And then she made her bob and closed the door before Dido could recover from her surprise and ask another question.
* * *
Dido walked slowly down the wet drive towards the house. The sun was beginning to break through in bright, sharp rays and blackbirds were busy in the laurels, shaking down little showers of water from the overburdened leaves. She had a great deal to think about: that comfortable little parlour, Mrs Holmes’ assured manner, her way of speaking of Mr Montague… But she had liked the woman. There had seemed to be an appealing honesty about her… No, not honesty exactly, rather a desire to be honest. She had wanted to say more than she dared.
And what was it that she was supposed to discover in the gallery? What was there besides all those old Sir Edgars peering out of their dingy brown paint?
But at least she felt nearer to understanding Mr Montague himself. A nervous young man, lacking in confidence and standing in awe of his father. Perhaps Margaret was right and Catherine’s affection for him was founded on the certainty that he would be easily managed.
She had now reached the steps that led to the front door and there was Catherine herself running down to meet her with a look of great excitement on her face. Clearly something so momentous had occurred as to make her forget, for a while at least, her great displeasure with her aunt.
‘Aunt Dido,’ she cried, ‘I have been looking everywhere for you. Where have you been?’
‘Just talking to the gatekeeper.’
Catherine frowned. ‘I don’t admire your taste in company! But listen, Sir Edgar has just told me the strangest thing! One of the footmen has told him that he heard a man talking in the shrubbery on Monday – at about twelve o’clock – which is about the time when they think that woman was killed.’
‘Indeed? That is very interesting.’
‘It seems the footman had been sent out with a message for the gardener and he went down onto the lower lawn looking for him. And he heard a voice talking quietly within the shrubbery. He could not see, of course, because the hedge was in the way. But he heard the voice clearly and he is sure it was—’
‘Mr Tom Lomax.’
Catherine stared. ‘Aunt! How could you possibly know that? For I had it from Sir Edgar not five minutes ago and he had but that moment finished speaking to the boy.’
‘Oh,’ said Dido lightly. ‘It was just a moment of premonition. I have them sometimes.’
‘Do you?’ said Catherine eyeing her with a mixture of disbelief and amazement. ‘I have never heard of them before.’
Chapter Ten
…Well, Eliza, you will remember that I always did rather favour Mr Tom for a murderer. I am not certain what Mrs Harris would say about his eyebrows and his chin but there is certainly that in his smile which makes me think him insincere and quite capable not only of betraying a woman but of disposing of her ruthlessly if she threatened his plans for a comfortable future…
But I hardly know what I write. Of course, in sober truth, it would be shocking to discover that one was sharing a house with such a villain. And my best comfort is that if the guilt does indeed lie in that quarter then it is no business of mine, for it would seem to be quite unconcerned with Catherine’s affair and the woman’s living in the same house as the one that Mr Montague’s visitor stayed in is no more than a strange coincidence. It is not for me to consider how the deed might have been accomplished or how Tom contrived to leave the shooting party unobserved, any more than it is my business to dwell upon what will become of him now.
So I am instead employing my mind with the riddle Mrs Holmes has set for me. I am at present in the gallery, sitting with my writing desk upon the window seat, and hoping that this long stretch of beautifully polished floorboards, these squares of light thrown in by the late afternoon sun and these ranks of long-dead Montagues in their gilded frames, may somehow suggest a solution to my struggling brain. I regret to inform you that there has, so far, been no startling burst of understanding. But it is a pleasant place to sit, except for the sensation of being very much watched. My framed companions have, in general, a rather forbidding look. It is strange to consider that these sombre ladies in their stiff bodices and farthingales were the giggling young misses of their day – and that these frowning fellows with padded breeches and pointed beards were, no doubt, the gallant young men about whom they giggled.
I have found a portrait of Sir Edgar – the present Sir Edgar – painted, I rather think, to mark his coming of age. There are no lines upon his face, but he seems to have changed in little else – at one and twenty he had already that same air of importance and extreme weightiness. There is also a picture of his father at a similar age and wearing a similar expression of self-importance beneath his periwig. And one of his father. And so on along a whole line of Sir Edgars, darkening with age down the gallery and wearing more and more preposterous outfits. Which all makes me think that the painting of such pictures upon reaching manhood is a tradition in the family and I am rather surprised to discover that there was no portrait of Mr Montague done two years ago when he was one and twenty. Indeed, now that I consider the matter, I realise that the only picture I have seen of him is that miniature he gave to Catherine and which she carries in her great-grandmother’s silver locket.
Which, I suppose, might be a proof of his father’s disfavour, but does not supply the explanation of it which Mrs Holmes seemed to promise. And, in short, I am at a loss…
Dido paused, realising that she was no longer alone in the gallery. A figure was walking towards her from the head of the stairs.
‘Good afternoon, Lady Montague,’ she said, politely putting aside her writing desk and standing up. ‘I have been enjoying your remarkably fine collection of paintings.’
The lady stopped abruptly at the sound of her voice and pulled her shawl about her arms. ‘Oh,’ she said and looked about at the walls as if she had never noticed the portraits hanging there before. ‘Yes, they are very pretty, are they not?’ She smiled vaguely. ‘Sir Edgar says there is not another collection to compare with it in the land.’
Dido regarded the lady sidelong. The sunlight pouring through the high window showed that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes red – maybe she was distressed – or maybe she had been drinking wine. One damp little curl clung to her brow. She looked brittle and frail in the bright light; but their late encounter over the medicine had made Dido wary of her. However, she thought that maybe she would just try to probe a little… Just a question or two…
‘I have been looking for one picture in particular,’ she began.
‘Oh,’ said the lady languidly, ‘I daresay there are a great many that are worth your attention, Miss Kent. That man sitting on his horse there.’ She gestured wearily. ‘I believe he is generally reckoned to be very well done. And this lady with pearls in her hair was painted by an artist who is famous – but I am afraid I do not recollect his name.’ She half turned as if she would walk away.
‘Yes,’ persisted Dido, ‘but there seems to be just one portrait missing. I have not been able to find any representation of your son.’
There was a long pause. The sun from the window shone in on Dido’s back; she began to feel hot and uncomfortable. The lady lowered her head and pursed her lips. ‘You are quite mistaken, Miss Kent,’ she said quietly at last. ‘There is not one painting missing from this gallery.’
‘Is there not?’