The Keeper of Secrets (22 page)

Without a word, I passed the open missive to my friend, gripping his shoulder affectionately as I pointed to the ending, surely as open a declaration of love that in all conscience a
lady could give. More I could not do, not knowing whether he had taken Turner into his confidence about his intentions towards the lady – though I would have wagered all Sir Hellman’s wealth that Turner had known, to put it vulgarly, the way the wind was blowing long before I had so much as an inkling.

We dined
à
trois
with Sir Hellman, but clearly could not speak of the matter so important to us all until the servants had cleared the table and withdrawn.

‘You are telling me that on someone’s orders an innocent man has been kidnapped and kept in a drugged stupor? Gentlemen, have you been reading too many novels from a circulating library? We are living in nineteenth-century England, not in some Gothic Alpine kingdom!’

Dr Hansard sipped the excellent port thoughtfully. ‘Do not think that we are unshaken by the idea. But Brighouse has confessed it himself. John Sanderson lives, Sir Hellman. Yet before Christmas we were apprised of his sad death from inflammation of the lung.’

‘Who was your informant?’

‘None other than Lady Elham, mother of the drug-raddled wretch whom we suspect of murdering Lizzie.’

‘Can you still suspect him? If Brighouse’s ledger is accurate – and it had the appearance of truth – then he cannot have been involved.’

‘We have brought the ledger for further inspection – perhaps it could be fetched?’

‘Indeed – and more candles and a magnifying glass.’

At last, having examined the relevant entries from every angle, we came to a reluctant but unanimous conclusion: they had not been altered in any way. 

‘If Lord Elham did not kill Lizzie,
could not
have killed Lizzie, who did?’ I asked, my brain reeling. I did not feel as angry as Jem had sounded uttering almost identical words, but could not perhaps allow myself to speculate further, lest I found the answer unacceptable.

Dr Hansard’s response was measured, warning me, I suppose, that while Sir Hellman was a sympathetic host and fellow justice, he was still not a friend. ‘My feeling accords with the sentiment expressed by Lady Elham’s housekeeper. Mrs Beckles has informed us,’ he told Sir Hellman, his face almost insensibly softening as he mentioned her name, ‘that there is now some doubt as to the birth of the murdered maid. Her view is that until we solve that mystery, we shall not find why she was killed, and thus by whom. So I believe an urgent return to Moreton St Jude is called for. We have news, moreover, that Mrs Sanderson deserves to hear from our own lips.’

Sir Hellman bowed. ‘Of course. Will you be setting out tonight? There is a moon.’

‘I think not; even such excellent servants as ours will need time to prepare. But I believe, Sir Hellman, that we must away far earlier than we would wish, and, of course, than you may consider polite.’

Hellman shook his head. ‘Not at all. I quite understand your reasons. I would add another. If the servant of whom you spoke has discovered something someone wished to keep hidden, she herself may be at risk. Considerable risk.’

I wished to object – as I was sure Edmund did – that Mrs Beckles was no servant, but a lady, but we both kept our counsel.

‘From Brighouse’s terror,’ Hellman continued, ‘we know that we are dealing with a heartless and ruthless man. Even when I pressed him while you were seeing to Sanderson, Brighouse still refused to say who had placed the poor old man in his clutches. I pray you, do not stand on ceremony. My house is your house, gentlemen. In such circumstances, were you to leave it this instant, I believe I would urge you on still faster.’

We almost ran back to the Pelican, where we swiftly located Jem and Turner. One look at our faces and they were on their feet.

‘I say we travel at once, Toby,’ Jem declared in the privacy of our parlour. ‘We would never forgive ourselves if anything happened to that good woman. She’s been a real saviour to the villagers.’

Edmund’s heart apparently too full to admit of a reply and further moved, I swear, by Jem’s encomium, I agreed vehemently. ‘And if you believe that an overnight journey is possible, then let us set forth immediately.’

Turner said smoothly, ‘I believe that I might deal with your baggage more swiftly than you, gentlemen.’

‘In that case we will pay our shot, and be ready when you both give the word,’ Edmund said gruffly.

Whereas we had made a leisurely journey to Bath, our return was much swifter. When he judged a change of horses necessary, Jem hired others, undertaking to return at a later date to collect Hansard’s own.

‘You must take some rest yourself,’ I urged, as he put his head under an inn yard pump to clear his head.

‘Truth to tell, Toby, I’m grateful to be properly on the move at last. It’s as if a fever has been building and building and is at last about to break. If by pressing on we can make it break the quicker, then I’m not about to call craven. Now, ask them to find me some coffee,’ he told me. ‘I want to make sure that they give me some halfway decent cattle, not some old
bonesetters
fit for nothing but the knacker’s yard.’

I did as I was told.

Without being asked, on our arrival in Moreton St Jude the following night, Jem drove neither to Langley Park nor to the rectory but direct to the tradesman’s entrance at Moreton Priory. He almost fell with fatigue, but, finding his feet, veritably sprinted to the door, where a startled manservant admitted him, a candle wavering in the night air. We followed with less speed, tumbling from the coach with limbs so stiff I was surprised that they moved at all. Somehow we found ourselves in the kitchen corridor, with a covert audience watching, no doubt, through keyholes and round unclosed doors.

It took horrible moments for Mrs Beckles to appear. At least the explanation for her delay was clear. She had been preparing for bed, and wore a fetching nightcap over
curl-papers
. When she saw who was summoning her, she blushed
scarlet and backed away, clutching tighter the shawl she had wrapped herself in.

Hansard seemed unable to speak.

‘Pray, Mrs Beckles, prepare yourself for a short stay at the rectory. Go – now!’ I urged her.

‘Mr Campion, what nonsense is this?’ she demanded, with one glance reducing me to a junior pageboy on his very first day in service. ‘You wake the whole household! What am I to tell Lady Elham in the morning?’

I would not blush and stutter. Instead, casting my eyes in the direction of the unseen but attentive ears, I said calmly, ‘Please do me the honour of permitting me two minutes of your time in private. Absolute private.’

Our eyes met. I hoped that in mine she saw authority and reason, while in hers there was doubt and, at last, acquiescence.

‘One moment, sir,’ she said, with a bob of a curtsy.

Edmund and I waited like guilty schoolboys, shuffling our feet and preferring not to meet each other’s eyes. When her door opened, it was to reveal that she had already slipped on her usual attire and had brushed out the curl papers.

Nonetheless, she had undertaken to admit me alone, and so I left Hansard in the corridor as she shut the door behind us.

‘I think I deserve an explanation,’ she said, folding her arms in an implacable way that boded no good for Dr Hansard’s suit. ‘One that will satisfy her ladyship herself.’

‘I owe you an apology. There should not have been this drama. But, dear Mrs Beckles, pray understand that, had Dr Hansard and I not believed your life to have been at immediate risk, we would simply have paid a polite morning
call on our return from Bath, and would have drunk a glass of your elderflower wine and told you all about our adventures. We would even have shown you the gifts we purchased for you.’

There was no answering smile. ‘Why on earth should you think
I
am in danger?’

‘Because you have found out that secret of Lizzie’s birth.’

‘And you think I have told any apart from you? For shame, Tobias!’

I hung my head. But then I rallied. ‘If Mrs Woodman is capable of revealing it to you, she is capable of revealing that she has betrayed the information to you. And, lacking any other explanation for Lizzie’s death, Edmund and I believe that it may lie in her very birth. If her killer believes anyone else is privy to the secret, that person may be the next victim. We – Edmund and I – would vastly prefer it not to be you.’

‘Thank you kindly,’ she said, with a dry smile. ‘But all this commotion, Tobias – it will be all round the Priory by six tomorrow morning, and thence all over the village.’

‘In that case, we must devise an explanation. Pray, Mrs Beckles, please do as I ask – as I implore. Now, as to a post-haste departure, I am sure the reason for that can lie in Mrs Trent. I am sure she will consent to be bed-bound with the influenza and require skilled nursing that only you could provide.’

‘I do not like to involve Mrs Trent in an untruth. Perhaps I should visit my sick sister? Augusta lives near Worcester and is constantly asking me to visit.’

‘Has Augusta a strong man like Jem constantly at hand? Consider, if this man, whoever it might be, sought you out and attacked you.’

She shot a shrewd glace at me. ‘Would not any evildoer be more likely to find me in the rectory here in the village?’

I considered. ‘That depends on who else knows about your sick sister.’

‘Augusta is hardly a secret! There have been occasions when I have had to ask her ladyship for leave of absence to post down when her end seemed to be approaching. Then many other members of the household have had to undertake extra duties, from the butler to the housemaids.’

I frowned. ‘Is there no one else, unknown to anyone belonging to the Priory or to the village, with whom you could seek refuge? Dear Mrs Beckles, Edmund is still outside, pacing, no doubt, in anxiety. May we not admit him to our discussions?’

She blushed fierily. ‘Circumstanced as we are—’

‘Would you prefer a few moments alone with Edmund?’ I asked gently. ‘There are matters you might wish to discuss.’ Not giving her time to prevaricate, I stepped out and indicated with a movement of my head that Edmund should take my place.

Naturally the person whose company I sought was Jem’s. He had returned to the yard. Turner was curled up fast asleep in a corner of the carriage.

‘She doesn’t want to leave the house, and certainly not to seek refuge in the rectory,’ I said bluntly.

‘We managed it ill,’ he said. ‘And I am most to blame. Truth to tell, Toby, I got so wound up thinking about how poor Dr Hansard would feel if anything ever happened to Mrs Beckles that he could have prevented that I never thought about the proprieties. Nothing would have happened overnight. All this
could have been done so much better by daylight.’

‘By daylight,’ I mused, ‘Mrs Beckles would have been honour bound to apprise her ladyship of her movements. As it is,’ I nodded over his shoulder, ‘I fancy she must have left without notifying anyone.’

Like man and maid in the may-time of their years, our friends were walking towards us, Dr Hansard carrying a valise with his free hand.

‘Mrs Beckles is not the only one to have an ailing relative,’ he said, preventing any comment or congratulation. ‘I have an aunt in Derby. Mrs Beckles will stay with her until all has been resolved here. Now, Jem, will you drive us all to the rectory, where we may make more detailed dispositions?’

Edmund and I rode on in silence to Langley Park, leaving Mrs Beckles to be chaperoned by Mrs Trent, with Jem insisting on sleeping in the corridor outside their bedchambers.
Travel-weary
though he was, Turner had ridden straight to Langley Park to make preparations and to warn Dr Toone of his host’s return.

‘I ought to be the happiest man on earth, Tobias,’ Edmund confessed at last, as our horses picked their way through the moonlight. ‘But all I know is that I am the most exhausted.’

‘Tomorrow the fatigue will be forgotten,’ I assured him, ‘whereas your happiness will be yours to savour for the rest of your life.’

‘Much as want her by my side, I am glad she is prepared to go away from here. Tobias, do you ever feel there is evil in the world?’

‘I am a clergyman, Edmund! Of course there is evil, just as
there is good. But why do you ask? Just to keep us awake with disputation?’

‘Not at all. I have seen many things in my life, things that you could not even dream of and hope you never will, but nothing has made me so ill at ease as my present situation. For the first time in my life I can trust no one, excepting,’ he amended with a laugh, ‘yourself, Jem, Turner and my dear Mrs Beckles.’

I did not laugh as I replied, ‘Then we are of the same mind.’

We were still anxious the following morning, even though Mrs Beckles had sent off a lad with a note for her ladyship saying no more than that she had been summoned to a friend’s deathbed and would contact her as soon as it was possible. Naturally she gave no hint of her destination. Mrs Trent very kindly agreed to accompany Mrs Beckles on her journey. Susan, round-eyed with excitement, was to go too, never having been out of the county before and seeing Derbyshire as a magic land. The weather being fine, Jem invited her to sit on the box with him, leaving, he said, the two ladies to enjoy their gossip in peace.

That left us with two immediate tasks. The first was to break to Mrs Sanderson the news of her husband’s present condition. The second was to have further speech with Mrs Woodman, requiring her, with the greatest authority we could appeal to, to reveal the name of Lizzie’s parents.

With Lady Elham’s gracious permission, Mrs Sanderson still lived in the tied cottage that many another employer would have given her notice to quit the instant she became a widow. As we had expected, the outside was as immaculate as ever, with the smell of baking telling us that Mrs Sanderson
was at home. She greeted us with puzzlement, as well she might, but automatically wiped the seats of two upright chairs with her apron as she invited us to sit. Before we could speak, she bustled off to the scullery to return with cowslip wine and new bread, which she served with butter from the home farm.

‘Her ladyship has been so good to me, so very good,’ she declared, sitting at last on the very edge of a third chair. ‘All through this hard winter I have had as much fuel as I could use, and more food than I could eat, God bless her. And still she tells me I may stay. I thank God for such a benefactress.’

‘Amen,’ I said solemnly. I cleared my throat. ‘What would you say if I told you that you had been misled about John’s death, Mrs Sanderson? That he was not in fact dead, but alive, though grievously ill.’

‘I should not believe you!’ she declared roundly. ‘Why should anyone mislead an old woman? And if me, why mislead her ladyship herself? She condescended to visit me herself to speak to me. And she told me all about his illness and the care she had ordered for him, and how she herself had bathed his brow with lavender water.’

I ventured a glance at Edmund. He was as white as I felt I must be.

‘Well? Is that all you came for, to drink my wine and tell me my dear good man was alive? Let me tell you to your face, Mr Campion, there are many in the village who say you are a mischief-maker, and by God they are right. And you, Doctor, being taken in! Away with the pair of you!’

I would have argued, tried to correct her misunderstanding, but with a sharp jerk of his head indicated that we were to leave immediately.

When we reached our horses, Edmund spoke first. ‘Neither of us has uttered – in connection with this dreadful business – one name. But now I think we must.’

‘It is impossible! A dastardly crime like this! How can a woman – a
lady
! – be implicated? She must be the victim of someone’s coercion.’