagining that conflict between propriety and curiosity, so familiar to herself, now taking place within his dignified bosom. Finally he took the letter and she watched him in silence as he read both pages, sunlight and the shadows of leaves shifting constantly across his frowning face.

He finished and stood for a moment, his hand, with the papers still in it, resting upon the rail of the bridge, his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon her. A muscle moved restlessly in his cheek. He seemed to be forcing back angry words.

‘The lady had a secret … attachment.’ he said quietly at last.

‘Yes, it would seem that she had.’

‘And this is the end of your compassion for Mrs Harman-Foote? You are able to defame the reputation of her dead friend!’

Dido recoiled. ‘It is unfortunate – but I could not have guessed …’

‘And the best comfort you can offer the poor lady,’ he ran on without seeming to hear her, ‘is that her own husband is the guilty man; guilty not only of gross immorality, but of murder too!’ He stopped. His hand had curled into a fist around the papers.

‘I wish with all my heart,’ she said, ‘that the evidence were different – that it pointed to entirely different conclusions. But I cannot regret undertaking the enquiry. The fear of uncovering inconvenient truths should never make us content to accept lies.’

‘You forget,’ he said in a voice of quiet restraint, ‘that I am not permitted to comment upon your conduct.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ she cried angrily, ‘I rather thought that it was you that had forgotten it.’

‘No,’ he said, struggling against himself, quite shocked by the violence of his own emotions. ‘I am not questioning your behaviour, madam, only your conclusions.’

‘And what, pray, is amiss with my conclusions?’

‘Nothing at all, except that they are ill-founded and entirely erroneous.’

‘Oh?’

‘I assure you,’ he said, hastily returning the papers, ‘Mr Harman-Foote did not write this letter.’

‘But how can you know?’

‘By the writing. He and I correspond from time to time on matters of business. This is certainly not his hand.’ He bowed with great formality and hurried away: too angry to remain with her a moment longer.

Chapter Twenty-One

My Dear Eliza,

I congratulate you. I had no idea of your possessing the gift of premonition! It is quite remarkable.

When I returned home from Madderstone this afternoon there was awaiting me your letter, written three days ago and cautioning me against ‘provoking poor Mr Lomax unnecessarily when he arrives at Badleigh’. Now, how could you know – without supernatural power – that I would do such a thing? I am quite sure that you have never detected in my extremely docile and accommodating nature anything which might be suspected of deliberately provoking a gentleman.

But I regret to inform you that you are doomed – like Cassandra of old – to have your wise warnings disregarded. You may consider Mr Lomax most thoroughly provoked. He has not spoken one word to me since a little meeting between us which occurred this morning. He has spent all evening at piquet with Margaret: which I consider to be a very bad sign indeed, for I am sure only a very strong desire of avoiding conversation could overcome his abhorrence of cards.

Dido, sitting rather stiffly upon her narrow bed, paused and leant her head against the sloping ceiling. The rain was once more pattering upon her dark window and the house becoming quiet as the family retired. Rebecca’s weary feet had already tramped past her door and now there was only the ticking of the clock on the landing and the occasional creak of settling floorboards.

But she could not sleep. Now that she was alone, fragments of her conversation with Mr Lomax would recur, and Eliza’s letter was also oddly disquieting. It was not in Eliza’s nature to detect faults in anyone, least of all her beloved sister, and yet there had been in this morning’s letter a rare hint of criticism. After anticipating Mr Lomax’s provocation, she had continued:

… I wonder sometimes, whether your quick wits do not make you just a little outspoken. Please do not misunderstand me, Dearest, I know that you never express an opinion which is not sound, and very clever, but I fear that sometimes gentlemen may misunderstand you.

Dido, do you remember the Reverend Mr Clarke who came to stay with the Fordwicks when we were one and twenty? He was a very pleasant gentleman, with three good livings – and so very much in love with you! I was quite sure he would make you an offer. But you would argue so with him!

Dido could not help but feel it was a little unfair of her sister to mention the Reverend Mr Clarke. For she had not exactly argued with him … She had done no more than tell him she disapproved of pluralism in the clergy – and light-coloured morning coats. And those were opinions which were better expressed immediately, for a wife could certainly not have kept them to herself after marriage – not if she were married to a man such as Mr Clarke, who was possessed of three livings – and a rather pale morning coat …

No, she assured herself, she was not argumentative … only honest. She bent her head once more over her page.