‘Harriet,’ said Dido eagerly, but speaking low so as not to wake the others, ‘do you remember the night we all dined at Madderstone two weeks ago – the night on which the letters were taken from Miss Fenn’s chamber?’
Harriet looked surprised and put the book which she had been attempting to read into her lap. ‘Yes,’ she said with a frown, ‘I remember it. But, Dido, I hope that this is not a beginning of odd questions …’
‘No, no. The questions are not odd at all. They are very sensible ones which I should have thought to ask before. After dinner you went upstairs to sit with Penelope, did you not?’
‘Yes’ – with great resignation – ‘I did.’
‘And the chamber which Penelope was given at Madderstone was in the same wing as Miss Fenn’s room, was it not? They were within a few doors of one another.’
‘Yes – though I do not see why you should be so very interested …’
‘Harriet, I want you to think very carefully – this is, I believe, very important. I must discover what happened to those letters. Do you understand?’
‘I understand that you are intent upon meddling. Why must you always be wanting to discover things? “Let sleeping dogs lie,” that is what Papa always said.’
Dido sighed. Now they were got to Dear Papa and proverbs all at once! It was going to be a great struggle to get any information at all out of Harriet.
‘That evening,’ she persisted, ‘did you hear anyone come up the stairs and go to Miss Fenn’s bedchamber?’
Harriet hesitated a moment, then: ‘Well, since you ask, Mr Harman-Foote came by.’
‘You are sure it was him?’
‘Yes.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Why, Dido, I do believe the old inquisitors of Spain could not match you for tormenting a person with questions!’
‘Harriet, why are you so sure that it was Mr Harman-Foote?’
‘I know because he came past Penelope’s room just as Mr Paynter was leaving it. He – Mr Paynter – had come to visit Penelope, you see – that is why I had been called away from the drawing room immediately after dinner. We went up to Penelope’s chamber together, he made his examination and then, as he left, I went to the door of the chamber with him. As he went out, he met Mr Harman-Foote in the passageway.’
‘I see,’ said Dido. ‘That certainly accords well with Mr Harman-Foote’s own account of events. But it was not he who took the letters. Are you sure you heard no one else?’
The pale outline of Harriet’s face looked mutinous in the gloom, as if she would protest against Dido’s torturing her again. But then she seemed to change her mind. She frowned as if considering the question rather carefully, and turned to look through the window, at the yellow grass, the hunched shadows of furze bushes and the gaunt, long-legged sheep which grazed among them. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘I remember now: there was someone else. It was Henry Coulson.’
‘Indeed? Harriet are you sure?’
‘Oh yes.’ Harriet turned back, but the faint light of the window was behind her now and the encroaching evening together with the deep shadow of her hat made it impossible to read her exact expression. ‘It was certainly Mr Coulson,’ she said firmly. ‘There can be no doubt about it. I was sitting on my own beside Penelope, you see, and I heard steps coming up the stairs so … so I went to the door and looked out – and there was Mr Coulson!’
‘And what was he doing?’
‘Why, he was walking along the passage – he went into Miss Fenn’s chamber.’
‘You are sure of it?’
‘Oh yes! I remember it very clearly. Now are you satisfied?’
‘Yes,’ said Dido, drawing her fingers thoughtfully through the moisture on window-glass. ‘Yes, I am satisfied. But how odd, how very odd …’
And she fell into a sad reverie – for Harriet’s account had confirmed her very worst apprehensions. Matters were as dangerous as she had supposed, and rather more difficult of solution than she had feared. She sat for some time in silent contemplation of the scene beyond the window where a few sharp, cold stars were beginning to wink out in the darkening arch of the sky. Sheep turned stern yellow eyes to follow the carriage, their chins rotating as they chewed meditatively. An icy little draught crept around the glass of the window, making her shiver and pull her cloak tighter about her shoulders.
Henry Coulson posed a great many problems – his role in the mysteries of Madderstone was complicated and, although she suspected a great deal, there was much of which she was still uncertain …
She turned back to Harriet who was once more attempting to read. Her book – held up high to catch the light – was obscuring her face.
‘Harriet, I have been meaning for some days past to talk to you about Mr Coulson.’
‘Oh?’ Harriet lowered the book an inch or two and looked rather apprehensively over the top of it.
Dido looked at Silas, but he was sleeping soundly, his cheek now resting upon the side of Lucy’s bonnet, his own hat sliding forward over his face. ‘Who,’ she asked bluntly, ‘is Henry Coulson – exactly.’
Harriet sighed and lowered the book an inch further. ‘Exactly? Let me see … By his account of himself to Silas, it would seem that he was third cousin twice removed to old Mr Harman. But, as you know, he was orphaned when he was a boy and Mr Harman paid for his education.’
Harriet delivered this account briskly and raised the book once more to her eyes – though there would scarcely seem to be enough light for reading in the rocking carriage.
‘And what relation is the young man to you?’ insisted Dido.
Harriet sighed loudly. ‘Dido, this really is becoming very tiresome! Am I to have no peace in which to read?’
‘It is a great deal too dark to read and conversation is our only resource. Please indulge me by answering my questions. We aging spinsters have so few pleasures!’
‘You are impossible!’
‘What relation is Henry Coulson to your family?’
‘Oh well! If his account of himself is correct, I calculate that he must be the great nephew of our second cousin – but on the father’s side only.’
‘That must have taken a great deal of time to work out,’ remarked Dido. ‘I wonder that you put yourself to the trouble of establishing it.’
Harriet’s only answer was to raise the book and pretend to read.
‘The other day,’ said Dido conversationally, ‘Silas revealed something very interesting about Mr Coulson.’
‘Did he?’ The book did not move.
‘I understand – from what Silas told me – that, although in absolute terms Mr Coulson is only a distant connection, he is, in fact, your nearest living male relation.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Harriet with a great show of indifference. ‘There does seem rather to be a shortage of men in Dear Papa’s family.’
‘In fact …’ Dido leant impatiently across the swaying carriage and pushed down the book so that she could look into Harriet’s eyes. ‘Mr Coulson is next in line to the entail on your father’s estate, is he not? He will inherit Ashfield if …’
Instinctively both women turned to look at Silas’s face, pale and delicate under the wide dark brim of his hat.
‘… if,’ Dido finished in a whisper, ‘anything should happen to your brother.’
‘Yes.’ Harriet sighed and closed her book with a snap. ‘Now, Dido, why are you inquiring so minutely into my family’s concerns? It is very impertinent.’