A Woman of Consequence

offended.

‘Yes,’ she cried in distress. ‘I should like to dance with you very much indeed. But I am afraid I cannot.’

‘I promise I shall not revert to the subjects which distressed you in our last interview. We shall go down the entire set in silence if you wish. Indeed,’ he added, raising his brows and beginning to smile, ‘I think I would rather enjoy a little companionable silence between us.’

But still she shook her head. ‘I am afraid I cannot dance with you, Mr Lomax’ she said regretfully. ‘Not now. You see, I have other business on hand. I have set a trap.’

‘A trap?’ he cried in alarm. ‘Whatever are you about now?’

‘Well,’ she explained in a hasty undertone, ‘everyone, here beside the hearth, heard me speaking to you just now. Whoever stole Miss Fenn’s letters now knows there is another yet remaining in her chamber. And I am sure that just as soon as the dancing begins that person will go to find that one last letter.’

‘Oh! And you mean to go to the bedchamber, to see who comes?’

‘Yes. So you see, I cannot dance.’

It hurt her deeply, for, she would have dearly loved to dance with him just once, and, as things stood between them, she might never have another opportunity. But she was sure that Harry Fenn – or his envoy – would go now to retrieve the letter and if she was not there in the room waiting, she would never know the truth about Miss Fenn’s death …

There was moonlight falling through the tall windows of Miss Fenn’s chamber as Dido quietly opened the door. Behind her, the faint strains of the first dance were echoing up the stairs; and before her the shape of the window was drawn in white light across the floorboards and a broad square of Turkey carpet. The light fell diagonally across the high bed, catching the corner of the bedside table and the old black bible lying upon it.

She tiptoed into the room – going first to the bible to reassure herself that the letter was still there within the back cover, then to the window seat, where she found that only a little rearranging of a curtain would conceal her. And there, with her cheek resting against the cold glass, she waited, her ears straining to catch the sound of approaching feet, and her eyes becoming gradually more accustomed to the faint light, until even the curving tails of the Chinese birds were distinguishable on the bed-hangings.

Who would come?

Henry Coulson. It would be Henry Coulson for sure, she told herself. For there was the name to consider. Did not ‘little Harrys’ always grow into men called Henry? And the account Harriet had given of Mr Coulson was so vague – nothing was known here in Madderstone of his parentage, save what he had told himself …

Yes, it would be Henry Coulson – she would not even countenance the other darker thoughts which kept trying to insinuate themselves into her brain. And yet, those darker thoughts had prompted her to lay the trap wide – including in its scope everyone who might possibly be the thief. She had let them all know of the letter’s existence …

There was a slight sound out in the passageway. She lifted her feet onto the window seat and drew the curtain about her. Steps approached rapidly – as if the walker knew exactly where he was going – then stopped outside the door of the chamber. There was a pause, filled by the faint sound of a waltz.

The lock turned. The door opened slowly. Dido’s hands tightened about her knees. The light of a candle flickered round the room and footsteps – firm, but light – crept across the floor, tap-tapping on the boards, softer on the carpet. Now the intruder was come to the bed. And – straining for it – she caught the sound of a candle being set down, the sound of pages turning. And then, as she held her breath and listened with every fibre of her being, Dido detected the one noise she had most dreaded hearing – the slight rustle of a silk gown.

It struck her like a blow in the face: confirming all her worst fears – and making her angry. She jumped to her feet, pushing aside the curtain and flooding the chamber with moonlight.

The figure by the bed gave a cry, dropping letter and bible together, and the candlelight showed the white staring face – of Harriet Crockford.

Chapter Forty-Four

For a moment the two friends could only stand and stare rather foolishly at one another.

‘I hoped so much,’ stammered Dido at last, ‘that it would not be you, Harriet. I would rather it had been anyone else …’

‘It was a trick!’ cried Harriet and the hurt of betrayal was as strong in her voice as it was in Dido’s. ‘You meant me to come here. That is why you told me about the letter.’

‘I told everyone about it,’ Dido reminded her. ‘But I knew the only person who would come to retrieve it was the person who stole the rest of Miss Fenn’s correspondence.’

‘But you suspected me of being that person?’

‘I could not help but suspect you after you lied so very badly to me in the carriage. When you tried to convince me that Mr Coulson had taken the letters, I knew that you must have something to hide.’

‘How did you know …?’

‘Oh Harriet! it was so very obvious. You said that you were on your own in Penelope’s room when you heard Mr Coulson pass the door. But, by your own account, Mr Paynter had come up with you immediately after dinner to see his patient. You were not alone until after the surgeon left you. And it was as he left that Mr Harman-Foote came to the room – and found the desk already empty. Mr Coulson could not have taken the letters.’

‘Oh.’ Harriet suddenly became aware that the letter itself was lying still upon the floor, she picked it up hastily and stowed it away in her pocket. ‘You shall not have it,’ she said, setting her chin determinedly.

‘I do not need it. I know what it says – and I know who sent it.’

Harriet sat down upon the bed. ‘And what do you mean to do about it?’ she asked with a great attempt at calm.

‘That,’ said Dido, turning away to the window, ‘rather depends upon you, Harriet. It depends upon whether you are prepared to right those crimes and injustices which you have been trying so hard to conceal.’ She fixed her eyes upon the lopped trunks of the trees below the window which appeared like fallen giants in the moonlight. ‘And you must start by telling me the whole truth of what you know and why you took the other letters.’

‘Dido, please, it will do no good. There is no need to rake up what is past. Least said …’

‘Least said soonest mended!’ cried Dido, turning upon her angrily. ‘Harriet, I cannot believe that even now you will quote maxims instead of really speaking to me! Let sleeping dogs lie – that was Dear Papa’s favourite saying, was it not?’

‘I shall not stay to hear you speak disrespectfully of my father!’

‘Yes you shall!’ cried Dido, more angry than ever. ‘Upon my word you shall. For if you do not, I will speak to Mr Wishart instead.’

‘You would not!’ said Harriet and, although she made no appeal to their friendship, the thought of it filled the grand bedchamber as real as the moonlight and the faint scraping of the fiddles.

Dido hesitated.

‘How long have you suspected me?’ asked Harriet.

‘Almost from the beginning. Though I have tried hard to put the thought away from me. I believe it was when the ring was stolen that the first doubts intruded. Mrs Harman-Foote said something interesting then. She said that a visitor could not wander away to her bedchamber without her knowing about it. And I could not help but think that there was one visitor who had an unusual degree of freedom in this house. Your role as Penelope’s nurse would enable you to move about the upper floors undetected.’

‘I see.’

‘And of course, you were quite determined to nurse Penelope – and to nurse her alone. Even Lucy noticed your determination – though she entirely misunderstood its cause. Why Harriet? What was the real cause? Were you perhaps afraid of what Penelope might say in delirium?’ Dido left the window and began to pace restlessly about the room, finding some relief in movement and words. ‘And when I insisted upon your having a companion in the labour, your choice was very telling indeed. You chose the oldest servant in your household – the oldest, the most loyal and, I suspect, the one who already knew the secrets of your family. Indeed, I am convinced that,