Might she have forgotten?
Oh, no. She never forgot a name. And, as for the carriage, of course it would be at Dido’s disposal whenever she wished. ‘But,’ Anne added anxiously, ‘I doubt I shall be able to accompany you. My poor Georgie is suffering from the most distressing bilious attack and I cannot leave him alone so long as it would take to travel there. It is a principle of mine
Dido readily assured her that her help would not be necessary in the search for Mrs Pinker – for it would, in point of fact, suit her rather well to go to Great Farleigh alone.
But Anne continued with an account of poor dear Georgie’s symptoms, which was a great deal more detailed than it had any cause to be. To distract herself from it Dido formed a representation of the Battle of Blenheim with the soldiers upon the sofa, then picked up the Latin grammar and began idly to look it over – discovering stale cake crumbs adhering to several of its battered pages …
‘But, now,’ continued Anne in a dangerously businesslike voice, ‘we must talk about Mr Lomax. When he called here this morning I was most particular in bringing the conversation around to you.’
‘Oh!’ Dido put down the grammar. ‘I do not think you had better trouble yourself with recommending me to Mr Lomax after all,’ she said as firmly as she could. ‘He and I have argued – you see he does not approve of my interesting myself in Miss Fenn’s death.’
Anne regarded her with alarm. ‘You did not talk to Mr Lomax about
‘Why, yes.’
‘My dear Dido, that is not a subject to discuss with a gentleman! When talking to a man a woman must
‘But even if such a principle were sustainable before marriage,’ Dido protested, ‘it could not be maintained
Anne looked puzzled. ‘Why,’ she said, ‘I do not believe that Mr Harman-Foote and I have ever found it an inconvenience.’
Dido was silenced. She let Anne talk on about Mr Lomax – and turned her mind to thinking about cake instead …
Great Farleigh was a large, populous village which had almost grown into a town with the aid of a particularly fast-flowing stream and a half-dozen or so mills and weaving sheds which had been established along its banks. The narrow streets were filled with people intent upon business, and with wagons carrying sacks of grain to the miller, logs to the sawmills and bales of cloth from the manufactories. Builders were at work upon the ragged remains of a village green, raising a new row of cottages, and their loud shouts and oaths were added to the rattle of carts, the whine of sawmills and the ceaseless low thunder of the great waterwheels.
Dido held up a hand as if to protect herself from the noise as she descended from Madderstone’s carriage in the grimy, confined little yard of the inn – for her head ached dreadfully from the tears of the previous night – and quickly made her way into the inn’s chilly parlour where, in keeping with the general busyness of the village, no one was at leisure to attend her. A quarter of an hour’s perseverance produced little information – or refreshment: only a pot of cold, bitter coffee, a shrug of the shoulders and, ‘No, I can’t ever remember hearing of no Pinker … Well, maybe she lives here, maybe she don’t … I couldn’t say.’
So she determined on making more enquiries in the village, but was met at the inn door by Jed Waters, the Madderstone coachman, who was, very kindly, intent upon accompanying her, ‘on account of the folk round here being a bit rough in their manners – and you not used to their ways, miss.’
She thanked him, but insisted upon his remaining at the inn to refresh himself and his horses. ‘For we have had a seven-mile drive,’ she said. ‘I am sure you are in need of rest before returning.’
And she made her way back across the busy, cobbled yard – wondering a little as she did so about those seven miles which lay between Madderstone and Great Farleigh. Now that she came to consider it, she saw that seven miles was a great distance for a lady to travel alone in a pony carriage. And yet, such was the esteem in which Miss Fenn had been held, she could not doubt that a different conveyance would have been put at her disposal, had she desired it.
What had been her motive in driving herself so far? Secrecy perhaps? Had she wished her employer’s household to remain ignorant of her exact destination? This idea quickened Dido’s interest and made her more determined than ever to discover all that she might about the mysterious Mrs Pinker.
But when she reached the archway that led into the street, she was forced to stop. A large cart was just turning into the yard at a rapid pace with a horseman riding beside it. She stepped back into the shadow of the inn’s walls and they clattered past her without seeming to notice that they had almost run her down.
‘Hey fellow!’ shouted the rider to a passing ostler. ‘Has the London coach gone? Damn my luck! I’ll wager fifty pounds it has!’
Dido turned immediately at the sound of the familiar voice and saw Henry Coulson, swinging himself out of his saddle – and being reassured by the ostler that, no sir, the coach weren’t yet come, but it’d likely be here in ten minutes, for he was almost sure he’d heard the horn very faint …
‘Why, I’m monstrous glad of it, for I’d have been in a fine pickle if I’d missed it. Now,’ handing a coin to the man, and gesturing at the cart, ‘you make sure this box is safely stowed aboard. It’s mighty important it gets to town today.’ And, with a tap at his nose, he was off through the parlour door.
Dido watched him go with great interest and wondered very much why he should put himself to the trouble of bringing his box here. A London coach passed within two miles of the abbey and stopped every day at the Red Lion in Badleigh …
She could not resist stepping closer to look at the box which the cart driver and the ostler were now, with some difficulty, lifting out of the bottom of the deep cart. It seemed rather heavy, though small to be the only cargo in such a large cart: long, and narrow, it was made of deal and clasped at the corners with iron plates.
‘What’s he got stowed in this, solid gold?’ grunted the ostler.
‘I don’t know,’ replied the carter quickly. ‘Ain’t none of my business what he’s got in it. I just drive it for him.’ And he lowered the box onto the cobbles as if he wanted rid of it.
Dido peered over his shoulder as he bent down and read the label pasted on the lid.
The carter was climbing back onto his seat and gathering up the reins, eager to be gone. The ostler looked up.
‘Can I help you, miss?’
‘Oh!’ She blushed and stepped back hastily. ‘Oh, no thank you … That is … I wondered whether you might direct me to the haberdasher’s shop.’
He did so, but as he was talking, she kept her eyes upon the box – and noticed that there were one or two damp leaves clinging to it, and that a very thin trickle of liquid was now running from the edge of one of its iron plates, forming a little dark stream through the dirty cobbles. And then, as she thanked the ostler and started off across the yard, she became aware of a smell. It was very faint, but it was something other than the usual inn-yard odour of horses, dust and sour ale: something sweet and very slightly rotten. And she was almost sure that it was coming from the box …
There was no more information to be got about Mrs Pinker in the haberdasher’s shop than there was at the inn. It seemed that the good people of Great Farleigh bought their laces and their cottons and their knitting-pins as rapidly as they did everything else, and had no time at all to talk about their neighbours. The woman behind the long counter shook her head at Dido’s questions, astonished to be asked about anything other than haberdashery. However, a woman with a pair of whining children hanging upon her skirts did interrupt her hurried selection of shirt buttons long enough to suggest that Dido might make enquiries at the post office.
It was an excellent thought and Dido praised the buyer of shirt buttons so warmly for it, that she was rewarded with a little smile – and a few hasty directions.
The directions took her back to a muddy lane beside the inn, a tiny room adjoining the stables and a very old
