A Woman of Consequence (26 page)

If Dido could have chosen the luxury of solitude she would probably have deemed herself incapable of bearing with company. But having no such choice and being shut into a carriage for several hours with three other people, she found that she could endure well enough by only turning her thoughts inward and being rather silent.

She certainly had more than sufficient thoughts to fill the tedious miles between Bath and Madderstone. And the first and most melancholy of her thoughts was that their experiment had failed. It would seem that, after all, it was
not
possible for a man and woman to exist in a state of well-mannered disagreement. She had been right to anticipate a moment when difference of opinion must lead to disapproval of conduct.

Perhaps it could all be explained by Mr Lomax’s theory of ‘a woman’s usual sphere’. For, if such a thing existed – and there was also a corresponding ‘sphere’ usual to men – then nothing of importance could be communicated between the sexes; their experiences and their natures differed so widely they never could agree upon important matters.

Perhaps the only happy marriages were rather silent ones …

She sighed and leant her face against the cold, lurching window-glass. If this were the case, there seemed to be no escaping the thought that she was herself constitutionally unsuited to marriage. For she doubted it was in her nature to be restrained and uncommunicative in the most intimate connection of a woman’s life.

When she was got to such a pitch as this, there was an uncomfortable suspicion that tears might not be very far away and some kind of diversion of her thoughts was absolutely necessary.

And so she sought refuge in the mysteries of Madderstone. For they at least offered the possibility of solution – unlike the horrible dilemma of the spheres …

She set herself to consider the stolen letters. If she was to prevent their falling into Captain Laurence’s hands, then she must discover who had taken them – and discover it quickly. As the carriage rattled on, she fell to a careful consideration of the nine people who had been at the dinner table on the day the letters were stolen, running over everything she knew of their whereabouts during that all important interval between dinner and tea.

Harriet had been with Penelope, Anne had been with Dido herself in the drawing room and, by Lucy’s account, Captain Laurence had been making love to her in the conservatory. Mr Harman-Foote testified to Silas and Mr Portinscale having been with him in the billiard room. And that left only Henry Coulson unaccounted for! But …

‘Oh!’ she cried involuntarily.

‘Dido, whatever is the matter?’ demanded Harriet.

Dido looked about her and saw, to her surprise, that the scene of barren common-land and furze bushes beyond the carriage window proved them to be many miles from Bath. The carriage was cold and gloomy with late afternoon – and becoming colder every minute. Opposite her Silas and Lucy were drowsing, their two heads drooping closer and closer together and nodding in time to the jolt and creak of the wheels.

‘Harriet,’ said Dido eagerly, but speaking low so as not to wake the others, ‘do you remember the night we all dined at Madderstone two weeks ago – the night on which the letters were taken from Miss Fenn’s chamber?’

Harriet looked surprised and put the book which she had been attempting to read into her lap. ‘Yes,’ she said with a frown, ‘I remember it. But, Dido, I hope that this is not a beginning of odd questions …’

‘No, no. The questions are not odd at all. They are very sensible ones which I should have thought to ask before. After dinner you went upstairs to sit with Penelope, did you not?’

‘Yes’ – with great resignation – ‘I did.’

‘And the chamber which Penelope was given at Madderstone was in the same wing as Miss Fenn’s room, was it not? They were within a few doors of one another.’

‘Yes – though I do not see why you should be so very interested …’

‘Harriet, I want you to think very carefully – this is, I believe, very important. I
must
discover what happened to those letters. Do you understand?’

‘I understand that you are intent upon meddling.
Why must you always be wanting to discover things? “Let sleeping dogs lie,” that is what Papa always said.’

Dido sighed. Now they were got to Dear Papa and proverbs all at once! It was going to be a great struggle to get any information at all out of Harriet.

‘That evening,’ she persisted, ‘did you hear anyone come up the stairs and go to Miss Fenn’s bedchamber?’

Harriet hesitated a moment, then: ‘Well, since you ask, Mr Harman-Foote came by.’

‘You are sure it was him?’

‘Yes.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Why, Dido, I do believe the old inquisitors of Spain could not match you for tormenting a person with questions!’

‘Harriet, why are you so sure that it was Mr Harman-Foote?’

‘I know because he came past Penelope’s room just as Mr Paynter was leaving it. He – Mr Paynter – had come to visit Penelope, you see – that is why I had been called away from the drawing room immediately after dinner. We went up to Penelope’s chamber together, he made his examination and then, as he left, I went to the door of the chamber with him. As he went out, he met Mr Harman-Foote in the passageway.’

‘I see,’ said Dido. ‘That certainly accords well with Mr Harman-Foote’s own account of events. But it was not he who took the letters. Are you sure you heard no one else?’

The pale outline of Harriet’s face looked mutinous in the gloom, as if she would protest against Dido’s torturing her again. But then she seemed to change her mind. She
frowned as if considering the question rather carefully, and turned to look through the window, at the yellow grass, the hunched shadows of furze bushes and the gaunt, long-legged sheep which grazed among them. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘I remember now: there
was
someone else. It was Henry Coulson.’

‘Indeed? Harriet are you sure?’

‘Oh yes.’ Harriet turned back, but the faint light of the window was behind her now and the encroaching evening together with the deep shadow of her hat made it impossible to read her exact expression. ‘It was certainly Mr Coulson,’ she said firmly. ‘There can be no doubt about it. I was sitting on my own beside Penelope, you see, and I heard steps coming up the stairs so … so I went to the door and looked out – and there was Mr Coulson!’

‘And what was he doing?’

‘Why, he was walking along the passage – he went into Miss Fenn’s chamber.’

‘You are sure of it?’

‘Oh yes! I remember it very clearly. Now are you satisfied?’

‘Yes,’ said Dido, drawing her fingers thoughtfully through the moisture on window-glass. ‘Yes, I am satisfied. But how odd, how very odd …’

And she fell into a sad reverie – for Harriet’s account had confirmed her very worst apprehensions. Matters were as dangerous as she had supposed, and rather more difficult of solution than she had feared. She sat for some time in silent contemplation of the scene beyond the window where a few sharp, cold stars were beginning to
wink out in the darkening arch of the sky. Sheep turned stern yellow eyes to follow the carriage, their chins rotating as they chewed meditatively. An icy little draught crept around the glass of the window, making her shiver and pull her cloak tighter about her shoulders.

Henry Coulson posed a great many problems – his role in the mysteries of Madderstone was complicated and, although she suspected a great deal, there was much of which she was still uncertain …

She turned back to Harriet who was once more attempting to read. Her book – held up high to catch the light – was obscuring her face.

‘Harriet, I have been meaning for some days past to talk to you about Mr Coulson.’

‘Oh?’ Harriet lowered the book an inch or two and looked rather apprehensively over the top of it.

Dido looked at Silas, but he was sleeping soundly, his cheek now resting upon the side of Lucy’s bonnet, his own hat sliding forward over his face. ‘Who,’ she asked bluntly, ‘
is
Henry Coulson – exactly.’

Harriet sighed and lowered the book an inch further. ‘Exactly? Let me see … By his account of himself to Silas, it would seem that he was third cousin twice removed to old Mr Harman. But, as you know, he was orphaned when he was a boy and Mr Harman paid for his education.’

Harriet delivered this account briskly and raised the book once more to her eyes – though there would scarcely seem to be enough light for reading in the rocking carriage.

‘And what relation is the young man to
you
?’ insisted Dido.

Harriet sighed loudly. ‘Dido, this really is becoming very tiresome! Am I to have no peace in which to read?’

‘It is a great deal too dark to read and conversation is our only resource. Please indulge me by answering my questions. We aging spinsters have so few pleasures!’

‘You are impossible!’

‘What relation is Henry Coulson to your family?’

‘Oh well! If his account of himself is correct, I calculate that he must be the great nephew of our second cousin – but on the father’s side only.’

‘That must have taken a great deal of time to work out,’ remarked Dido. ‘I wonder that you put yourself to the trouble of establishing it.’

Harriet’s only answer was to raise the book and pretend to read.

‘The other day,’ said Dido conversationally, ‘Silas revealed something very interesting about Mr Coulson.’

‘Did he?’ The book did not move.

‘I understand – from what Silas told me – that, although in absolute terms Mr Coulson is only a distant connection, he is, in fact, your nearest living
male
relation.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Harriet with a great show of indifference. ‘There does seem rather to be a shortage of men in Dear Papa’s family.’

‘In fact …’ Dido leant impatiently across the swaying carriage and pushed down the book so that she could look into Harriet’s eyes. ‘Mr Coulson is next in line to the entail on your father’s estate, is he not? He will inherit Ashfield if …’

Instinctively both women turned to look at Silas’s face, pale and delicate under the wide dark brim of his hat.

‘… if,’ Dido finished in a whisper, ‘anything should happen to your brother.’

‘Yes.’ Harriet sighed and closed her book with a snap. ‘Now, Dido, why are you inquiring so minutely into my family’s concerns? It is very impertinent.’

‘On the contrary it is very pertinent – in the proper sense.’

‘Now you are being satirical! And you know …’

‘Yes, my dear Harriet, I know you do not like it. But I think you may forgive me when you know the direction of my enquiries.’

‘Very well then, you had better explain yourself.’

‘Well, Mr Coulson’s relationship to you accounts for all his attempts to discredit Harris Paynter. You see, I realise now that Henry Coulson does not mean to throw doubt upon the testimony Mr Paynter gave at the inquest, at all – which is what I thought at first. All these slighting remarks about the poor surgeon have been aimed at Silas.’ She cast another concerned look at the sleeping boy who had been bundled by his careful sisters, not only into a flannel waistcoat, but also two overcoats. ‘He hopes to make your brother careless of Mr Paynter’s sound medical advice, does he not?’

Harriet hesitated and then put her hand to her brow as if in relief. It was perhaps a comfort to talk of something that had been weighing upon her mind for weeks. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘I believe he does. Mr Coulson has next to no fortune of his own, you know. I daresay it would suit him very well indeed if Silas succumbed to the asthma. But there are none so blind as those that will not see. I
cannot
make Silas distrust the tiresome man. He thinks
Henry Coulson is the greatest friend he has ever had!’

Dido sank a little deeper into the damp-smelling leather of her corner and shifted about her cold feet in an attempt to revive a little feeling in them. ‘You are right,’ she said. ‘Mr Coulson is a very tiresome man indeed. I have known from the beginning that he was up to no good. But it was not until I first understood the great lengths to which Mr Paynter is going to help your brother, that I began to divine the cause of Mr Coulson’s defaming the surgeon. And then, of course, a great many other matters were brought within my understanding – matters such as the haunting of Penelope’s bedchamber.’

‘Do you believe Mr Coulson was the cause of that?’ cried Harriet, interested in spite of herself.

‘Oh yes, I have been sure of it from the beginning. But at first I believed he had acted on behalf of somebody else. Now I can see the cruel masquerade for what it was: a bid to take advantage of Penelope’s credulous nature in order to frighten her away from our neighbourhood.’

‘But to what end?’

‘That is what puzzled me – until I began to suspect the exact nature of Mr Coulson’s relationship to your family, and then, of course his motive was clear.’

‘Was it?’

‘My dear Harriet, besides your brother being cured of his asthma, what could be more inconvenient to Mr Coulson than the poor boy’s marrying and fathering a son? And I happen to know that Silas had confided his feelings for Penelope to “the best friend he has ever had”.’

‘Ah! Of course!’ Harriet sighed discontentedly. ‘Oh, I wish with all my heart we could be rid of the troublesome
man, but I see no hope of his leaving Madderstone. He will stay, I am sure, until his dangerous
friendship
has destroyed Silas.’

‘Well now,’ said Dido with great satisfaction, ‘we come to my point: the reason why I believe you may become reconciled to curiosity and impertinent enquiry. You see I believe that these besetting sins of spinsterhood have led me to a solution of your problems.’

‘Have they?’

‘I would reveal it, but I fear you would think me satirical.’

‘Dido, just tell me.’

‘Very well then,’ said Dido, ‘I think that you should speak to Mr Coulson yourself, and represent to him the very great desirability of his leaving.’

‘That would not do at all. He would not listen.’

‘Oh, but I think he would. For, if he should seem reluctant, you might just mention to him the blood and the feathers which litter the ruined gallery at the abbey: suggest that they – and the lanterns which are seen in the ruins at night – should be brought to the attention of Mr Harman-Foote. I think that once you have done
that
you may find him much more willing to oblige you by taking himself out of the neighbourhood.’ The lights of cottages were now beginning to appear beyond the carriage windows and, as she looked out at them, Dido’s smile broadened. ‘And if you find the gentleman is still inclined to be awkward, you might mention that I saw him in the inn yard at Great Farleigh, delivering to the London mail-coach a box which smelt
very
strongly of game.’