The Meaning of Night (44 page)

anchovies (which she could not abide), his passion for Delftware (numerous fine

examples of which I had noted on display in various parts of the Dower House), and the

close relationship he had enjoyed with his mother. How or why these things were

connected in her mind, I cannot say; but she continued in this frantic vein, running from

one hurried memory of her father’s tastes and character to another in quick succession.

I looked out to see the looming mass of the many-towered house, rearing up

against the paler backdrop of the early night sky, and studded here and there with little

points of light. My attention was arrested by a fleeting glimpse of the chapel windows, a

subdued flickering glow of ruby red and azure, illuminated from within by the candles set

around Mr Carteret’s coffin. In that moment the bells of Evenwood began to toll the hour

of nine, and I became aware that my companion had fallen silent. When she spoke again,

her manner and tone showed clearly that her thoughts had been brought back to the

contemplation of her poor father’s fate, and to the trials of the coming days.

‘May I ask, Mr Glapthorn, if your parents are still living?’

‘My mother is dead,’ I replied. ‘I never knew my father.’ I said the words without

thinking, then instantly reflected on the singularity of my situation. For whom did I

speak? For the orphaned Edward Glyver, with a dead mother and a father who had died

before he was born? Or Edward Glapthorn, whom I had conjured into existence on

learning the truth about my birth, and who was the possessor of two fathers and two

mothers? Or the future Edward Duport, whose mother was indeed dead but whose father

still lived and breathed, here, in this great house, not a quarter of a mile from where we

now were?

‘I am sorry for you, truly,’ she said. ‘Every child needs a father’s guiding

presence.’

‘Not every father, perhaps,’ I observed, thinking of the execrable Captain Glyver,

‘can be considered fit for such a task. But I believe, Miss Carteret, from my brief

acquaintance with him, that you may count yourself fortunate that yours was exceptional

in that regard.’

‘But then some children, perhaps, are unworthy of their parents.’

She had turned her face away and I saw her raise her hand to her face. Was she

crying?

‘Miss Carteret, forgive me, is anything the matter?’

‘Nothing is the matter, I assure you.’ But she continued to look out into the

darkness with unseeing eyes, her hand resting against her cheek. I saw that she was

suffering, and so I thought I would make another attempt at encouraging her to give

expression to her anguish.

‘Will you allow me to observe, Miss Carteret, as someone who has your interests

most sincerely at heart, that grief should not be denied. It is — ’

But I was unable to finish my clumsy peroration, for she instantly turned a furious

face upon me.

‘Do not presume, sir, to lecture me on grief. I will take no lessons on that subject

from any person, least of all from someone who is little more than a stranger to me and

mine!’

I attempted to apologize for my forwardness; but she silenced me with her terrible

affronted look, as well as with some further strong words, which together induced me to

sit back, somewhat nonplussed, and to hold my tongue for the remainder of our journey.

And so, in this awkward state, we turned in through the Plantation and drew

up at last before the Dower House.

Her abrupt changes of mood during the short journey from the Temple of the

Winds to the Dower House certainly argued for a troubled heart and mind. But the

source? Shock and distress at the murder of her father, of course; what could be more

natural? Yet the explanation dissatisfied and disturbed me. I own I was confounded, and

felt distinctly stupid at my confusion, made worse by my helpless fascination with Miss

Carteret.

As the landau came to a halt, I observed that her face had once again reverted to

its accustomed look of passionless abstraction. Without saying a word, or even bestowing

the slightest glance in my direction, she slowly removed the rug from her lap and,

assisted by John Brine, descended from the vehicle.

‘Thank you, John,’ she said. ‘That will be all for tonight.’ Then she turned her

head and looked at me, with infinite sadness in her eyes.

‘I believe my father was right,’ she said, almost in a whisper. She seemed to be

looking straight through me, as if talking to some unseen distant presence. ‘We shall be

judged for what we do. And so, there is no hope for me.’ And with that, she was gone.

I watched her walk the short distance to the house. She stood for a moment

beneath the portico lamp, and I longed for her to turn and retrace her steps; but then I saw

Mrs Rowthorn open the front door and say a few words to her that I could not catch,

whereupon she instantly picked up her skirts and ran inside.

26:

Gradatim vincimus?

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I accosted John Brine in the stable-yard as he was unhitching the horses from the

landau.

‘Brine, I have found something.’

He said nothing in reply but looked at me in that dour, threatening way of his.

Reaching into my pocket, I held out the little square of leather I had discovered in

the Temple. He took it from me and began to examine it by the light over the tack-room

door.

‘James Earl,’ he said. ‘Gamekeeper here some years past. May I ask, sir, where

you found this?’

‘In the Temple,’ I answered, eyeing him closely. ‘Not a much frequented place, I

think.’

‘Not since the youngster died.’

‘Youngster?’

‘His Lordship’s only boy, Master Henry. He went up there on his pony. He would

not be told, that boy, and his Lordship could do nothing but indulge him. It was his

birthday, you see, and the pony had been his father’s gift.’

‘And can you tell me what happened?’

He thought for a moment, and then nodded me towards the open door of the

tack-room.

‘Perhaps you’d like to wait in there, sir,’ he said as he led the horses away to their

stalls. A few minutes later he returned. There was still a distrusting look about him, but

he appeared inclined to resume his story.

‘There’d been a hard frost. We’d ridden all over the Park . . . ’

‘Excuse me,’ I interjected, ‘do you mean that you accompanied the boy?’

‘I was only a lad myself, and my old father, who was his Lordship’s groom, was

ill that day and said I should go with them instead – the boy and his Lordship – to make

sure all was well. But after we came down through the woods, the boy took off on his

own. Headstrong, you see, like his mother.

‘Well, we set off after him, of course, but my horse picked up a stone and I could

not keep up. He’d taken the path that goes up to the Temple – you’ve seen it yourself, sir:

steep, uneven, dangerous even for an experienced horseman. And, as I say, there’d been a

hard frost. His Lordship dismounted and called the boy back. But that was a mistake, for

as he tried to turn the pony round, the beast slipped and threw the boy off. I never thought

to see that man cry, and I ain’t seen it since. But cry he did, most dreadful to behold, and

I don’t ever want to hear such a sound again. It fair tore your heart out to hear him, with

the poor little chap lying there at his feet so pale and still.

‘And so they buried him, Lord Tansor’s only boy, and since that day his Lordship

has never set foot in the Temple, and few others go up there.’

‘But someone has been there,’ I said, ‘and recently. Someone who knows a good

deal more about the attack on Mr Carteret than we do.’

I did not know how far I could trust the man; but then I thought how he had taken

it upon himself to go to London, on Mary Baker’s behalf, to search for news concerning

her sister, the doomed Mrs Agnes Pluckrose. That action spoke of a generous and

courageous spirit, and, with Mr Carteret dead, there might be a question as to how he

would earn his daily bread; and so, having already recognized the need to find a means of

informing myself on the doings of Evenwood and its residents, I decided to risk taking

him into my confidence a little.

‘Brine, I believe you to be an honest man, and a faithful servant to your former

master. But you have no master now, and Miss Carteret’s future, I venture to say, is far

from certain. My acquaintance with your late master was short, but I know him to have

been an excellent gentleman who did not deserve his fate. More than this, his death has

thrown the outcome of our business together into jeopardy, and that must be rectified. I

cannot say more on this point, at least for the moment. But will you now trust me and

help me, as you are able, to seek out those responsible for this dreadful act, and in so

doing assist me to conclude the matter that brought me here? Our arrangement must be

on a strictly confidential basis – I’m sure you understand me – and would involve no risk

to yourself. I simply wish to be informed on what happens here, who comes, who goes,

what is said amongst the servants concerning the late Mr Carteret, that sort of thing. I

shall pay you well for your loyalty and discretion, and shall ensure that it will never be a

matter of regret to you that you assisted me in this matter. And so here’s my hand, John

Brine. Will you take it?’

He hesitated, as I expected he would, and looked me square in the eye, without

speaking, for some seconds. But whatever he saw therein appeared to decide him. He

gripped my hand, like the sturdy fellow he was, and shook it hard.

But then he appeared to hold back a little, and I thought at first that he had

repented of his decision.

‘What is it, Brine?’

‘Well, sir, I was thinking . . . ’

‘Yes?’

‘My sister Lizzie, sir, who is maid to Miss Carteret. She’s a canny girl, my sister,

and a deal smarter than me in knowing what’s what, if you take my meaning. And so I

was thinking, sir, if I can put this to you straight, whether you might feel your interests

would be even better served if you was to extend the arrangement you have so kindly

offered me to her as well. You won’t find better nor her for the work. She’s with her

mistress privily every day, and comes and goes as she pleases to Miss’s room. Yes, sir,

she knows what’s what round here, and she’ll keep it all as tight as you’d ever want. If

you’d like to meet her for yourself, sir, she’s but a step or two down the road.’

I considered the proposition for a moment. Through my work at Tredgolds, I had

acquired long experience of recruiting such as Brine to serve my purposes; but it was

often the case that a certain sort of woman proved more adept, and more subtle, at the

work than the men.

‘I will see your sister,’ I said at last. ‘Lead on.’

We walked a little way into the village, to a cottage just beyond the lane that led

down to the church.

‘I’ll go in first, sir,’ said Brine at the door, ‘if you don’t mind.’

I nodded and he entered through the low doorway, leaving me in the roadway to

walk up and down. At length, the door opened again, and he ushered me inside.

His sister was standing by the blazing hearth, a book in her hand, which she

placed on a table as I walked in. I saw that it was a volume of poems by Mrs Hemans,?

and, on looking round the simply furnished room, I noted a set of Miss Austen’s works, a

recent novel by Mr Kingsley, and a volume or two by Miss Martineau,? together with a

number of other modern works which indicated that Miss Brine possessed literary tastes

far superior to those of most people of her class and occupation.

She appeared to be in her late twenties and had her brother’s sandy hair and pale

skin, but was shorter and slighter, with darting green eyes and having – as her brother had

accurately described her – the unmistakable look of someone who knew what was what.

Yes, she was a sharp one all right. I thought she might do very well.

‘Your brother has explained to you the nature of the proposed arrangement, Miss

Brine?’

‘He has, sir.’

‘And what do you say to it?’

‘I’m very happy to oblige you, sir.’

‘And do neither of you feel disquiet at what I am asking you to do?’

They looked at each other. Then the sister spoke.

‘If I may speak for my brother, sir, I will say that no such arrangement would

have been possible, or considered by us, if our dear master was alive. But now he is gone,

God bless his soul, we are somewhat anxious concerning our future prospects here. Who

knows but that my mistress will not take it in her head to flit back to France, where she

always says she was so happy. If she does, she won’t take me, that’s for sure. She’s told

me as much in the past. And may be she’d stay there, and then what would we do?’

‘Perhaps she might marry and still live here, though,’ I said.

‘She might,’ she replied, with a strange little smile. ‘But it would suit us, sir, to

prepare for that eventuality. To put a little money by against the day, if it should come,

would be a great comfort to us. And we would give good service.’

‘I’m sure you would.’