A Moment Of Silence Part 9

Oh, Eliza! It is the little things that trouble me most. Things like the hiding of the dog behind my chair when Sir Edgar came out of the library; the game of football which Mrs Potter's Kate saw carrying on at Tudor House; Catherine's account of Mr Montague's headaches. And out of all these little things is building a picture which I do not like to contemplate.

You see, I know, by Mrs Holmes' account, that Mr Montague is anxious to please his father. And I think she falls short of the truth. Despite her denial, Eliza, I believe that the poor young man does indeed fear him. Because Sir Edgar is a bully. I am sure that he is a for why else would his own dog flee from him? Why else is his young footman afraid to speak to him even when he has important information to give? Why do the villagers dislike him? Yes, I make no doubt that Sir Edgar is a bully, a bully who does not like his son. Why he should have taken such a dislike to him I cannot understand, unless he perceives him as being weak. But the question that torments me is this: under such disapproval at home, what might a young man be driven to do?

And that brings me to what Catherine said yesterday when she talked of Mr Montague being at Lyme. She said something which she had not mentioned before. She said, 'When Richard goes away a as he does when he feels unwell.' Eliza, do you see what this means? Mr Montague is in the habit of absenting himself from Belsfield. Indeed, now I think of it, her ladys.h.i.+p told me as much on my first evening here. She spoke of Mr Montague's marriage fixing him at Belsfield and preventing him from wandering off. As if that was something he was in the habit of doing.

And this brings me a as I am sure you have antic.i.p.ated a to that game of football at Tudor House, which convinced the bobbing maid a and even the egregious Mrs Potter a that Mr Blacklock is only a temporary resident in Hopton Cresswell. Well, where is Mr Blacklock when he is not at Tudor House? Or, more to the point: who is he?

Is he, in fact, Richard Montague?

A young man, driven from his own home, living as much as he can in retirement, might, perhaps, form an unsuitable attachment. And if that attachment was likely to be made known to the parent he feared...

Well, Eliza, you see, no doubt, where all this is leading.

And, in support of this account, there are the undeniable facts: that the murder must have occurred while the guns were out; that the gentlemen from the house all vouch for each other during that time; and that Mr Montague might have returned to Belsfield that morning and reached the shrubbery without being seen by anyone but Mrs Holmes a whose affection for him would, no doubt, lead her to lie in order to protect him from suspicion.

I am quite sure that, despite his brave resolution, Mr Montague did not tell the full truth to his father at the ball. He left something at least unsaid a perhaps he did not mention the expected child. This incomplete account left Sir Edgar willing to forgive; but his son knew that if a when a the full truth was revealed, disinheritance would surely follow. He was in a desperate situation, in danger of losing everything. Perhaps he went away hoping to reason with the young woman, but she resisted and came to Belsfield to tell all. And he followed her...

Eliza, am I allowing my imagination to run away with me? Such an end as murder to an amour seems so very unlikely. Surely a generous payment to the woman and a sharp reprimand from Sir Edgar to his son would be less like the plot of a horrid novel and more in keeping with the manners of the modern world.

However...

Dido broke off as she heard the door open behind her and pulled the blotter across her incomplete letter. She was writing in the morning room, where she had hoped to be undisturbed at this time of day, when most of the household were already above stairs dressing for dinner, and when the sun had moved from the windows on this side of the house, leaving the room gloomy and rather chill, with a single log smouldering on a heap of fine grey ash in the grate.

She looked round and was immediately glad that she had hidden her letter, for the intruder was Tom Lomax. She hoped that he was in pursuit of the young ladies and would go away when he saw only her; but, on the contrary, he gave a slow satisfied smile, as if he had been looking for her, and lounged into the room.

'I am always suspicious,' he said as he sprawled in a chair beside her table, 'when I see a lady hiding her correspondence. I cannot help thinking that she has been broadcasting information which she ought to keep to herself.'

'Indeed? No doubt that is because of your conscience, which tells you there is information you wish to keep hidden.'

Tom frowned and sat for several minutes watching her insolently. Dido, determined not to be disconcerted, returned the stare.

He had, as she had observed before, a rather handsome face, but there was something ridiculous about the dark shadows on the sides of his cheeks that showed where he was attempting to grow fas.h.i.+onable long side-whiskers and, by the look of things, not succeeding very well in his ambition. And his small mouth turned down sourly at the corners, as if the world, like his whiskers, was disappointing him. Which, she didn't doubt it was, since it was a so far a refusing to provide him with a living for which he did not have to exert himself.

At the moment there was impatience and contempt in his pale eyes and, though she would not have confessed it, Dido was hurt by it. She found herself calculating for how long young men had looked at her in that way. Six years? Seven? Certainly no more than that. Before that she had been young. Never quite beautiful, of course, but reckoned pretty by some and never rated as less than 'a fine girl'. Then young men looked at her differently, even when they were angry with her a as they quite often were. Then there might be irritation but never, never, contempt. A young well-looking woman always had a kind of respect.

A fragile, short-lived respect, she reminded herself. And one which all too easily prevented a girl from being honest, because she was too anxious for admiration. At least when the world had branded one a 'spinster' there was a kind of freedom, a release from that overwhelming concern for others' good opinion.

'Have you something to say to me, Mr Lomax?' she demanded at last. 'Or have you only come to stare me out of countenance?'

He frowned, disconcerted by her honesty. But in a moment he had placed a cus.h.i.+on behind his head and was smiling as if he was very much at ease. 'I have come to give you a little advice.'

'That is very kind of you.'

'Yes. You see, Miss Kent, it won't do. All this poking about asking questions. It won't do at all.'

'I was not aware that I was "poking about", Mr Lomax. And as to questions a perhaps you can explain which questions of mine you dislike.'

He s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably in his seat. 'I know what you are about,' he said. 'You are trying to patch up things between d.i.c.k and Catherine.'

Offended by his familiar use of Catherine's Christian name, Dido chose not to reply.

'And that won't do at all,' he said. 'Because that affair concerns matters you don't understand. Matters no woman can understand.'

'What is it that you fear I do not understand?'

'That note,' he said, surprising her greatly.

'Oh? And which note would that be, Mr Lomax?'

'The one d.i.c.k left for Catherine.'

For a moment Dido was at a loss. Then she remembered Catherine telling her that Mr Montague's last note had been conveyed by Tom Lomax. She met his gaze with a level stare. 'But,' she said, 'you can know very little about that note. It was, after all, addressed to my niece and, since I am sure she did not show it to you, your part was only to hand it over, and you can know nothing of its contents.'

'As to that,' he said with a wave of his hand, 'if d.i.c.k had cared about me reading it, he would have sealed it.'

'So, you read what was not addressed to you?'

'Yes, yes. The point is-'

'The point,' said Dido, rising from her seat and taking up her letter, 'is that I am not willing to discuss with you information which an honourable man would not possess.' She crossed the room with what she hoped was dignity and he watched her scornfully.

'The point,' he said mockingly, 'is that that note is a complete lie. It's plain that d.i.c.k is tired of the engagement and wants to end it. So he has made up this story about being disinherited.'

Dido opened the door and stood for a moment with the bra.s.s door-k.n.o.b in her hand. Sunlight from the hall streamed into the gloomy room and with it came a lovely rippling melody from the pianoforte across in the drawing room. 'Of that,' she said coldly, 'you can have no proof at all.'

'Oh, I have proof! Proof that would be plain to any man. Only a woman could be blind enough to believe what was in that note.'

Dido hesitated in the doorway. Her pride and her anger urged her to walk on and yet her curiosity was all for staying. To ask a question now would have all the appearance of inconsistency a and yet she could not prevent herself.

'What then,' she said quietly, her back still turned to him, 'is this proof?'

He did not answer. She turned back and saw him lounging still in the chair, his hands folded behind his head and his long legs stretched across the Turkey carpet. He smiled at her. 'd.i.c.k can't be disinherited,' he said. 'The old man might want to do it, but he can't.'

'I beg your pardon?' She took hold of the back of a chair to steady herself. 'I do not understand you.'

'No, women never do understand inheritance. But you don't need to believe me, Miss Kent. Ask any man in the house. Ask Harris. Or ask my father. They will all tell you the same. The whole of the Belsfield estate is entailed on the next male heir. It must pa.s.s to d.i.c.k when the old fellow dies. The terms of the settlement are quite clear. No one can stop him inheriting.'

'But...' Dido struggled for both understanding and dignity. 'If there was a serious disagreement between Mr Montague and Sir Edgar...'

'It would make no manner of difference. My dear Miss Kent, d.i.c.k could spit in the old man's face at dinner and he'd still inherit everything.'

'Perhaps he would inherit on his father's death. But in the meantime, without his father's goodwill, he would be penniless.'

'Again, you are arguing like a woman. A man with d.i.c.k's prospects is never penniless. He could borrow against his expectations and live very comfortably until the old man pops off.'

For a moment confusion threatened to overwhelm her and it was nothing but her determination not to show weakness in front of him that kept her on her feet. He was watching her, cruelly eager for any sign of pain on her face.

'So you see,' he said. 'All this "I have nothing to offer you and it is only right that I should release you from our engagement" is nothing but hog-wash. The truth is, he's tired of the girl and wants rid of her. In fact, I don't believe he was ever wholeheartedly in favour of the match at all. It's the old man that's got his heart set on it.'

Hot blood ran to Dido's cheeks at the insult. 'I wonder,' she said, 'what your motive can be, Mr Lomax, in telling me this?'

He rose slowly from his chair and bowed to her. 'I merely wish to be of service to you, Miss Kent. I mean to put you on your guard. It is very unwise of you to keep asking questions which can only result in the truth coming out and dear Catherine being very badly hurt by it.'

And with that he strode past her and crossed the hall to the billiard room, whistling as he went.

Left alone, Dido sank down into a chair as if the life-force had been drained out of her. It was impossible to know exactly what to think; but every possible thought was unpleasant and the clearest of them all was that if Tom had spoken the truth about the settlement of the estate, then it changed everything.

Chapter Twelve.

Dido was miserable.

She had struggled for some time over Tom Lomax's a.s.sertion that the Belsfield estate was entailed, reasoning that it could not be true. She would not believe that Catherine could have been so deceived. Surely she had properly understood the expectations of the young man before the engagement was formed.

But she could not comfort herself with that thought for very long before honesty forced her to admit it as all too possible that Catherine's exaggerated notions of disinterested love had prevented her from even asking about such things.

However, she did continue to cherish a hope that Tom might be lying a for she had very little reason to suppose him honourable or truthful a until she made enquiries, in roundabout terms, of his father one evening as they were sitting together by the fire. And he confirmed Tom's account exactly.

Her disappointment must have shown on her face, for he immediately asked what was amiss. 'I am sorry if I have said anything to make you uncomfortable.'

'Oh no,' she said quickly. 'I am quite comfortable, thank you.'

And, despite her worry over the entail, that was true. At that moment she was comfortable. She and William Lomax had by now fallen quite into the habit of conversing companionably by the hearth while the others played at cards. It had come to be Dido's favourite part of every day. He was a very pleasant companion: clever and full of information and yet always ready to listen in his turn, and so quick in understanding her strange comments and observations as to make her feel that she too was clever a which is always the greatest recommendation in a companion.

She felt quite resentful of Sir Edgar when business of his took Mr Lomax away to the library after tea and left her to spend her time reading a or rather sitting with a volume open before her while she stared blankly at the page and listened for the opening of the library door.

And then, on the very evening that he explained the entail to her, Mr Lomax informed her a with a very pleasing degree of regret a that he would be leaving early on business the next morning and expected to be away from Belsfield for several days.

Dido was very miserable. There was no one else in the house whose society afforded her so much pleasure. And her enquiries into Mr Montague's disappearance had, after a rather promising beginning, come to nothing and left her surrounded by questions which she could not answer.

And there was, in addition to all this, a suspicion that she was being excessively foolish; a suspicion that there were truths, not only staring her in the face, but actually crying out at her to notice them, shrieking at her a and laughing at her behind her back for her stupidity.

She was sitting in the gallery one morning, meditating upon all this and attempting to establish exactly what she knew and what she could surmise. The sum total was not very promising.

If Tom Lomax was to be believed then the scene in the ballroom was nothing but a pretence, a kind of elaborate charade enacted to deceive Catherine. But if that was so, she could not understand why the charade should have been played so badly. Pollard might only be a friend of Mr Montague's impressed into the scene, but why had he played his part so badly? Why had he not spoken? An appearance of conversation had been necessary to make the charade believable a and yet he said nothing.

No, even though she was forced to believe Tom about the entail, she could not believe the conclusion he had drawn. Mr Montague had not set out to deceive Catherine. It was, after all, a lie which could easily be detected, for it seemed everyone in the house knew about the settlement of the estate.

But that only left the possibility that Mr Montague had told the truth when he said that he was a poor man. And how could that be? Since even if Sir Edgar was a bully who had no affection for his son, he could not disinherit him.

It made no sense at all a or else she was too stupid to understand the sense that it made.

It was while she was in this state of despair that a letter was delivered to her. And its contents did nothing to raise her spirits. It was from her sister and had been written two days ago.

Dearest Dido, I take up my pen with a heavy heart, for I know you will not like to read what I know I must write and I cannot remember when I have ever written to you before without being sure that you will welcome my letter.

Dearest, are you not being as blind as poor Catherine? You are so very tender-hearted, for all your pretence of being satirical, that I fear you are failing to see guilt where it is most obvious. It is quite natural that you should do so, of course, for it seems to me that the guilty man is particularly plausible and charming. And I do not mean to set up my opinion against yours, nor pretend to possess your quickness of mind, but it may be that some things are seen clearer at a distance.

To own the truth, I distrust your Mr Lomax. I mean Mr Lomax senior, not the son, who, by your own account, you do not trust, and very rightly I am sure. Though he is, of course, still very young and it is to be hoped that he may turn out well in the end. Oh dear, I am getting quite off the point, but one should always try to think the best of one's fellow creatures, which makes it all the harder to say what I am quite determined to say a even though you may be as angry with me in the end as Catherine is with you.

Dearest, have you considered the possibility of Mr Lomax's guilt? I know that it is very difficult to do so. But we have to believe that someone is guilty. Unless it is possible that the poor woman died through some terrible accident. Has that possibility been properly considered? I think that it should be.

But to return to Mr Lomax. If we have to think someone a killer, then why not him? We have reason to suppose him an adulterer. Now, maybe it is to Tudor House that his carriage conveys her ladys.h.i.+p. Perhaps that is the purpose of that establishment. Perhaps Mr Blacklock is not Richard Montague, but William Lomax. After all, Mr Lomax is not always at Belsfield. Do you know where he resides when he is not in his employer's house?

Do you not see how likely all this is? I have been thinking about it a great deal. Mr Montague, you see, discovered what was carrying on. That was the family shame that he wrote of in his letter. The visitor to Tudor House, Mr Pollard, who was probably, by some coincidence, a friend of Mr Montague's, informed him (I mean Mr Montague) of it at the ball and he immediately told his father about it.

Now, in order to preserve the honour of the family a for you tell me that nothing is of greater consequence with Sir Edgar than the honour of the family a he was all for smoothing matters over and covering up the business. But Mr Montague is moral and religious a for I cannot believe that dear Catherine, for all her little faults, would attach herself to a man who was not moral and religious a and he quarrelled with his father over this matter. Mr Montague left the house a perhaps he went with his friend to Tudor House a yes, I think that he must have done, because that is how Miss Wallis a who was, of course, Mr Lomax's housekeeper a discovered that the lady who came regularly to visit her master was none other than Lady Montague. And so she pursued Mr Lomax to Belsfield, threatening, no doubt, to expose him unless he paid her a considerable sum.

And he killed her. Though I don't doubt that the poor man is very sorry for it now...

Dido dropped the letter into her lap and stared along the polished length of the gallery, momentarily overwhelmed by such a variety of emotions that she did not exactly know what she felt.

There was anger at her sister for suggesting such an unlikely course of events. But the anger was not lasting. Eliza was not the sort of woman one could be angry with for long and soon Dido was more inclined to smile over the sorry conflict that there was in the letter between natural good nature and a desire to try her hand at mystery solving. And then, when she reread the letter, she found that, fanciful though much of it was, there was a small kernel of sense in it.

It was, she realised with shame, very true that she had not considered properly the likelihood of Mr Lomax's guilt. She had not considered it because a and there was no escaping this horrible truth a because he was a very charming man and she was foolish, foolish in a way that she should have left behind her when she gave up curling her hair and began to sit out dances in the ballroom.

Well, she thought with determination, I shall consider the matter now. But still she found that she was strongly inclined to argue against the suggestion. She could not help it. To clear her mind she drew a pencil from her pocket and noted down on the cover of the letter her arguments against Eliza. They consisted of: There is no appearance of affection between Mr Lomax and her ladys.h.i.+p. I have observed them closely and they do not exchange more than the simplest civilities with one another.

The other gentlemen swear that Mr Lomax did not leave the shooting party.

How did Mr Pollard convey the information of Mr Lomax's adultery without saying a word?

She read through what she had written and found it singularly unconvincing. Points two and three could, of course, be argued with equal force against the guilt of any other member of the household. Nor would point one stand up to examination, for the show of indifference between the couple was entirely consistent with a guilty, clandestine affection.

So she wrote down everything she could think of that supported Eliza's position.

Gossip about her ladys.h.i.+p.

Catherine's observation of her ladys.h.i.+p going out in Mr Lomax's carriage.

Her ladys.h.i.+p's medicine.

Mr Lomax has a post-chaise with yellow wheels a like the one which visits Tudor House.

Well, she thought looking over the list, it is hardly enough to convict a man.

She sighed and pa.s.sed a weary hand across her face. Relieved, in spite of herself, that she did not have to suspect Mr Lomax so very much.

The problem was that there was still a great deal that she did not understand. There seemed to be so much afoot a so much amiss a at Belsfield that one scarcely knew who to trust and who to suspect. As Annie Holmes had said, every family has its secrets. But there was no denying that the Montagues of Belsfield Hall seemed to have more secrets than most.

Dido stared along the ranks of old Sir Edgars and all the Annes and Elizabeths and Marys that they had married. The autumn sun, s.h.i.+ning in through the window, was warm upon the nape of her neck; dust-motes floated in its light and a warm, pleasant scent of beeswax rose from the polished floor.