‘Mr Coulson’s being weak and foolish does not alter the fact that he is the rightful possessor of Ashfield.’
Dido only clasped her arms about her and looked stubborn.
‘Do you mean to do nothing to bring justice about?’ he demanded.
But she would not answer him. Still she sought to put off that moment when they must confront the differences which yawned between them. ‘Come,’ she said hurrying towards the ruins. ‘I wish to show you the ghost!’
‘The ghost?’
‘Yes, for I think I have found out just what it was that Penelope saw upon the gallery.’ She began to run away from him through the stunted bushes and fallen masonry. Three crows clattered up from the fallen pillars of the chancel.
He shook his head helplessly and followed her more slowly, looking still very disapproving – but intrigued nonetheless.
‘I thought,’ he called after her, his voice echoing against the high walls, ‘that you had failed to find any clues at all when you came here to search.’
‘I thought I had failed,’ she said, stopping and turning back as she reached the foot of the night stair. ‘But, in point of fact, I had found one very important clue.’
She started to climb and he hurried forward, urging her to take care.
The wind grew stronger as he followed her upward and, by the time they reached the gallery, she was once more holding hard to her bonnet, which was blown onto the very back of her head. She turned back to him, her cheeks glowing, her hair all swept away from her face, her eyes bright with exercise and discovery. ‘What do you feel, here just at the top of the stairs?’
‘Cold!’ he said as he joined her in the gallery. ‘Nothing but cold.’
‘Exactly so!’ she cried with great satisfaction and stepped a little further on – out of the wind.
‘But why should you think that significant?’ he said. He also moved away from the draught, further into the gallery, where the sun was shining greenish through the curtains of creeper which hung about the arches.
‘Does not a feeling of cold always accompany the appearance of a ghost?’ she asked, leaning against the old stones and the thick, twisting stems of ivy.
‘Why, you do not mean to say that you believe in such things?’ he objected. ‘What of reason, Miss Kent? What of that rational view of the world which I know you hold as dear as I do myself?’
‘But I am being perfectly rational.’ She looked up at him, her head on one side, intent upon teasing away some of his gravity. ‘There is reason enough for that coldness at the head of the stairs! It is the draught of air which blows just there. And you know,’ she added, ‘now that I consider the matter, I rather wonder whether a great deal of what Lucy would call an “unearthly feeling” and “an atmosphere of evil” might not be explained away by an unpleasant draught of air.’
‘I will not,’ he said firmly, ‘believe that Miss Lambe was frightened into falling by a cold draught!’
‘Oh but she was! For it is extremely strong. And you must remember that the day of Penelope’s accident was even windier than today. I remember, when I looked back from the bottom of the stairs, the wind was so strong just there at the end of the gallery that Harriet’s bonnet was almost blowing away, and her cap too.’
‘And the draught called a ghost into being?’ he said, raising his brows.
‘It did indeed! I did not realise it at first, because, you see, I knew of no reason why Penelope should see a ghost at Madderstone. But Captain Laurence rather expected that she would – and that is why he also came here to the gallery after the accident. He was particularly anxious to figure out just what she had seen.’
‘And why was James Laurence so very interested in a ghost?’
‘Well, you must remember that Captain Laurence suspected Penelope was the daughter of Miss Fenn. But he could find no confirmation of it. And so he had introduced her to the Crockfords – and caused her to come to Madderstone – in the hope that she would encounter ghosts. In short, he hoped that her being here would cause her to remember something of her earliest years.’
‘Because such a memory would confirm his theories?’ Despite himself, he was beginning to look less severe – and more interested.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And, of course, within a few days of being here, Penelope fell from the gallery – in very mysterious circumstances: causing the good captain to wonder whether her fall had anything to do with her history.’
‘And was there any such connection?’
‘Oh yes, there was. But he and I were both rather stupid about finding it out. You see, we both noticed that the lake – the place in which the bones rested – is visible from this gallery.’
‘No, no,’ he objected quickly, ‘she could not have seen the bones from such a distance.’
‘Of course she could not. That is precisely my point! Look!’ she gestured to the view beyond the arches of the gallery: the looming walls and broken outline of the great window; a glimpse of the pool; red-, yellow- and copper-coloured trees; an expanse of blue sky with an arrow-shaped formation of wild geese rippling across it. ‘We are too high up here to see any details,’ she said. ‘Penelope certainly could not have seen anything of significance in the grounds. But both Captain Laurence and I wasted a great deal of time in wondering whether she had. And that prevented us from examining the simple facts of the matter.’
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘and what are these simple facts?’
‘There are – I see now – only two facts to consider. First of all, there are Penelope’s words “I saw her”. And, secondly, there is the absolute certainty that there was no one in the gallery – except Harriet. Put those two facts together – with no superstitious nonsense about grey nuns, or theories about skeletons – and you are brought to one conclusion. It was simply Harriet that Penelope saw. And the sight shocked her so much, she stepped backward – and fell.’
He stared, pressed the tips of his fingers together. ‘You believe that Miss Lambe recognised her sister at that moment?’
‘I am quite sure that she did.’
‘But why? For it would seem she had never recognised Miss Crockford – or any other member of her family before.’
‘It was because of that draught of air. As I explained, it was blowing away Harriet’s cap and bonnet. And, as I have often observed myself, without them she looks positively young.’
He rested his chin upon the tips of his fingers – thinking deeply, but saying nothing.
‘Lucy told me once,’ continued Dido, becoming more serious, ‘that Penelope remembered her mother bending over her cradle when she was a baby. Of course, that was impossible. Penelope’s mother died when she was born. It was, in fact, Harriet’s face she remembered. The face of the young Harriet. It was the first face she learnt to love. And it was that face which was suddenly revealed to the poor girl here on the gallery that day – a ghost indeed!’
She looked up at him eagerly. But his profile was dark against the bright sky, framed by an arch of grey stone. She wished very much that she might know just what he was thinking, for the moment was come … She could no longer delay telling him of her decision.
‘Mr Lomax,’ she said quietly, ‘you asked me just now whether I meant to do anything to bring justice about. Well, I would not wish you to think that I am motivated only by an insatiable curiosity. I do care deeply for what is right and I do certainly mean to bring about justice.’ She hesitated. ‘I mean to bring about a woman’s justice.’