Michael Cox (57 page)

IT IS APPROACHING eleven o’clock, just as Mr Wraxall arrives and is asking to see Miss Gorst, when one of Mr Maggs’s boys, panting and perspiring, runs frantically up the front steps and bursts dramatically into the vestibule.
‘Now then, Harry Bloomfield,’ says Mr Maggs sternly. ‘What’s all this?’
‘She’s found!’ the boy gasps out. ‘Down by the bridge. Drowned dead in her night-gown!’
An audible thrill of horrified shock ripples round the vestibule. Several of the women begin to cry, and Mr Pocock forgets himself to the extent of sitting down on a red-plush chair and burying his head in his hands.
Mr Maggs gives a low whistle and shakes his head, then turns away and says under his breath: ‘Drowned dead. Just like her sister.’

II
Time’s Revenge

THEY BRING HER back wrapped in a hastily procured blanket, with her face covered, and lay her on her still unmade bed. As they are carrying their awful burden through the vestibule, to the horror of the onlookers still assembled there, a bluish-white, beringed hand slips from its temporary shroud into full view, causing one of the house-maids to faint.
Dr Pordage has been summoned to give an initial opinion on the cause of death, although it is plain enough to everyone how her Ladyship has met her end. Mr Thripp then arrives, ties up his whining terrier by the front door, and wheezes his way upstairs to dispense garrulous Christian comfort in this time of trial.
The sight of Emily’s poor body, lying under the sodden and dirtied blanket, in the great carved bed where she had spent so many troubled nights, is most terrible. Pretence is unnecessary, for the tears that begin to fall are real, and I make no attempt to conceal them; yet no one comforts me. It seems that I no longer have any standing in the household, now that the protective bond with my former mistress has been sundered, and I find myself ignored by the little group – Perseus and his brother, Inspector Gully and Sergeant Swann, the doctor and the Rector, and Mr Baverstock, my Lady’s former secretary – gathered about the bed. All except Perseus are conversing gravely with each other in hushed voices; he stands slightly apart from the rest, staring fixedly down at his mother’s now uncovered face.
How like her he is, even now! Her beautiful hair, which I have so often brushed and dressed in life, is now tangled, and matted with river ooze; one cheek is grimed with a jagged sliver of hardened black mud, like a drying wound; and there is an ugly red-black contusion on her forehead. Yet, curiously, Death has also wiped away the years, and her face, beneath these temporary disfigurements, seems almost youthful again. Her skin is smooth and taut, the once visible ravages of tribulation quite gone. She needs no lotions and powder now to mask over what time and guilt have done to her; for she is beautiful in death – beautiful still.
Her eldest son does not look at me, does not even acknowledge that I am here, but continues to stare down at her, in the grip, it seems, of a kind of paralysis. Every vestige of animation has drained from his face, leaving it as pale and immobile as that of his mother’s corpse. Then he reaches out to take one of her cold and stiffening hands from beneath the blanket, bends down, and kisses it with such pathetic tenderness that my tears begin anew.
This simple act moves me more than I can say; and when he has gently withdrawn his hold, I see that there are tears in his eyes also, and how much he suffers from the loss, in the most dreadful manner, of a beloved mother. Yet there is another blow that he is struggling to bear; for – courtesy of Inspector Gully – he alone amongst the other gentlemen there present as yet understands the scale of the tragedy, and the shame and dishonour that is about to fall upon the house of Duport.
I look over to where Mr Randolph is talking to Dr Pordage. He appears to be unaware of his brother’s suffering; but then he walks over to him and places a consoling hand on his shoulder, which Perseus brushes angrily away before throwing himself on the sofa, where he sits staring into the black mouth of the empty fire-place.
Still no one is paying me the least attention. Only Miss Allardyce briefly acknowledges my presence, although she is too distressed to say anything more than ‘Oh, Miss Gorst!’ before she is obliged to remove herself from the fearful scene. As she is leaving the room, Mr Randolph comes over to me.
‘Perhaps you should leave too, Esperanza,’ he says, gently. ‘It would be best, I think.’
He speaks kindly, warmly, caringly, as he has always done; but this is his way with everyone – even the servants. I know now that there has been nothing singular in his former manner towards me, only awkwardness and uncertainty arising from his clumsy attempt to bring me into his confidence concerning his feelings for Jane Paget, which I had so injudiciously misinterpreted. He had always been a man in love with someone else, and I failed utterly to see it.
He takes my hand, and leads me to the door. He opens it for me, and smiles. None of the others turns to watch me go.

MR WRAXALL HAS been waiting for me in the Library, examining some ancient document in a glass display case.
He greets me by taking my hand in his and pressing it softly, but says nothing. He then escorts me into an adjacent, curiously shaped chamber, formerly Professor Slake’s work-room, and Mr Paul Carteret’s before him.
‘This is a bad business, my dear,’ he begins. ‘I confess I did not foresee it ending in this way, although perhaps I should have done. A woman of invincible pride. Yes, I should have considered the possibility that, when all was lost, she might condemn herself, and so cheat the due legal process.
‘But we can – and should – speak of this further when we know more of what has happened – and why. What I really came here to say concerns you, my dear.’
‘Me? What can you mean?’
‘I think you know what I mean,’ he replies, momentarily uncovering a glimpse of the fearsome prosecutor he had formerly been.
‘Very well,’ he resumes, when I remain silent. ‘You’ll doubtless recall the occasion, in London, when you were followed by Mr Vyse’s man, Arthur Digges. What you did not know was that, greatly concerned for your safety, I had earlier instructed my own man, Jobson, to stay close by you when you left Grosvenor Square.
‘Jobson stayed with you as far as Billiter Street, where he observed you enter the house of a Mr John Lazarus, a retired shipping-agent. Unfortunately, when you left, Jobson lost you in the crowd, and I thank God that you eventually found your friend Mr Pilgrim. I’m not so certain now, as I was then, that Digges intended you any actual physical harm, but it was still a dangerous situation.
‘The next day, I paid a visit to Mr Lazarus – a most delightful and interesting gentleman, and very eager to talk of his former life, in particular of the time that he spent on Madeira, some twenty years ago now, in the company of a certain Edwin Gorst.’
Seeing me begin to colour, he presses my hand again, and apologizes for any discomfort his words are causing.
‘Not at all,’ I say, as breezily as I can. ‘Please go on.’
‘Mr Lazarus, it appears, had conceived a great liking for this gentleman, whose name you share, and whom he had first encountered living in precarious circumstances on the island of Lanzarote. It seems that Mr Gorst had requested him to deliver some papers to a solicitor in England, which he had been very willing to do. Fearing for his new acquaintance’s rapidly declining health, he then persuaded Mr Gorst to leave Lanzarote for the more beneficial climate of Madeira, where Mr Lazarus had a residence.
‘But of course you know all this,’ Mr Wraxall then observed, with another penetrating look. ‘So let me tell you something of which I think you will not be aware concerning this gentleman, whom we both now know to have been your father.
‘Mr Lazarus spoke of a scandal – an elopement, to be exact, as a consequence of which Mr Gorst and a Miss Marguerite Blantyre, the daughter of a well-known Edinburgh wine merchant, secretly and precipitately quit Madeira, never to return. This much, too, you doubtless know.
‘That was the last Mr Lazarus ever saw of Edwin Gorst, and it was a great regret to him that he had only one small memento of his former friend. What do you think it was?’
Once more, I felt the barrister’s keenly probing eye on me as I struggled, with little success, to maintain an impression of unconcern.
‘But there I go again,’ said Mr Wraxall, smiling apologetically once more. ‘This is not a cross-examination, my dear, and I’m sorry if it seems like one. Old habits die hard, I fear. So let me tell you, friend to friend, that Mr Lazarus’s sole memento of Edwin Gorst was the first edition, printed at Cambridge in 1634, of John Donne’s
Six Sermons
. It had fallen down behind Mr Gorst’s bed, and was only discovered some time after the aforementioned scandal. Mr Lazarus showed it to me – quite a clean and neat example. There was an inscription: “Edward Charles Glyver. Eton College, May 1834”.’
I clearly saw where all this was tending, and that Mr Wraxall had correctly deduced that I was the daughter of the man who had killed Phoebus Daunt. I therefore decided, there and then, to bring him fully into my confidence at last, knowing with instinctive certainty that, like Madame, he had only my very best interests at heart, and that I would need his advice and help in the coming days and weeks.
Thus I laid the truth of who I was, and why I had been sent to Evenwood, before Mr Montagu Wraxall.

AT A LITTLE before mid-day, we walked back out into the Library, that great confection of a room, drenched now in dazzling sunshine.
‘It is always satisfactory to have one’s suspicions confirmed,’ Mr Wraxall observed, as we stood looking out onto the terrace, where Emily had walked so many times.
I had told him everything, ending with an account of the documents that I now possessed, which I hoped would establish my right to succeed to the Tansor Barony, as the grand-daughter of the late Lord Tansor. I even confessed what I had earlier been reluctant to tell Inspector Gully: that I had been present when Emily had ended her life in the Evenbrook.
‘Perhaps it was for the best, after all,’ said Mr Wraxall, shaking his head sadly, and sighing.
‘Do you really think so?’ I asked eagerly, having feared that he might have been angered by my failure to save Emily from destroying herself.
‘Not with absolute certainty,’ he admitted, ‘especially, perhaps, because she will never now answer – in this life, at least – for instigating the attack on her father, my uncle’s dear friend. But what is done is done, and now we must face the consequences – you above all, my dear. What will you do?’
I told him that I would leave immediately for Paris, to inform my guardian of Lady Tansor’s death, and that we now had the means to reinstate my father’s bloodline through me.
‘And you have also vindicated my dear uncle’s convictions concerning the death of Mr Carteret,’ said Mr Wraxall, most feelingly. ‘He knew, as I did, that there was more to the attack than simple robbery. It was the succession, as we always suspected. And so God bless you, my dear. You cannot know how much this means to me.’
One thing only I hesitated at first to reveal; but I did so at last, and felt the better for it.
‘Randolph Duport married! To Mrs Battersby!’
I had never before seen Mr Wraxall so taken aback, and for several moments he seemed quite unable to say anything more by way of reply.
‘Does his brother know?’ he asked, collecting himself at last.
‘I do not believe so.’
Without admitting that I loved Perseus, I then told Mr Wraxall how I had rejected his proposal of marriage, in the belief that Mr Randolph was now the legitimate heir whom I must seek to marry. Mr Wraxall considered for a moment.
‘Poor fellow,’ he said after a while. ‘Do you know, I feel quite sorry for Mr Perseus Duport. He’s blameless in all this, after all, but must now pay a heavy price for what his mother has done. Yet it cannot now be helped. You have the instruments, I’m sure, to establish your claim, and so dispossess Mr Perseus, and his brother – unless, of course, you quit this life childless, which I hope, indeed confidently expect, will not be the case. You will be a great catch, my dear, a very great catch indeed.’
He gave a quiet chuckle.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Forgive my levity at such a time,’ he said. ‘I was merely thinking that you’ll need to beware of Mr Maurice FitzMaurice once you become Lady Tansor.’
I returned his smile. Then he regarded me in the strangest way.
‘Ah,’ he said, quietly, ‘I see how it is. You loved Mr Perseus, but had to give him up for the sake of your cause. My poor dear girl!’
The still painful memory of my loss, and my gratitude to dear Mr Wraxall for his touching concern, brought on my tears once more. I was also suddenly overcome by the thought of what now lay ahead for me; but Mr Wraxall soon began to put my mind at rest.
‘You must leave as much as possible to me, my dear,’ he said, ‘if, that is, you are happy to do so.’
‘Most happy,’ I replied.
It was therefore agreed that Mr Wraxall would take charge of my grandmother’s letters and the affidavits, together with Daunt’s letters to Emily that I had taken from the secret cupboard. It was further agreed that, during my absence in France, he would consult expert counsel on the legal procedures that would now have to be set in train to advance my claim.
We were discussing these matters when Barrington appeared, to inform Mr Wraxall that Inspector Gully was asking for him.
‘Show the inspector in here, if you please, Barrington,’ said Mr Wraxall. ‘Will you tell him what you’ve told me?’ he then asked me. ‘Better if you do, you know, before he finds out for himself.’
The inspector arrives, and the three of us, serious and subdued, walk out on to the sunny terrace. We stand for a while looking across the gardens, in their fresh summer finery.
‘Been a bit of a row,’ the inspector says, mysteriously. ‘The brothers have been going at it hammer and tongs.’
It appears that, on Perseus’s return to the house, the inspector had gone up to his study, with the intention of laying his mother’s confession before him, only to find the two brothers in the midst of a fierce argument. As he had been about to knock on the door, he had distinctly heard the name ‘Battersby’ shouted, in an outraged tone, by Perseus, from which of course I inferred that Mr Randolph had at last confessed his secret to his brother, and said as much to Mr Gully.
‘Well, well,’ says that gentleman. ‘There’s a turn-up. This is a day for confessions, and no mistake.’
‘And I have one, too, Mr Gully,’ I say to him, a little abashed.
He gives me a gently satisfied grin, reaches down into his boot, and scratches his foot.
‘Just as I thought, miss,’ he says, straightening himself up. ‘Just as I thought.’