The Secret Rooms: A True Gothic Mystery (15 page)

The picture Charlie painted was of a withdrawn, antisocial young man who appeared to prefer ‘books and old things’ to people. John’s character, Charlie admitted, was a ‘difficult one to read’. But why had
Violet found him difficult to read? The impression I was left with was of a mother who barely knew or understood her son. More than that, she appeared to have lost her way in trying to understand him. Why else would she have felt the need to benchmark her perception of his character by eliciting the opinion of others? Violet had asked Charlie to persuade John to give up smoking, and to take up golf and Italian. These were straightforward things that any mother could have broached with her son. The fact that they were so prosaic served to suggest some sort of rift between them.

I went back to John’s blue files for the period. He had barely written to his mother from Italy. In the handful of letters that there were, his tone was cold and aloof. Frequently, when writing to Charlie, he had added the postscript ‘Don’t show this to mother,’ or ‘Keep this private.’ Their content offered no explanation as to why he had stipulated this. There was nothing secret or controversial about them: it seemed that he added the postscript purely because he had wanted to keep his mother at a distance. Had they quarrelled before he left for Italy? Or did these letters – and the ones from Lady Rodd and Charlie – point to a more serious estrangement?

Looking at Violet’s correspondence with Charlie in the years before John left for Rome, it quickly became evident that this was no ordinary family row.

‘Darling Charlie, I have not and cannot say much to John naturally. I can never speak to him,’ she told her brother in the autumn of 1907: ‘It does hurt me so, I can’t tell you how much. Don’t let him dream I have spoken to you, will you, dear. And you, please don’t lose your temper with me on the subject of John.’

Violet had written endlessly to Charlie on the ‘subject of John’. She had poured out her heart to him; ‘You see,’ she told him, ‘I have no one else I can confide in.’

The complexity of her relationship with her son, and the friction it caused, leapt from the pages. Jealousy – sparked by the hold Charlie had over John – consumed Violet. She was convinced that her brother had turned her son against her. The letters pointed to a profound, often histrionic insecurity. At times, she pleaded with Charlie; at
others, she was manipulative and mistrustful. Fear – that John would discover her letters, or that Charlie would betray their contents – also gripped Violet: ‘Burn’; ‘Destroy’; ‘
Please
don’t tell him we’ve spoken,’ she had written in large capitals whenever she confided in her brother. Whether it was because she was afraid of alienating John further, or whether she was actually frightened of him, it was impossible to tell.

But it was the depth of Violet’s anguish that was so startling. It was as if the rift with her son had driven this woman to the point of distraction. ‘Darling C, I think you always think I speak to you about John in a fault-finding humour,’ she told Charlie after John failed to apologize to his sister, Marjorie, following a trivial row at Belvoir:

If I say John ought to say he’s sorry it is not for
my own
satisfaction because I may think he is wrong and I right! It is
not
that. It is that in his future (people don’t get
gentler
as they get older but rather,
harder
) to be able to say ‘sorry’ to a woman –
a sister
, or a
mother
, is a most helpful thing, whether sorry or
not
. Still, for the sake of peace and gentleness at home just ‘Sorry’, which doesn’t bind you to anything – but it turns away wrath! And soreness! And is like sunshine and hurts no one.

I left Belvoir next day for 1 night and wrote John a darling letter saying just say ‘sorry’ to Marjorie for she is so hurt. Get it over before I get back, darling, do.

If
you
had perhaps added 1 word to my prayer, John would have thought it a nice thing to do, not a stupid thing – and would have done it, and Marjorie also would have been taught to see how ‘sorry’ helps all round – and would have said ‘sorry’ too!! and all would have been smooth. As it was my long deeply felt and affectionate letter to him was taken absolutely no notice of because
he thought it grand
not to unbend.

The one and
only
time you spoke for me to John he rushed back and said so
sweetly
, ‘I am sorry’ and it warmed me and
surely
did
him
a world of good as never before or since!

You see, if you are silent as if to keep peace it makes his young mind think Charlie is right. You know dear, it is just you siding with him that makes him like that!!

On the face of it, Violet’s letter was about a trivial row between John and his sister. But it wasn’t an apology she was wanting: it was his affection she craved.

It was clear the rift had gone on for some time. But, working back through hundreds of letters, it was impossible to establish what had caused them to fall out in the first place. It wasn’t as if John was incapable of forming loving relationships: he had obviously been exceptionally close to his uncle. So why had he denied Violet his love?

A vituperative letter, written in the summer of 1907, provided an important clue. The note scribbled on the back of the envelope suggested that Violet had had second thoughts about sending it: ‘Read in the train and tear up,’ she instructed her brother: ‘And forgive if I have said anything I have not time to go over and alter.’

Extraordinarily, the letter, which was entirely about John, was thirty-one pages long.

Aged twenty at the time, John, who was studying for his final exams at Cambridge, was living with his uncle at his house in Chelsea. Relentlessly, in what amounted to little more than a stream of consciousness, Violet accused her brother of failing in his ‘parental duties’:

‘What do I fuss about his
cavern
of a chest for?’ she snapped at Charlie:

Half for health – those who expand their lungs, it is now well proved, are the people who send good blood through their veins! Half for looks! Look at all the men you know who look ‘poor creatures’, naturally well made but for want of care in their 17 to 22 years – having no wish to be
proud
of their
upstandingness
and honest look – become stiffened in a stoop. You may not see it, but I fret very very much about John not holding himself up
because he can’t
– unless
exercising
helps him to biggen the muscles of chest to counterbalance the very much too big muscles across his shoulders. Therefore, even at the risk of worrying him, you might say every morning, ‘I say, let’s both make a run of 5 minutes – exercise is good for both of us.’

Exams!!
You both wrote promises that the French should be taken up earnestly and thoroughly and pursued right through the holidays.
Whenever these kind of promises are given to me – and broken – you distinctly ought to make a point of saying, ‘I say, John, if you can’t manage to keep your promise, well, I’m not going to help you waste your time.’ By this I mean that a little displeasure on your part, and not always being ready to amuse him at your house, might make him see that play is better when some ‘bit’ of work has been accomplished.

The letter bore the hallmarks of others I had seen of Violet’s on the subject of John. Her frustration was out of proportion to the things she was complaining about – as if it stemmed from a hidden cause. But, on this occasion, anger provoked her into levelling an accusation against Charlie, which previously she’d left unsaid. For thirty pages, her frustration had gathered momentum, until, on
page 31
, in one final outburst, she at last revealed the root cause of her resentment:

You see dear, from the age of 9 he became
your
boy. Therefore you who took him, with your spoiling kindness away from his home,
have
a stern duty in it I think, and your saying now to me ‘Well, please
do
place him in his father’s hands’ comes when it is too late.

‘
From the age of 9 he became
your
boy …
’

The rift between John and Violet had originated in his childhood.

The revelation was startling in itself. But there was something else.
The break with his mother
appeared to coincide with the first gap in the family records.

The Duchess frowned. ‘That’s not right,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t Charlie who took John away from Violet. Violet sent him away.’

I had run into the Duchess by chance in the passage outside the Muniment Rooms; briefly, I had explained what I had discovered.

‘
Sent
him away?’ I said. ‘Why?’

‘She couldn’t bear the sight of him,’ she replied.

We were standing by the fire in the Guard Room; the light from the flames flickered on the blades of the sabres displayed on the walls.

‘Violet sent John to live with Charlie after Haddon, her eldest son, died,’ she continued. ‘Haddon was the apple of her eye. He was her favourite. He was only a year older than John. The story in the family is that John was sent away because Violet found the sight of him too painful. He reminded her of Haddon.’ She paused for a moment, looking down at the fire. ‘It must have been awful for John. But then in Victorian times I suppose that sort of response was quite common. Families didn’t necessarily talk about things. It was the great tragedy of Violet’s life. She never got over it.’

‘When did Haddon die?’ I asked her.

‘In the autumn of 1894. He was only nine. There’s a scrapbook full of newspaper cuttings in the Muniment Rooms. You might want to have a look at it.’

‘But that’s extraordinary,’ I said. ‘His death coincides with the first gap in the records. Why would John have wanted to remove all mention of his brother, even if his death had caused the rift with his mother?’

The Duchess looked puzzled. It was some weeks since I had seen her. The last time we had spoken was when I had been looking for the missing letters. I was about to explain how I had failed to find
them and how I had pieced together that it was John who had removed them, but she was in a hurry.

‘I’m late for a meeting. Let’s talk about it later,’ she said. ‘It sounds very intriguing.’

‘Have you seen Haddon’s tomb?’ she asked as she was leaving. ‘You must see it. It’s in the chapel. Violet sculpted it. She was an extremely talented artist. Her pencil drawings are wonderful but the tomb is her best work by far. It really is terribly moving. One of the tour guides will show you the way.’

Before going to see Haddon’s tomb in the chapel, I decided to look at the newspaper cuttings. Potentially, these were key documents.

In peeling back one layer in the mystery, another had revealed itself. John had concealed not one but
two
important events – the break with his mother
and
the death of his brother. Violet’s abandonment of him explained their later estrangement. No wonder, when he was older, he had wanted to keep his mother at a distance: he was unable to forgive her for the hurt she had inflicted on him when he was a small boy. It also explained Violet’s anguished letters to her brother; her distress over their broken relationship was laced with guilt. But it did not explain why John had wanted to remove all mention of his brother’s death from the Muniment Rooms. Haddon had died in September 1894. The family correspondence for the one month prior to his death – and for the two months after – was missing. Aside from the newspaper reports, he had made certain that not a single document remained to shed light on this tragic episode. Why?

I left the Guard Room and made my way back to the Muniment Rooms.

I found the newspaper reports in a large, leather-covered scrapbook. It had belonged to John’s grandfather, the 7th Duke of Rutland, who was living at Belvoir Castle the year Haddon died.

The Duke had cut the articles out of local newspapers. Densely printed, they ran to many column inches; the sudden death of this
small boy, the heir presumptive to the dukedom, had evidently rocked the neighbourhood.

The report in the
Grantham Journal
began portentously:

To all of us – high or low, rich or poor, renowned or obscure – death must come sooner or later. It is the unalterable law of the universe. But how different when a young life is cut off! The ancients had a beautiful saying – ‘Those whom the gods love die young.’ When the dreadful King of Terrors takes a youthful victim it often happens that his fatal dart strikes the fairest, the best beloved, the most promising. The ducal house of Belvoir has this week to mourn the loss of such a one.

The news that the eldest son of the Marquis of Granby has succumbed to an attack of illness, of very short duration, was received with feelings of deep sympathy and regret throughout the whole district.

A fortnight ago, Robert Charles John Manners, better known by his courtesy title of Lord Haddon, was leading a happy country life at Hatley Cockayne, Bedfordshire, the residence of his parents. Today, he lies interred in the family Mausoleum at Belvoir.

In the evening of 22 September, Lord Haddon was suddenly seized with an illness, and the condition of the sufferer became so critical that on the Wednesday following it was deemed advisable that he should undergo a serious operation. This was carried out, but we are grieved to record that the little fellow gradually sank, and he died on Friday, September 28th.

The child, so loving and beloved, rests in the Mausoleum, under the ancient yews, on a mound near the castle at Belvoir.

The newspaper had printed a number of tributes to Haddon. One, written by a friend of the family, was particularly touching:

He was a boy of singular promise. His chief characteristic was his generosity. All he had given to him he at once wished to share, and he would almost insist on giving up any little pleasure to another. His parents arranged their plans so that their boy, who was remarkably active, should lead a really country life; and though he was only nine years old when the swift and sudden blow fell on them, he knew
more about flowers, birds and animals, than many far older. He loved his dumb friends: his life, in fact, was full of happiness. His gentle, natural, simple ways, his remarkable power of observation, and his activity made him a charming companion. He was in perfect health, and revelling in the many joys he had at Hatley, the very day he was stricken. During the days and nights of extreme suffering that followed, he showed the same sweetness and sense that always characterized him, thanking all who ministered to him in his usual, gentle, winning way. I grieve for his parents; but I also grieve for a wider circle: not only his kin, but his country, seem to me the poorer for his loss – for the boy is but the forerunner of the man, and a career such as all might envy seemed to be before him.