And so, of course, you will now understand the urgency – the absolute necessity – of my finding those lost letters. For, if Captain Laurence gets to them first, I fear he will discover his mistake – and Lord Congreve himself will descend upon Madderstone to retrieve his stolen heir.
I cannot yet be sure exactly what the missing letters are about, nor who wrote them. But I think they may reveal the whereabouts of the boy – and that I believe is the reason for their removal. Somewhere here in the neighbourhood of Madderstone or Badleigh is the true son of Elinor Fenn, and I cannot help but wonder whether it is not he who has, from the very beginning, been working against me and trying to prevent my discovering the truth about his mother’s death.
Well, tomorrow is All Hallows and, at the ball, I intend to lay a trap for the culprit. I hope I shall learn the final truth behind Miss Fenn’s death – and the haunting of Madderstone Abbey.
But first I must speak to Mr Portinscale and persuade him that the grave must be moved …
Chapter Forty-One
The next morning was still, and thick with fog; hundreds of spider’s webs festooned the bright hawthorn hedges. The air was cold and damp on Dido’s face as she made her way along the lane to Madderstone church, and the sheep that bleated and coughed about her were all but invisible in blank white fields.
She was come in search of Mr Portinscale, but, near the vicarage, she caught up with young Georgie who was dawdling homeward along the narrow muddy lane with his ragged Latin grammar under one arm and pausing from time to time to stuff his pockets with the glistening brown fruits that had fallen from the horse chestnut trees. The sight of him reminded Dido of another little matter which she wished to resolve.
‘Well, Georgie,’ she said politely as she fell into step beside him. ‘Did you have a pleasant lesson with Mr Portinscale?’
‘No.’ He turned up his fat pale face – the nose slightly pink with cold, the tassel of his cap falling into one eye. She noticed that the bruise was healed now. ‘I don’t like Latin,’ he said sulkily.
‘But you like cake, do you not?’
‘What?’ He stopped under the dripping yellow leaves of one of the chestnuts and looked up at her in great surprise. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, of course, that you like the cake which Mr Portinscale gives you. Though I think, Georgie, you had better eat a little less of it, if it makes you bilious.’
‘How do you know about that?’ he demanded, his face reddening, his small eyes shifting about suspiciously above his plump cheeks.
‘Oh! I just know,’ said Dido brightly and walked on along the lane so that he was forced to trot to catch up with her. ‘It is, you see, something which happens to ladies if they remain unmarried. When they reach a certain age they begin to know everything about everyone else’s business.’
‘Do they?’ His eyes widened. He bit his lip, considered the unmarried ladies of his acquaintance – and seemed to find proof of her assertion. ‘What else do you know, Miss Kent?’ he asked with cautious respect.
‘Well, let me see. I know that Mr Portinscale gives you cake to prevent your telling your mother that he once … lost his temper with you.’ She gave a little wink and touched her finger to her cheek.
‘Oh!’
‘And there is one other thing that I know, Georgie.’ She stopped walking for they had come now to the lychgate and she could see the thin black figure of the parson disappearing among the mist-shrouded gravestones.
‘What else is it you know, miss?’ asked Georgie anxiously.
‘I know that you are being very unwise.’ She looked down at the fat, indulged little face: the pale eyes blinking rapidly with worry. ‘You had better make your peace with Mr Portinscale,’ she said gently. ‘I do not think he will strike you again.’
‘He won’t!’ the boy cried indignantly. ‘For if he does …’
‘No, Georgie,’ she said with a shake of the head, ‘you must not tell your mother of what happened. For, you see, if she thinks your present teacher is unsuitable then she will certainly send you away to school.’
The soft little mouth fell open in horror.
‘You would not like school at all, Georgie. My brothers have told me all about it. You see, in schools, teachers strike their pupils whenever they wish.’
Mr Portinscale was standing on the north side of the foggy churchyard. One hand rested upon a low bough of the ancient yew tree, his hat was pulled low over his eyes, his angular figure bent over in contemplation of the suicide’s grave.
Dido stopped as she first caught sight of him – though she had come there to find him. She had spent several hours of the past night devising and rehearsing the case she must put to him – and was rather well pleased with the argument she had prepared. But there was something private in his attitude: something of the attitude of prayer in his earnest gazing upon the raw little mound of earth among the dead yellow grass and broken dock stems. She was on the point of turning away when he looked up and saw her.
He turned to her and swept off his hat with a bow and a courteous greeting. But when she stepped forward and mentioned a particular reason for seeking him out – a subject upon which she wished to talk – he frowned sternly.
‘I would by no means wish you to think me unwilling to converse with you Miss Kent,’ he said solemnly, turning his hat about in his hands, ‘but I hope that you are not intending to revive the very unpleasant discussion of …’
‘Miss Fenn’s death,’ she finished briskly, with a glance at the grave. ‘Yes, Mr Portinscale, I am afraid that I must. You see, I have learnt something – during my visit to Bath – something which I think you ought to know about that lady.’
‘Indeed! Have you?’ His voice attempted indifference, but his face was all interest.
And Dido, sure that this was all the invitation he would allow himself to give, made only a hasty plea for his complete secrecy before entering upon an account of the governess’s true identity and the cause of her sojourn in Madderstone – suppressing only the existence of the child. She did not look at him as she spoke, fixing her eyes upon anything rather than his face – the brown decaying petals of Mr Paynter’s roses on the grave, the mossy stones of the wall, an old gravestone half-sunk down into the ground and lying aslant in the fog, the round arch of the church window with a candle glowing within.
Before she had been speaking for two minutes, his hand was once more upon the bough of the tree, his hat beating gently against his knee. His long sombre face, framed in clerical white, was fixed upon her, his eyes scarcely blinking. When she finished and finally looked up at him, he swallowed hard. ‘I cannot believe …’ He began in a voice of great emotion. But he was unable to continue.
‘It is all true, I assure you, Mr Portinscale.’
He looked hastily away. He beat the hat harder upon his knees. ‘It is extraordinary,’ he said in a struggling, uneven voice. ‘But of course,’ he said with a great effort to give his voice the certainty of the pulpit, ‘I cannot allow this information to change my decision. The Lord God judges us not by our titles and birth. The sin of self-murder is as heinous in the highest in the land as it is in the lowliest of mortals.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ said Dido earnestly. Her voice was low and, in the fog and the stillness of the graveyard, it had a close sound – as if they were within doors. ‘But, Mr Portinscale, I believe you must reconsider your decision. For I do not argue about rank – but only character.’