at the steep sunny cobbles and a couple of chairmen labouring up the hill. ‘Are you quite sure?’ she asked, turning back into the room. ‘Are you quite sure that it was Elinor Fenn who sent Penelope here?’
‘Oh, aye. Though I never met her.’
‘Did you not?’ asked Dido sharply.
‘No, but I am quite sure of the name. There were letters and money sent; and for the first two years I wrote to her from time to time to tell her how the lass went on – so I am very sure of the direction too. I always fancied she was companion to a lady at the abbey, or something of that sort.’
‘A governess,’ said Dido rather absently, ‘she was a governess. But,’ she paced back across the room, ‘I do not quite understand. Miss Fenn has been dead for fifteen years …’
‘Dead? Poor soul! But I always suspected it.’
‘And has no one paid Miss Lambe’s allowance in all that time?’
‘Eeh! Miss Kent, I wish I was such a rich woman I could keep on lasses for nought. But no … No, the fact is, about fifteen years ago – just two years after Miss Lambe came here – the money for her maintenance stopped coming. Naturally I wrote to Miss Fenn to enquire about the matter.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And, after a short delay, I received a reply. Not from the lady herself – but from … a friend of hers. This letter said … now what was it … ? It said Miss Fenn was “no longer able to meet her obligations with regard to the child” and he – the writer of this letter – would in future pay what was necessary. And – all credit to him, Miss Kent – he’s never missed. Never been so much as a day late sending the money. Which leads me to suppose …’ she stopped and primmed up her lips.
‘To suppose that he is the girl’s father?’
‘Aye – though of course, it is none of my business to have an opinion. And I only mention the matter to you because you might be able to make sure the secret don’t get out. You see, Miss Kent, I know how gentlemen can turn when their secrets are exposed. They’re inclined to get angry – and stop paying the money. I wouldn’t want ought to happen that’d hurt the poor lass – for she’s a dear soul. Not so very clever – but as good-hearted as you could wish.’
‘Yes, she is. I agree that she must be protected.’ Dido turned back to the window to hide her eagerness and asked, as calmly as she could, ‘Can you tell me the name of this gentleman who maintains Miss Lambe?’
‘Aye. His name is Mr Foote – Mr
Dido hurried down Gay Street, her mind busy with the notion of Mr Harman-Foote being Penelope’s father. Very carefully, tentatively, she tried to fit this new piece into her map …
It explained a great deal: that reluctance to have Penelope stay at Madderstone which she had detected in her first conversation with Mr Harman-Foote after the accident; his determination to prevent his wife discovering the truth about the death in the lake; his persuading his mother to recommend Miss Fenn as governess.
She was very reluctant to think the genial master of Madderstone a murderer – but this latest information pointed to a powerful motive. Had he drowned his former mistress in order to silence her passionate demands which, had they become public, would certainly have prevented his very advantageous marriage? Maybe Captain Laurence had come to suspect the liaison and his investigations into the matter were a preliminary to exacting money in exchange for silence – that was a stratagem she believed the captain to be quite capable of …
But no. She shook her head, deeply dissatisfied. There were yet pieces which did not fit into the map at all: the handwriting which argued against Mr Harman-Foote being Miss Fenn’s lover; and Laurence’s distasteful conferences with Lord Congreve; and there was still the strange appearance of the ghost to be accounted for.
And then there was one point which troubled her more than any other: one small, but very disturbing fact. It would seem that Mrs Nolan had never met Elinor Fenn …
The town was becoming busier now: the chairmen were much occupied with getting people to the hot baths and the sweet smell of fresh bread and pastry was drifting from half a dozen little bakeries – turning Dido’s thoughts inevitably towards breakfast. And, despite the urgent demands of her mysteries, she was becoming rather occupied with chocolate and hot buns as she once more crossed the quiet Pump Yard and came to the front of the White Hart.
But there she encountered a sight which rapidly returned her thoughts to business. A post-chaise was drawn up outside the inn door and a groom was just stowing aboard a box and greatcoat which she recognised immediately as belonging to Captain Laurence.
‘Is Captain Laurence going to Portsmouth to join his ship?’ she enquired of the groom.
‘Oh no, miss, he’s going back to his family in the country first.’
‘To Madderstone Abbey?’
‘Aye.’
Now that, she thought, coming to a standstill beside the inn door, was odd: very odd indeed. She had been quite sure that, after the failure of his scheme against Lucy and Penelope, Laurence would simply take himself off to sea. Why was he returning to Madderstone? She did not like it at all. If he was still scheming – if he had still an interest at Madderstone, then matters might be more complicated – and dangerous – than she had supposed …
She stepped hurriedly into the inn’s public parlour in the hope of snatching a word with him alone, but was instantly disappointed.
Just inside the door there was a high oak screen which formed a kind of dark, ale-scented passageway with a dirty, stone-flagged floor, from which stairs led to the upper chambers. And, as she stepped into the passageway, Dido heard Laurence’s voice talking in the parlour on the other side of the screen. He had company.
‘… I promise I will do it …’ he was saying hurriedly. She turned away. She was upon the point of continuing up the stairs (or so she assured herself afterwards).
‘… If those letters are there to be found,’ said Laurence, ‘I promise I will find them.’
Such an invitation to eavesdropping! Resistance would have required the ethic of a saint – and Dido had never pretended to sainthood. She stopped.
‘Why, you’re a good fellow, Laurence,’ drawled a lazy voice. ‘A damned good fellow and you won’t find me ungrateful.’
She puzzled over the voice a moment – knowing she had heard it before, but uncertain where, until the scene in the theatre lobby recurred. Her dropped fan, the insolent oath. The second man was certainly Lord Congreve.
‘Yes, get the letters and burn them,’ he was saying now. ‘All I want is to have the whole business covered up. I had hoped I’d get what I need out of this …’ He stopped; there was a sound as of a hand striking a table. ‘But the infernal woman didn’t … Well, no matter, it seems she did not rob me after all. All I want now is for it to be covered up. I’ve no interest in the little miss. Just get the letters and destroy them.’
Chairs scraped across the stone floor as he spoke, footsteps approached the screen. Dido turned to hurry away; but as she went she caught the captain’s repeated assurance that there was nothing for His Lordship to worry about – that everything would be settled safely.
Dido fled up the dark stairs. Suspicions were turning into certainties, new fears presenting themselves, and plans forming so very rapidly that her map was almost made up by the time she arrived at the door of the private dining parlour.
Lord Congreve was at the root of it all! It explained so much.
She pushed open the door – and saw Mr Lomax just rising from the window seat to make his bow.
‘Miss Kent, I am sorry to call upon you so early,’ he began quickly, taking a step towards her, his face anxious. ‘But I have been uneasy since our conversation in the theatre last night – your interest in Lord Congreve. I have been blaming myself ever since for not warning you sufficiently …’ He hesitated, aware perhaps that she was as agitated as he was himself. ‘I was concerned about your … investigations,’ he said, eyeing her more closely. ‘I wished to warn you to take no interest in that wretched fellow’s affairs. They are not …’
