Flowers Stained With Moonlight (7 page)

‘Swear it?’ Camilla said almost in a whisper.

‘I swear it on my honour, on anything you want, on our friendship,’ said Sylvia ardently. ‘You can believe me, Camilla. If I’d gone out, I would tell
you
.’ I heard Camilla’s sigh of relief and the sound of a kiss.

There was a moment’s pause.

‘So what can it mean, then? How can anybody claim to have seen you?’

‘I keep asking myself. Either they saw George’s murderer – and he was a bit far off and half-hidden by trees, and they simply felt certain at the time it must be me in there, or … or else somebody is lying because … it’s somebody who hates me. Some friend of George’s. Oh, I wish, I wish I knew who it was.’

‘We will find out, somehow or other!’ said Camilla hotly. ‘I’ll have that person’s head, the liar! In the meantime, just go on doing as you are. Say as little as you can, and just keep repeating that you kept to your room.’

‘I tried to do just that, but they would keep on and on asking questions about George. Oh, Camilla, they kept on hinting and asking questions about – about our marriage, and how George wasn’t happy with me. I had to tell them how he came to Paris.’

‘Horrors. But you know, I think they would find that sort
of thing out for themselves sooner or later by questioning other people; servants and things. And it would look strange, maybe, if they knew it and you never said it. Perhaps this is for the best. Oh, darling, none of it can constitute evidence against you, as long as you just stand firm. Promise me you will, no matter what happens!’

‘I promise, of course I promise,’ murmured Sylvia, and her feet left the floor. I heard the sound of her snuggling into her bed.

At that precise moment, I received a most horrible, unbelievable shock. From out of the pitch darkness of the far corner of the large chamber, a pair of eyes were staring out at me, glinting and glimmering and reflecting I don’t know what minuscule source of light.

My blood rushed into my ears and my heart pounded so horrendously that I was momentarily deafened as though by a waterfall, as well as utterly deprived of breath. My fear was so great that I felt blackness closing in upon me. It was unreasoning, for really, the very worst that could have happened to me (discovery, exposure, disgrace) could not conceivably be bad enough to warrant such terror. But try encountering a pair of gleaming eyes in a pitch dark room, and see if your heart does not pound fit to burst!

With a great effort, I prevented myself from moving or making a sound, and as my reason returned to me, I noted that the yellow irises surrounding the glittering, enormous pupils obviously belonged to a cat. At that same moment, it stunned me again by leaping out of its hiding place with a meowl.

‘What’s that?’ I heard Camilla whisper, with a slight gasp.

‘Oh, that’s just the cat. It always wanders around in there – it gets in by a hole in the roof,’ answered Sylvia, her voice caressing and sleepy. Terrified that they would open the door to capture the animal, I slithered and slunk back to my own door as quickly as possible, mentally requesting the creature, which was now proffering a multiplicity of meows to celebrate my presence, to cover for any noise I might be making. I slipped into my room, pushed out the cat which hopefully tried to accompany me, shot the bolt quietly home and sat on my bed, trembling in every limb. All became dark and silent once again, and after many long minutes, I lay down and was finally able to relax. I began to think back over the conversation I had just heard.

Dora, I am as certain as I can be that Sylvia is to be believed. There was nothing but sincerity in her tone, and she protested neither too much nor too little. She cannot be such a consummate actress as to bring that off in such an intimate situation, in front of a friend who knows her very well. In any case, I was really not able to believe for a moment that such a girl actually took a gun and shot her husband coldly with it, however trying she may have found the married state. And with no plan, furthermore, no real alibi, nothing but a half-lame excuse of having stayed in her room.

Yet she is a strange girl, and there is some mystery about her; something, perhaps, related to the object hidden in the jewellery box. Dear me, what
can
it be? How can I manage to find it out? I have spent all of today in a ferment of discreet spying and intelligent reflection (or at least, some
semblance of it), in the hopes of learning more, but have not made the slightest progress.

My one useful act today was to strike up a conversation with the coachman, Peter Middleman; I was able to approach him for the first time since Mrs Bryce-Fortescue unwittingly spoilt my plans by refusing my request to ride with him to the post office. He was waxing the saddles in a sunny patch of green outside the rather ramshackle coach house, and finding myself alone in the late afternoon as the sunshine began to wane and the shadows to lengthen a little, I wandered over to him and began to chat. A real groom from the country would have been a little surprised, a little distant, possibly even a little displeased, but Peter is decidedly not of that species. In less than no time we were on the best of terms, and although he does make a special effort to call me Miss Vanessa rather than the simple ‘Vanessa’ I see trembling on his lips, he would never dream of calling me simply ‘miss’. In fact, he generally does not use any particular term of address at all in normal conversation. I take this kindly enough, imagining it to be a sign of the light-hearted democracy which reigns among the inhabitants of a city street where all are involved in an equal, and probably equally desperate, struggle to make a living.

I led the conversation quite easily to Mr Granger by asking Peter how he came to be a groom.

‘I’ve always loved horses and animals of all kinds,’ he told me cheerfully. ‘I had ever so many pets as a child – kept bringing home stray creatures I picked up in the streets. I even brought a rat once – my parents made me throw it back out. My parents had some connection with Mr Granger
from a long time ago, when he was still living in Manchester and working in trade and finance. He did a great number of financial things, I guess, though I don’t know much about it, but one of the things he did was lending money to people to get them started and then having them pay it back with interest over the years. He helped my parents start their grocery store. A grocery store was perhaps just a little thing for him then, but he took whatever came his way, big or little, and he had a great sense of who could be trusted. My parents were grateful to him for many years.’ He paused, and the expression on his face changed slightly. ‘I’ll tell you something, though: they were bitter, too. It was easy enough to see, even though they never talked about it. But the payments and the interest wore them down and ate away at their profits, so that although the shop was a fine success, we were always somehow right on the edge of poverty. They just could never manage to finish the thing; they were always a little behind, and it always had to go on a little bit longer. Yet my parents always spoke of Mr Granger as their benefactor and nothing else; he was a dangerous man to annoy. My parents are dead now,’ he added suddenly, unconsciously wrenching a little twig off a bush and twisting it in his fingers. ‘They died a couple of years ago, within three months of each other. My father caught pneumonia, and my mother caught it from him, nursing him. They died in the public hospital. Sometimes I think it wouldn’t have happened – they wouldn’t have gotten ill, I mean – if they hadn’t been worn down to a shadow over the years, with all the work. Well …’ He broke off again.

‘What happened to the shop?’ I asked gently.

‘Oh, it was seized by Mr Granger for what my parents still owed him. What do you think? He didn’t do it out of meanness, I guess. It’s just all business with him. You know, he could be friendly, too. I remember that when I was a boy of twelve or so, he saw how I loved animals, and he told me that it was his dream to buy a country house and live there, and that he’d do it in a few years, and take me with him as a groom if I wanted. I was so happy I couldn’t wait! And when he came about the shop a couple of years back and saw me again, he made me the offer. He had just bought Haverhill Manor then. Of course I didn’t feel the same about him any more as I had when I was a boy. I understood a lot more about what was happening. But I had no money and no choice, and – well – I liked the job he offered. So I came. I can’t believe that he’s dead too, now! It was a shock – I still can’t believe it! I found him, you know, lying there. I didn’t even realise he was dead for the first moment. He looked just – just as usual. Only lying down flat.’

I glanced up at him sharply, but my eyes met his; candid and blue, they stared back at me unwinkingly.

‘It must have been a terrible moment for you,’ I observed gently.

‘It was a strange moment,’ he answered. ‘I stood there … staring … and couldn’t make out what had happened, until I saw the bloodstain on his chest. It was just a little stain.’

I asked him what it had been like to work for Mr Granger, and as we chatted on, I gained a certain image of Mr Granger’s personality, at least from Peter’s personal
point of view. I tried, tactfully, to bring up the subject of Mr Granger’s marriage, but Peter seemed to have no opinion on the question. He is only nineteen, too young to think about marriages, either his own or other people’s. Instead, we found ourselves anxiously discussing the topic of his future. I only wish I had something to suggest, but I don’t know many country squires in need of grooms, and indeed, even if I did, I’m not sure that Peter would be found entirely acceptable by most of them, even if he
is
immensely fond of horses (and they of him).

I did not learn much of real interest, all in all, and was just preparing to bring an end to our lengthy chat and return to the house, when all of a sudden he became rather shy and sweet, turned red to the ears, and seemed to wish to express something rather difficult. Immediately, I was all ears.

‘I’m going to tea in Haverhill tomorrow,’ was what finally emerged. ‘In the village, I mean. Mrs Bird – that’s Mr Granger’s housekeeper as was – she was always fond of me and treated me like a son which she never had. She asked if I could come visit her now and again, since she’s out of work, and Mrs Bryce-Fortescue said I could take tomorrow afternoon off. I wonder – do you think you’d like to come with me?’

I burst out laughing at this surprising invitation of a hopeful Jack to his Jill, but quickly, realising that it was really a great stroke of luck, I modified my laughter into a burst of delight. Indeed, it cannot but be helpful to meet Mrs Bird and gossip away with her as much as can be. So after my initial surprise, I accepted his offer with alacrity,
and rushed off to tell Mrs Bryce-Fortescue about it. I feel that I must report to the poor lady again, for she has learnt nothing from me since I told her of the police interview. Certainly, I considered mentioning the mysterious contents of Sylvia’s jewel box to her, but in the end I have decided to wait until I know more about it myself. For the thought has occurred to me that if, by any chance – I do not think it likely – but if the secret concerned some indication of Sylvia’s guilt, her mother would be certain to destroy it. No, decidedly, I must say nothing for the moment.

As for my own newly firm conviction of Sylvia’s innocence, I could hardly report that to Mrs Bryce-Fortescue; I’m sure she would find it most rude were I even to hint that I ever had even the slightest doubt on that score. I rather fear she must think I am happily accepting her hospitality while accomplishing nothing at all. Indeed, dearest Dora, sometimes I actually think so myself, for I worry continually over Sylvia, and yet I have not been able to learn anything, so far, which could seriously be of help to her.

Oh well – perhaps tomorrow will yield something new!

Much tender love,

Vanessa

My dearest sister,

I must tell you at once that I have spent a most interesting and informative afternoon. Yes, at last, at last, I have learnt something really surprising, and certainly
very important, though I do not yet know what to make of it.

The drive to Haverhill was a very tiny little bit embarrassing. I sat up on the box next to Peter, for I wished to talk, but quite soon I grew tense at having his youthful eyes fixed upon me, calf-like, while he blushed until his neck was almost the colour of his hair. I tried to discourage his ardour by telling him my age, which I thought would seem quite hoary compared to his innocent nineteen, but it had no effect whatsoever, and as for my engagement, I simply could not bring myself to mention it at all, for fear of discouraging him too much and reducing him to sulky silence. I wished to encourage his friendship without encouraging anything else, and I can assure you that it was rather a tiresome business, and I was fortunate that his hands were much taken up with the reins of two very lively and spirited bays, for otherwise I do suspect that he would have tried to slip an arm about my shoulders, and I should have had to be severe.

The situation improved greatly as soon as we reached the village. Peter stopped the carriage in front of the village inn, and arranged, for a modest sum, to have it put away in their stable for the afternoon. He then proudly led me a little way down the main street, till we turned off into a very humble lane, at the far end of which we stopped in front of the most ridiculously pretty cottage imaginable. Rose Cottage was its name; not very original, perhaps, but extremely apt, for these flowers tumbled in profusion over the whitewashed walls, while innumerable other species, blue and yellow, bunched at their foot and bordered the
pebbled lane with splashes of colour. Peter tapped the doll’s-house sized brass knocker, the neatly painted green door popped open, and we were ushered down a little shady hallway into the family drawing room, which was more roomy than one would think seeing the house from the outside, and altogether full of people! Unexpectedly, we had found ourselves the central figures – quite the celebrities, in fact – of a classic village tea party. Indeed, Mrs Bird, a dear old plump lady in an apron, used to live in this absurdly delightful little home with her sister before going up to work in the manor two years ago, and now she has moved back down again. Her proximity to the victim of the most sensational event to take place in Haverhill for a century has made her quite famous round about, and with Peter enjoying similar privileges and our invitation having been made known in the village, afternoon calls had been particularly numerous, and in fact teatime came without any of the callers having felt the necessity to depart.

I was introduced as a friend of Mrs Granger’s, which instantly conferred great prestige upon me. A large silver teapot was set out, and a steady stream of cakes and sandwiches appeared from the direction of the kitchen. Perceiving the situation, Mrs Bird had given hasty directions to her cook to prepare tea for a large party, and dispatched a small and freckled boy to purchase the necessaries from the village grocer and baker. There was too much for the child to carry back in a single trip, and as tea progressed, we could make him out at regular intervals toiling up the lane with a bag in each hand; I felt quite sorry for him, and once I
went out to the kitchen to cheer him on a little, as I saw him coming round the house on the path leading to the kitchen door, but I found that he was being heartily encouraged by the gift of a bit of pastry at each trip, and he did not appear to feel that he had any cause whatsoever for complaint.

To begin with, the company was affected by a certain reticence, due no doubt to the unknown quantity which I represented; unknown quantities have an unpleasant habit of taking umbrage at certain indiscretions, and tongues generally become remarkably bland in their presence. But as I showed myself a most willing, if sadly ignorant, informant, the conversation grew freer, questions and remarks multiplied, and more anecdotes were recounted than I can possibly remember.

What emerged above all, over the course of the afternoon, was what I might call a portrait of a marriage. And such a marriage, Dora – such a marriage as should never exist before God! Some of the ladies present thought ill of Sylvia, and others ill of Mr Granger; not a few thought ill of both, but all were agreed that the marriage was a loveless one, and that after the first few months, every trace even of the most elementary mutual respect had disappeared.

‘He was fifty-three if he was a day!’ exclaimed a fuzzy-haired old creature who cannot have been less than seventy-five herself. ‘Marrying a mere slip of a girl – it’s disgraceful!’

‘Well,’ said a doddering old gentleman, one of the rare representatives of his sex, ‘if you want a large and healthy
family, you must marry a young ’un, it stands to reason. Where’s the harm?’

‘Large and healthy family indeed,’ said Mrs Bird with a sniff. I really do not think she is the least bit spiteful in nature, but her position as the acknowledged star of the day’s proceedings led her to make more of her special knowledge, and reveal more intimate details, than tact and elegance would really have allowed. ‘No one can have a large and healthy family, or any family at all, living as they did – angry faces, separate rooms, locked doors! Mrs Granger couldn’t stand to be near her husband, it was plain as the day to see. And he had no love for her, either. He never loved her, from the very start; just wanted her, he did, as he would have a pretty object. He bought her, I tell you, for the pride of having a twenty-year-old wife to grace his wrinkles. And never had the enjoyment of his prize, either!’

A shocked murmur arose in answer to this diatribe. I felt deeply ashamed for Sylvia, to be thus discussed, and ashamed of myself for listening to it all with such attention. Mrs Bird perceived that she had overstepped the line of decency, and began to justify herself by adding further information.

‘Bought, yes, I say bought!’ she cried. ‘Not that he spent the money on her. She wasn’t the spendthrift type, and her dresses were always as simple as simple; she made them with a friend, often enough, rather even than hire a dressmaker. No, I didn’t mean it that way. I didn’t mean that he persuaded her to marry him with offers of luxury. I mean that he arranged it all directly with her mother. Yes, he mentioned often enough how he was having his wife’s
home rebuilt so that her mother would have a safe roof over her head. Oh, that sounds kind? It all depends how you say it! Yes, it could sound kind, I suppose – only it didn’t! He rubbed it in, yes, that’s what he did. There’s a way of speaking that denies dignity to the other person, and that was his way, I don’t know exactly how he did it, but he did it right enough. Oh, there was a lot more than plain generosity going on there. And what did Mrs Granger tell me, when my very own niece got married last year? She asked how old she was and I said twenty-five. I told her not everyone got married so young as she was, just a slip of a girl. “You must have been in a hurry,” I told her, teasing like. And she just shrugged her shoulders and answered, “Mother was in a hurry. Not me.” Just shrugged her shoulders, that’s all. Oh, she was a quiet little thing and didn’t show much, but she felt plenty. Her husband was a strong man and could be cruel, too, but she was a sly one and had plenty of ways of defending herself. An evil chess game, that’s what their marriage was. She was pushing for a draw, that’s what Mrs Granger was doing. “Let me alone, and I’ll stay,” she’d say. “Touch me and I’m gone forever. You have no hold over me.” And in a way it was true. Mrs Granger wouldn’t have been bound to him by money or by propriety – she didn’t care much for such things. But he had moves up his sleeve as well. Mr Granger wasn’t a man who would settle for a draw. He was going for a checkmate, and he knew what he was doing – and he’d have succeeded if he’d but had the time, for that’s the kind of man he was! He’d have been capable
enough of having his way by force, and binding her so that she couldn’t escape. He was planning something, I know it for a fact, and it was going to be something terrible.’

‘Terrible, terrible,’ was the essential content of the murmurs which arose from the assembled company. The word expressed my own sentiments exactly, and I almost felt the prickle of a tear in my eye as I thought of Arthur. One or two ladies rose and took their departures with offended airs. But the elderly gentleman took up the conversation rather eagerly, and said in a hopeful voice,

‘Did she shoot him then? Is that what you think really happened?’

Mrs Bird appeared to realise that her discourse could be interpreted as hinting something of the kind, although quite unintentionally. She hastened to deny it indignantly.

‘Certainly not!’ she cried. ‘I do not believe for a single instant that poor Mrs Granger shot her husband. Not for one moment. Unhappy she may have been and was, and sly, perhaps, and stubborn as a mule, but never a murderess! Was she, Peter?’

‘Course not,’ replied that young man with a sudden energy which surprised me, but then I thought that his protectiveness was probably directed at Mrs Bird rather than at Sylvia herself. Furthermore, I believe, the idea of Sylvia’s guilt seemed doubly impossible to most of the people present, because of her fragile and feminine appearance, and also quite simply because she had lived among them. Still, there were exceptions.

‘Who else would have done it, then?’ said the old
gentleman a little wistfully, as though he almost wished, in the dusk of his life, to feel that he had personally encountered real despair, real hatred, real violence. ‘She didn’t love her husband, you say; she must have wanted him away then.’

‘She was a nasty bit of goods,’ said an elderly lady sitting quite near me. She was very bony, and it seemed unlikely that the generous plate of cake and muffins she held in her hand would be able to make any significant alteration in that condition. ‘I went up to the manor selling subscriptions, and she wouldn’t receive me. “Tell her I’m out,” I heard her telling the parlourmaid clear as a bell. Closed the door right in my face, the girl did. I went round and looked in the sitting room window and there was Mrs Granger talking with a friend, as calm as you please. And when I tried to catch her about it down in the village, she said she had no time for such things. Rude, that’s what she was, and behaving above her station. I wouldn’t be surprised at anything she did. Not anything. Who knows what some people will do?’

‘Now, Mrs Munn,’ Mrs Bird reproved her with some asperity. ‘Nobody here can believe she went as far as murder. Why should she? What good could her husband’s death do her? Freedom and independence? Why, Gerald Roberts, that poor girl couldn’t use freedom and independence if you handed them to her on a silver platter! That girl has to be protected and taken care of like a child, that’s all she’s really fit for.’

‘There are women who can’t abide their husbands,’ persisted poor Mr Roberts, meekly but stubbornly, like a child deprived of its bedtime story. ‘It’s a hard thing when
there’s no love. Some can’t bear it. Anyway, if it wasn’t she, who could it have been?’

A slight hush momentarily overtook the company, as each person reflected on what had just been said. At that precise moment, a soft, quavering voice raised itself from an obscure corner of the room and murmured something unintelligible.

‘What’s that? What are you saying?’ said several voices. The quavering voice struck up again, a little more clearly.

‘Couldn’t it have been that strange young man?’ it said.

I raised myself on my seat to identify the speaker amongst all the eager, staring faces, and soon perceived that it belonged to a very old, white-haired lady, bent over in her chair, holding her cup of tea close to her as though to keep warm, and leaning forward onto a knotted cane. ‘What young man is that, Martha?’ asked Mrs Bird kindly. Peter leant towards me.

‘That’s old Martha,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘She’s strange; she spends all day wandering about the streets looking about her. Nobody knows what she lives on, but people invite her over for a cup of tea sometimes. She’s sharper than you’d think to see her.’

‘The dark young man with the red cloak,’ is what the quavering old voice was saying when I transferred my attention back to it. ‘I saw him on the day, on the day Mr Granger was killed, which the devil knows that he deserved. A tall young man, a quiet young man, a strange young man. He walked up the road towards the Granger woods. I saw him, and it seemed to me that I knew him, even, but I couldn’t place him.’

‘It’s true that Martha saw a strange man – I remember it!’ chimed in a voice from the other side of the room, belonging apparently to a woman called Betsey Singer. ‘I met her over in Simpson’s lane and she told me. Handsome face and gaudy clothes she said he had, and smooth seeming. But it can’t have been the very selfsame day that Mr Granger met his death now, can it?’

‘Yes, it was, to be sure,’ insisted old Martha.

‘Surely many strangers come to visit the village, don’t they?’ I asked Mrs Bird.

‘No, not too many, unless they’re someone’s family,’ she answered. ‘I didn’t see any young man myself. I don’t think he can have come into the village proper; some of the people here would have surely noticed him. He must have gone around. Still,’ she added a little wistfully, ‘I do think I remember Betsey telling me that Martha had seen something.’

‘I remember too!’ The discussion had become general now, as everybody tried to recall exactly what they might have heard or seen. ‘Yes, Betsey mentioned it to me! Didn’t you, Betsey? Now, when was it? I was at the grocer’s … buying … buying raspberries. That was it! I told you I was buying them for tea because my nephew was visiting. And you said “Is your nephew a tall, polite young man with black hair?” And I said “No, he’s a little boy of nine.” Do you remember?’

‘To be sure!’ agreed Betsey. ‘Martha had told me she’d seen such a one, and I thought it must be your visitor when you mentioned him. Now, what day would that have been?’

‘Well, it was the day my little nephew came, so it was
Sunday – why yes, it was the Sunday before last, the very one!’