The Shadowcutter (17 page)

He took a chair and forced Syme to sit down. He did not take much forcing. He collapsed upon it, his head again in his hands.

“Tell me when you last saw Eliza. When and where?”

“I... I simply don’t... well, it may have been that day, that Tuesday that she – ”

“The Tuesday she went missing?” said Giles, keeping his tone quiet and confidential. Syme’s manner was promising – his voice scorched dry by his emotion. It would perhaps only be a matter of leading him along the right road and all would be revealed. A few more suggestive questions and he might break. Giles sat down beside him. “The Tuesday she went to meet someone in the Pleasure Gardens, yes?”

“That Tuesday, yes.”

“When did you see her?” Syme gave a great sigh. “When?”

“That night,” Syme said. “Only briefly. I was in the gardens – after dinner.”

“Where about in the gardens?”

“The parterre – I had not gone far from the house. I had only gone out for a breath of air. I saw her – and she saw me. That was all.”

“You did not speak?”

“No, no of course not. I was not alone, you see,” he added.

“I do see. Then tell me who you were with on the parterre after dinner?”

“I would rather not say.”

“By which I can infer that it was Lady Augusta?”

Syme nodded.

“Did Lady Augusta see Miss Jones?”

“No, no, I do not think she did. She was facing the other way. Miss Jones passed behind her.”

“And saw you there with another woman? Perhaps in a compromising attitude?” Giles said.

“I may have had my arms about her. Only to comfort her, naturally – she was distressed.”

“About what?”

“Some feminine trifle. A quarrel with one of her sisters, I think.”

“Are you sure that was why you had your arms about her? This sounds rather like a tryst to me, Syme. Had you prearranged this meeting with Lady Augusta, or was she just taking the air after dinner? Did you meet by chance or design?”

“Does it matter, Major Vernon?” said Syme. “I cannot see how it matters.”

“Every little detail matters in a case like this,” Giles said. “What Miss Jones saw and the fact she saw you with another woman matters extremely. In fact, I think you should show me the exact spot where this took place, Mr Syme,” said Giles. “Let us go out onto the parterre.”

“Must we?” said Syme. “Can you not take my word for it?”

“A practical demonstration will make it all perfectly clear,” Giles said.

It was a little past eleven when they went out onto the great South Terrace, and the sun was already blazing down on Lord Rothborough’s famous parterre. Here, a platoon of gardeners had created an ornate carpet of beds, planted with contrasting coloured flowers, and maintained meticulously. A couple of men were working on it even as Giles and Syme stood blinking and hatless in the scorching sunlight. They were carefully replacing any plants that had passed their prime, weeding and dead-heading. It was a fantastic and rather ridiculous labour – the effect, although impressive, could not be considered particularly beautiful. Giles hoped the men took some pleasure in it, especially on such a fierce day.

But there was something to be said for being caught hatless in the blazing light of high summer at noon. Syme was clearly suffering, and Giles wondered if as the conversation proceeded, he would weaken and admit to the truth.

“Perhaps you could show me where you were, when you saw Miss Jones?” he said.

It was now forming in his mind that, having been seen by Eliza Jones entangled in the arms of another woman, Syme now had even more motive for murdering her. This accident would have given her a powerful weapon against him. She could have easily brought his ambitions crashing down with a word to the right party. If she wanted him to do his duty by her and her unborn child, then she had plenty to keep him to her word, and perhaps that had made Syme anxious to the point of murderous distraction. It was a theory worth pursuing.

Syme walked towards one of the two corners of the parterre that were farthest from the house. The parterre was edged by low walls, each corner of which formed to make a convenient seat, and Syme sat down rather wearily on the bench and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.

“And Lady Augusta was standing where, approximately?”

Syme made a gesture towards the ground in front of him.

“So you were looking back towards the house when you saw her?”

“Yes. She was in the lee of the wall, coming along there,” Syme said, pointing.

It was certainly a prudent route for someone discreetly leaving the house to take. The ground was covered with mossy turf, which could be walked on soundlessly, and the wall provided some cover. A slight woman in a dark dress could be mistaken for a shadow if she took care not to be noticed.

“And which way did she go after she had passed by?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look. I didn’t wish to draw any attention to the fact we had been seen, so I simply – ”

“Went on with what you were doing,” Giles said. “I see. And for how long did you remain here?”

“I don’t know. Not long. Naturally, Lady Augusta could not remain long. She left and I – ” He broke off.

“Yes?”

“I sat here and contemplated my conduct,” Syme said. “I prayed to be delivered from temptation.”

“And were you?” Giles said. “Or did you go after her?”

“I… may have.”

Giles sat down beside him.

“It would have been understandable if you did. You would want to explain to her, I think?”

Syme covered his hands with his face, and made a sort of nod. Giles, feeling that something significant might soon be said, pressed on gently. “So you sought her out?”

Syme took his hands from his face and gave a great sigh, and then in an instant, his demeanour changed entirely, in response to something he had caught sight of. Giles glanced behind him, and saw, to his annoyance that Lady Augusta and Lady Rothborough were making a stately progress towards them. They were accompanied by one of the household’s tallest footmen, who carried a great fringed parasol to shelter them from the sun, giving the whole ensemble a rather oriental effect.

Syme was on his feet already and heading towards them, his steps springy with relief at having escaped further questions. Indeed it looked for a moment, almost as if he meant to hide behind the wide skirts of his noble patroness.

Giles got up and contemplated how he should go on, watching as Syme bowed and scraped to the ladies. He imagined quite another scenario, involving Syme and Eliza Jones. Had Syme found her in the cave because he had known that was where she was going? Had there, in fact, been a pre-arranged tryst there between them which, because of Lady Augusta, then turned into a dangerous and aggressive quarrel? A torrent of angry, bitter words exchanged which then degenerated into violence? Perhaps she attacked him, causing him to lose his temper and retaliate. That, Giles knew, would be the way to get him to admit it: to suggest that he was provoked; to put all the blame on the woman; to insinuate that he might get away with manslaughter and escape the gallows.

He had established enough to make Syme a notable suspect, but not quite enough to arrest him at once, however tempting that might be.

“I do think we should go back into the house,” Lady Rothborough said. “It is
trop fatigant
out here. It is unhealthy.”

“Might I offer you my arm, my Lady?” Syme said and Lady Rothborough assented.

Giles was left to walk back to the house with Lady Augusta, who did not look like she would accept his arm, if he had offered it. Although her face was shaded by a deep bonnet brim, a glance was enough to reveal she was not at all at her ease. Giles wondered if she had come out to rescue her lover from him. The timing of their appearance was altogether too convenient.

“Lady Augusta,” he said, slowing his step so that they fell far behind the others, “if I might have your attention. There are a few things we must discuss.”

She stopped and nodded, but he saw her bite her lip.

“We will talk inside, of course, but I am glad you understand we must talk.”

She nodded again, as if she did not trust her voice. She raised her hand and nervously adjusted her bonnet ribbon, which did not need adjusting.

They came into the pillared undercroft, which was hardly the place for this conversation, although it was delightfully cool. Lady Rothborough stopped at the threshold to the great staircase hall, and turned, expecting Lady Augusta to come back to her side.

“Now, sir?” Lady Augusta said to Giles in a whisper.

“Yes, I would prefer it,” Giles said.

It was imperative that he spoke to her before Syme could get to her and coach her in her answers. “Perhaps you could make some excuse to your mother now? Else I will be obliged to ask her to be present at the interview.”

She darted forward, clearly galvanised by this threat. She was not ready to expose herself to her mother. She said something to her mother, which had the desired effect, and she went upstairs, accompanied by Syme.

“I said I would show you the chapel,” she said.

“That is a good a place for this conversation as any,” Giles said.

Chapter Sixteen

“You didn’t say anything about visitors, Mr Carswell,” said Mrs Bolland.

“Visitors?”

“Aye. With luggage.” She gestured towards the box and travelling bag that were sitting in the hall. Felix recognised both these items by their shabby antiquity and their appearance there was alarming. “Looking like they are planning on staying.”

“Are they –?” He gestured upstairs towards the drawing room.

“Aye, sir. I gave them tea, as well,” she added, as if she had given them her entire worldly goods.

“Thank you,” he managed to say, as he pushed past her and strode up the narrow stairs, taking two steps at a time, his hat still on his head.

He walked into the drawing room, and immediately stumbled over the large shepherd’s crook which was lying in his path. This wretched item was, as ever, in entirely the wrong place. Felix had spent most of his childhood falling over it.

He exclaimed loudly at it, and only just managed to restrain himself from using a coarse expression and kicking it across the room.

However, the sight that met his eyes – a woman in a black dress stretched out on the couch in the far corner, under the window – was enough to silence him. For a long and terrible moment he thought he was looking at the corpse of his mother, so still and white did she seem, with her head fallen back on the cushion, her cap gone awry.

He rushed over and knelt down beside her. He grabbed her hand, anxious to feel her pulse, which mercifully was in evidence but at the same time, her emaciated appearance could only excite his alarm. She had always been slight and delicate in her build, but now she struck him as dangerously wasted, and her greyish white pallor frightened him. Her hand was cold too, as if the heat of the day had no effect upon her. He began to rub her hand between his.

“Oh Felix, there you are,” she said, stirring into life. Her eyes scarcely opened though, and her smile seemed an effort. “Was I asleep?” she went on in a dry whisper. “How strange. I did not mean to...”

He could not speak for a moment.

Behind him, there was a creaking in the easy chair, and he glanced over to see his father waking.

“But the journey was tiring, I suppose,” she said.

A host of questions crowded his mind and it was not the moment for asking them.

“Here he is, James!” she said, and reached out and stroked Felix’s cheek with her cold, bony knuckle.

“How long have you been in this state?” he said, unable to restrain himself.

“What do you mean?” she said.

“You’re not well. You look so –” He let go of her hand and sprung round to come face to face with his father. “Why did you let her come all this way in this condition?” he burst out. “It’s obviously that she is gravely – What on earth were you thinking?”

“That’s no way to greet your father,” he heard his mother say. “And I’m not ill, truly I am not.”

To his horror she began to attempt to get up from the couch, when it was plain she scarcely had the strength to do so. She fell into his arms.

“I am only tired from the journey,” she said, protesting still, as he helped her back onto the couch. “I am quite well, Felix. Just a little hungry and thirsty. There was tea, was there not? I think a cup of tea would set me straight.”

His father made a gesture, discreetly, out of her eye shot, that Felix was not to say another word on the subject. A fiction was clearly being kept up.

“Where is Molly?” Felix asked. Molly was a devoted servant and he would have been comforted to see her.

“Oh, she is not here. No, Molly would not have liked it. And I needed someone to feed my chickens and look after dear Tam.” Tam was her beloved grey cat.

“The tea has gone cold,” Mr Carswell said.

“I will go and get Mrs Bolland to get some more. And you can rest upstairs, Mother. Major and Mrs Vernon are not here at present.” He refrained from saying that they were at Holbroke. “So there are beds to spare. You will be more comfortable.” Then he hoped he might make a proper examination of her – if he was allowed to. “And brandy and hot water, I think.” Three glasses of brandy, he thought, for he felt he needed one as much as any of them.

He left them and went downstairs to give his instructions to the ever-grudging Mrs Bolland. In the end she was pacified by his handing over some money to cover the extra expenses of housekeeping. He ascertained that there was a jug of chicken broth made by Sukey for Mrs Vernon, sitting on an ice block in the larder, and she promised to send the girl out for fresh butter and rolls.

“That lady is your mother, sir?” she said.

“Yes,” said Felix. “What of it?”

“It seems right odd, gentry folk arriving just like that.” Her curiosity was clearly roused. “Smells of something, well –” She gave a little shrug.

What on earth was she thinking, he wondered. Did his parents, with their weathered and shabby appearance arriving unannounced and apparently throwing themselves upon his mercy, look to her like the actors in some sordid scandal?