A Woman of Consequence

calculations which she had not thought to make before.

The woman had died fifteen years ago. Fifteen years ago Anne Harman was a girl of (a pause while Dido counted, arithmetic did not come easily to her,) thirteen or fourteen years old. And, since she was the sole heiress of Madderstone, it was probable that she had been the only young person in the family at that time. Elinor Fenn had been her governess. And the struggling face, the gleaming eyes, proved the pupil had been very much attached to her teacher.

‘I am very sorry,’ Dido said quietly. ‘The lady who died in the pool was a good friend of yours, I think?’

‘She was the woman who brought me up. For many years – since I was six years old – Miss Fenn had supplied the place of the mother I never knew.’ The words were pronounced with quiet, feeling dignity – but a slight flicker of the eye as she spoke sent a single tear running down her cheek. She drew out a handkerchief and wiped it away briskly.

‘This discovery,’ said Dido gently, ‘and the publicity of the inquest must be very painful indeed for you.’

‘It is, of course, distasteful,’ she said, and tucked away her handkerchief as if resolved upon not needing it again. ‘But not because I have ever doubted …’ She stopped, drew in a long breath and straightened her back. ‘I have known for many years, almost from the time of her going, that my dear friend was dead. There could be no other explanation. She went out one evening, you see, and never returned. She was searched for, but never found.’

‘So,’ said Dido cautiously, with curiosity and propriety making their usual battle inside her, ‘this late discovery has not surprised … That is, I hope, it has not pained you so much as …’

‘It has, of course, shocked me. It has raised unhappy memories. But it has not recalled me to grief,’ came the firm, quiet answer. ‘That would not be right. It is a principle of mine never to waste time upon empty regrets. I have mourned my friend already and I have long ago committed her soul to the loving care of that greater power which I know has received her.’ As Mrs Harman-Foote spoke these comfortable phrases of Christian reassurance, her usual confidence seemed to be gaining ground. There was something positively defiant in her emphasis and in the setting of her jaw. ‘But,’ she continued resolutely, ‘I know that the verdict of the inquest is wrong. I know that Miss Fenn did not take her own life. Every principle which she possessed – every principle which she taught to me – would have cried out against such a wicked, irreligious act.’

‘I am sure it is very much to your friend’s credit that you should remember her so kindly,’ said Dido. And she sat for some time in very thoughtful contemplation of the woman before her. There is always a kind of fascination in seeing a familiar acquaintance act in an unfamiliar way; and tears in the eyes of Madderstone’s assured mistress were an odd sight indeed. But Dido’s interest in the present case went deeper. Doubts as to the coroner’s verdict must raise the possibility of a mystery …

Meanwhile Mrs Harman-Foote was struggling for composure. ‘I have spoken,’ she said at last, in the same quiet, feeling voice, ‘I have spoken to Mr Portinscale …’ She broke off. Dido wondered why Madderstone’s clergyman had been consulted. ‘He is quite unpersuadable …’ She stopped. It was necessary to take the handkerchief out again and wipe away a fresh tear. ‘My dear Miss Fenn is to be buried in a suicide’s grave on the north of the churchyard. In unhallowed ground.’

She stopped, her face working with emotion, the handkerchief pressed firmly to her lips. And Dido watched in silent sympathy; for a little while she was beyond words herself. Poor lady! To see a beloved friend laid outside the benediction of the church; to be denied all the natural solace of religion in her loss. The idea must frighten even Dido into silence, still for a while even the workings of her mind …

They sat together for a while saying nothing. The little fire smoked sullenly; there was a loitering footstep in the passage and Rebecca’s face peered once around the door, full of questions, but upon receiving nothing but a frown, it was withdrawn.

At last, with a great effort: ‘You are wondering I am sure, Miss Kent, at my calling here – at my speaking so openly. I hope you do not feel that I intrude too much upon our friendship.’

‘No,’ stammered Dido hastily – and a little untruthfully. ‘No, not at all.’

‘But I must do something you see.’

‘Oh, yes, quite.’

‘And I have no one else to whom I may speak without reserve on this subject. My husband does not wish me to concern myself over the matter, you see. He believes that my making any enquiries will only add to my distress.’

‘Yes, I quite understand,’ murmured Dido, though she was beginning to wonder where all this might be leading.

‘And so I have decided that I must ask for your help, Miss Kent. For, you see, I have always had the highest regard for your good sense and understanding – I have always felt that you are someone whose judgement may be relied upon.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dido, surprised and flattered by a good opinion which she had never had much cause to suspect. ‘I am sure I should be very glad to be of any assistance.’

Mrs Harman-Foote looked pleased and put up her handkerchief. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘I am quite sure that, if only a few enquiries were made into the matter, it would be possible to establish that dear Miss Fenn is innocent of this terrible crime which is charged against her.’

‘I suppose it might be possible to find out a little more,’ said Dido thoughtfully, rather intrigued by the problem. ‘Her friends might be questioned. The history of her last days examined more closely …’

‘Excellent,’ cried Mrs Harman-Foote. ‘Then it is agreed – you will make the enquiries my husband will not permit me to make. You will find out about Miss Fenn’s death – so that we may prove to Mr Portinscale that she did not take her own life and her body must be laid in consecrated ground.’

‘Oh! But …’

‘I am very grateful to you for undertaking the matter Miss Kent.’ Mrs Harman-Foote stood up to take her leave. ‘I know the matter could not be in more capable hands.’

‘It is very kind of you to say so, but …’

‘I should be particularly glad to have the whole matter settled before the All Hallows ball at the end of the month. I must have the poor, dear lady removed from that dreadful grave by then.’

Dido hesitated, disconcerted to find herself imposed upon again – and yet not entirely unwilling to undertake the commission. For it was shocking to think of a woman cast needlessly into a suicide’s grave. And, besides, her own curiosity was piqued. Had there been another cause of death? Or had the young pupil been entirely deceived as to the character of her governess?

However, her ever-active curiosity was at war not only with propriety, but also with memories of previous enquiries of her own: enquiries which had brought upon her responsibilities she had neither expected nor welcomed.

‘Mrs Harman-Foote,’ she said, ‘please forgive the question: but have you thought about the consequences of any enquiry into the events surrounding your friend’s death?’

‘The consequences?’

‘We have to consider Mr Wishart’s opinion,’ Dido explained. ‘I mean his opinion that the death could not have been an accident. I understand that the nature of the pool – the way in which the edges of it slope so gradually – makes it most unlikely that Miss Fenn could have fallen into it unintentionally.’

‘Of course there was no accident. Miss Fenn was neither clumsy nor imprudent.’

‘And if she did not fall … and if she did not take her own life … then someone else …’ She stopped.

Mrs Harman-Foote was regarding her impassively.

‘You believe that Miss Fenn was murdered?’ cried Dido in amazement.

‘I rather think that she must have been,’ was the calm reply. ‘Mr Wishart says that an accident was not possible. And, since I know that it was impossible for a woman of her character and principles to harm herself, I have no choice but to believe that someone else was responsible for her death.’

Chapter Seven