And Mr Lomax, though he might have a slightly grave air and what Catherine would, no doubt, call a ‘business look’, was a fine figure of a man and had, moreover, a kindly manner and a pleasing consideration of other people’s feelings that must be preferred by any woman of taste to Sir Edgar’s excessive self-importance and that devotion to ancestry which made him seem as much a part of history as the dark old portraits that hung upon his walls…
Oh dear, thought Dido when her musings had reached this point, that is the very worst of gossip: it has a way of being more believable than discretion.
She was going to pursue the subject, but just then the music began to falter a little. ‘Catherine,’ she continued hurriedly, ‘before Miss Sophia exhausts her repertoire, there are other things I need to ask you.’
‘Then ask, my dear aunt. I am quite at your service.’
‘Well, first of alclass="underline" who exactly was in that shooting party the day before yesterday?’
‘All the men from the house. Sir Edgar, Mr Harris, Colonel Walborough, Tom Lomax and his father. Though I do not believe Mr William Lomax was shooting that day. He rarely does; but he walked out with the others and remained out with them all morning.’
‘And at what time did they return?’
‘At about one o’clock.’
‘I see.’ Dido considered in silence for some moments.
‘Excuse me,’ said Catherine abruptly, ‘I will go and order the carriage.’ She got to her feet and hurried away before Dido could stop her. And the reason for her hasty departure was plain: Margaret had detached herself from the group by the fire and was sailing down the room towards them.
Dido would just then have dearly loved to have an hour to herself in which to think over all that she had seen and heard. But instead of being left to the luxury of solitary reflection, she found herself instead condemned to a tête-à-tête with her least favourite sister-in-law, a situation which she knew was not likely to promote amiable feelings on either side.
‘Well?’ demanded Margaret, lowering herself into the chair Catherine had vacated – and setting it creaking under her. ‘What do you think now of this strange affair of Catherine’s? Can you find out whether she has heard from the young man, or when she expects him to come back?’
‘I suppose,’ said Dido guardedly, ‘that only Sir Edgar can tell us when his son will have completed his business and be at liberty to return.’
‘Oh, don’t you give me those excuses! Anyone can see that there has been a falling out and that Sir Edgar, like the gentleman that he is, is covering up for them.’
‘Really, Margaret, since you understand it all so well yourself, I wonder that you need to ask my opinion.’
‘Hmph!’ said Margaret sourly. ‘I hope, Dido, that you are not encouraging Catherine in anything foolish. You must see that she is not likely to get another offer as good as this.’
‘I would never encourage Catherine in anything that was likely to injure her happiness.’
Margaret was driven to be more explicit. ‘You must know that it is very important to me that this marriage takes place. For the boys’ sake.’
‘Oh?’ said Dido with mock innocence. ‘The boys? What boys?’ She knew the answer, of course, but she could not help but be irritated when Margaret spoke of her little sons as if they were the only boys in the world.
Margaret coloured and retaliated sharply. ‘You know what I mean, Dido. Girls who are too choosy over getting a husband have a way of turning into old maids. And I would not have Catherine being a burden on her brothers.’
Dido winced.
‘Aunt Dido, you look out of sorts,’ said Catherine as the carriage started off up the drive. ‘Have you been quarrelling with Mama again?’
‘No, she has been quarrelling with me.’
‘That is what you always say.’
Dido chose not to answer that. ‘My dear,’ she said instead, ‘would you be so kind as to ask the coachman to stop at the gatehouse? I would like to just put a question or two to the gatekeeper.’
‘Annie Holmes? But you will get no sense from her. She is a very stupid woman.’
‘Nevertheless, I should like to speak to her.’
Stepping down from the carriage a few moments later, Dido was pleased to find that Catherine was not following her, for she was not sure that she wanted her niece to know the direction that her enquiries were taking.
She stood under the stone arch, where the air was chill with the scent of moss and damp, and waited as the carriage was let through the gates. The gatekeeper herself was rather a surprise to Dido, for she was neither the injured soldier nor the favoured pensioner of the family for whom such a post is usually reserved, but a rather pretty young widow who drew the bolts and swung open the gates with neat, economical movements that were particularly pleasing to watch. On the step of the little lodge house stood a solemn-faced child with large brown eyes. She was perhaps four years old and she was holding a rather fine china doll by its neck.
Dido smiled kindly at the girl and made a polite enquiry about the name of the doll, but the attention threw her into a fit of shyness and she fled to hide behind her mother’s skirts.
‘I’m sorry, miss,’ said Mrs Holmes with a bob. ‘She’s usually got enough to say for herself!’ Then, as the carriage rolled through the gates, she raised her voice above the echoing noise of it. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
Dido, conscious that Catherine was waiting for her, lost no time in making her enquiry about Mr Montague: had he returned to Belsfield during the last three days? As she spoke she thought that there was a fleeting look of anxiety on the pretty face. There was certainly a flush of colour. Mrs Holmes put a hand to a dimple in her chin, then tucked up a bright brown curl that had escaped from her cap.
‘Why no, miss, I haven’t seen Mr Montague since he left on the morning after the ball.’
‘I see. And at what time did he leave?’
‘About nine o’clock, miss.’
‘In his curricle?’
‘No, miss. On horseback.’
‘And could he have returned without your knowing about it?’
She frowned. ‘On foot he could, miss. He could have come in by the side gate over there.’ And she pointed in the direction of the chapel in its cluster of yews. ‘But if he came on horseback, or in a carriage, he would have to come by this gate and I’d have been sure to see him.’
‘Thank you.’ Dido began to follow the carriage through the gate, but slowly, with a feeling that there was more to discover here, if she only knew the right questions to ask. Why did she suspect that the woman knew more about Mr Montague’s departure than she was telling? She stole another look at her: despite her blushes there was a kind of assurance about her. It was not quite insolence, no, you could not call it that, but there was a calm fearlessness in her address which sat strangely upon a servant.
Dido was level with the high red wheels of the carriage now and was about to mount the step when a different thought came to her. She spun round on the gravel.
‘Mrs Holmes,’ she called. ‘May I ask one more question?’
Annie Holmes turned back. There was no mistaking the reluctance on her face now. Her lips were pressed tight together. ‘Yes, miss?’
‘On the night of the ball, you opened the gates to all the guests, did you not?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Do you remember a man who came here that night? A tall, soberly dressed man with red hair.’