A Woman of Consequence (13 page)

…
But, Eliza, I am sure I cannot conceive
who
the reverend gentleman might be feeding. He is certainly not a man who is noted for random acts of charity. Nor can I believe him to be one who would keep a good deed hidden.

So, whatever can he be about? Does this theft from his own pantry have anything to do with his odd conversation with Francis?

It is quite remarkable the way in which, once one has begun upon solving a mystery, one discovers so many strange and inexplicable things that it is impossible to know which are of importance and which are not. Indeed, I believe that we live surrounded by all manner of strangeness: that our neighbours all have secrets to hide, of which we know nothing until one chance circumstance causes us to begin enquiries.

Well, I am quite sure that you are shaking your head over that idea, for I know that you believe me to be too suspicious in general. I have not your remarkable talent for thinking only the best of my fellow men and women.

But I am growing quite uneasy about the Reverend Mr Portinscale.

At dinner I asked Francis the purpose of Mr Portinscale’s visit and he
said
that he had come to discuss poachers. By Francis’s account, the Rev. Mr P. believes that, since 
Mr Harman-Foote cannot be persuaded to take strong measures, the other gentlemen of the neighbourhood should unite against this ‘wicked assault upon property’
.

Francis was, as you may imagine, no more anxious to exert himself in this cause than he is in any other. Though Margaret, I might add, took a rather different line. She was all for a little hanging and transporting – and opined that a man-trap or two would not go amiss either.

By the time we were got onto dessert, she was considering the merits of flogging. But enough of the pleasant
dinner-table
discourse of this household! It would be cruel if I were to continue; I should only make you discontent that you are not here to join in such elegant diversions!

To return to Mr Portinscale. Is it possible, Eliza, that he knows something of Miss Fenn’s death? Could he have killed her in a passion of rage and abhorrence when he discovered that she was not the virtuous woman she appeared to be?

The facts of his having made his offer immediately before her disappearance and his obvious discomposure at her refusal do rather tell against him. And I have been considering again Mrs Philips’ account of his ‘attentions’. She reports that they had continued all summer; that the pair were quite in the habit of walking out together ‘nearly every fine day’. Now, that would seem to suggest that Miss Fenn, if not exactly encouraging his attachment, was, at least, fond of his society.

Does that not seem rather remarkable to you, Eliza? That such a very handsome, passionate woman, firmly attached to another man, should freely choose to be in company with such a dull fellow as Mr P? Although, perhaps I should bear in mind that Mr Portinscale might have been a very 
different man then – before his hair became thin and his own resentment and self-consequence got the better of him.

And there is the annotation in the bible to consider too: Miss Fenn’s feeling response to Mr Portinscale’s discourse upon the tenderness of husbands – which might also suggest that she felt some affection for the speaker
…

No, I cannot make it out at all!

I try again and again to look into the heart of this remarkable governess and find mysteries and contradictions at every turn.

If only she had had a confidante: a friend with whom she shared at least some portion of her feelings and her hopes. She certainly does not seem to have confided in her pupil. Which is, I suppose, not to be wondered at. To talk with any degree of freedom to a girl of thirteen would be extremely indelicate. But maybe there was some other friend. I think I had better consult with Mrs Philips over this
.

For I must at any rate go to the abbey again today. I cannot be at ease in my mind until I have replaced the letter in the bible. I cannot keep it. I had considered making a copy before returning the original; but that did not seem honourable.

She paused in quite a glow of virtue – but then felt compelled to add:

Nor do I find that it is necessary, for every word is fixed in my memory.

Dido rather fancied that her feet were wearing a path between Badleigh Vicarage and Madderstone Abbey. But
it was a pleasant walk, she reflected as she hurried once more through the wood.

She paused upon a footbridge that crossed the busy little stream. From here a broad ride led away into Madderstone village. The trunks of the overarching beeches were as grey and sombre as cathedral stone; but the leaves burnt red-brown upon their curving branches – and also on the floor of the ride. The day was mild and the sun was fetching up a slightly spicy scent from fallen beech-mast. Pigeons murmured comfortably and, somewhere close by, a woodpecker was, once again, at work.

As she rested, the scene enlarged. Mr Lomax appeared in the ride, walking towards her with long, hasty strides. He seemed to be in some agitation: his head was bowed in thought, his hands clasped behind his back. He kicked at a pebble with such violence it rustled away through the fallen leaves and splashed down into the brook.

‘Miss Kent!’ He stopped abruptly as he caught sight of her. There was such a look, such a fierce struggle for composure, as made her fear the meeting was unwelcome. But at last he bowed and came to stand beside her on the bridge – and seemed willing either to rest there with her, or to accompany her back along the ride if she wished it.

He had, he said, been paying a call at the abbey. ‘There is a degree of acquaintance. We have met when I have visited a friend in Shropshire …’

He stopped speaking and regarded her so intently that she began to wonder whether there was something amiss in her appearance. However, it soon transpired that it was not her
looks
which were at fault.

‘Mr Harman-Foote,’ he continued in a tone of quiet control, ‘has been telling me of his wife’s distress at the horrible discovery in the lake: her unwillingness to believe that the poor woman took her own life.’

‘Oh!’ Dido turned her eyes resolutely upon the water gliding away beneath them; she watched a bright leaf as it spun around in an eddy, trapped by the pressure of water.

‘He informs me that you have undertaken to help her prove there was … some other cause of death.’ She stole a glance at his handsome, clever face. The brows were raised in a question, the strong jaw set in obstinate disapproval – but there was anxiety in the grey eyes. ‘Is it true?’ he asked.

She fixed her gaze once more upon the spinning leaf and reminded herself that his ill moods ought to concern her no longer. Now that her refusal was given she should be no more upset by his displeasure than pleased by his compliments.

‘Yes, it is true,’ she said firmly. ‘And I am very sorry if you do not like it. But if you had seen the poor lady’s wretchedness I am sure you would agree that I must help her.’

‘I have had the pleasure of knowing you too long to ever doubt your compassion. However …’ His fingers beat restlessly upon the wooden rail of the bridge.

‘Your judgement is against me?’

‘My judgement …’ he began hastily. ‘Or rather my advice …’ He stopped himself. ‘But, no, I am sorry. I have no right to advise you, Miss Kent. You have not chosen to bestow that privilege upon me.’

She coloured uncomfortably at the allusion and there was a short pause, filled only by the song of water and the woodpecker’s stutter. She knew that, in a moment – when he had regained his composure – he would begin talking upon indifferent subjects like the well-bred man that he was: a remark upon the weather perhaps, or the beauty of the season …

And that would be worse than his disapproval! She did not wish for indifferent subjects. She might talk of those with everyone else in the world. But with him she had learnt the exquisite pleasure of reason, of ideas discussed and argued in a rational manner. And she found that she could not relinquish it.

‘Very well,’ she said, raising her face with an inviting smile. ‘I shall not ask your opinion of my conduct; but what is your opinion of the subject?’

‘The subject?’

‘Do you believe that the coroner was correct in declaring for suicide?’

‘Ah!’ He looked wary. ‘I have no reason to believe him
incorrect
.’ He replied cautiously.

‘Have you not? Perhaps Mr Harman-Foote failed to mention to you the very material fact that Miss Fenn’s letters have been removed from her room.’

‘No. He mentioned it. And perhaps I should add that he also mentioned the loss of the young woman’s ring – for I am sure that is the next matter you will bring to my attention.’

Her smile broadened. ‘And do these strange thefts not suggest to you that someone has a secret to hide – some motive for wishing the circumstances surrounding
Miss Fenn’s death to remain in obscurity?’

‘That, I grant you, is one interpretation.’

‘You believe that another is possible?’

‘I do.’ He said gravely. ‘Do you wish to hear my interpretation?’

‘Most certainly!’

‘Well, Mrs Harman-Foote’s suffering at the discovery of the corpse is very evident; it is entirely possible that someone with her best interests at heart might remove the remembrances of her friend in order to prevent her dwelling upon the unpleasant subject.’

‘But there has been no such effect. The losses have only added to her distress.’

‘I did not say the actions were well judged,’ he countered, ‘only that the motives might be kindly.’

‘I see.’ She was forced to consider his theory carefully. It was possible. ‘And this person who has Mrs
Harman-Foote’s
best interests at heart, would, I suppose, be her husband?’

‘Perhaps,’ he acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head.

‘Yes – and there was a hint of tobacco smoke in the room when we entered it,’ she mused, ‘which rather leads me to suppose that Mr Harman-Foote had been there just before us.’

There was a fleeting smile from the gentleman at this bit of cleverness, but it was quickly suppressed. ‘And you have suspected him of removing the letters in order to hide his own guilt?’ he asked.

‘You must at least grant that it is a possibility.’

‘A rather remote one, I think.’

‘No!’ she cried, stung by the note of dismissal in his voice. ‘Not so very remote! Not when everything is taken into consideration.’

‘Everything?’ he repeated. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘And what is this “everything” which must be considered?’

‘Oh!’ Dido found herself fairly caught. For now she must either allow him to think her suspicions unfounded and unreasonable, or else put forward her proofs – and reveal the extent of her investigation.

She hesitated a moment over the desire of preserving his good opinion and the pleasure of disputing with him – but the latter won the day. And, fixing her eyes once more upon the turning leaf – which was now beginning to sink beneath the weight of water – she launched herself upon an account of everything which argued against suicide: the coins, the housekeeper’s opinion that Miss Fenn had recovered from her melancholy, the position of the corpse in the pool …

He listened in silence, his hand all the while gripping the wooden rail of the bridge – his knuckles gradually whitening as her tale progressed.

She ended with an account of the letter in the bible. She had meant to leave it out, but, when she came to the point, she found that her case was incomplete without it, and her pride would not allow her to suppress it.

She finished her tale. Somewhere, deep among the trees, the woodpecker laughed to itself.

He became aware of his hand which seemed to be attempting to crush the rail of the bridge. Slowly he uncurled his fingers. ‘And what was the import of this letter?’ he asked stiffly.

She blushed but resolutely drew the letter from her pocket. ‘You may read it for yourself.’

He hesitated and she amused herself by imagining that conflict between propriety and curiosity, so familiar to herself, now taking place within his dignified bosom. Finally he took the letter and she watched him in silence as he read both pages, sunlight and the shadows of leaves shifting constantly across his frowning face.

He finished and stood for a moment, his hand, with the papers still in it, resting upon the rail of the bridge, his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon her. A muscle moved restlessly in his cheek. He seemed to be forcing back angry words.

‘The lady had a secret … attachment.’ he said quietly at last.

‘Yes, it would seem that she had.’

‘And this is the end of your compassion for Mrs Harman-Foote? You are able to defame the reputation of her dead friend!’

Dido recoiled. ‘It is unfortunate – but I could not have guessed …’

‘And the best comfort you can offer the poor lady,’ he ran on without seeming to hear her, ‘is that her own husband is the guilty man; guilty not only of gross immorality, but of murder too!’ He stopped. His hand had curled into a fist around the papers.

‘I wish with all my heart,’ she said, ‘that the evidence were different – that it pointed to entirely different conclusions. But I cannot regret undertaking the enquiry. The fear of uncovering inconvenient truths should never make us content to accept lies.’

‘You forget,’ he said in a voice of quiet restraint, ‘that I am not permitted to comment upon your conduct.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ she cried angrily, ‘I rather thought that it was you that had forgotten it.’

‘No,’ he said, struggling against himself, quite shocked by the violence of his own emotions. ‘I am not questioning your behaviour, madam, only your conclusions.’

‘And what, pray, is amiss with my conclusions?’

‘Nothing at all, except that they are ill-founded and entirely erroneous.’

‘Oh?’

‘I assure you,’ he said, hastily returning the papers, ‘Mr Harman-Foote did not write this letter.’