A Woman of Consequence (6 page)

‘It is an admirable enterprise,’ he said solemnly. ‘But I do not see how I can assist you.’

‘Well,’ she began carefully, ‘a great deal must depend upon this journal which your uncle kept.’

‘Yes.’

She stole another look at his brooding face, but still could make out nothing of his expression. They rounded the end of the church and emerged, blinking a little, into the autumn sunshine.

‘Miss Fenn’s consultations with your uncle,’ she ventured, ‘when did they begin?’

‘Two years, three months and one week before she died,’ he answered promptly.

‘And were they frequent?’

‘Tolerably frequent. He seems – and I have only his journal to inform me – but he seems to have visited her once every week.’ He checked himself, held up a finger, and proceeded with exactness. ‘
Usually
a week passed between his visits. Once it was just six days. On …’ he thought a moment, ‘on
two
occasions, it was eight days.’

‘Your memory is very precise.’

He looked at her in some surprise. ‘I was required to state these facts in a court of law,’ he said. ‘Naturally I would wish them to be correct.’

‘Yes, of course. And her complaint was always one of melancholy?’

‘Usually it was melancholy: on one occasion he has written “depression of the spirits”. Though
that
may be
no more than a variation of expression. Even to a medical man there is little to distinguish the two conditions.’

‘And had Miss Fenn asked your uncle to visit her during the last few days before she died?’

‘No. No, she had not,’ he said gravely. ‘It had been …’ He paused under the lychgate as he again sought the exact memory, ‘… twenty-six days since he last attended her.’ He pushed open the gate and began to take his leave of her.

‘But I thought you were walking up to the great house, Mr Paynter.’

‘I am,’ he said hurriedly, ‘but I find there is something I have forgotten to bring with me. Unfortunately I must return home to fetch it – I shall not be able to accompany you.’ He bowed, but then hesitated and stood, hat in hand, staring down at his feet.

‘You seem troubled, Mr Paynter.’

‘I am thinking of Miss Fenn. It is a sobering thought,’ he said, ‘but perhaps if my uncle had attended the lady during those last days … In short, it may have been the lack of his usual cordials and restoratives which drove her to the terrible act.’

‘Yes,’ said Dido thoughtfully. ‘It may have been.’ She paused – thought a moment. ‘However,’ she added, ‘it may be that her not calling upon your uncle’s services in those last weeks argues instead for her feeling better and being in no need of his cordials.’

‘Yes,’ he said doubtingly. ‘Perhaps it may.’

‘In point of fact,’ she said, ‘your uncle’s journal does not prove that Miss Fenn was suffering from melancholy when she died; but only that she had suffered such a complaint
twenty-six days earlier
.’

Dido walked on slowly to Madderstone Abbey, her mind full of Mr Paynter’s tribute of roses – and those six and twenty days during which Miss Fenn had, quite contrary to her habit, sought no help from her physician.

In order to establish whether or not this was a case of self-murder, it would be necessary to discover how the lady had appeared during those six and twenty days. Was she happier than usual – or sadder? Was it possible that, after fifteen years, anyone would be able to remember such a detail?

She passed through the park gate and came into the spoilt gardens. The sun was sinking low, casting long shadows from the fallen trees and turning the many puddles a deep, bloody red. The path from the gate ran above the bank of the old pool – and was particularly difficult to negotiate for a woman determined upon keeping her petticoat clean. But at the end of it there were four stone steps which led down to the pool, and it had been Dido’s intention to descend these steps to look at the place from which Miss Fenn’s body had been taken.

However, when she was only halfway along the path – and balancing precariously on a stone beside a deep patch of mud – she heard footsteps and the booming voice of
Mr Harman-Foote down by the pool. ‘Well it must be put to rights at once, d’you understand?’ he was saying in a tone of grave displeasure.

She paused, swaying dangerously on her stone. Another, quieter voice was murmuring an apology. She looked down the bank and saw Mr Coulson, the landscape gardener, scratching anxiously at his head as he spoke.

‘Well, well,’ cried Mr Harman-Foote, a little mollified, ‘I daresay you meant no harm; but you’ve caused a great deal of trouble. You should not have …’

Unfortunately he never finished his speech, for just as he reached this most interesting point, Dido overbalanced and gave a little cry as she trod deep into the mud. Mr Harman-Foote stopped speaking immediately; both gentlemen turned in the direction of the sound and bowed when they saw her. She was obliged to call a greeting and hurry on – doomed never to hear what it was that Mr Coulson should not have done.

Which was very provoking, for she was almost sure he was about to be upbraided for draining the pool. At least, that is what she thought at first. But, by the time she reached the ruined cloister, she had begun to revise her opinion. For, she reasoned, the draining of the pool could not have taken the owner of the grounds by surprise. He must have seen that it was to happen when plans for the improvements were first drawn up; and if he had not wanted it done, he would certainly have vetoed it immediately …

She was shaken from this engrossing reverie by the sight of other dinner guests. Ahead of her on the gravel sweep, Silas Crockford was handing Lucy out of his chaise. And just rounding the corner of the cloister was
Mr Portinscale, walking up from his vicarage.

‘Ah Miss Kent!’ he began immediately upon seeing her, and bowed with great formality. ‘This is indeed a
heaven-sent
opportunity! I had been very much hoping that I might, in the course of the day, avail myself of the pleasure of a few minutes private conversation with you.’

‘Indeed?’ she smiled up at him politely. He was a tall, very solemn man who had, no doubt, been rather handsome in his youth; but his youth was almost twenty years distant now and in those years he had grown thin and dry. And when he removed his hat, it was clear that his hair – though still tolerably black – was so thin atop as no amount of brushing about was quite able to disguise.

‘Yes, I fear,’ he clasped his hands in the small of his back and rocked himself forward on his toes – very much as if he were about to preach a sermon, ‘I fear that you have been
suborned
.’

‘Suborned? Oh dear! I hope that I have not, for it sounds very disagreeable.’

‘It is, my dear,’ he continued seriously as they walked on. ‘Very disagreeable indeed. It appears that your good nature has allowed you to be imposed upon. You have been led into error, Miss Kent, and, as a clergyman, I feel it incumbent upon me to set you right.’

‘Oh!’

‘I am aware,’ he said, sinking his voice almost to a whisper to prevent it being heard by the Crockfords – or by Mrs Harman-Foote who was now come out onto the steps to meet them. ‘I am aware of the service which your friend,’ a glance here towards the steps, ‘has asked you to perform – I mean, of course, with regard to her dead governess. But
you do wrong to interfere. Suicide is a grievous sin.’

‘It is indeed, Mr Portinscale,’ said Dido, matching his solemnity, ‘and no one should be accused of it falsely.’

He shook his head and a little colour tinged his thin cheeks. ‘These matters should be left in the hands of God, my dear.’

‘But they are not in the hands of God,’ Dido pointed out gravely, ‘they are in the hands of the coroner.’

‘Who would not be suffered to remain in authority if God did not will it,’ he answered quickly. Then he seemed to recollect himself and spoke more calmly. ‘We must trust in the Lord,’ he insisted. ‘We must not meddle with what He has ordained.’

‘No! That is nonsense!’ The words burst from Dido involuntarily as the weakness of his position struck her. The colour in his cheeks deepened with displeasure. She forced herself to speak less violently. ‘This philosophy, sir, would argue against all good works and make inertia the greatest of all virtues. I cannot believe but that we are sometimes required to exert ourselves in the cause of charity.’ She drew a long breath. ‘I do not doubt Mr Wishart’s good intentions. But his verdict
may
be mistaken. An injustice may have been done. I cannot believe it wrong to try to discover the truth.’

He was about to reply, but he was prevented by the approach of their hostess.

They all walked on into the house together and it was not until some time later that Dido was calm enough to wonder just why Mr Portinscale should interest himself so much in the business. Why should he care so very much that the coroner’s verdict remain unchallenged?

…
Well, Eliza, there were nine of us at dinner, for besides the Crockfords and Mr Portinscale there was Henry Coulson, the landscape gardener, and of course Captain Laurence, who is staying once more with his cousins at Madderstone. (By the by, I do not know whether Captain Laurence has a home of his own when he is not aboard ship, but, if he has, I fancy it is not so comfortable as Madderstone Abbey.)

Well, as you may imagine, Mrs Harman-Foote’s duties as hostess did not allow for any conversation between us while we remained in the dining room, beyond an assurance, almost shouted along the table, of her intention of taking me to see Miss Fenn’s bedchamber as soon as she should be at leisure.

Indeed it was hardly possible for female voices to be heard at all. For Mr H-F himself pays his compliments, talks about poachers and tells his jokes so loud that, if you do but listen carefully, you may hear the glass drops on the chandelier tinkling in answer to his speeches.

And then there was Mr Coulson braying down his nose and shouting ‘Quite so!’ and ‘Very good, sir!’ whenever the master of the house might be deemed to have said anything clever. Mr Coulson, by the by, is an addition to our society since your going to London, so I had better introduce him. He is a very young man – a relation, I believe, of both the Harmans and the Crockfords and the ward of old Mr Harman at whose expense he has been educated. He is not long finished at Oxford and intends to make his mark upon the world. He fancies himself very clever in the landscape gardening line and, once he has demonstrated his skill at Madderstone, he means ‘to make a mint of money at it in no time at all’.

It would seem that at one time or another Mr Coulson 
has considered devoting his talents to every profession from the navy to the church, and does not doubt that he could have, ‘made a pretty fine show’ at anything he set his mind to. But – as he gave the whole table to understand – it is in medicine that his genius might have had full rein. And he would have done a great deal more good than that ‘dunderheaded sawbones Paynter’, who is ‘as dull-witted as any medical fellow he ever met
’.

I rather wondered why he should wish to speak so slightingly of poor Mr Paynter – a gentleman he can hardly know – but I had no opportunity to enquire. For meanwhile Mr Portinscale was busy denouncing the iniquities of the entire world, with all the force of the pulpit; and Harriet and Lucy were making a great to-do because poor Silas was attempting to eat a ragout which they were sure was too rich for his constitution. And all the time our old friend James Laurence was talking to me incessantly about the navy
.

I cannot like Captain Laurence. He is too much inclined to pressgang the conversation and carry it away aboard ship. And once he has got it there, what can his listener do? One has nothing at all to say and can only exclaim upon the captain’s bravery and hardihood – which becomes excessively dull after the first five minutes. But Lucy, I fancy, would have been exceedingly happy to do the exclaiming and was rather aggrieved that it fell to my lot rather than hers
.

Well, so much for dinner. But I wish particularly to tell you about what happened afterwards. And the first thing is that Anne Harman-Foote and I had the drawing room to ourselves for a little while before tea. Harriet returned to Penelope straight after dinner and Lucy, I think, went with her. The men, I believe, were occupied in the billiard room, for I could hear the clatter of 
cue and balls all the time that we were talking. Anyway, Anne (you see how our intimacy is increased! I have been authorised to use the name) and I were left alone in the drawing room and I took the opportunity of finding out as much as I might about Miss Fenn.

My first business was to discover all that I could about her family and connections – but there I more or less drew a blank. Miss Fenn, it seems, was a woman of ‘very respectable’ family, but poor; she was a neighbour of old Mrs Foote in Shropshire and she came to Madderstone upon her recommendation. Mrs Foote, by the by, seems to have been a great recommender of maids, governesses and companions; she was generally regarded as being very ‘sensible and straightforward’ in these matters and it was quite the accepted practice to apply to her when any such appointment was to be made.

I asked next about Miss Fenn’s life at Madderstone. What were her pursuits? Her friends? And – that all-important question for every governess – how much did she ‘mix in the family’.

Well, if she had any friends in the neighbourhood, her pupil knew nothing of them; and her pursuits seem to have been only attending church and visiting the poor. And as to mixing in the family – Anne was puzzled by the question.

‘Why, she was with us as much as she chose to be!’

‘And when there was company?’ I pressed. ‘Dinners? Balls?’

‘She generally dined with us,’ said Anne, ‘but she did not attend balls – except, of course, the All Hallows ball. That she always attended.’

And I thought that point rather telling, Eliza. That she should be present for Madderstone’s famous All Hallows dance when the greater tenants and the half-gentry of the 
place are invited but absent herself from the later, grander balls of the winter, speaks to me of a woman with a delicate sense of her own place. A woman with scruples, determined not to impose too far upon her employer’s goodwill.

And, finally, I asked about the day of her disappearance.

It was, it seems, the sixth of June 1791 – a Monday, and a very warm day. There was a large party staying in the house: all the Laurence cousins were there and Mr
Harman-Foote
– plain Mr Foote as he was then – had arrived that morning with his mother. It had been too hot to take much exercise during the day but the evening was a little cooler and Miss Fenn left the abbey quite soon after dinner, saying that she had an appointment to keep.

I asked, of course, what this appointment was, and I wondered for a moment if Anne might know more of it than she was telling. But when I pressed her she only said she supposed it to be a charitable errand – that was the usual cause of Miss Fenn visiting the village.

And did her manner seem at all unusual? I asked. Was there anything to mark this day as different from any other?

Oh no, Anne assured me, nothing at all. Absolutely nothing at all. It had been a day just exactly like any other and she had expected Miss Fenn to return before tea – it had been agreed that they should all drink tea in the summer house.

Well, I rather fear that if there
was
anything unusual about the day it may now be irretrievable. Anne is either unable or unwilling to recall it.

So I turned my attention to the coins and the ring which were recovered from the lake. There is perhaps five or six pounds in money: the gold still remarkably fresh-looking – the silver coins very much tarnished and one or two of them positively 
misshapen with decay. As for the ring – it is rather a plain thing. Which, I am told, is entirely in keeping with the lady’s taste. It seems she had quite a horror of finery. There is nothing to this ring but a narrow gold band and a simple setting holding a curl of fine hair. The curl is dark, almost black; but, upon reflection, I am not at all sure that that is its natural hue. I think it may have been darkened by lying so long in the water.

‘Do you know,’ I said, ‘whose hair is in the ring?’

But she said she did not and, when I pressed to know whether she had ever asked about it, she smiled. ‘I did once,’ she said, ‘and was rebuked for impertinence – I never asked again.’

I looked more closely and saw that, within the gold band, there is engraved a single word: ‘Beloved’.

Dido laid down her pen and blew upon her chilled fingers to warm them. The rain was beating hard at her attic window, the wind moaning under the roof like a lost soul and the landing clock had long since struck midnight. She was determined to finish her letter before sleeping, but was unsure how to go on.