The Daughters of Gentlemen (17 page)

Havenhill had once been a small farming village, little more than a row of cottages on either side of a cart track, with narrower paths carving their way up across the fields. The steam-belching monsters of the Great Western Railway had raced uncaringly past the modest hamlet, since the transport amenities of horse and cart and the Grand Union Canal had been more than adequate for its requirements. In the last thirty years, however, the transformation of Bayswater from a quiet semi-rural backwater to the thriving western outpost of fashionable London had created an urgent demand for fresh produce in abundance. The result had been a rapidly spreading patchwork of market gardens streaked with rows of hothouses, and elegant country homes with their own kitchen gardens, where a tradesman might retire when his week’s work was done and imagine himself a gentleman. Trains began to call at Havenhill, and a station was newly minted, smiling with tubs of spring flowers, like colourful corsages on the gown of a debutante.

The main street of spruce little homes would, thought Frances, be quite a bustling place during the week, and there were recently constructed lanes leading from it with newer cottages, so the village was growing outwards from the high road, like the roots of a tree.

At the centre of the village was a public house, the Havenhill Arms, with a sign depicting a cornucopia of fruit and flowers, and a small church with a square tower, a pretty arched gate and well-kept graveyard. The sign named the incumbent as the Reverend Charles Farrelly, and the paint was sufficiently weathered that Frances felt hopeful that this was the same man who had officiated at the wedding in 1874.

The Reverend Farrelly was a bespectacled man of about forty who looked out from the pulpit upon his congregation with the benevolent expression of a fond father. The people, she judged, were all folk from the village and estate, since there was a sociable ease about them that came of long acquaintance, family ties, and shared toil. There was no hint, as she had often detected in Bayswater, of attendance merely from a sense of duty, of obligation not to church and community but to outward show. The congregation came willingly, almost eagerly. The sermon was on the subject of the weather, the variability of nature, the gladness that came with the lifting of the cold hand of winter, and the promise of spring, that brought hope to all their hearts. There were hymns sung lustily, and a final closing address, then everyone rose and strolled out into the cool, cloudy lane, where a pale sun was making a loyal effort to add to the warmth of the Reverend’s sentiments.

Frances stayed by the door as he spoke to members of the congregation, and it was clear that he knew them all well, as he asked after their health and that of relatives unable to be present. As soon as he was free Frances approached.

‘Good-day, and welcome to Havenhill,’ he said. ‘You must be new to the village.’

‘I am Miss Frances Doughty, and a visitor only,’ said Frances, ‘but I would like to say that I find your church most delightful, and your sermon very uplifting after the recent chills.’

‘I hope we may see you again,’ he said, obviously curious as to the reason for her visit.

‘I would like to consult the marriage register for October 1874,’ said Frances, ‘would you be so kind as to allow me to look at it?’

‘Oh, please come in, I have all the registers to hand.’ He led the way back into the church, where a side door admitted them to an office the size of a linen cupboard with a small desk, a chair, and shelves of books and papers.

‘Were you officiating here at that time?’ asked Frances, hopefully.

‘Yes, I have been here since 1871,’ said Farrelly, peering at the leather spines of the registers and lifting one off the shelf. He placed it on the desk.

‘Then I am sure you will remember the wedding in question,’ said Frances, opening the book. She turned the pages, trying to look as if it was the simplest enquiry in the world, yet could not help but feel a strange little thrill of excitement as she anticipated the discovery that was to come. She found the page, as Reverend Farrelly stood by quietly on hand to assist her if required, but when her eyes scanned down the paper, she found a clearly written entry for October 1st and then no more until a week later. She took the letter from her pocket and studied it in case she had made a mistake, but the writing was very clear and said 6th October 1874.

‘Is there some difficulty?’ asked the Reverend.

‘I have the date written here, but there was no marriage then,’ said Frances. ‘Of course the writer may be in error.’ She looked further on in the month and then earlier, but without result. ‘That is very curious.’

‘Sometimes people recall the day and month but are mistaken as to the year,’ said Farrelly. ‘I keep an index of names that may help you. Who were the celebrants?’ He lifted another volume from the shelf.

‘The groom was Mr Roderick Matthews,’ said Frances.

Farrelly had opened the book but in his astonishment allowed it to fall shut again. ‘Mr Matthews of Havenhill House?’ he exclaimed. ‘There must be some mistake. Mr Matthews has not been married here. Mr Matthews is a widower. He was married in London I believe, some years before he lived here, and his wife, who was afflicted with consumption, died in Italy. But you are right in one thing. Had he been married
here
I would certainly have remembered it.’

‘Do you know the date of his wife’s death?’ asked Frances.

‘It was in 1873. There is a plaque to her memory in the church.’

Frances re-read the letter. ‘In your index, is there a marriage of a person with the surname Clare?’

He examined the book and shook his head. ‘No. But the Clares are connections of Mr Matthews’ late wife. There was a ward who he placed at school in London, and later he brought her here to look after the house following Mrs Matthews’ death. But the country life did not suit her.’

‘When did she leave?’ asked Frances.

‘Oh, I doubt that I could recall the date. She came here after Mr Matthews returned from Italy, which was at the start of 1874 I believe.

‘Was she living here in October 1874?’

‘Possibly, yes. In fact, yes, I am sure of it. She was here when Mr Frederick – that is Mr Matthews’ eldest son – came of age, and we had a very pretty little celebration for him. I recall it well because his birthday is at Christmas. He was quite a favourite of Miss Clare’s, and I did wonder if they might make a match, but he went to look after some family business in Florence soon afterwards. I think it was not long after that that Miss Clare went away.’

‘This letter says that she lives abroad,’ said Frances. ‘Perhaps she is in Florence, too.’

‘May I see it?’ asked Farrelly. Frances handed over the paper and he studied it carefully, then shook his head. ‘I do not recognise the hand,’ he said, ‘but the contents are clearly false and may, I fear, be inspired by malice. Someone wishes to prevent Mr Matthews from marrying the Duchess of Kenworth, and has made up this story to place doubt in her mind. They have quite probably written to her, too.’

‘What of Mary Ann Dunn and Joshua Jenkins, the supposed witnesses?’

‘Mary Ann Dunn was then maidservant at the house, and she lives there still, as housekeeper. Joshua Jenkins managed the estate, but he died – hmm, let me see …’ Farrelly found a burials book. ‘Yes, Jenkins was buried here on the 9th of October 1874, and I always make a point of recording the date of death as well as burial. He died on the 6th of October.’

‘So according to the letter he witnessed the wedding on the day that he died,’ said Frances. ‘Was his death unexpected?’

‘Oh no, far from it. Jenkins – and I recall this very well – fell down in a fit some two weeks before his death, and had to be carried to his bed, from which he never stirred. The man was unable to walk or speak, let alone come to church and witness a wedding. I was sent for early on the morning of his death. Mrs Dunn used to call in on him several times a day, and that morning she found that he had taken a turn for the worse during the night and was quite clearly dying. I sat with him, but he passed away peacefully very soon afterwards. I think the person who wrote to you knew enough of the locality to give the man’s name, but was ignorant of his condition, and has now been caught out in a lie.’

‘I expect that anyone living in Havenhill at the time would have known he was unwell,’ said Frances.

‘Indeed, I said prayers for his recovery two Sundays in succession.’

‘So, we are agreed that no such wedding took place and the letter is false and designed to injure Mr Matthews,’ said Frances.

‘It is a very serious matter,’ said Farrelly. ‘You should show this letter to Mr Matthews, who may decide to consult a solicitor. But why was it sent to
you
?’

‘I am a private detective,’ said Frances, who was still finding the words unfamiliar and like something more out of a novel than reality. ‘I have been undertaking some work for some friends of Mr Matthews.’

‘I see,’ said Farrelly, ‘well that is quite extraordinary!’ He pondered the matter for a moment, then said, ‘I will ask my wife if she knows of any person who bears ill-will against Mr Matthews, although I think it most unlikely.’ He put away the books and they returned to the church, where a lady was refreshing an arrangement of flowers. On the way he pointed out the plaque in memory of Agnes Matthews, deceased in Florence Italy, on 10th August 1873, much missed by her sons, Frederick, William, Edwin and Horace, her daughters Selina, Lydia, Dorothea and Amelia and wards Wilhelmina Dancroft and Caroline Clare.

‘My dear,’ said Farrelly to the lady who turned around with a smile, ‘allow me to introduce you to Miss Frances Doughty, who has an interesting mystery to discuss.’

‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ said Mrs Farrelly. She was a small round lady, with a plump, almost circular face, framed by crisp brown curls like the crimped pastry edging around a pie. ‘I am all attention. We are very quiet here, not that I am averse to that, but a mystery sounds very engaging. How may I help you?’

Frances showed her the letter and explained the possibility that an enemy of Mr Matthews wished to prevent the planned marriage, and Mrs Farrelly listened with wrapt attention and gave it considerable thought. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘that is an interesting conundrum, to be sure. While I think about it, Miss Doughty, you would be very welcome to walk with me to the vicarage. I must hurry back to make sure that my dear little dog Benjie doesn’t get hungry. He can get quite cross if I neglect him!’

The Reverend Farrelly smiled indulgently as if to say that the likelihood of his wife neglecting their pet was somewhat remote.

Frances would have liked to go up to Havenhill House and ask Mrs Dunn about the fact that she was named as a witness to a wedding that had never taken place, but there was just a possibility that the writer of the letter had been partially correct, and a wedding had occurred elsewhere. If Matthews was concealing the connection then the servant he had entrusted to keep his secret would simply maintain her silence. Frances decided that her best course of action if she wished to pursue the matter was to go to Somerset House and look at the registers.

The vicarage was a pleasant cottage close by the church, its garden showing abundant evidence of loving attention having been lavished upon it. Mrs Farrelly looked about her with pleasure and glowed at Frances’ compliments, gently touching the faces of the flowers as if greeting a cluster of children come to welcome her.

They were met at the door by a small but determined dog, who had obviously spent his moments of captivity attempting to paw a ribbon from his long-haired coat, and who leaped up at his mistress with enthusiasm, barking loudly. ‘That’s my darling boy!’ said Mrs Farrelly. ‘Isn’t he quite the best dog in the world?’

Frances, who lacked acquaintanceship with dogs and found it hard to warm to them, thought it polite to agree that Benjie was both handsome and intelligent. Despite this accolade, Benjie did not approve of the stranger in the house and turned to Frances, quivering like an angry mop, setting his little feet firmly on the ground, arching his back and setting up a sharp insistent rhythmic yap, almost as if someone was at his back working him with a pump.

‘Oh don’t worry about that, once he is used to you, you will be friends in no time!’ smiled Mrs Farrelly. ‘Now then, I will see that Susan brings us some refreshments. Our dinner will be at three and we would be very pleased if you could join us.’

‘That is very kind,’ said Frances, ‘but I have promised to return home by this afternoon.’

Susan, who was a plain young woman of about thirty, brought tea, bread and butter, a pot of jam, and a little dish of scraps. Benjie sat at Mrs Farrelly’s side, confident that he would be included in the arrangements, and was soon allowed to jump up onto her lap.

‘Oh he is such a naughty boy, but he knows I can’t deny him,’ exclaimed the lady, feeding him titbits of ham. Frances glanced about her at the portraits on display, photographs of a very much younger Reverend and Mrs Farrelly at their wedding, and posed groups of venerable persons, probably relatives. There were no pictures of children.

‘I cannot imagine,’ said the Reverend Farrelly, who had been very thoughtful, ‘anyone who might wish to cause any harm to Mr Matthews. He is not perhaps here as often as he might be, as I believe he prefers the town to the country, but his managers have always looked after his affairs here very diligently and with great fairness. I am wondering if the writer of the letter is some lady who is in love with him and wishes she might marry him herself and hopes to deter a rival.’