The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries) (29 page)

“I have been so curious – whose house is this?” she asked, picking up the shawl and wrapping it about her.

“Mine,” said Giles. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“But you do not live here – not yet at least?”

“I have only just taken it. It was an improvisation on my part to bring you here. I only signed the lease a week ago.”

“It is very pretty.”

“My sister has been seeing to the domestic details. One of her servants has been here, as well of course as the excellent Mr Holt.”

“You are preparing it for someone, I think,” she said, tracing her finger along the empty music stand of the piano.

“Yes,” he said. “What did you think of the piano? I heard you playing as I came up the path.”

“It is a surprisingly good instrument,” she said.

“You know, I think I took the place for the piano,” he said.

“A man after my own heart!” she said, and then said, “Forgive me.”

“I am glad to know it is a good one. I thought it was. I hoped...” he broke off. It was impossible not to stare at her with her patterned shawl about her, her deep red dress beneath glowing in the light of the candles.

“She will be very happy with it,” she said.

“I hope so,” he rubbed his face, and looked away into the fire.

“Hope,” he heard her say, “that is a strange thing. We wear it like armour and yet it does so little to protect us.”

He turned to look at her again, feeling the acuteness of her remark. She had sat down on the sofa and was twisting the fronds of her shawl fringe about her fingers.

“That’s true,” he said. “But we cannot do without it.”

“No, we cannot,” she said and looked over at him. “Life would be dry without it.”

He crouched down on the hearth, to scratch Snow’s head. He watched her again as she fiddled with with the shawl fringe.

“Will you tell me about her?” she said at length. “When are you to be married?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“You are not the sort of man to keep a mistress,” she said. “And when you said your sister, well –”

On other occasions he had resented such questions and deflected them. He never wanted to speak of it, but there was something in her straightforward tone that unlocked his tongue.

“We are already married. We have been married eight years,” he said. “It is just she is ill in her mind and of necessity away from me. But I want her here. I am hoping she will be improved by living here, a mistress of her own house instead of a wretched inmate in the place she is now. That she might come back to me a little. That we might find again –” He broke off.

There was a long silence.

“Buckle on your hope, Major Vernon,” she said. “And I will pray it protects you.”

“Yes, pray for us, Mrs Morgan,” he said getting to his feet. “He does not much listen to me, but He may listen to you.”

“He does not listen to anyone much,” she said. “I think He is fading away. He is dying, that old man in the sky. There, now you know how bad I am for saying that – but there is such wickedness and cruelty in the world that I cannot believe in it anymore. How can a loving God permit such suffering? That is what I always struggle with.”

“It is a struggle, yes,” he said.

“We are better off believing in ourselves and the powers we have,” she said. “I think you would agree with that, Major Vernon, being such a practical, sensible man.” She got up and walked about the room. “And perhaps to hope is not such a foolish thing. Perhaps you will be happy here. If I had a glass of wine I should toast your future happiness, Major Vernon. I would drink to you and your wife.” She made the gesture of a toast. “And I will send flowers and kind letters and music for the excellent pianoforte, if you will permit it? I even have a Berlin work parrot cushion nearly done that would look handsome on that chair in the corner, if you would not object to such a gift?”

“How could I?” he said, with a smile. “I am fond of parrots.”

She laughed and then said, “Yes, we must live always in the expectation of a good outcome. And see off all our enemies with defiant good humour.”

“Quite,” he said. “I wish we had a bottle of champagne to hand now.”

“A bottle from your brother in law’s cellar, perhaps? I have never tasted any nicer than that we had the other night.”

“He will be pleased to hear you say that. He takes great pride in his cellar.”

“He is such a kind man,” she said. “It was very pleasant for me to be treated as he and your sister have – indeed as you have done – as someone ordinary, if I might put it like that. I find I am always damned or praised, but never accepted for myself.”

“But you are not ordinary,” he found he must say.

“My voice is not ordinary. But I am, I think,” she said.

Snow got up, stretched and ambled over to her hostess. She looking up approvingly at Mrs Morgan, Giles felt, although he knew he was allowing his own pleasure to colour his interpretation of Snow’s feelings.

Behind the sashes rattled with a sudden gust of wind and there was the sound of hail against the glass.

“I do apologise for the lack of curtains,” he said.

“It promises to be an alarming night,” she said.

“Yes, perhaps.”

“I am rather worried about you walking back in that.”

“It will be no trouble,” he said.

“You will never find your way. Why do you not stay here? Then you and Mr Holt may take turns in guarding me.” She smiled. “Not perhaps that I deserve such attentions.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say something foolish and gallant. The invitation was a tempting one – it made a certain sense, although there was very little danger that Morgan would find his way out to such a remote spot. There was no real justification for him remaining there except to gratify himself, and it would be gratifying, there was no doubt about that. He could not much longer deny the peculiar pleasure he took in her company.

“A good night’s sleep by a good fire,” she went, sensing his hesitation. “It is what you deserve, when you do so much for us all. But I suppose you never have a fire in your room, Major?”

“No, never,” he said.

“This couch is not so comfortable,” she said, testing the spring with her hand. “So that will more than compensate for the temperature being over-luxurious, do you not think?” she said. “Will that satisfy your puritanism?”

“I hope you have a fire in your room.”

“No, I did not order one,” she said.

“Then I will get Holt to make one up at once,” he said. “You will excuse me a moment.”

She nodded her assent, and he left rather briskly.

It was pleasantly cool out in the passageway and he allowed his mind to clear before going to speak to Holt in the kitchen. Was it a proposition she was making, or merely an innocent invitation to take shelter? Was he guilty, like so many men seemed to be, of misinterpreting her, imagining her to be what he wanted her to be, instead of what she was? She was, he reminded himself, a respectable, modest creature, who would be horrified by the thoughts which now filled his mind.

Holt had made himself comfortable in a Windsor chair by the the kitchen hearth, but he jumped to attention when Giles came in.

“I heard you come in, sir,” he said. “But I thought I’d best not to disturb you. Is the lady comfortable?” he added. “I did my best but that chimney didn’t want to draw at all, when I first got there. You should speak to the landlord, sir, and have it looked at.”

“You’ve done well, then,” Giles said. “Could you make up the fire in her bedroom?”

“Of course, sir, right away. Let’s hope that chimney has a better draw.” There was a spatter of hail against the kitchen window. “It’s not a night for a Christian to be out,” Holt said, as he went towards the scullery to get logs. “Will you be going back in that, sir?”

“I don’t think I’ll risk it,” Giles said. “I’ll stay here.”

“Quite right, sir. Why leave a pleasant billet with such handsome company?”

Chapter Thirty-seven

“Is Mrs Morgan at home?” Felix asked.

The maid looked extremely flustered.

“Monsieur, I think you should leave,” she said in a whisper. “This is not a good time...”

“Is your mistress at home?”

“Monsieur, please leave.”

“Not until you tell Mrs Morgan I am here. Let her decide if she will see me.”

A man’s voice came roaring through the hall, deep and Welsh accented: “Who the devil is it, Berthe?”

The maid tried to shut the door in Felix’s face, but he caught it and held it open.

“No-one, Monsieur,” the maid called over her shoulder and again addressed Felix imploringly: “Please Monsieur, please leave! I beg you.”

They had a little tussle with the door, until Felix got the better of her and stepped into the hall, just as a man in his shirt sleeves came out of the sitting room.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded of Felix. “Eh, sir?”

He was tall, broad-shouldered and robustly built, and in the dim light of the hall he looked faintly satanic. It was also clear that he was somewhat drunk. “Another young buck who thinks he can paw my wife, yes?”

“I wish to speak to Mrs Morgan,” Felix said.

“Speak? I doubt very much that’s what you want from her,” the Welshman said, seizing Felix by both lapels. “At this time of night? Do you think I’m stupid, boy? Do you think I’m a fool?” Felix found himself with his back to the wall. “I know what you want, you dirty little bastard!”

Morgan had the physique of a prize fighter and his spirit was well-stoked by brandy and righteous indignation. Felix found his mouth was dry with terror and that his muscles seemed set rigid. Her husband, this monster, is her husband – it was all he could think. “Think you can have her, boy? Is that it? Think she’s yours for a tumble, for a nice fuck? Is that it?”

“No!” Felix exclaimed, and summoning up what strength he could, attempted to push him away.

This attempt seemed to amuse Morgan rather than anger him. He let Felix go and said, “Ha! Spoiling for a fight, then, are we? That would be a pleasure – to give you a good thrashing. That’s what you’re going to get, you know. A good thrashing, you presumptuous little shit-bag.”

“Edward, Edward, leave him be, for goodness sake,” said a woman’s voice. It was Mrs Ridolfi. “That’s Lord Rothborough’s son.”

Morgan spun round. “Rothborough’s son? What are you saying? Have both of them been sniffing at her? Is that it?”

Mrs Ridolfi said nothing but Morgan took her silence in the worst light, and Felix wondered if she had seen something that day he attempted to kiss her. Or perhaps Mrs Morgan had confided in her. If that was the case, he was in deep trouble here.

“Father and son – well, well, well,” said Morgan turning back to Felix. He looked him up and down. “He doesn’t look much like a swell.”

“He’s a bastard,” Mrs Ridolfi said. “But his Lordship is sentimental about him.”

Morgan lumbered a little closer to Felix again and Felix thought he was going to strike him, but instead he let his hand drop and wandered away.

“Filthy whore! Father and son. Father and fucking son.”

“I’m so sorry, Edward,” Mrs Ridolfi murmured, patting him on the arm as he wandered past her to go and sit mournfully on the bottom of the stairs.

“Well, Master Bastard,” he said. “I’m afraid you are too late. You and your father. The bitch has already gone. Already taken for the evening, ain’t that so, Lina?”

Paulina Ridolfi nodded.

“Where?” Felix managed to ask.

“She didn’t say.”

“Of course she didn’t,” Morgan rejoined.

“She went somewhere with Major Vernon,” Mrs Ridolfi said.

“What?”

Felix got no answer. At that moment another man came staggering out of the sitting room, holding a bottle.

“What’s going on?” he said, his voice slurred and confused. “What’s all the fuss?”

“Oh, get to your bed, you silly man!” Mrs Ridolfi said to him with exasperation in her voice.

“That’s no way to s...s.... speak to your husband!” he said with some difficulty. “I sh..sh.. shall go to bed when I am good and ready. But first there is a bottle of port which needs my attention.” And he went back into the dining room.

“With Major Vernon?” Felix said again to Mrs Ridolfi. “Are you sure, ma’am?”

“I heard her say something to her maid. I am sure of it.”

“But why?”

She went and opened the front door.

“Why do you think, Mr Carswell?” she said. “Goodnight.”

Chapter Thirty-eight

Finding the room had grown warm, Giles stripped down to his shirt. He stretched out on the couch, not attempting to sleep, but allowing his mind to turn over the events of the day, trying to take his ease. But he too keenly felt the unfamiliarity of his surroundings and the stimulation of having been so much in the company of a woman whom he found it impossible not admire. She was intelligent, courageous, and full of wit and spirit. He liked her playful mind and how she had endeavoured to smile throughout her trying circumstances.

The rain had turned again to hail, and he could hear it spattering like gravel thrown against the window panes.

There was a sudden loud bang and he heard her cry out. He leapt up from the sofa and headed for the passageway. The door to her room was open, and he could see that the window had also been forced open by a violent gust of wind. He could just see her crouching in the darkness on the bed.

He leant out into the storm and hauled the casements shut, his face lashed with hail as he did so. He fastened the catch tight, and turned back to her.

The room was dark except for the white-hot glow of the fire, and in this eerie light he watched as she pushed her hands through her loosened hair, her shawl falling from her shoulders leaving only her shift to cover her, which also slipped inopportunely down to reveal the generous curve of her breast.

He turned away quickly and searched for a candlestick. There was one on the washstand which he relit from the fire. Then, having set it on the mantel, he set to making up the fire again, putting on fresh logs and raking up the embers into new life.

“There,” he said.

“What a fool I am,” she said. “I thought – I don’t know what I thought – I think my fancies have got the better of me at last. To be scared half to death by a window blowing in a storm – you must think I am a fool.”