The American Boy

gate dividing the sump from the drain proper. As straw and other debris descend into the sump, the grills become blocked, and the melt-water backs up into the chamber itself. Hence the foulness of the air.'

'I think I recall Mrs Kerridge mentioning a shaft?'

He straightened up to his full height, and his shadow ballooned out into most of the chamber. 'You are perfectly correct – a shaft, allowing access to the drain from the outside world and no doubt also serving as a vent. I understand that it is now unfortunately blocked, but the principle is sound: it permits both the drain and the sump to be periodically cleaned out, even when the ice-house is full. Such a refinement is most unusual.'

'So this should be a veritable nonpareil among ice-houses?'

'Exactly so. I had hoped to have a sight of the original plans, but Mr Noak tells me that Mr Carswall is not able to lay his hands on them.'

'I confess I had no idea there was so much to learn about the subject.'

'I hope I have not prosed on at tedious length, sir. You must forgive me – it is something of a hobbyhorse, I confess – and one day, perhaps, it may be something more: there are fortunes to be made from the manufacture and trade of ice, I believe, particularly in America.'

I crouched beside the sump. Mr Harmwell obligingly held out the lantern so its rays shone into the depths. I had no doubt whatsoever that his interest in the manufacture of ice was genuine – there was no mistaking the enthusiasm in his voice – but, as I had once observed to Mr Carswall, a man may have more than one motive for his actions. Harmwell had wished to linger in the ice-house last night, and now he had taken the first opportunity to come to it when there was nobody else there. Last night, I had assumed he wanted to search the body of Mrs Johnson: now I wondered whether his real aim had been to search the ice-house itself.

'Look,' I said. 'Is not that a little recess – there, on the left?'

The effect of my words surprised me. I had spoken almost at random, to keep the conversation going, to avoid the awkwardness of a silence. Yet Harmwell immediately swung himself down into the sump. The drop was about four and a half feet. He shone the lantern at the small rectangle of shadow I indicated with my finger.

'How curious,' he said. 'I had not noticed. It looks as if two of the bricks have worked loose.' He put his hand into the recess and sucked in his breath.

'What is it?'

'Yes – how – how very curious.' He withdrew the hand and brought out a small object which he proceeded to rub against his coat and then to examine in the light of the lantern. He looked up at me and once again the whites of his eyes gleamed. 'Do you know, I believe it might be a ring. See for yourself.'

While Harmwell was hauling himself out of the sump, I examined the ring. I cleaned it with my handkerchief and discerned first the glitter of gold and then the sparkle of a diamond. Was it possible that the discovery had been made too easily? Had the ring been put there only a few minutes before Harmwell had pretended to find it?

My companion cleared his throat. 'Perhaps Mrs Johnson dropped it?'

'Perhaps.' I knew as well as he did that this suggestion was absurd: why should Mrs Johnson drop a ring into the sump in the first place, and why should the ring bounce, fly neatly into the back of a recess, and cover itself with sludge, all in defiance of the principles of physics? 'We should take it to Mr Carswall.'

'Oh yes.' Mr Harmwell bowed, as if in acknowledgement of my wisdom. 'After you, sir.'

So we left the ice-house and walked briskly back towards the mansion. As we were approaching the side door, Miss Carswall came round from the front of the house.

'Mr Shield – Mr Harmwell. I trust – why, Mr Harmwell! – you are soaking!'

'It is nothing, miss. A trifling mishap.'

'We have been down to the ice-house,' I said, choosing to gloss over the fact that we had returned together but met by chance. 'We made a discovery in the drain in the floor of the chamber.'

I thought it wise to share the discovery with as many people as possible. I felt in my pocket, found the ring and handed it to Miss Carswall. For the first time we saw it clearly in the broad daylight. It lay in the palm of her gloved hand, the great stone winking at us in the sunshine. Though the ring itself was of gold, the outer edge was enamelled white and delicately wrought so that it resembled a ring made of twists of ribbon rather than gold.

'It is a mourning ring,' Miss Carswall said suddenly. 'See, there is writing: and look, under the stone, there is a length of hair.'

She held the ring against the light so we might see it. Beneath the diamond I glimpsed a rectangle of coarse brown hair.

'What does it say around the edge?' Harmwell asked.

Miss Carswall held it closer to her eyes and read out in a halting voice: 'Amelia Jane Parker ob: 17 April 1763.'

'I know the name,' I said.

Miss Carswall looked up through her lashes at me and smiled. 'Is she not buried in the church at Flaxern Parva? The Parkers had Monkshill before the Frants, I believe – she must have been one of Charlie's forebears.'

64

Miss Carswall carried us with her into the house and took us not into the library where Mr Carswall sat but into the parlour. Mrs Lee was dozing by the fire and Sophie was reading to the boys, who were spending the day unwillingly in the role of invalids.

'Such excitement, my love!' Miss Carswall cried. 'Mr Harmwell and Mr Shield have found a ring in the ice- house. It is a mourning ring for Amelia Parker. We believe she must have been one of Henry's ancestors.'

For a moment the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the mantel. The colour fled from Sophie's cheek, and her bosom rose and fell.

'Treasure!' Edgar burst out in a piercing whisper to Charlie. 'There – what did I say?'

Miss Carswall thrust the ring at Sophie. 'So pretty,' she went on, seemingly unaware of the awkwardness she had caused, 'but so morbid, too, and the diamond is cut in that dull, antique way, and the setting is dreadfully old- fashioned. Have you seen it before?'

Sophie looked up, her face pale but composed. 'No. But I know who Amelia Parker was. Her daughter married Charlie's grandpapa, which was how Monkshill came to the Frants.'

Charlie leaned on the arm of his mother's chair and she allowed him to take the ring. 'Mama? Will it be ours?'

'I doubt it, dearest – mourning rings are often made for a person's family and friends – sometimes a dozen or more. There's no reason why we should have a right to this one.'

He dropped it on the palm of his mother's hand. 'But she was my family.'

'What a pity Sir George and the Captain are not still here,' Miss Carswall said. 'We might have asked them if they had seen it before. Still, I am sure they will be back after they have inspected Grange Cottage.'

'In the meantime, should we give it to Mr Carswall?' I said.

Miss Carswall glanced at me. 'Indeed, you are right, Mr Shield. I wonder if poor Mrs Johnson dropped it in her last moments. But that is by the by. In itself, it must be a ring of some considerable value, for the stone alone, and Papa should see it. But first I shall make a note of the inscription – I am sure Sir George will be interested.' She sat at the table, took pencil and paper and began to make a copy of the words. The point of her pencil broke. 'Oh! How vexing!'

'Allow me to sharpen it for you,' I said.

She watched with flattering interest as I trimmed the point with my penknife. Afterwards, she asked me to check the accuracy of what she had written. Having thanked me prettily, she fluttered out of the room.

'Sir George and Captain Ruispidge have conferred with Mr Carswall,' Sophie said quietly. 'They have also seen their unfortunate cousin. Now they have ridden to Flaxern.'

'They mean to return today?'

'After they have called at Grange Cottage, they will come back through the park.'

A moment later Miss Carswall reappeared and said that her father wished to see Mr Harmwell. The boys scampered out of the room in his wake, leaving me alone with the three ladies.