She started up the stairs and, after a moment’s struggle, he followed her. ‘May I accompany you?’ he said. ‘I should be very glad to see your proof.’
‘I am all amazement! I had expected you to advise me against interfering.’
‘And would you heed me if I did?’
‘Ah!’ There was a moment of confusion, but the urgency of her quest overruled everything. ‘I fear that I might not,’ she admitted.
‘Then I shall not make myself ridiculous by offering counsel which I know will be disregarded.’
They reached the top of the stairs and turned into the passageway which led away to the back of the house; it was wide, well carpeted and panelled in fine oak, embellished with the staring heads of long-dead stags. Dido had expected to find a door to the kitchen stairs leading from it, but they arrived at its end and a large window overlooking an inner court, without encountering any such door.
‘How strange!’ she cried, turning her back to the window and looking along the length of the passage. ‘I was quite certain that there would be a door.’
Lomax picked up a candelabra which stood upon the window sill. ‘There most certainly is a door,’ he said, ‘but it has not been allowed to spoil the beauty of this panelling.’
Holding the light close to the wall, he began to make his way slowly back towards the landing. ‘Here it is!’ He stopped, pushed at the wood and opened a small door.
‘How very clever of you!’
‘Thank you!’ he said, standing back for her to enter. ‘I am glad to be of service.’ Looking up at him as she passed through she saw that he was smiling slightly. She rather suspected that the grave, dignified Mr Lomax was beginning to enjoy this little adventure.
They stepped out of the carpeted passage onto cold stone. The light of the candles showed narrow, unrailed stone stairs twisting downwards between lime-washed walls. From below came echoing sounds as of knives and china being cleaned and an occasional voice raised above the din of work. There was a smell of damp and fried meat, leather and boot-black.
‘Well,’ said Mr Lomax, looking about him. ‘I see neither a nun’s habit, nor any place in which one might be concealed.’
‘No,’ admitted Dido. ‘Nor do I.’
They started down the stairs, the sound of their feet echoing harshly against the stark walls. About halfway down there was a shuttered window. Dido stopped, pulled open the shutter and looked behind it. There was nothing hidden there.
The stairs ended in a narrow lobby from which doors led away to kitchen, scullery and laundry. On the bare white wall hung the usual row of labelled bells by which servants were summoned to the front of the house, and at one end of the lobby was the door which led into the main hall. At the other end, hard by the stairs, was a kind of wooden screen beside an outer door – through which an icy draught was blowing.
Mr Lomax shivered and shook his head. ‘I think, perhaps, you have failed in your proof.’ He sounded almost disappointed.
Dido turned restlessly from one door to another. ‘It must be here … There was no time in which to take it anywhere else.’ She stared about her. Inspiration struck. ‘Ah!’ she cried and stepped behind the screen. ‘Did you never play “Hunt the Thimble” when you were young, Mr Lomax?’
‘Not with any great success,’ he admitted as he held up the light and followed her into the cold gloomy space by the back door, where there was a great assortment of old muddy boots and pattens – and pegs upon which the servants’ outer garments were hung.
‘The trick,’ she said as she began to take cloaks from the wall, ‘is always to put the thimble somewhere where it does not look out of place – among small ornaments, or jewellery, that kind of thing …’ As she spoke she had been hurriedly handing articles of clothing to him and by now he was holding two old woollen pelisses, a fustian jacket and a sackcloth apron. ‘And of course, if one wished to hide a garment … Ah!’
She turned in triumph, holding, in one hand, a loose grey hooded habit, and, in the other, the belt of rope which had secured it.
For a moment they stood in that wretched, cold little porch smiling delightedly at one another like a pair of high-spirited children. Her cheeks glowed and her eyes shone. He began to laugh. ‘You are remarkable, Miss Kent!’
Without seeming to know what he was about he took a step towards her – or maybe she moved towards him. When she considered it afterwards, Dido could not be quite sure which it was …
But she recollected herself, blushed, turned away, replaced the habit on its peg and began to cover it with the other things.
He took a step back, held the candle a little higher so that she could see more clearly. ‘So … you do not wish Mr Coulson to know that you have found him out?’
‘No,’ she mumbled as he handed back the last of the housemaids’ pelisses, ‘I would rather he did not. I need to think matters over …’
They stepped out into the lobby and paused a little awkwardly. The sounds of the kitchen echoed about the bare walls: the rattle of wooden pails on stone flags, the scrubbing of a table and the raking of coals. She wished he would not look at her so very intently.
‘Miss Kent,’ he began cautiously, ‘do you suspect that this strange occurrence – this “haunting” – is connected with Miss Lambe’s fall; or with other late events – I mean the discovery of the body … In short, is this a part of your
She avoided his eye and stared at the long, unsteady shadows which the candlelight was stretching from their feet, listened to someone whistling a hornpipe somewhere in the kitchens. A score of evasions ran through her mind, but she put them aside. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said quietly.
‘And what conclusions do you draw from this discovery?’ He nodded in the direction of the screen and the habit.
‘I conclude …’ She stopped herself and shook her head. ‘Mr Lomax, I think you are forgetting our last conversation upon this subject. I do not believe it is a matter we can discuss without falling into argument.’
The light of the candles flickered across his face showing powerfully conflicting emotions which puzzled her. There was a struggle carrying on; and it ended with: ‘I believe I may have spoken a little too … strongly when we discussed the matter before. I am sorry if I offended you.’
The words were said so very stiffly she could not immediately take in their meaning. But when she was quite sure that he had indeed made an apology, she stared. Whatever could have brought about this change of heart? She was quite at a loss to explain it.
‘If,’ he continued, ‘you were to do me the honour of confiding in me again, I should … endeavour to listen more calmly.’
She smiled: vastly pleased, though still very puzzled. ‘It is very good of you to offer it,’ she said demurely. ‘I appreciate your kindness – indeed I appreciate it far too well to put it to the test.’
‘You do not choose to share your ideas with me?’
‘I think it had better not be attempted. For even if you succeeded in … listening calmly. Even if you said nothing at all, I should
He considered this for a moment. ‘But it would seem,’ he pointed out with his usual impeccable logic, ‘that you already
‘Yes. Talking – to the right person – can, sometimes be a great help …’ She put her hand to her head. There was something about his solid, reassuring presence and kindly grey eyes that made her long to share her thoughts with him. But his eagerness to help, his valiant attempts to avoid censuring her, were inexplicable! She was too puzzled and confused to trust his sudden change of heart. ‘Come,’ she said abruptly, ‘we had better return to the drawing room.’
‘I see,’ he said, deeply offended. ‘I am not “the right person”. You would like to talk – but not to me.’
‘I think I had better not,’ she said turning away.
‘I suppose,’ he said quietly, ‘that you would prefer to confide in Captain Laurence.’
