A Woman of Consequence

You see, Eliza, the key to it all lies in another little detail: a piece of information I got from Mrs Pinker’s maid, but the significance of which I have only just begun to suspect. As I have said, girls did not leave Great Farleigh until they were seven years old. It was boys who left that establishment at five.

Dido bent eagerly over her writing desk, her pen scratching rapidly in the red firelight, her eyes bright, one small foot tapping rapidly upon the brass fender: impatient now to get it all told.

Miss Fenn had contrived, in fact, to steal from Lord Congreve his son: the heir to his title and estates. That is what he had always been uncertain of: the sex of the child she had borne. He feared she had robbed him of the next Lord Congreve and he could not rest until he had discovered the truth. That, you see, is why Captain Laurence began his investigations. But, of course, he found only what Miss Fenn had intended her husband should find if he searched: a daughter. The ‘little miss’ about whom His Lordship cared so little he did not even trouble to protect her from the captain’s own selfish schemes!

Well, I think I begin at last to understand Miss Fenn (and upon further reflection I am quite determined to continue with that name – she deserves to have a title quite different from that of her brutish husband!). She was, in fact, the religious, upright woman that her neighbours believed her to be. And when I next see Mr Lomax I shall be sure to tell him that my ‘great idea’ has been vindicated entirely …

She paused, a smile softening her anxious face; but a moment later she had recollected herself and her pen was driving fast across the page.

The poor woman was quite determined to protect her son from the influence and example of such a vicious father. Titles and fortune were of no importance to her beside virtue and she set about hiding her son so effectively he would be protected even after her death. The web of deceit which she wove cost her her life in the end, Eliza – and I cannot bear to think that she might have died in vain. Lord Congreve shall not find his son if I can prevent it.

And so, of course, you will now understand the urgency – the absolute necessity – of my finding those lost letters. For, if Captain Laurence gets to them first, I fear he will discover his mistake – and Lord Congreve himself will descend upon Madderstone to retrieve his stolen heir.

I cannot yet be sure exactly what the missing letters are about, nor who wrote them. But I think they may reveal the whereabouts of the boy – and that I believe is the reason for their removal. Somewhere here in the neighbourhood of Madderstone or Badleigh is the true son of Elinor Fenn, and I cannot help but wonder whether it is not he who has, from the very beginning, been working against me and trying to prevent my discovering the truth about his mother’s death.

Well, tomorrow is All Hallows and, at the ball, I intend to lay a trap for the culprit. I hope I shall learn the final truth behind Miss Fenn’s death – and the haunting of Madderstone Abbey.

But first I must speak to Mr Portinscale and persuade him that the grave must be moved …

Chapter Forty-One

The next morning was still, and thick with fog; hundreds of spider’s webs festooned the bright hawthorn hedges. The air was cold and damp on Dido’s face as she made her way along the lane to Madderstone church, and the sheep that bleated and coughed about her were all but invisible in blank white fields.

She was come in search of Mr Portinscale, but, near the vicarage, she caught up with young Georgie who was dawdling homeward along the narrow muddy lane with his ragged Latin grammar under one arm and pausing from time to time to stuff his pockets with the glistening brown fruits that had fallen from the horse chestnut trees. The sight of him reminded Dido of another little matter which she wished to resolve.

‘Well, Georgie,’ she said politely as she fell into step beside him. ‘Did you have a pleasant lesson with Mr Portinscale?’

‘No.’ He turned up his fat pale face – the nose slightly pink with cold, the tassel of his cap falling into one eye. She noticed that the bruise was healed now. ‘I don’t like Latin,’ he said sulkily.

‘But you like cake, do you not?’

‘What?’ He stopped under the dripping yellow leaves of one of the chestnuts and looked up at her in great surprise. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, of course, that you like the cake which Mr Portinscale gives you. Though I think, Georgie, you had better eat a little less of it, if it makes you bilious.’

‘How do you know about that?’ he demanded, his face reddening, his small eyes shifting about suspiciously above his plump cheeks.

‘Oh! I just know,’ said Dido brightly and walked on along the lane so that he was forced to trot to catch up with her. ‘It is, you see, something which happens to ladies if they remain unmarried. When they reach a certain age they begin to know everything about everyone else’s business.’

‘Do they?’ His eyes widened. He bit his lip, considered the unmarried ladies of his acquaintance – and seemed to find proof of her assertion. ‘What else do you know, Miss Kent?’ he asked with cautious respect.

‘Well, let me see. I know that Mr Portinscale gives you cake to prevent your telling your mother that he once … lost his temper with you.’ She gave a little wink and touched her finger to her cheek.

‘Oh!’

‘And there is one other thing that I know, Georgie.’ She stopped walking for they had come now to the lychgate and she could see the thin black figure of the parson disappearing among the mist-shrouded gravestones.

‘What else is it you know, miss?’ asked Georgie anxiously.

‘I know that you are being very unwise.’ She looked down at the fat, indulged little face: the pale eyes blinking rapidly with worry. ‘You had better make your peace with Mr Portinscale,’ she said gently. ‘I do not think he will strike you again.’

‘He won’t!’ the boy cried indignantly. ‘For if he does …’

‘No, Georgie,’ she said with a shake of the head, ‘you must not tell your mother of what happened. For, you see, if she thinks your present teacher is unsuitable then she will certainly send you away to school.’

The soft little mouth fell open in horror.

‘You would not like school at all, Georgie. My brothers have told me all about it. You see, in schools, teachers strike their pupils whenever they wish.’

Mr Portinscale was standing on the north side of the foggy churchyard. One hand rested upon a low bough of the ancient yew tree, his hat was pulled low over his eyes, his angular figure bent over in contemplation of the suicide’s grave.

Dido stopped as she first caught sight of him – though she had come there to find him. She had spent several hours of the past night devising and rehearsing the case she must put to him – and was rather well pleased with the argument she had prepared. But there was something private in his attitude: something of the attitude of prayer in his earnest gazing upon the raw little mound of earth among the dead yellow grass and broken dock stems. She was on the point of turning away when he looked up and saw her.

He turned to her and swept off his hat with a bow and a courteous greeting. But when she stepped forward and mentioned a particular reason for seeking him out – a subject upon which she wished to talk – he frowned sternly.

‘I would by no means wish you to think me unwilling to converse with you Miss Kent,’ he said solemnly, turning his hat about in his hands, ‘but I hope that you are not intending to revive the very unpleasant discussion of …’

‘Miss Fenn’s death,’ she finished briskly, with a glance at the grave. ‘Yes, Mr Portinscale, I am afraid that I must. You see, I have learnt something – during my visit to Bath – something which I think you ought to know about that lady.’