“To say nothing of a handsome income?”
Her eyes blazed. “Charles, that is a scurrilous thing to say! Thomas was a thoroughly decent man. I know that you entertain a certain scepticism about members of the legal profession, but I really…”
“Please forgive me, Scheherezade,” he said quickly, and with unaccustomed humility. “I did not mean to cast aspersions on your friend’s integrity.”
“I should hope not indeed! The fact is that the marriage was one of the happiest I have known. When he died of apoplexy three years ago, she was heartbroken.”
“There were no children?”
“No, to the dismay of both Clarissa and Thomas.”
“And what of brother Edgar?”
“He died ten years ago. Poor fellow, his heart was always weak. He was the last of the male Woodwards.”
“Thus she was left not only alone but also very wealthy?”
As the carriage pulled up before the stables in George Yard, Elizabeth Gaskell slowly inclined her head.
Over afternoon tea in the comfortable public room of the hostelry, Dickens summarized the essentials of the conundrum that Clarissa Pettigrew had posed.
“Since her second marriage, your friend has become a virtual recluse. By nature she is charming and convivial, popular because she has always been not only attractive in appearance but generous and thoughtful. Nowadays, however, she and the Major shun neighbours, friends and even relatives. Your opinion is that this is at his insistence.”
“I refuse to believe otherwise.”
“Very well. According to your observation, the Major is not only considerably younger than Clarissa, but also appears to lack independent means.”
“He is a fine figure of a man, but at the wedding, there was gossip that he had not a penny to his name until he took her for his wife. Some folk said he’d run into trouble while he was serving in India and that if he hadn’t left the army, he would have been disgraced.”
Naturally there would be gossip; this was Cranford. However, Dickens kept the thought to himself. He drained his cup of tea and helped himself to a slice of gateau.
“The effect of the marriage is, as you will appreciate, to transfer into the Major’s name your friend’s inheritance. The house, her first husband’s investments, everything. A scandalous state of affairs, in my opinion. Nevertheless, that is the law.”
“Indeed.” Elizabeth’s face was a mask.
“Still, although the two of you had enjoyed only limited contact by way of correspondence since the wedding, you had no reason to believe that anything was amiss until you received the letter.”
“Friends in the town had informed me of their sorrow, that Clarissa and the Major appeared to be cutting them off. Nobody could believe that was Clarissa’s wish. Everyone blamed her new husband. Rumour had it he once blacked her eye when in a drunken rage. But who would dare to come between man and wife? I felt helpless until she wrote and asked for my aid.”
“Did you know that she had been unwell?”
“Not at all. You may imagine my dismay when she told me that for several weeks illness had confined her to the house.”
“She speaks of a malady affecting her nerves.”
“Which is quite unlike Clarissa. As a girl, I rather idolized her. She was blessed not only with a delightful personality but a robust constitution and ready wit. Very far removed, if you will forgive me, from a Dora Copperfield.”
“According to Clarissa, on Monday last she spied a stranger lurking outside Canute Villa. An unkempt tramp in a battered hat and coat, hiding amongst the trees at the far side of the Heath. At first she paid him scant attention, but on the following day she noticed him again. He appeared to keep watch on the comings and goings of the household.”
Elizabeth eyed him sharply. “You say according to Clarissa. Do you imply scepticism concerning her veracity?”
“We cannot rule out anything.”
She flushed. “Well, I can! Clarissa would never dream…”
“If we are to stand in the shoes of members of the detective police,” Dickens interrupted, “we must refuse to be swayed by personal loyalties or affections. Without logic, Elizabeth, a detective is lost!”
“Please proceed,” she said, struggling for an icy calm.
Dickens cleared his throat and launched into the story, with as much gusto as if reciting Mrs Gamp or Sikes and Nancy.
“In ordinary circumstances, she would have approached the man and shooed him off. However, when she ventured from the door at the side of the house, he vanished. Later that night, however, when noting that the housemaid had drawn the curtains imperfectly and left a gap between them, she caught a glimpse in the moonlight of a dark figure loitering on the edge of the Heath and subjecting Canute Villa to intensive scrutiny. She could not see him clearly, but he was wearing a low-brimmed hat and she was sure that the tramp had returned. Fearing burglary, she informed her husband, but although he went out to inspect the grounds of their home, he could find nothing.
“On his return, he accused Clarissa of succumbing to flights of fancy and went so far as to question her state of mind. She came close to believing that she had indeed imagined the whole episode, but the following day, through the window she caught sight once more of the mysterious stranger. When he saw her looking at him, he disappeared from view. The Major was out of the house at the time and when he returned and she told him what had happened, he consulted the housemaid, a girl by the name of Alice. She denied having seen the apparition and the Major lost his temper – not, I gather, an unusual occurrence – and said that Clarissa was imagining things and that if she did not have a care, she would soon find herself confined to an asylum.”
Pausing for breath, he considered his companion. Elizabeth was fidgeting with the edge of the tablecloth.
“Why did her husband not believe her?” she murmured, as though wrestling with an abstruse mathematical problem.
Dickens gave a shrug of the shoulders. “At all events, the next morning saw a further development. While the Major and the housemaid were out of the house, she found a crudely scrawled note tucked under the door of the house. It read simply: Please meet at nine o’clock behind the Lord Eldon. And it was signed ‘Datchery’. A name unknown to Clarissa. Having lived in the town all her life, she is certain that no local resident is so called. Frightened by the message, she showed it to her husband to see if he was familiar with Datchery, or could otherwise make any sense of the message. Her candour proved unwise. The Major flew into a fury and accused her of indulging in an unseemly association with another man and concocting a tale about a mysterious tramp to conceal her illicit relations with a lover. With no one else to turn to, Clarissa wrote in haste to seek the wise counsel of her old friend and confidante Elizabeth Gaskell.”
“You have seen the letter. The trembling script indicates that Clarissa’s nerves are in tatters. She says she fears for her sanity and I can believe it.” Elizabeth took a deep breath. “This is what marrying the Major has done to her.”
Dickens said grimly, “I look forward to making the acquaintance of the unhappy couple. You have explained that I shall be accompanying you on your visit?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Even though she begged me to come and see her, you will recall that she implored me to say nothing in reply that might antagonize her husband, as he always insisted upon reading correspondence that she received, and she had concealed from him the very fact that she had written to me. I composed my response in terms of the utmost diplomacy, saying merely that I would call upon them while taking you around the sights of Cranford. She has always loved your writing, Charles, and I doubt whether even a bully such as the Major could easily object to our visiting them.”