The Shadowcutter (25 page)

“It is only mine in name. I do not –”

“It is either your house or it is not,” said Mr Carswell. “There can be no equivocation. If you have accepted this place from him, then –” He broke off, shaking his head, and began to walk towards the house. “That is the case, is it not?”

“Yes,” Felix said after a moment.

“That is what we have always feared. Your mother and I – that his influence would prevail, that his world would seduce you, and exploit the weaknesses in you.”

Felix had heard this lecture many times before but it still stung him, and he was no longer in the mood for taking it humbly.

“Oh, you may think what you like! I only know he has acted today for my mother’s comfort! You may not like his arrangements, or his way of enacting them – it is a matter of taste, that’s all. But you cannot deny the kindness! Yes, he is rich enough to throw orders about as a farmer sows his seed corn, and it is no trouble to him to do so, but I know he has done this out of concern and consideration and great respect for you both. He is not what you think he is!”

His father stopped and formed his craggy features into a sour expression, which did not bode well. However Major Vernon, who had been tactfully keeping his distance, had now dismounted, and came strolling up to them. He swept off his hat and made an extremely respectful bow.

“Mr Carswell, a great honour,” he said. “Giles Vernon at your service, sir.”

Mr Carswell could not ignore such civility, although Felix felt he was scrutinizing every inch of Major Vernon. But there was little even he could find to criticise in such a plain riding costume.

“Major Vernon, it is good to know you at last,” said Mr Carswell, said, with a nod. “Mrs Carswell and I are in your debt. We trespassed upon your hospitality last night, for which I thank you very much.”

“I am glad that you did. My wife and I regret that we were not able to be there to receive you as we would have liked.”

“I must go in,” Felix said. “We do not have much time as it is.”

“No, I am afraid we do not,” Major Vernon said. “The pursuit of justice can be relentless. We must be off again within the hour.”

His father made an uneasy gesture of dismissal, and Felix ran towards the house.

He found his mother was comfortable, indeed very comfortable, lying on a cane settee in a pretty, panelled parlour off the great hall. Mrs Taylor the housekeeper was in attendance. He found them talking amiably about the best breed of hens for laying.

He pulled up a stool, and when the housekeeper had gone, he insisted on taking her pulse and sounding her heart. She told him it was nonsense that he should do this, but she consented. He was pleased to find she was somewhat less frail than previously. She said she had enjoyed the carriage and thought the house beautiful.

“And it is yours, I understand,” she said. Unlike his father’s response, it was not said with reproach.

“Yes, I am sorry, it is.”

“It is a fine old place,” she said. “And you must have a house, I suppose!” She smiled. “I could imagine that one could be quite happy here.”

“I have no notion what to do with it at the moment,” he said.

“I think it will all become clear enough in time. Perhaps when the right young woman crosses your path?”

“Perhaps,” he managed to say, thinking of Sukey and how well the house would suit her, and at the same time how utterly impossible it would be to bring her there as his wife.

“Mr Bodley brought your things from your room in Stanegate. They are over there. He was not sure where you wanted them, so I told him to leave them here. I want to look over your linen.”

“You are to do no such thing. You are to rest. That is an order.”

“And lie here with my hands idle?”

“Yes, just that,” he said. “You have a pleasant view and Father can read to you. There is a vast library upstairs. I shall tell him to find something to amuse you. Perhaps Guy Mannering?”

“You will tell your Papa to sit and read Guy Mannering to me?” she said, with a slight arch of her eyebrow.

“Yes, and he will do what I tell him. I would read to you myself, but I have to go away now for a night or two – speaking of which –”

He got up and opened his portmanteau. Bodley had packed it immaculately, and it was all soon disarranged as he searched for a spare shirt and some stockings to take with him. As he did so, he found the letter case that he had found on the floor of Don Xavier’s room, which Dona Blanca had insisted he take. He hesitated, turning it in his hands, wondering what he should do with it. “Do not show them to anyone without telling me first.” She had been insistent, and anxious that Don Luis in particular did not know of there existence.

He did not like to go against what she had asked him, yet the possible connection with Edgar, who was now dead, and Don Luiz, seemed to make it necessary that he at least mentioned the matter to Major Vernon. He stuffed it into his medical bag along with his spare linen.

Chapter Twenty-three

“Is the bed comfortable, Mr Carswell?” Giles enquired, coming into the bedroom from the parlour. Carswell had pulled off his coat and boots and thrown himself onto the bed. He lay spread-eagled, staring up at the ceiling.

“Any bed would be comfortable after that,” he said.

It was about nine at night and they had broken their journey at an inn in a remote village on the moors above Swalecliffe.

“It was only twenty-two miles,” Giles said.

“It feels like forty. I must have done nearly that, what with riding from Stanegate this morning. My legs tell me so.” He gave a groan. “I need a gallon of beer, no, two gallons.”

Giles pulled off his own coat and caught sight of his own, dusty, sunburnt face in the looking glass.

“The joys of being on campaign,” he remarked, pouring some water to wash with. “Be glad I am not making you sleep by the roadside.”

“I could sleep in a ditch,” said Carswell. “Ye gods, what a day!”

There was a knock at the door of the parlour, and the landlord and landlady came in with their supper. Carswell staggered up from the bed, and went hobbling across in stockinged feet to claim his drink. He stood and drained his tankard in almost one gulp, and refilled it. Then even before the landlady had finished setting the table, he was in his place and attacking his plate of ham and eggs.

“A fine appetite you have there, sir,” she said, a little astonished.

“Can you make sure my man gets whatever he needs to eat,” Giles said to the landlord, before he took his own place at table. “And when he is done, would you send him up?”

They ate in silence. The food was plain, but excellent, and Giles found he had an appetite to match that of Carswell. Between then them emptied the beer jug and left only a cheese rind standing. Carswell pushed back his chair, lent back and chewed at a final crust. Then suddenly, he became conscious of his ill-mannered indolence and set himself straight.

“Excuse me.”

“Nothing to excuse,” Giles said. “It’s been a hard day.”

Carswell rubbed his face.

“At least I know my parents are well lodged – though my father does not like to be comfortable if he can help it.”

“I can imagine,” Giles said smiling. “But he will see that it is for the best – for Mrs Carswell’s sake.”

“She is just as bad in her own way. She is not one for cushions.” He gave a laugh and reached for the jug and checked to see if there was any beer left. “I am going to ring for some more.”

“Be careful,” Giles said. “That is strong stuff.”

“Exactly,” he said, and got up and tugged the bell rope.

Giles also got up from the table and fetched his notebook from his coat pocket. He wanted to review his notes but he made little headway with the task. The beer certainly was powerful, and he felt languid from it and the exertion of the ride. He found himself staring blankly at them, thinking instead of that last kiss he had exchanged with Laura, the sweetness of her lips, how she had tipped her head back and closed her eyes in pure pleasure. He stretched out in his chair, staring down at the page blankly, imagining instead their reunion in a day or two

“Do you read Spanish?” Carswell said, breaking into his reverie.

“No,” said Giles. “Why do you ask?”

“It is just that there is something – it may be relevant to the case. Since you mentioned you think you saw Don Luiz at the dog fight, talking to Edgar, I have been wondering. The thing is, when Don Xavier was dying, he said something which –” He broke off. “It was all extremely strange. Here, let me show you.”

Carswell went to his medical bag and produced a dark red leather dispatch case, with a coat of arms embossed on it. “We – well, I, found this hidden in Don Xavier’s room, and Dona Blanca insisted I take custody of it. And tell no-one I had it. So I hesitated to mention it before, but why on earth would she expect me to take charge of it?”

“Dona Blanca?”

“She is Don Xavier’s brother-in-law – the widow of the late president, Martinez. She is an Irish lady, of all things.”

“Ah yes, I know who you mean,” said Giles picking up the letter case and examining it. “Lord Rothborough mentioned her.”

“He did?” Carswell said.

“Yes, he said he wished to meet her. He told me that she was supposed to be a shrewd tactician, and that the new government made a mistake when they did not execute her alongside her husband. But I suppose they did not want to make a martyr of a woman who apparently has the hearts of the people. Very dangerous. And she asked you to take charge of this?”

“Yes. She was adamant. It was rather strange.”

“Just as strange as Don Xavier putting off his habit and coming to Stanegate,” said Giles, opening the case. “They are all in Spanish?”

“Yes.”

“And what was she like?”

“I can’t really say. Well, she was Irish, as I said, and clearly she was most upset at Don Xavier’s death. She was already in deep mourning for her husband – they had a sort of altar to him in the drawing room with candles burning. The strangest thing. And her manner –”

At this moment Holt came in with a servant. The servant was sent for more beer while Holt went to collect their boots and overcoats in order to remove the dust of the road from them. As he did so, Giles spread out the documents on the table and examined the only thing he could make sense of which was the dates on the top of each of them.

“Letters, I think they are letters,” Carswell said. “It is a damned pity we cannot understand a word of them. If they were French – but Spanish!”

“Spanish, sir?” said Holt, who was almost on the point of leaving again. “I know that language.”

“You do, Mr Holt?” Giles said.

“My mother was a Spaniard,” Holt said. “My old man brought her back from the Peninsula. I was born just after he got her home and then he was off again, of course. She only lived till I was eight – the weather never suited her – but she made sure I knew her language.”

“Good God,” said Carswell.

“Can you make anything of these, then, Mr Holt?” said Giles. “Come and sit down with us. As you see, we have quite a quantity to get through.”

Holt sat down and Giles brought some more candles to the table so he could see.

“What are these, then, sir?” Holt said.

“We don’t know,” said Giles. “That is our difficulty”

Holt picked up a sheet and squinted it at it.

“It’s a right crabby hand, I can say that for it – Don something or other – I cannot make out the name... anyway, he gives his greetings to the most holy father and asks for his prayers and blessing on the feast of Santa Anna. I think. Then he talks about the weather and his god-daughter. Something about a wedding being off. That’s it. Her father cannot find the money that the bridegroom’s family is asking for. She’s going have to be a nun after all. Or something like that.” He put down the letter and looked appealingly across at Giles. “Is this what you wanted, sir?”

“Gossip!” said Carswell. “Why would she want me to hide gossip?”

“Try another one, Mr Holt,” said Giles, scanning the letters again. “Are we certain they are all in the same hand? This one – the slope is not quite so pronounced – it looks a little rounder. To whom is it addressed?”

“To a Father Diego,” said Holt, taking it. “You are right, sir, that is a different hand. Much easier to make out. Now, what have we got? I write in a hurry. I have a lot of business but I know you will be wanting an answer. You asked me to find the names of those you felt were involved in the case. There is one name that came to light after my questionings but it is such a name as I don’t dare to mention in a letter. I will tell you the full particulars soon enough, if Holy Jesus and his mother permitting, I am granted a safe passage.” Holt sighed from the labour of translation.

“I don’t dare mention in a letter!” exclaimed Carswell. “It sounds as if they have spies everywhere on that god-forsaken island, opening the mails.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps he was simply afraid of being accused of defamation,” said Giles. “Who is the letter from, Mr Holt?”

“He doesn’t give a name, only initials,” said Holt. “A J, a T and and a C?”

“Well that must be significant surely!” said Carswell.

“It might be,” said Giles. “We really can’t say until we have a full translation of them all, and rather more information about Santa Magdalena. And tempting though it would be to sit up till dawn puzzling over them, we had better staunch our curiosity for now. Mr Holt needs his bed, I think.”

“Not until I have done the boots, sir,” said Holt, getting up from the table. He was obviously relieved to be back on his ordinary duties. “But yes, it’s a welcome thought, I must say.”

He left, and shortly afterwards the servant came in with the second jug of beer. They took their drinks in silence for a few minutes, the papers still spread out on the table.

Then Carswell said, “What do you think Lord Rothborough meant by saying that they should have shot Dona Blanca alongside her husband?”

“He was observing, I suppose, that in these troubled, young countries political expediency can become bloody. Enemies need to be eliminated when power is seized.”

“Or driven into exile,” Carswell said.