The Keeper of Secrets Page 7

  The cowslip wine was excellent; I would have drunk it by the tumblerful had I not noticed the good doctor taking only the minutest of sips. He caught my eye as if to signal caution in the matter. Meanwhile, our hostess kept us amused with a steady stream of conversation.

  ‘Nurse Abney, Parson Campion and I bring bad news from the Priory,’ Hansard said at last. ‘I fear his lordship will not ride this way again.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘But he comes every week.’

  Elham had visited her here, and done nothing to ameliorate her situation! I stifled a cry of disbelief.

  ‘I fear he will ride nowhere ever again, my dear lady.’

  Hansard might have slapped her face, so hard did she recoil. ‘Master Augustus! No! Not—?’

  He took her hand. ‘It was very swift, Nurse. And, I believe, painless.’

  ‘But he was in his prime…’ In vain did she try to quell an errant tear. Soon she was shaken with sobs.

  ‘You were his nurse, ma’am,’ I said at last, kneeling beside her and hoping to turn her mind to happier times.

  She clasped my hand convulsively. ‘Such a lovely little boy, with his curls so fair they looked like white floss in the morning sun. So handsome a youth, set on winning that red-haired minx. Mind you, they soon proved the old saying, Marry in haste, repent at leisure, didn’t they? He’d hardly been wed to her ten minutes when he went galloping off on his grand tour, leaving her to cool her heels. They must have made up, of course, whatever their quarrel – and now we have the eleventh earl, young Arthur, a pretty a boy as you’d wish to see he was too, with his pretty hair just like his father’s, though inclined to be gingerish. Not as sunny as his father, I dare swear, and no time for his old nurse, of course, but his mother is all goodness, all goodness. Not as kind as that dear Mrs Beckles, and were this daytime, I dare swear I would see you blush, my old friend.’ She paused for breath, relinquishing my hand to pat Dr Hansard familiarly on his wrist.

  How he would have answered I cannot guess, for we heard the sound of swift footsteps and a fierce knock at the door, swiftly followed by the eruption of a furious young man into the cottage, though scarcely in response to his aunt’s invitation.

  ‘Is that you, Matthew, my boy? Come in, come in, the door’s never locked as you know, night or day, and here we have visitors, my love, the doctor and the parson.’

  The new arrival seemed to fill the room. When I had seen him in church, I had dismissed him as a mutton-headed yokel, as he gazed like a mooncalf upon Lizzie at a time his thoughts should have been fixed on the Almighty. Now I saw him as a strapping young man who would have displayed to advantage, his eyes blazing in sudden anger, fixed for some reason on me. He extended his arm, not to shake hands, but to poke at me, though never quite making contact with my chest as he jabbed with a furious finger.

  ‘You’re the one who’s spoilt my Lizzie, my pretty Lizzie! I’ve been walking out with her for nigh three years, Master Parson, and had hopes of her. Now she’s too good for me, isn’t she, Parson, with her reading and her writing and her figuring! It’s Mr Campion says this, and Parson says that, and next thing I know she’s her ladyship’s own abigail, and well above the touch of a plain man like me. And it’s all your doing!’

  ‘Are you in your cups, man? Now,’ Hansard continued, as Matthew dropped back, abashed, ‘you may make your apology to Mr Campion and take yourself off.’

  ‘Not until I know why you are here at this time of night. I had thought my aunt must be ill,’ he added, with real anxiety.

  Hansard explained, without so much as a hint that the death might be unnatural.

  Matthew did not even feign regret. ‘That penny-pinching old – I am sorry, Aunt, for I know you loved him always, as if he had been your own son, but he has left this estate in even worse heart than he found it. And as for that spendthrift son of his, and his vicious, evil ways – well, I am glad the old man is gone, but I fear his successor will be worse, far worse.’

  ‘Come, come – enough of this,’ Hansard broke in. ‘You will have Mr Campion here thinking that you are of a revolutionary turn. Be on your way, man.’

  ‘I care not this much what Mr Campion thinks,’ he averred, snapping his fingers. ‘The man who has stolen my intended.’ All the same, he picked up his hat.

  I followed Matthew through the door. ‘I am sorry you think I have turned Lizzie from you, Matthew,’ I said, all the time feeling deeply guilty as once that had been my precise intention. ‘But she has certainly not turned to me,’ I added with complete truth. ‘Nay, nor to any other man, so far as I know.’ Unbidden, there flashed into my mind the memory of her first encounter with Jem, when they looked as if their eyes had been fastened together. But I would admit nothing, not even to myself. ‘As for your sentiments about bad landlords, you would be surprised how much I share them.’

  ‘Share sentiments, do we? Well, let me tell you this, Parson. I intend to win my Lizzie back – and she is something we shall never share.’

  I nodded as emolliently as I knew how. ‘Go back inside and bid farewell to your aunt as she deserves, Matthew. If you are angry, it is not with her, and she needs the comfort of a beloved nephew tonight.’

  ‘I do it for her, not for you. Nor for him, neither. Why, it would have been a privilege to wring the man’s neck.’ With that, he went back inside, and was still there when Hansard left. We could see their heads framed in the window as we mounted our horses.

  ‘Her ladyship? Give evidence? In public?’ I demanded, my voice rising with every question. ‘Every feeling is offended. You cannot mean thus to expose my cousin.’

  Hansard leant back in his favourite chair and took another sip of some excellent brandy. ‘Alas, it will hardly be evidence, and it will certainly not be in public – at least, not in the taproom of a public inn. Her ladyship will simply have to give an account – on oath – of what happened to her husband the day he died. In view of the circumstances, I am sure the coroner – a fellow justice, Sir Willard Comfrey – will permit her to speak in any room in the Priory large enough to hold a jury. Don’t look like that, Tobias. The law should treat us all equally. It never will, of course, but we must make some effort to pretend it will.’

  ‘No suspicion can fall on her ladyship?’ In the village there were rumours enough that she had pushed Elham into the water and held him down. If pressed, even Mrs Beckles found it hard to deny she had her doubts about the complete accuracy of my cousin’s account, but she took every care not to impute blame she could not substantiate.

  ‘Do you think it should?’ Hansard asked quizzically. ‘I will inform the jury that I long apprehended that he would have a seizure – which he might well have done. I shall observe that the bridge was well looked after, but that Elham’s dead weight might well have been enough to dislodge a rusty nail, and commend such joints to Davies’ immediate attention. The jury will bring in their verdict of natural causes and the coroner will recommend that all bridges in the area should be inspected – a recommendation that everyone will promptly ignore. He will then condole with her ladyship and the new Lord Elham. You mark my words.’

  ‘But what if—? How can you predict what a jury will do?’

  ‘It will be a jury of her household, Tobias,’ he explained, exasperated. ‘You cannot imagine her being questioned by the likes of Bulmer or Miller, can you? Well, then. For God’s sake, sit down and have another sip of brandy to compose you.’

  For the sake of our friendship, I obeyed.

  ‘In any case, there are aspects of the accident that are deserving of explanation, do you not think? The nearest we have to a witness to the events is the young lad who assisted her ladyship and ran for further aid. Despite Lady Elham’s clear description, despite the considerable reward she has offered, he has never presented himself. I do not like to be thwarted, Tobias. I want to know that he does indeed exist – though I suppose he must have done once, for aid was indeed fetched.’

  ‘You mean—? Will you admit your
doubts to Sir Willard?’

  ‘I can scarce tell him that I suspect her ladyship of lying and needing the lad to give credence to her tale.’

  ‘Indeed not!’

  ‘And then there are her ladyship’s fingernails.’

  Choking on my brandy, I asked, ‘Did I hear you aright? Her ladyship’s fingernails? What do they have to do with anything?’

  He smiled expansively. ‘At last I have your full attention. Tell me, Tobias, what happens when you grip something tightly to pull it along. Something covered in fabric and very heavy.’

  ‘Her ladyship complained of pain in her back.’

  ‘She did. And she would – in such circumstances – scarce complain that she had broken her fingernails. But I assure you that that is likely to happen – particularly if you have such long elegant nails as she, troubled by nothing more than a little delicate stitchery. Young Lizzie tells me she was not required to trim the nails in question on the day of the death.’

  ‘You have spoken to Lizzie about this?’ I asked too quickly. To cover my confusion and account for redness about my face, I placed another log on the fire.

  ‘Only to ask about her ladyship’s general health. I hope she did not notice the singularity of my question about fingernails. There were no nail parings in the waste bin, either.’

  ‘Surely her ladyship wore gloves!’ I leant back, pleased to have scored a point in such an important contest. My cousin’s reputation was paramount.

  ‘It would be easy enough to dispose of a pair of ruined gloves… No, Tobias, I will be silent. Now, let us not give this another thought.’

  When the inquest finally took place, Hansard’s predictions were proved right. Held in the civilised surroundings of his late lordship’s library, it was the merest formality, hardly worth the effort of convening it. Even I could see that Sir Willard Comfrey was less interested in discovering the truth than in preserving the comfortable status quo. No one would have dared challenge anything, not even Hansard at his most bellicose, with her ladyship in deepest mourning standing as pale as Marie Antoinette must have looked on the tumbril. The members of the household selected as jury had no difficulty at all in agreeing that poor Lord Elham had a seizure, collapsed on to the bridge and thence into the water, and that her ladyship’s efforts to save her noble husband were much to be commended. They offered their profound condolences and their deepest respects to the new Lord Elham, who had scowled his way through the proceedings. Sir Willard had no difficulty in recording the most natural of deaths and in recommending that all bridges be inspected for weak joints.

  The ladies retired to comfort her ladyship, while the men found consolation in good ale, fine wine and some of the French chef’s finest delicacies. Lord Elham, even more boorish than his father, mooned around, making no effort to engage with his guests, and, though he did not dare jostle either of us, turned his back on both Dr Hansard and myself.

  ‘I told you it would be a total waste of time,’ Hansard muttered. ‘Have any facts been established?’

  ‘Not even the identity of the witness,’ I agreed.

  He turned to me, with an amusement out of place at such a gathering. ‘And it was you who so strongly objected to the very thought of an inquest.’

  ‘It would have been good to quash the rumours, which that cannot have done.’ I straightened. ‘At least there is another judge whom the guilty have to face.’

  ‘I will see if Mr Campion is At Home,’ Mrs Trent declared, with as much dignity as if she had been butler at Chatsworth fending off importunate tourists with no more claim on the duke’s time than the guidebooks they clutched.

  ‘Of course he’s at home,’ a male voice grumbled. ‘Parsons are supposed to be at home – not like some highfalutin’ lord or some such. Anyways, his horse is out at the back, with that groom of his working on it.’

  ‘Mr Campion may be In The Building,’ she conceded, still loftily, ‘but that does not mean that he is At Home.’

  Nor did I want to receive visitors, but my guest was in the right. He was my churchwarden, and entitled to my attention. However, the One whom I was addressing was entitled to it too.

  Asking for His blessing for my day’s endeavours, I rose at last from my knees. I sensed Mrs Trent’s approval, as she watched from the open door. Had I been addressing no more an illustrious personage than the meanest beggar, she would have wanted me to keep Mr Bulmer cooling his heels. One mention of his name was enough to produce an expression on her face that suggested she might be sucking a particularly sour lemon. Jem employed a much cruder analogy, concerning hens, but treated her with genuine respect, not simply an account of her years, which must have numbered sixty. She meanwhile indulged him as one might a perpetually hungry nephew, any of her light pastry and toothsome pies baked at least as much for his delectation as for mine.

  I believe it was Mrs Trent’s hauteur, not mine, that made Bulmer not merely doff his cap but twist it between his hands like a schoolboy caught raiding an orchard.

  ‘’Morning, Parson Campion,’ he said cautiously, no doubt as mindful as I was of our continued hostility.

  ‘Good morning to you, Mr Bulmer.’ I tried to be cordial. ‘Pray, sit down. How may I help you?’

  He perched on the edge of the chair I indicated.

  ‘May I offer you some refreshment? A glass of Madeira?’

  I would have sworn he salivated at the prospect. It was rumoured in the village that though the farmer was warm he was also close.

  ‘He’s the sort of man who would rather spend someone else’s money,’ had been Mrs Trent’s original verdict. Now she betrayed her feelings by the flicker of an eyelid when I summoned her.

  ‘And perhaps some of your excellent biscuits, Mrs Trent?’ I added.

  The warm and spicy smell was wafting from the kitchen, or I am sure she would have denied their existence. The slight thud as she placed a plateful on the table at his elbow suggested that they were as pearls before swine. But the decanter was the best, and the glasses polished to an exquisite brilliance. It was clear that she had her standards to maintain.

  At last, after a long sip of his wine, Bulmer got round to opening his budget. ‘It’s about a monument, Parson. To Lord Elham. There’s still space on the chancel wall and I thought it would be – begging your pardon, Mr Miller and I thought – it would be appropriate for us to raise a memorial tablet, maybe with a nice bit of Latin to his late lordship. The new lord would take it kindly, I have no doubt.’ With more confidence he added, ‘Past generations did it, as I’ve no doubt you’ve seen. And you, being an Oxford man—’

  ‘Cambridge, but never mind.’

  He treated my interruption with fitting contempt. ‘You being a scholarly man would be able to tell what they had written.’

  I must treat his request seriously. ‘They mostly tell the same story – of God-fearing men who were remembered by their family and tenants for their generosity in times of adversity.’

  ‘So if we got up a subscription, like, you’d be able to tell the mason what to put on our tablet. In Latin.’

  ‘I would indeed translate for you. What would you want to say?’ Moving to my desk, I found a clean sheet of paper and dipped my pen in readiness. I envisaged much crossing out.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I thought you might tell me, Parson. You being lettered.’

  ‘You knew Lord Elham better than I,’ I countered. ‘Did you find him kind?’

  ‘He was always a-visiting that old nurse of his. There are them,’ he confided, ‘that say she’s a witch, but I don’t hold with such talk.’

  ‘Indeed no. Nurse Abney is a decent, God-fearing woman.’ I could have added that she was a woman with but two chairs and an earthen floor. ‘How else did he show his kindness?’

  ‘Well now, he’d make sure Mr Davies gave fair warning, if you were behind in your rent. And he spoke up for the young lad they had sentenced to transportation. They sent him to an insane asylum instead, I do recall.’

>   I nodded, without speaking.

  ‘But as for kind… It all depended, didn’t it? You were never sure where you were with him and that’s the truth. One day he would have a conversation about your crops, as friendly as you and I, but the next he would be taking his whip to you and damning your eyes and using words I’d not utter in your company, Parson. Same as the young lord,’ he reflected. ‘And you wouldn’t want to be crossing him.’

  ‘Really?’ I prompted.

  ‘Him and his killings. He kills animals, so he does.’

  ‘Do not all of us here in the country? We kill sheep and cattle for food, foxes for sport—’

  ‘Aye, and other vermin. But when we kills them we kills them. Nay, I’ve said enough.’ I would swear that the peal of my doorbell turned his weather-beaten skin white, as if the noble lord had overheard and was even now seeking retribution. ‘But the monument, Parson – what should the words be?’ he continued, apparently reassured by the gentle murmur of voices from the hallway.

  Mrs Trent ushered in Mr Miller.

  ‘What does he say about the monument?’ the new arrival asked of his fellow visitor, in a stage whisper.

  ‘We were just talking about the wording,’ I said, ending the pantomime before it had begun. ‘What would be your preference, Mr Miller?’

  ‘It’s not so much the wording as the paying that troubles me,’ he said. ‘Have you spoken to him about that yet?’

  Miller shuffled, glancing at me from under his brows. He had realised that his notion of a subscription had not received my overwhelming enthusiasm.

  ‘I believe Mr Bulmer mentioned it,’ I conceded, on his behalf. ‘But I confess that I did not give him enough time to explain his plans. What would be your proposals, Mr Miller?’

  ‘Why, to collect from every household in the village, of course. Sixpence from everyone, every man, woman and child. No one can argue that that isn’t fair.’

  The expression on Mr Bulmer’s face showed he could have thought of several arguments, but could not clearly articulate them.