Dido remembered Catherine’s words about Tom’s debts, and also the purple colour that had lately been on Mr Harris’s face, and she rather doubted whether such a talk would have been so very quiet.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘And Mr Harris confirmed Mr Lomax’s account?’
‘Yes, he did.’
So that had been Mr Harris’s mission. Little wonder that he had been distressed, for he could not have liked owning to the conversation. Tom’s audacity in even asking had been an insult. But, it seemed, he was a good, principled man and he had known it was his duty to lift the suspicion of murder – even from a man he disliked.
‘So, you see, Miss Kent,’ continued Sir Edgar with great condescension, ‘there is another wedding in sight here at Belsfield. Now that is something pleasanter for you to be thinking about than murder, is it not?’
‘A wedding!’ Dido stared in disbelief. ‘Sir Edgar, am I to understand that Mr Harris gave his consent?’
‘Oh yes. Both gentlemen were quite clear about that. They both spoke of an agreement having been made.’
‘No! No, it is quite impossible,’ said Catherine when she joined her aunt a few moments later in the hall and was told what had happened. ‘They are both lying. They must be. I could sooner believe that Mr Harris shot the woman himself than that he should give his consent for Tom Lomax to marry dear little Sophia or darling Amelia.’
‘Well, I mean to ask Mr Tom Lomax about it myself,’ said Dido with determination. ‘I do not care much for Mr Tom. It seems that wherever I turn there he is, smiling his foolish smile and looking altogether too pleased with himself.’
Resolutely, she turned and made her way across the hall to the gloomy billiard room.
Tom was alone at the big green table, working away diligently with his cue and still smiling contentedly to himself in between whistling snatches of a coarse popular song.
‘I understand,’ said Dido, stepping into the male atmosphere of old cigar smoke and brandy, ‘that congratulations are the order of the day, Mr Lomax.’
Tom’s cue scraped the table and he cursed as balls clattered about in all directions. ‘I beg your pardon?’ He turned, cue in hand, looking wary.
‘Oh, I am sorry!’ cried Dido clapping her hand to her mouth in mock innocence. ‘Is it meant to be a secret? But Sir Edgar just mentioned to me the subject of your talk with Mr Harris, and I was so delighted! Another wedding! I do so love to hear of weddings, and marriage does seem to be quite the fashion at Belsfield just now. So lovely!’
‘Well…’ Tom ran a finger round his cravat. ‘We have not yet made the engagement public. So, perhaps if you would not mind, well…not mentioning it for a little while… I am sure you understand how it is, Miss…er…Kent.’
‘Oh! A secret engagement! How delightful!’ Dido clasped her hands together – and began to wonder whether she might not be overplaying the part of silly spinster. But Tom seemed to suspect nothing.
He made a great effort to be gallant. He laid down his billiard cue, took Dido’s hand and bowed over it. ‘It shall be our secret for now, shall it, Miss Kent? I am sure I can rely upon you not to betray us.’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ simpered Dido. ‘I shall not breathe a word.’ She started for the door and then turned back. Tom was rubbing chalk onto the end of his cue and frowning at the confusion on the table. ‘There is just one question I cannot help asking, Mr Lomax. I am sure you will not mind.’
‘Yes?’ he said with an effort at patience.
‘Which of the Misses Harris is it that you are in love with?’
‘Well, as to that… I mean I cannot, at the moment…’ He faltered to a standstill as he saw that the smile spreading on Dido’s face was neither silly nor vague.
‘It is rather strange, is it not,’ she said, ‘to be unsure of the name of the lady to whom you are engaged?’
…Well, Eliza, I have made an enemy, I do not doubt. But I dislike Tom Lomax too much to care whether or not I have his good opinion. I am quite sure now that he was lying about his reason for being in the shrubbery. But if he was lying, then so was Mr Harris – which seems altogether much more surprising. Unlikely as such an idea seems, I cannot escape the conclusion that Tom and Mr Harris are confederates in some mystery. But how does it relate to the death of Miss Wallis? Or is there more than one mystery carrying on in this house? I begin to think that there must be and that I am surrounded by a great confusion of guilt and deceit.
Oh, Eliza! It is the little things that trouble me most. Things like the hiding of the dog behind my chair when Sir Edgar came out of the library; the game of football which Mrs Potter’s Kate saw carrying on at Tudor House; Catherine’s account of Mr Montague’s headaches. And out of all these little things is building a picture which I do not like to contemplate.
You see, I know, by Mrs Holmes’ account, that Mr Montague is anxious to please his father. And I think she falls short of the truth. Despite her denial, Eliza, I believe that the poor young man does indeed fear him. Because Sir Edgar is a bully. I am sure that he is – for why else would his own dog flee from him? Why else is his young footman afraid to speak to him even when he has important information to give? Why do the villagers dislike him? Yes, I make no doubt that Sir Edgar is a bully, a bully who does not like his son. Why he should have taken such a dislike to him I cannot understand, unless he perceives him as being weak. But the question that torments me is this: under such disapproval at home, what might a young man be driven to do?
And that brings me to what Catherine said yesterday when she talked of Mr Montague being at Lyme. She said something which she had not mentioned before. She said, ‘When Richard goes away – as he does when he feels unwell.’ Eliza, do you see what this means? Mr Montague is in the habit of absenting himself from Belsfield. Indeed, now I think of it, her ladyship told me as much on my first evening here. She spoke of Mr Montague’s marriage fixing him at Belsfield and preventing him from wandering off. As if that was something he was in the habit of doing.
And this brings me – as I am sure you have anticipated – to that game of football at Tudor House, which convinced the bobbing maid – and even the egregious Mrs Potter – that Mr Blacklock is only a temporary resident in Hopton Cresswell. Well, where is Mr Blacklock when he is not at Tudor House? Or, more to the point: who is he?
Is he, in fact, Richard Montague?
A young man, driven from his own home, living as much as he can in retirement, might, perhaps, form an unsuitable attachment. And if that attachment was likely to be made known to the parent he feared…
Well, Eliza, you see, no doubt, where all this is leading.
And, in support of this account, there are the undeniable facts: that the murder must have occurred while the guns were out; that the gentlemen from the house all vouch for each other during that time; and that Mr Montague might have returned to Belsfield that morning and reached the shrubbery without being seen by anyone but Mrs Holmes – whose affection for him would, no doubt, lead her to lie in order to protect him from suspicion.
I am quite sure that, despite his brave resolution, Mr Montague did not tell the full truth to his father at the ball. He left something at least unsaid – perhaps he did not mention the expected child. This incomplete account left Sir Edgar willing to forgive; but his son knew that if – when – the full truth was revealed, disinheritance would surely follow. He was in a desperate situation, in danger of losing everything. Perhaps he went away hoping to reason with the young woman, but she resisted and came to Belsfield to tell all. And he followed her…