Place of Confinement (25 page)

Smiling in triumph she sat down on the bench and turned her prize over in dusty hands. The letter was so very stained, its edges so much torn, that she suspected it had been far from fresh even before it was immured in the workmen’s rubble. The seal of blue wax was broken roughly as if the letter had been torn open without the aid of a knife.

She looked hastily about her to be sure she was alone on the terrace before reading the direction written on the letter’s cover.

*   *   *

Lancelot Fenstanton esquire, Charcombe Manor, Devonshire, England.

*   *   *

There was a great sinking of the heart as she read the words. Though she could not immediately determine why they should fill her with such dread …

That the letter was not addressed to Tom Lomax was a surprise and the question of how – and why – the letter came to be in his possession must arise. She folded her arms tightly about her and shivered in the penetrating wind. The answer which suggested itself was not at all welcome.

And now she faced a new difficulty. The only right, the only honourable, course was to hand this letter, unread, to the man to whom it was directed. But what would be the consequence of such an action?

Tom had been most anxious to conceal this letter from the forces of justice. Why? Did it provide evidence against him?

She took the folded paper in one hand and tapped it restlessly against the other. Her heart beat fast with the need to know what was written within … And the seal was already broken. When she delivered the letter to Mr Fenstanton he would not know whether she had read it or not …

She blushed with shame and found herself remembering a time about a year and a half ago at Belsfield Hall, when she had rebuked Tom Lomax himself for reading what was not addressed to him. She had then been as determined against benefiting from information so dishonourably gained as any well-bred woman could be. Had she changed in the intervening eighteen months? Perhaps the interest she had recently begun to take in mysteries and injustices had weakened her principles, corrupted her mind. Perhaps all her busyness in these causes was no more than an excuse for that impertinent meddling in other people’s lives which is so frequently derided in ageing spinsters. Perhaps Mr Lomax was right to condemn.

But the very thought of that gentleman brought her moralising to an abrupt halt, and turned her mind instead to his suffering in the face of his son’s danger. And all she could think of was that the paper in her hand might reveal something about the case …

In a moment the letter was open upon her lap and her eyes were rapidly devouring the words – as if the severity of her transgression might be lessened by speed.

Hebron Plantation, Antigua. 17th January 1807

Dear Lancelot,

I would have this letter reach you with all possible speed and so, rather than wait upon the packet, I am entrusting it to James Brodie who sails tomorrow in a private vessel bound for Plymouth. God knows! I would find a better messenger if I could; but the fellow says he knows Charcombe. He says he plans to visit the place on business in the course of his journey home. And, dispatch being of the first importance, I must take my chance with him – though I have not known him a week.

I trust you will pardon me, old friend, for not making all those remarks upon my own health and enquiries into the health of all our acquaintance which a fellow is supposed to put in his letters. Consider everything said that is proper, I have not time for it. To the point –

I would have you take hold of young Tom Lomax and tell him that he is a damnable villain. Tell him that if, upon my return, I find him within twenty miles of my family I shall put a bullet through his brains, or else have Jack Smith take the gelding iron to him.

Lance, what will you say when I tell you that the wretch has had the impertinence to raise his eyes to Letitia? Or I should rather say he has raised his eyes to Letitia’s fortune. For all his fine words I do not believe there is any real affection in the business. The whole world knows Tom Lomax is all to pieces and his father barely holding off the creditors. And John Harris gave me a hint more than a year back that the fellow was set upon marrying well. But I thought little of it. For I never thought Letitia would be foolish enough to be taken in.

But I tell my tale ill. I have not said that I have had a letter from young Lomax, who, thinking I know nothing of him, has the audacity to ‘beg for my consent’. He and Letitia are ‘so very much in love and she has done him the inestimable honour of agreeing to be his wife’.

He takes me for a damned fool! He thinks to have the matter settled while I am at a distance and hopes I know nothing about his character. But you may tell him, Lance, that he has wagered on the wrong horse this time. Tell him that if he marries the girl without my consent he shall not see a penny of her fortune …

I cannot write any more now; Brodie rides for the port within the hour. He is waiting in the next room. Dear God! But I can smell the rum on him from here! If only there were a better messenger to be had.

I know that you will not fail me, Lance. I know you will act as soon as this comes into your hands.

The horses are at the door now. I must finish in haste. Yours ever in trust and friendship.

Reginald Bailey.

*   *   *

Dido found that she was shaking uncontrollably; shock and fear were chilling her to the bone. She stood up hastily in the biting wind, folding up the paper and wishing that she might throw it out into the sea. She wanted rid of it. Its touch seemed to freeze her hand.

Tom’s possession of this letter, together with its import, would be damning evidence in the eyes of any assize court jury. She doubted there were to be found twelve men anywhere in the country who – when the evidence was placed before them – would not conclude that Tom had killed Mr Brodie in order to get this letter from him.

It was such a very
reasonable
conclusion.

She crossed her arms about herself as a new horror occurred …

It was such a very reasonable conclusion that a part of her mind was almost believing it to be true!

Never before had she doubted Tom’s innocence. Every fibre and sinew of her being had been bent on finding the truth; not simply for the truth’s own sake, but because she was sure that the truth would acquit him.

But now, for the first time, she faced the possibility of guilt; a guilt which, if proven, would destroy for ever the happiness of the man she loved.

And for several minutes she was overpowered. She stood, not knowing what to do, in the piercing wind which tore at her pelisse and bonnet, exposing her arms and whipping her hair about her face. She turned blindly first one way and then another; the wind and her wretchedness drew warm tears from the corners of her eyes which chilled immediately upon her cheeks.

But at last she exerted herself, forcing reason upon her terror. She must act. She must find out whether this worst of all fears was founded upon fact or only appearance.

She turned with growing resolution in the direction of Old Charcombe and began to walk. Tom Lomax himself was the only person who could answer the questions which were now raging in her head. She must talk to Tom directly.

She did not know how the gaoler was to be persuaded to admit her, and she preferred not to consider the impropriety of the visit. But she knew that she was bringing a world of trouble upon her own head; for even if no word of her going unprotected into a gaol was to get back to Charcombe Manor, her continued absence from the house would bring sufficient disapprobation from her aunt.

Let all that be as it may. She must speak with Tom. She walked on resolutely towards the village.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It took every penny in Dido’s reticule to gain her entrance to the lock-up ‘for a minute. I can’t allow more’n that,’ declared the gaoler. ‘It ain’t proper you being there alone with him.’ And there was no stool provided this time. Perhaps, she thought, her sitting down would render the visit even less proper.

When she entered the cell, Tom was standing beside the window, watching the passing of feet and attempting to tease the stray cat – which was, however, too clever for him and was contriving to tease
him
by keeping constantly beyond his reach.

He turned as the door opened and looked past Dido – expecting to see his father. He began upon an exclamation of surprise but she cut him short by telling him immediately that she had found the letter.

He stopped with one hand against the window’s ledge and turned wary eyes upon the paper in her hand. He licked at his lips as if they were suddenly very dry. And, as the gaoler’s steps retreated and her own eyes grew accustomed to the prison’s gloom, she saw the raw fear in his grimy face.

‘And what do you intend to do with it?’ he asked.

‘I intend to deliver it to the gentleman to whom it is directed.’ She folded up the letter and put it away in her pocket.

‘You mean, in fact, to put the noose round my neck!’

She said nothing, only watched him closely.

Tom looked sly. His eyes slid about furtively, the whites of them showing very bright amid the dirt of his face. ‘Why have you come here?’ he said. ‘Why are you not on your way back to Fenstanton?’

‘Because I wish to hear your explanation of how this letter came to be in your possession – that is, if there is any explanation other than your shooting Mr Brodie in order to obtain it.’

‘I did
not
kill the fellow!’

She waited in silence.

‘Very well,’ he burst out. ‘I will confess that I got the letter from Brodie.’

‘That much is impossible to deny! I saw you hide it. I found it still there among the stones.’

‘Damn you and your interference!’ He stared up at the clammy roof of the cell. ‘I thought you had undertaken to help me. Not find more reasons to hang me.’

‘I have undertaken to find out the truth,’ said Dido as steadily as she could. ‘And you have assured me that the truth will prove you innocent.’

‘It will.’

‘Then why do you prevent my discovering it?’ she cried, trying – and failing – to keep the anger from her voice. ‘Why did you lie to me? Why did you tell me that you knew nothing about Mr Brodie, or his proposed visit to the manor house? You knew, did you not, that this was the news of Miss Verney which he intended to convey to Mr Fenstanton?’

‘Oh, very well,’ he said sulkily. ‘I knew. And I … persuaded him to give me the letter.’

‘No,’ said Dido, who had been thinking the matter over as she walked from the town. ‘I am quite sure you did not persuade. I believe you won the letter at the card table.’

‘How do you know that?’ he demanded abruptly, and his look of shock confirmed the idea.

‘Because the boy at the inn assured me you had won “handsomely”, and yet there was no money either upon your person, or hidden among the stones. There was only a letter – a letter which is of considerable value to you.’

He stared at her for a minute, as if assessing just how dangerous she was. ‘Very well, I won the letter from him.’

‘That was very fortunate for you,’ she said and turned briskly to the question which had taken possession of her mind as she walked. ‘But how did you
know
that he was carrying something which was of such great interest to you?’

Tom returned his gaze to the roof stones. ‘I cannot recall,’ he said. ‘I suppose he mentioned it.’

‘Oh!’ cried Dido tested beyond endurance. ‘Will you give that account to the judge? Do you suppose he will believe it?’

Tom licked again at his dry lips as he faced the vision of trial and execution which she had conjured into the cell. ‘What do you wish me to tell you?’ he said.

‘I wish you to tell me about your acquaintance with Mr Brodie.’

‘I did not—’

She held up her hand. ‘I give you warning. If you repeat the lie that you met Mr Brodie by chance at the inn, I shall leave immediately and assume that you no longer desire my help. I will
not
believe that you met by chance the very man who had in his possession a letter upon which your fortunes depended. You met by appointment, did you not?’

‘Very well,’ he sighed. ‘Yes. Brodie had sent a message to me. He had begun enquiries after a Tom Lomax as soon as he landed at Plymouth.’

‘So Mr Brodie had already opened Mr Bailey’s letter?’

‘Of course he had. Reg Bailey was a great fool to trust the fellow. Brodie would have sold his own grandmother’s love letters if he could have found anyone willing to buy them. He had come back to England a poor man and was determined to mend his fortunes.’

‘He offered to sell Mr Bailey’s letter to you?’

‘At a price much higher than I could afford. So … we drank a little … played a hand or two…’

‘You mean that you plied him with drink and won all his money from him.’

‘The man was no more clever than he was honest.’

‘And so, finally, when he had nothing left, you offered one last wager, I suppose.’

‘It was a fair offer,’ said Tom, ‘generous, in fact. I said I would return everything I’d won from him, if he would play one last game – with the letter as his stake.’

‘And was the game as fair as the offer?’

‘Miss Kent! If you were a man I could call you out for that remark!’

‘If your only argument for the game’s fairness would be to put a bullet through my head, then I am quite certain that you cheated.’

‘By God!’ said Tom quietly. ‘You are taking pleasure in this!’

‘No!’ Dido recoiled.

‘Yes. For once the little spinster has power over a man and she is determined to make the most of it, isn’t she?’ His grimy, unshaven face broke into a grin and his teeth gleamed as white as his eyes. ‘I pity my father! The old man must be in his dotage if he thinks he can ever be happy married to such an interfering, unfeminine little harridan!’

‘Allow me to observe,’ said Dido struggling for mastery of her voice, ‘that it is a little unwise to insult a person whose help you wish to enlist.’