‘No!’ he cried. ‘This is very poor reasoning. I knew Mrs Foote. She was a very proper lady. She would not have taken part in such a business.’
‘So, I cannot convince you that this story is true?’
‘I am afraid you cannot. It is nonsense … That is,’ he added, recollecting himself, and bowing slightly awkwardly in the confined space of the window seat. ‘I would not contradict a lady …’
‘No, no Mr Lomax,’ she cried immediately, ‘you are forgetting that there is to be open and honest discussion between you and I. Please contradict me as much as you wish. You must be as free to mention my errors as I am to mention other people’s crimes.’
‘Must I?’ He looked at her in surprise – then laughed, set his elbow on the edge of the window and leant towards her, shaking his head. ‘Then I shall contradict you. My dear Miss Kent,’ he said in gentle challenge, ‘I would suggest that you are talking nonsense.’
‘Yes,’ she said, smiling serenely up into his eyes. ‘I know that I am.’
‘You know?’
‘Yes, of course this tale is arrant nonsense! And yet,’ she added, ‘you failed to mention the one most startling piece of evidence against it – the very comfortable bedchamber which was allotted to Miss Fenn at Madderstone.’
‘The bedchamber?’ he repeated, rather confused by this sudden turn of events. ‘Why should that be significant?’
She hesitated over answering the question. A part of her would have liked to jump up at this point and walk about the room – for there were a great many ideas and suspicions crowding in upon her now and her mind was always clearer when her body was in motion. But she did not wish to move away from him. Honest and open discussion was, she found, rather pleasantly conducted at rest together upon the sun-warmed window seat, where his long fingers played restlessly within inches of her face and she could see the tiny dark flecks which the sunlight revealed in the grey of his eyes.
‘In the theatre,’ she said, striking out into another branch of reasoning, ‘I suggested to you that the key to all our mysteries might lie in the face of Lord Congreve’s present mistress.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Well, afterwards – in the lobby – I contrived to look more closely at that young lady’s face.’
‘And what did her face reveal?’
‘It revealed a great deal of grease and powder; but not quite enough – not enough to hide a blackened eye, a bruised cheek and a split lip.’
‘Congreve!’ he cried in a voice of controlled fury. The restless fingers formed an involuntary fist. He smote the ancient frame of the window and set the panes rattling.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I believe him to have been the source of the injuries – for I remember Harriet telling me once that it was his unkind treatment of his wife which ended his marriage.’
‘In God’s name, I wish – for the honour of my own sex – that I could repudiate it. But I cannot.’
‘Very well then,’ she said solemnly, ‘the young lady’s face reveals Lord Congreve’s nature – the behaviour he is capable of towards women.’ For a moment there was no sound within the room except the soft flap and stutter of flames on the hearth. But from below came the shouts of coachmen and the ringing of plates and tankards upon tables – reminding Dido that they must soon be disturbed. Hastily she picked up the third – and final – thread of her reasoning. ‘Yesterday,’ she said, ‘when we were all discussing His Lordship, Mr Crockford remarked that the captain’s connection with him would be disapproved at Madderstone. He seemed to hint at a particular reason for that disapproval.’
Mr Lomax was watching her intently, his fingers just tapping slightly against one another.
‘I meant,’ she said, ‘to ask Mr Crockford to explain his remark. For you know, masculine disputes are generally better known to gentlemen. But perhaps you can supply the information, Mr Lomax. Why is Mr Harman-Foote Lord Congreve’s enemy?’
‘Ah!’ he cried, ‘I am not sure that is a question …’
‘… that a lady should concern herself with. But,’ she ran on hastily, ‘I find that I must concern myself with this question of the gentlemen’s enmity. For I believe it is all to do with the scar upon His Lordship’s cheek – and Mr Harman-Foote’s reputation for having fought and marked his man.’ She paused, brows raised. ‘I am right, am I not?’ she said. ‘The man he fought many years ago was Lord Congreve?’
He nodded.
‘And the cause of their fight was?’
‘My dear Miss Kent, gentlemen do not discuss the cause of a duel!’
‘Then gentlemen are very foolish indeed,’ she cried impatiently. ‘I am sure no woman would put an embargo upon a subject which might uncover the guilt of a murderer! Upon my word, I begin to suspect that between considerations of what women must not think about and men may not talk of, a great many crimes go undetected!’
‘But, it is a matter of honour not to disclose the name of a lady …’
‘Ah!’ she cried, well satisfied. ‘So, there was a lady involved in the dispute between Mr Harman-Foote and Lord Congreve!’
He groaned and passed his hand across his face. She seemed to defeat him at every turn.
‘Very well, then,’ she continued. ‘And, to spare you the dishonour of speaking her name, I shall supply it myself. It was Lady Congreve, was it not? It was His Lordship’s ill-treatment of his own wife which Mr Harman-Foote sought to punish in that meeting?’
‘It was. However,’ he said, finding suddenly a new angle of attack, ‘I am sure that your hitting upon the name is no more than a lucky guess. For I defy even you to produce any proof of your surmise.’
‘No,’ she said with dignity. ‘It is not a guess; it is an hypothesis.’
‘An hypothesis?’
‘Yes, for once we assume that she was the cause of the fight, the events at Madderstone become a great deal more comprehensible. Consider the matter carefully: more than twenty years ago, Lady Congreve suffered such ill-usage at the hands of her husband that she removed herself from his house. And Mr Harman-Foote fought His Lordship over the matter. And …’ Her face was glowing with something of the fervour that can be seen in those high-spirited women who follow the fox-hunt. ‘And, at about the same time as Lady Congreve disappeared, a governess appeared at Madderstone Abbey – upon the recommendation of the Foote family: a friendless woman who, apparently, had no relations, no connections.’
‘But,’ objected Lomax, ‘the governess was Elinor Fenn.’
‘No,’ insisted Dido quietly. ‘The governess was Lady Congreve. A homeless fugitive, after her flight from a wretched marriage had left her utterly destitute.’
She had certainly won her companion’s attention. He was leaning towards her, his brow gathered into a frown of concentration, his fingers tapping together as he considered.
‘I believe,’ she continued, very eager to strengthen and elaborate her case, before he could begin to doubt, ‘I believe that the key to the name – Elinor Fenn – might lie in the matter-of-fact character of old Mrs Foote. Called upon to introduce Her Ladyship under a new identity, the poor woman found that invention was beyond her, and she fell back upon a name fresh in her mind from her maid’s recent departure. But the one point which convinces me that I am right is the bedchamber.’
‘You think a great deal about this bedchamber.’
‘I do indeed. You see, I can conceive of a country gentleman like Mr Harman taking in – out of compassion – a viscountess, and hiding her under the guise of a governess. But I am sure he would be quite incapable of consigning her to an attic!’