Michael Cox (36 page)

END OF ACT THREE

ACT FOUR

DUTY AND DESIRE

Our sins, like to our shadowes, when our day is in its glorie scarce appear: towards our evening how great and monstrous they are!

SIR JOHN SUCKLING,
Aglaura
(1638)

23

At North Lodge

I
Resolution Renewed

A
FTER READING
Madame’s letter, I descended into a kind of hell, from which I thought I would never find release. The foundations of my former life had crumbled quite away, leaving me in a state of the deepest despondency and mental disarray, as if I had suddenly been cast upon some barren and featureless desert shore, with no hope of rescue. I returned over and over again to my guardian’s words until they were seared into my memory – now pacing wildly about the room, weeping uncontrollably, now lying on my bed in a stupor, gazing blankly at the maze of interlocking patterns on the plasterwork ceiling above me.
I struggled vainly to comprehend what Madame had told me – that I was Esperanza Duport, the rightful heir, through my dispossessed father, of the late Lord Tansor; that my birthright had been stolen from me by the present Lady Tansor and her former lover; and that the hoped-for end of the Great Task – the restoration of that birthright, for my own sake and for the sake of those who would come after me – was to be achieved by bringing Lady Tansor to justice at last and marrying her eldest son.
These things were hard enough for me to absorb and understand; but to learn also that my father had been responsible for the death of Phoebus Daunt was almost more than I could bear.
Was it really true? My dear imagined father, the infamous murderer, Edward Glyver! At first, although the opposing instinct to defend my parent strove to overcome its urgings, my conscience refused to accept Madame’s vindication of his crime. She claimed that he had been briefly driven to the brink of insanity after his betrayal by the woman he loved; but was there any justification – even temporary derangement – for such an atrocious act? I pitied my father, I wept for him; but I could not condone what he had done. Everything that I had wanted him to be seemed negated by his crime, the shadow of which now lay over me, his innocent daughter: my perpetual legacy of sin.
Yet slowly, painfully, filial loyalty began to reassert itself. Whatever he had done, whatever name he had gone by – whether Glyver or Gorst, or some other – he was still the father I longed so much to have known, the extraordinary man of whom I had read in the pages of Mr Lazarus’s book, and in my mother’s journal, and of whose powerful character I had formed such a vivid impression through the accounts of these first-hand witnesses. He had done a terrible, unforgivable thing; but if he had walked into my room at that moment, would I have turned from him in moral revulsion, or thrown myself into his arms?
At length, after many such agonized reflections, and many accompanying tears, I come to a fragile accommodation with my conscience, and my thoughts begin to turn back to the present.
I now knew what I must do to restore my father’s stolen patrimony. A great task, indeed, and surely an impossible one. Mr Perseus would never regard me as a suitable wife in my present condition. He had not thought me good enough for his brother. How, then, would he consider me good enough to become the wife of the next Lord Tansor? We were cousins, as it now appeared; but I had no proof, as yet, of my true identity, and such proof might never be found. To Mr Perseus, I would still be Esperanza Gorst, his mother’s former maid.
Yet, impossible though the task seems, it does not dismay me. Indeed, as I reflect on Madame’s words, I find myself exhilarated by the challenge that I have been given. There is so much that I dislike – even despise – about Mr Perseus; but there is so much more that attracts me to him. I have sometimes caught glimpses – fleeting, but tantalizing – of another Perseus Duport, which has made me believe that he constantly seeks to suppress his true self. He seems to me like some great frozen ocean – cold and featureless on the surface, but teeming with hidden life beneath. It seems that he cannot allow himself to be seen as anything other than the proud, inviolable Duport heir, who must fulfil everything that is expected of him to the utmost, and who must one day apply himself – in emulation of his mother’s formidable relation, the 25th Baron – to maintaining the Duports’ long-held reputation as one of the first families in the land. It is a mighty responsibility, and it is clear that he feels it to be so. For the first time, I begin to discern a kind of virtue in his pride and self-centredness, and in his stern dedication to something greater than himself. As for my own feelings, I shall say only that the prospect of marrying Mr Perseus was very far – very far indeed – from being an uncongenial one, if by some miracle it could be accomplished.
At length, I fall on to my bed, and into a deep and immediate sleep. When I awake, an hour later, I am strangely calm in both mind and spirit, and filled with new resolve.
I will do my duty to my father, to Madame, to the ancient family I must now call my own, and to those of my blood who will come after me; and I will do it with a glad heart, for the prize is great indeed. I rise from my bed, exhausted but mentally revived, and make a vow to myself, on the innocent soul of Amélie Verron, the dearest and most loyal friend I have ever known.
There will be no turning back. I shall go forward, although with little hope of success, until I can go no further. For I have heard my father calling from beyond the grave. Murderer though he was, I shall not fail him.

II
The Triumvirate

’WE STAND,’ SAID Mr Montagu Wraxall solemnly, ‘like the prophet, in a valley of dry bones.
*
It is our duty to clothe these once-vital relics in the sinews and flesh of truth, and breathe life into them once more, so that justice may be done at last.’
We were seated together, knees almost touching – Mr Wraxall, myself, and a young man, of singular appearance – in the cramped, paper-strewn parlour of North Lodge, taking our tea.
The young man had been introduced to me as Inspector Alfred T. Gully, of the Detective Department in London – the person referred to by Mr Vyse, in the conversation with Lady Tansor that I had lately overheard and, as I had read in
The Times
, the officer in charge of the investigation into the murder of Mrs Barbarina Kraus. Little wonder, I reflected, that my Lady had been alarmed by his presence.
A fourth person completed the company. This was Mrs Gully, a small, neatly turned-out young woman, of a reserved but open and intelligent demeanour, who sat a little way off by the fire, reading a volume of essays by Mr Matthew Arnold, and occasionally raising her head to look affectionately at her husband.
The latter was, as I have remarked, most singular, in both appearance and character. The description of him that I later composed for my Book of Secrets is as follows:
MR ALFRED T. GULLY
Age:
about five-and-twenty. Born in Easton, the son of a local police inspector.
Appearance:
boyish. Apple-cheeked, with a wide, full mouth, and a most curious up-tilted nose, giving the strong impression that his nostrils are being perpetually pulled upon by the hook of some invisible fishing-line. Dressed in a dark-blue frock-coat (sadly frayed at the cuffs) and plaid trousers (noticeably shiny at the knee); his hat, being a little too small for his large head, has left a dull red ring across his brow.
Impressions:
his voice has a somewhat grating quality to it, frequently displaying the unmistakable inflexions of what I now recognize as a Northamptonshire accent; and yet he speaks with the fluency and confidence of an educated and well-read person, although not one whose education has been gained by attending the usual institutions of public school and University.
Conclusion:
a wholly memorable individual who, I am willing to believe, fully deserves the reputation he enjoys as a detective of no common ability. Amiable, but also formidable in an unassuming way – somewhat like Mr Wraxall in this respect.
After some introductory pleasantries, we had settled ourselves as best we could on three rather unsteady wheel-backed chairs in front of a little bow window that looked westwards towards the Odstock Road. Mr Wraxall rang a small brass bell, and almost immediately Mrs Wapshott, the woman who attended him as cook and housekeeper, brought in a tray of tea, welcomingly accompanied by a large and freshly baked spice-cake.
‘And how are you going on, Miss Gorst?’ asked my host, passing me a slice of cake.
‘Very well, sir,’ I replied. ‘I am very happy in my new position.’
‘Miss Gorst has undergone a promotion. She is now her Ladyship’s companion,’ said Mr Wraxall to the detective, who merely inclined his head slightly, in a manner that persuaded me that he was already aware of the fact.
‘The duties of a lady’s companion are very different, I think, to those of a maid,’ Mr Wraxall remarked, after a judicious pause, ‘and afford many opportunities for observing the character and habits of her employer. Human nature is an endlessly fascinating object of study – don’t you agree, Miss Gorst?’
‘Ah, human nature!’ cried Mr Gully, before I could reply. ‘That boundless field in which you and I, Mr W, constantly toil!’
He took out a large, rather grubby pocket-handkerchief and blew his nose with a loud rasp; then he shook his head, and sighed in the most doleful manner.
‘You may not know, Miss Gorst,’ resumed Mr Wraxall, ‘that my young friend here is already a leading man in the Detective Department in London, although he was born in Easton – his father, in fact, was for many years an inspector in the local force. It was my good fortune to have benefited from my young friend’s exceptional talents on my final capital case. We’ve since become – if I may so put it – brothers-in-arms.’
‘Most kind, Mr W, most kind,’ said the detective, evidently touched by the great man’s compliments.
‘Mr Gully is presently engaged on a particularly intriguing case,’ Mr Wraxall went on, ‘in which I am also taking a keen interest – as an amateur observer, you understand. Perhaps you may have read about it in the newspapers? The especially shocking murder – not, alas, an uncommon occurrence in those dangerous parts of the capital with which Mr Gully and I have become professionally familiar – of a woman by the name of Mrs Barbarina Kraus. The business is interesting in several respects.’
‘Interesting, Mr W?’ echoed the inspector. ‘You may say so. And suggestive.’
‘Suggestive, certainly,’ Mr Wraxall agreed, and then fell silent. ‘Enough of this!’ he suddenly exclaimed, stamping his foot, and laying down his tea-cup with a clatter. ‘I insult you, Miss Gorst, by beating about the bush in this ridiculous fashion. I apologize, most sincerely. I knew you for a friend and ally as soon as I saw you, and I flatter myself that you saw me in the same light – and you were right to do so. So, allow me to make amends and presume to treat you as such.
‘I invited you here, Miss Gorst, because you appeared to express some sympathy with the views I hold concerning the death of my uncle’s old friend, Mr Paul Carteret. Was I correct?’
I expressed regret that I knew little enough about the matter, ‘although it seems to me,’ I went on to admit, ‘from what I have heard from others, and from what you yourself have told me, that the official verdict might be – open to question.’
Another doleful sigh from Mr Gully.
Mr Wraxall leaned his shining head towards me and, in a deliberately audible whisper, which he clearly intended Mr Gully to hear, informed me that Inspector Gully Senior had been the local officer in the case, and that he had continued to subscribe to the official view that the attack on Mr Carteret had been a straightforward matter of robbery with violence.
‘Mr Gully here was, of course, only a youngster at the time; but over the years he has, like me, developed an alternative view of the case. It has, indeed, become something of a private cause with us, which we’ve often discussed together, and also with my late uncle, who made himself rather troublesome in some people’s eyes by steadfastly refusing to accept the inquest verdict, and dismissing the idea that Mr Carteret had been the victim of a peripatetic band of ruffians, who waylaid farmers and the like returning home with market money in their pockets. I have expended a great deal of midnight oil going through every scrap of paper left by my uncle, searching for anything that might throw some glimmer of light on the tragedy, but with little success. We hope – Mr Gully and I – eventually to establish, beyond all reasonable doubt, what actually happened on that fateful day, and – which is the point that most concerns us now, in this present time –
why
it happened.
‘Now here
you
are, Miss Gorst; and so – if, of course, you’re willing to join us – may I formally, and with great pleasure, extend a welcome to what is now, I sincerely hope, a triumvirate of enquirers after the truth?’
He holds out his hand, which, surprised though I am by the gesture, I willingly take, saying that I shall be very happy to join them, if they were willing to have me, although I could not see what practical contribution I could make to their endeavours.
‘Oh no, Miss Gorst,’ insisted Mr Wraxall most warmly. ‘You do yourself an injustice. I’m convinced – absolutely – that you’ll prove to be a most useful member of our little alliance.’
‘Most useful,’ agreed Mr Gully, through a mouthful of cake.
‘Your situation here at Evenwood is a singular one,’ Mr Wraxall then remarked. ‘Opportunities may – no, will – arise, discoveries made, perhaps, as a consequence of that situation; and these may advance our cause in ways we cannot presently know.
‘You must understand, however, that our interest in the death of Mr Paul Carteret, over twenty years ago now, is far from being one of merely – how shall I put it, Mr Gully?’
‘Academic interest, Mr W?’ ventured the detective.
‘Exactly,’ Mr Wraxall replied, with an acquiescent nod. ‘And here is my point, Miss Gorst. Mr Gully and I share a common outlook on certain events, of a most dubious character, connected with the noble lady by whom you are presently employed as companion. That outlook may be broadly defined as being sceptical in character – by which I mean that we are in no way persuaded that her Ladyship is entirely innocent of some involvement – be it large or small – in those events. I further believe that you may share that general outlook, Miss Gorst. Am I correct?’
I considered for a moment what to say, having developed a well-practised habit of caution when answering questions concerning myself; but it was impossible to mistrust those wise grey eyes, and so I thanked Mr Wraxall for his frankness, and for the confidence it placed in me.
‘And you are right,’ I admitted. ‘My position here, since becoming Lady Tansor’s maid, has put me close to her, and I have indeed become curious concerning certain aspects of her life, both past and present.’
‘Aha!’ exclaimed Mr Gully. ‘Aspects! Past
and
present! There you have it, Miss Gorst.’
‘Good!’ cried Mr Wraxall, slapping his knee. ‘Now one of those past aspects might be the attack on Mr Paul Carteret, in October 1853, of which we have just been speaking. A present aspect might be the very case to which I have already alluded, on which Mr Gully is at present closely occupied: the brutal murder of a woman whose body was found, not three months’ since, in the Thames near Billingsgate Fish-market.
‘The question I put to you now, Miss Gorst, is this: are these two apparently unrelated crimes – one past, the other present, both still unresolved – in fact part of one single and still-continuing event? My professional opinion is that they are, and Mr Gully agrees with me. If only we had the proof! For who otherwise would accept that a single chain of circumstances connects the savage murder of Mrs Barbarina Kraus, a woman of low condition with known criminal associates, and the fatal attack, so many years ago, on Mr Paul Carteret, formerly secretary and librarian to his relative, the late Lord Tansor, and father of the present Baroness? It’s too incredible, surely. The very idea is laughable, is it not? And yet it’s a fact, Miss Gorst – a singular but incontrovertible fact – that, on considering this extraordinary possibility for the first time, Mr Gully’s feet began to itch.’
My face must have clearly expressed my utter perplexity at Mr Wraxall’s words, for the detective immediately offered an explanation.
‘I don’t know how it is, Miss Gorst,’ he said, ‘but whenever I’m on the right track in a case, my feet begin to itch. Martha will tell you.’
Mrs Gully looked up once more from her studious perusal of Mr Matthew Arnold to give an affirmative nod.
‘They’re itching now,’ said her husband, gazing down at his boots.
‘I saw her,’ I said, wishing suddenly to advance the discussion on my own terms; ‘the old woman, I mean. I spoke to her, too, at the Duport Arms.’
‘Aha!’ said Mr Gully, taking out his note-book and starting to write.
‘You refer to the late Mrs Kraus?’ asked Mr Wraxall, with eager interest.
‘I believe so.’
‘And what do you suppose she was doing in Easton?’
‘I think she had come to Evenwood to see Lady Tansor.’
‘What makes you think that?’ was Mr Gully’s question.
I recounted how my Lady had instructed me to take a note to the Duport Arms for the attention of ‘B.K.’, subsequently described by my Lady as a former servant by the name of Bertha Kennedy who had fallen on hard times, but whom I was now certain had been Mrs Barbarina Kraus.
‘A former servant!’ exclaimed Mr Wraxall gleefully looking significantly at Mr Gully, and then adding mysteriously: ‘Perhaps that was not so very far from the truth. We’re on to something here, Gully.’
‘Indeed we are, Mr W,’ the detective concurred.
They continued to look at each other for a moment or two, nodded in concert, and then Mr Wraxall addressed me – quietly now, and with a new seriousness.
‘Here it is, then Miss Gorst,’ he began, ‘in a nutshell. Mr Gully and I are of the settled opinion that the Duport succession is the single strand that unites the deaths of Paul Carteret and Mrs Barbarina Kraus. Our theory – which, in the absence of solid proof must remain as such – is that Mr Carteret was in possession of information that would have dispossessed Mr Phoebus Daunt of his prospects, as the late Lord Tansor’s adopted heir.
‘We further believe – although here our grounds are, as yet, even more speculative – that Mrs Kraus was murdered because she knew something that fatally threatened the favourable resolution secured by the first crime.
‘In short, our conclusion is that the attack on Mr Carteret, more than twenty years ago, was the first act in a greater drama, which led first to the murder of Mr Carteret, then to that of Mr Phoebus Daunt, and now to that of Mrs Barbarina Kraus. Would you like to add anything, Mr Gully?’
‘An admirable summary, Mr W,’ the young man replied, closing his note-book, ‘as one would expect. “Favourable resolution of the first crime” – excellent phrase! Nothing to add, except perhaps a small point of emphasis, which I shall put to you in the form of a question, Miss Gorst:
cui bono?
Or, to come at it the other way, who stands to lose all if certain matters, long hidden from view, were to come to light?’
‘You allude to Lady Tansor?’ I asked.
‘Even she.’
‘Then you’d accuse her of murdering her own father?’
The detective glanced enquiringly at the barrister.
‘We have no evidence to make that most serious accusation,’ said the latter. ‘But we cannot dismiss the possibility – even the probability – that her Ladyship, acting with Mr Phoebus Daunt, set the tragedy in motion, although it may be that she did not anticipate its fatal outcome.’
‘And Mrs Kraus?’ I asked.
‘Blackmail,’ Mr Gully broke in confidently. ‘Pure and simple. Nothing could be clearer. What other reason could the victim have had for coming to Evenwood, if not to lay a demand before Lady Tansor – a demand for money in return for her silence on a matter of the gravest importance to her Ladyship?