Place of Confinement (21 page)

‘I wonder,’ she pursued, ‘whether there is any record of the story written down. I remember Mr George saying that his sister, Miss Francine Fenstanton, read old books in the library. Perhaps she found it written in a book there.’

‘Perhaps she did. The library was certainly a valuable resource to poor Aunt Francine, for she led a very
confined
life.’ He frowned – as if painful memories had been awakened.

‘I am sorry,’ said Dido quickly. ‘It is a fault of mine – when I am very interested in a subject I become impertinent. Please forgive me.’

‘No,’ he said gently. ‘There was no impertinence.’ But his thoughts seemed to have become fixed upon his aunt and he shortly broke out with: ‘It is thirty years since Aunt Francine died, you know. Thirty years since Charcombe Manor had a woman’s civilising presence! It is a period, is it not?’

‘It is indeed.’

‘It is too long for a house to be without a woman’s gentle influence. I fear the old place has suffered for it.’ He regarded her very seriously, pushing back his hat with a thick, strong finger. ‘And perhaps I too have suffered,’ he suggested. ‘I have not – since I was eleven years old – enjoyed the daily companionship of a woman.’

He stopped walking and laid his hand diffidently over hers, in a manner which must have been suspected by any woman whose mind was not entirely occupied with the pursuit of a murderer.

But, as they stood close together beneath a great oak with the sunlight twinkling through the leaves, the sound of the river and birdsong filling the air, Dido was thinking rather more about Mr Fenstanton’s family and the mysteries carrying on in his house than she was about the gentleman himself. The earnest look of his brown eyes was entirely lost upon her.

‘Miss Francine Fenstanton was sickly, I believe,’ she said.

‘Oh! Yes, she suffered from a great many nervous disorders.’

‘As my Aunt Manners does?’

‘Yes, but in those days – when she was young – Aunt Selina was quite well. I believe all
her
illnesses began with her marriage. As a girl she was always stout and confident – much more easy with the world than her poor sister.’

‘But,’ continued Dido, starting to walk busily forward and forcing her companion to do the same, ‘despite their different characters, the sisters were attached to one another?’

‘They were devoted. Why do you ask so particularly about it?’

‘Oh!’ She looked up into his face, and, receiving an indistinct impression of intimacy, decided upon a direct question. ‘I cannot help but wonder,’ she confessed, ‘whether the cause of my aunt’s disagreement with her brothers – the reason why she has been so long absent from Charcombe – was some dislike of the way her sister was treated.’

‘Ha! You have the right of it there!’ he cried. ‘My father and uncle were very stern guardians of their sisters. Very determined that they should make good marriages, you know. And Aunt Selina believes that their unkindness was an aggravation of Aunt Francine’s illness.’

‘I see.’ Dido began insensibly to walk faster as she pursued her own thoughts, and the unfortunate Mr Fenstanton was obliged to lengthen his own stride.

‘It is an old story,’ he said, with the dismissive air of a man who has subjects of his own to pursue. ‘My dear Miss Kent, I would not have you think I share their philosophy. Mercenary marriages! I ain’t got patience with them. Affection is the thing to my mind. Happiness in marriage is more important than fortune, ain’t it?’ As he spoke he again laid his hand over hers and attempted to draw her to a standstill. But he saw that he had now lost her attention entirely.

For they had just turned the last corner of the lane, and the village was before them: a cluster of grey cottages lay beyond the high curving back of the bridge; there were a few thin blue spires of smoke ascending from the chimneys, and the hot red glow of a forge reflecting in the river.

And, on the bridge, Mr Lomax was waiting, with one foot resting on the low wall and his eyes cast thoughtfully down toward the water.

Dido excused herself hurriedly and ran forward to meet him, holding out her hands and turning her face up to his with affectionate concern.

‘Your enquiries are not prospering?’ she asked anxiously after a hurried greeting.

‘No,’ he said, turning towards her with a sigh. ‘I have not been able to trace the chaise beyond the first toll gate on the Bristol road. Beyond that the tolls and the staging posts are too busy – nobody was able to distinguish one carriage from another. And no one at the school in Taunton was able to even guess at where the young lady might be – if she is not with Mrs Hargreaves. Everyone seems to be agreed that that would be her most likely recourse if she left her guardians.’

‘I see.’ Dido was sorry to have so little information – and sorrier still for the pain his failure caused him. His eyes were so dark she thought he must not have slept at all since their last meeting. ‘And were you able to discover anything about the lady’s character?’

‘Yes – a little.’ He frowned upon the water and Dido stepped closer so that she might look up into his face in an attempt to read his thoughts. ‘There was general agreement,’ he said, ‘among both teachers and pupils, that Miss Verney is unlikely to elope.’

‘She is an amenable, docile girl?’

‘Oh no! Nobody seemed to doubt that she has
spirit
enough for an elopement. But everyone is in agreement that she is not sufficiently
romantic.
Miss Verney, I am told, thinks too well of herself and her fortune to throw herself away.’ He smiled. ‘As you may imagine, her teachers are inclined to call her sensible – while her fellow pupils condemn her for being too worldly.’

‘Ah!’ said Dido with a smile. ‘The distorting effect of youth!’

‘I prefer,’ he said gravely, ‘to think that age and experience may also distort a little, and that the truth lies between the two extremes.’

‘Very well. We shall agree that Miss Verney is rather sensible – and just a little bit worldly. But,’ she added with a shake of her head, ‘the conclusion must be that she is unlikely to have run away to Gretna Green.’

‘That was my conclusion,’ he said. ‘Until, just as I was leaving, one young lady – a Miss Garnett who had been the most voluble in condemning her fellow pupil as mercenary – stopped me. She told me that, just before she left the school, Miss Verney had said something to her that was a little odd.’ He paused. ‘It was very odd,’ he admitted. ‘I know not what to make of it.

‘It seems that Miss Garnett had been chiding her friend for coldness, telling her that she would never be happy in marriage if she did not truly love her husband – it is not difficult to imagine the eloquence of nineteen upon such a subject. And it seems Miss Verney laughed at the tirade; she laughed, and she said: very well, she would give romance
one trial
– and if nothing came of it then she would settle for a worldly union.’

‘Oh!’ cried Dido, laying her hands upon his arm. ‘I wonder what she meant by that. Is it possible that this running away is the trial she spoke of?’

‘Perhaps it is. Miss Garnett could tell me nothing about the “trial”. She said only that it sounded like “one of Letitia’s mad schemes”. But, as to the worldly union – she had more definite ideas about that. She believes that there is “an old man” that Miss Verney has known all her life. A man her guardians wish her to marry. Miss Garnett did not know the name of this poor decrepit old fellow, but—’

‘But,’ Dido finished for him, ‘it is almost certainly Mr Lancelot!’ As she spoke she turned instinctively to the place where she had left that gentleman. And much to her surprise, she found that he was still standing in the shade of the trees.

He was glowering in their direction and his look of disapproval made Dido uneasy. Lomax had followed the direction of her eyes and he also seemed to notice the frown, for he immediately drew Dido’s hand through his arm with an air of protection and possession.

Fenstanton’s face clouded. He kicked irritably at a tree root.

The couple turned away towards the village. But Mr Fenstanton stood still for several minutes. He appeared to be lost in the contemplation of new ideas which the scene had suggested to him.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Old Charcombe village was small and poor – and rather honest; it did not rise to the dignity of possessing a gaol. It had instead a little stone-built chamber commonly called ‘the lock-up’. Besides accommodating drunkards, vagrants and wrongdoers awaiting trial, the lock-up earned its keep by housing a dismantled pillory and the parish bier on which the people of Charcombe were carried to their graves. The building stood in the centre of the village, beside the stone bench from which the fishermen sold their catches every morning and, being so conveniently placed, it frequently contained a basket or two of ageing mackerel.

The place stank – as gaols are supposed to do, though not perhaps in quite the usual way.

The gaoler who conducted Dido and Mr Lomax down a short, sloping passage to the single cell was an enterprising man: he worked upon the fishing boats and was sexton of the church when he was not guarding the felons of Charcombe. He was a big hearty-looking fellow with weather-beaten cheeks and a knitted cap, and had neither the shuffling gait nor the blackened teeth which Dido’s reading of novels had led her to expect of a turnkey.

Though he did not lack a keen eye to his own interest. It had cost Mr Lomax a half-guinea to get them thus far – and another shilling when he had insisted upon a stool being brought so that Dido might be seated during the interview.

‘Five minutes,’ the gaoler declared as he opened the cell door. ‘I can’t be allowing y’more than that. For it’s right against the rules y’being here at all. And if I’d not got such a soft heart…’

‘You would be a good deal poorer,’ Mr Lomax finished for him.

‘Aye, that I would!’ The gaoler laughed delightedly, pushed open the creaking door and set the stool down inside the cell. ‘Five minutes,’ he reminded them as he stepped back for them to enter.

Dido suspected that his notion of five minutes was vague – for she doubted he possessed a watch, and she fervently hoped that his ideas erred in the right direction, for five minutes would certainly not settle all the matters she wished to discuss.

The cell was not well lit, but sufficient light fell through a grille in the door and a narrow barred window for Dido to make out Tom, with his legs in irons, crouching upon the edge of the bier which would seem to be serving as his bed. He presented a sorry sight. His coat was gone, his shirt was torn open at the seam of the shoulder, his smooth buckskin breeches were grimy at the knees, and his cheeks were crusted with two days’ growth of beard.

He sat up straighter as the gaoler withdrew, rattling the long chain which ran from his leg irons to a bolt in the wall. ‘Have you found the girl?’ he demanded.

‘No,’ began his father, ‘there is no trace—’

‘You must find her,’ Tom interrupted. ‘It is the only thing that can save me. For she can tell everyone that I’ve got nothing to do with her disappearing and so I had no reason to put a bullet into the old man.’

Mr Lomax looked as if he were struggling for a calm reply. His eyes travelled round the damp little chamber with a kind of disbelief that he should ever find his son in such a place.

Keenly aware of the
five minutes
ticking away, Dido took it upon herself to continue. ‘How well acquainted were you with Mr Brodie?’ she asked briskly.

‘I was not acquainted with him at all,’ said Tom, turning to her with a sneer.

‘But you passed the evening in his company.’

‘Not from choice. But you know how it is at inns. In April there are never any fires lit above stairs and one must sit with other fellows in the parlour or else perish with cold.’

Dido sat down upon the stool so considerately provided. ‘Did you know that Mr Brodie intended to pay a visit to Charcombe Manor?’

‘No.’

‘He did not mention any … information he intended to convey to Mr Fenstanton?’

‘No,’ cried Tom, his voice echoing about the stone walls. ‘I tell you I know nothing about the man!’

Mr Lomax looked grave. ‘There are witnesses, Tom – people at the inn – who heard you arguing with Mr Brodie.’

Tom was uncomfortable for a moment but then gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘That was no more than a disagreement over a card game.’

‘A gentleman does not argue over cards,’ said his father coldly. ‘If a man has not sufficient cash to cover his losses, he ought not to sit down to the table.’

‘Good God! The same old cry! You care for nothing but money. Well sir, you need not concern yourself about me any longer. The hangman will rid you of me soon enough.’

Tom folded his arms and leant against the damp wall, his bristling jaw set as if determined against speaking another word. Dido turned to his father and, to her dismay, saw a similar determination, a similar setting of the jaw; a pale, settled anger.

She could scarcely believe their stupidity. Were they, for pride’s sake, willing to squander the dearly bought minutes in petulance? She waited a moment, but neither of them spoke.

‘Perhaps,’ she ventured quietly when it began to seem that the whole visit might be wasted, ‘perhaps, Mr Tom Lomax, you would tell us anything you know which might help us to find Miss Verney.’ She looked very directly at him. ‘Do you know – have you any idea where she is? For if you do, you had better tell it. As you say, your best chance of deliverance lies in our finding her.’

‘I have told you. We parted at the gate. I watched her walk into the house.’

‘And why did you part at the gate? Why did you not accompany her into the house?’

‘Oh!’ Tom shrugged up his shoulders. ‘She would not have me do so. And neither was I very eager to encounter the disapproving looks of her friends.’

‘Did you meet anyone on your walk – did Miss Verney stop to speak to anyone?’

‘No. We saw no one at all – except just before we left Miss Gibbs at the gate, the groom rode up from the village with letters from the post.’

‘Letters?’ said Dido sharply. ‘And was there any letter for Miss Verney?’