Dido was holding her hands to her mouth now and was looking exceedingly pale.
‘I see,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Mr Lomax, I see now how it was done.’
Chapter Twenty
…My dear Eliza, it is a simple matter of putting Swisserland in the correct place.
And from that profound statement you should, of course, understand everything and I ought to have no need to wear out my genius with tiresome explanations. But, since I would wish to be celebrated as much for my compassion as my cleverness, I shall explain a little more.
Do you remember our schoolroom and the map of Europe which must be put together in our geography lessons? Do you recall how Swisserland was always the key and once that was in place, France and Saxony and the Austrian Monarchy and all the others fitted in around it?
Well, in the park today, when Mr Lomax spoke of a loud noise disturbing our conversations, it was as if he had put that one piece of the map in the right place for me. And all the other pieces began to fit in around it.
You see, I remembered how, when I was walking along the drive with Mrs Harris, our conversation was indeed broken in upon by a very loud noise. But one which the household is so accustomed to hearing that it passes without comment.
The servants’ dinner bell!
And then I saw how – and when – the murder must have been done. At three o’clock on any day at Belsfield there is such a noise for a full half-minute that a gunshot would certainly pass unheard.
So you see, Eliza, Miss Wallis was not, as we supposed, killed while the gentlemen were shooting in the spinney, but at precisely three o’clock – a full two hours after they returned.
I have said nothing, as yet, to Mr Lomax about all this. I needed some time to collect my thoughts. But, no sooner was I sure of the time of the shot, than other things began to suggest themselves. For to have been so exact about the timing the killer must surely have planned the terrible deed with great care – and must have known, too, where to find the victim.
So then I fell to thinking of the difficulty which Mr Lomax has suggested and which I have not properly considered before. How and why did Miss Wallis come to be in the shrubbery?
Oh dear! How stupid of me not to think of this before! You see she cannot have walked through the gardens because the gardeners were there. I have spoken to them again, and two of them were on the lawns raking leaves from midday until their dinner bell sounded. (And when the bell sounded the poor woman was, of course, already in the shrubbery being murdered.)
So, she must have walked across the park from the side gate. Which she might have done with ease after one o’clock, when Mr Lomax was no longer watching from the knoll. But, Eliza, she would not have crossed the ha-ha with ease!
This is a difficulty which Mr Lomax has not reckoned with because I suppose that he has never worn a gown. But it would require a great deal of determination to negotiate that obstacle in a skirt and petticoat and I cannot but think that Miss Wallis was resolved on being unseen. Why else would she go to such trouble instead of walking along the drive and across the lawn? And that means that she never planned to go farther than the shrubbery, for she would certainly have been seen as soon as she stepped out of it into the rose garden.
Now, Eliza, I must ask you this: why did Miss Wallis travel nine miles from Tudor House and scramble through a ditch and over a fence in order to visit Sir Edgar Montague’s shrubbery?
I am quite certain that it was not to admire the beauty of his laurels.
In short, I can think of no other reason than that she went there to meet someone. Secretly. At about three o’clock.
Well now, that is France and Spain securely in their places – and now for that awkward little Bavarian Republic.
There is only one person who is regularly to be found in the shrubbery at three o’clock. Lady Montague. Everyone knows that she takes her walk there at that hour. And I doubt very much that anyone else in the house would have arranged to meet Miss Wallis by the hermitage at a time when her ladyship might be expected to be there.
Of course, we are told that my lady did not walk out that day. But is this correct? Jack assured me that she was in her dressing room until the men returned. But maybe afterwards she contrived to go out.
Oh, Eliza! What nonsense this is! Is it likely that Lady Montague should somehow procure a shotgun and boldly stride out across the gardens to commit a murder – and do it, furthermore, quite unobserved?
And yet…
Well, I shall talk to Jack about it again and I am sure he will give me all the help that he can – he really does seem to be so very delighted to be relieved of the colonel’s demands! Though he has not been able to answer many of my questions about Mr Montague and his father on account of only having been in the employ of Belsfield for a matter of weeks. But I make no doubt that he will, if I ask him, tell me all that he can about the day of the murder.
And then there is something else which I would dearly love to know. I must ask Catherine just when it was that my lady became so unfashionable as to put long sleeves to her evening dress.
I must look about me and make my enquiries quickly, for I have promised to meet Mr Lomax in the morning room within this hour. The dear man has such a very high opinion of my abilities that I would not wish to spoil it by presenting him with an incomplete proof.
‘I am sorry, Miss Kent, I am afraid I have not quite the pleasure of understanding you. If you could perhaps speak a little more slowly.’
Dido drew a long breath and endeavoured to calm herself. But the agitation into which the last hour had thrown her was so great, it almost took from her the power of rational speech.
It was late in the evening and the rest of the company were occupied at the card tables. In the half-light of the morning room, the clock ticked solemnly upon the mantelshelf and flames fluttered round a log in the hearth. The little spaniel had found her way in from the hall and was resting her head trustingly against Mr Lomax’s leg. He ran one of her long silky ears gently through his fingers as he watched Dido with grave concern.
‘I understand all that you say about the dinner bell and about the young woman’s arrival in the shrubbery,’ he said. ‘And it is all admirably reasoned. But this matter of her ladyship’s sleeves: I am afraid I cannot comprehend why you should consider such a trifle so important.’
‘I am sorry. I was forgetting you are a man.’
This was not quite true. In fact, she was rather keenly aware of him being a man. His reassuring, manly solidity, gathered into the chair across the hearth, was a great comfort to her. She was at that moment very glad to have such a confidant and it was very important to her that he should understand everything that was in her mind.
‘Lady Montague is a very fashionable, well-dressed woman,’ she began.
‘Yes, I suppose that she is. Though I am no great judge of these matters; my late wife frequently complained that I could not tell one of her gowns from another.’