Early in the morning, the sound of the groom’s horse on the drive brought me back to consciousness in a rush, yet seemed also an echo of the hoof-beats in my dream. In a flash, the events of the previous night lost their fantastic forms and paraded through my mind as black and sober as a funeral procession.
I spent that day in limbo. I had no duties. But I could not leave. Mrs Frant sent word that she would stay with the boys, and that Charlie, though recovering rapidly from his ordeal, would spend at least the morning in bed.
There was little to keep me within-doors. The silent presence in the Blue Room cast its shadow over the house. But the morning was fine and the temperature had risen a few degrees. After breakfast, I decided that as I had nothing better to do I might as well indulge my curiosity. I took the path to the lake, retracing the route we had taken the previous evening. A knot of men was standing by the door to the kitchen gardens. As I drew nearer, I recognised two under-gardeners and one of the gamekeepers.
My approach stirred them into activity. Each of them bent and seized a leg of the dead mastiff. The door to the garden was open. Immediately inside stood a sledge. Muttering curses, they hoisted the unfortunate animal on to it.
“Have you found his fellow?” I asked.
The gamekeeper turned and civilly touched his hat, which told me that news of my disgrace had not yet reached him. “Yes, sir. In the shell grotto. As dead as his brother here.”
“And for the same reason?”
“Poison,” he said flatly.
“Are you sure?”
“He had a mutton bone in there with a few grains of powder still on it. Rat poison, I’d say.”
I beckoned him aside. “Mr Harmwell and I were out last night.”
“I know, sir.” He watched the other men hauling the sledge along the path, their heavy boots slipping and sliding on the layers of snow.
“We found the dog. There was something else. As we were passing the lake, we heard a noise in the distance. Mr Harmwell thought it was a mantrap snapping shut.”
The man rubbed his unshaven chin. “He were right. One of the big ones in East Cover was sprung last night.”
“The wood beyond the lake?”
“Aye.” He spat. “That thieving bugger had the luck of the devil. The teeth caught his coat, look, tore off a piece. A few inches to the left and we’d have had his leg.”
“A poacher? And a poacher could have been responsible for poisoning the dogs?”
He looked beyond me at the little procession moving down the central path of the garden, the men’s panting breath loud in the surrounding silence and the sledge’s runners slithering on the icy ground. “Who else would it be, sir?”
“Where precisely was the mantrap set?” I asked.
He looked askance. “I told you, sir – East Cover. We got several in there, Master had them put down in the autumn, but this one was near a place we call Five Ways, where five paths meet. We move them around, though. It’s no good leaving them in the same place, is it? You’d never catch anyone that way, even those chuckle-headed numskulls from Flaxern Magna.”
I left him and walked on. East Cover, the larger of the two enclosures near the lake, lay on the right of the broad path leading to Flaxern Parva and the church. On the other side of the wood was the undulating open parkland that sloped down to the monastic ruins, with Grange Cottage on the far side. If Mrs Johnson had wanted to go by the shortest way from Grange Cottage to the mouth of the defile which led to the ice-house, then passing through the middle of East Cover might have been the best way for her to do it, assuming that she was not troubled by the thought of mantraps and armed gamekeepers. I would have liked to examine the paths in the wood and the mantrap itself, but I did not feel sufficiently intrepid to do so without a gamekeeper to guide me; and I dared not make my interest too obvious, in case Mr Carswall heard of it.
Yet there was something not quite right with this: we had been approaching the lake when we heard the clang of the mantrap closing its jaws. If the trap had been sprung by Mrs Johnson, I did not think she would have had time to come through the cover, work round the northern bank of the lake, negotiate the defile and fall to her death in the chamber of the ice-house. Had she done so, we must have heard her movements, particularly as she went up the awkward broken terrain of the defile. Moreover, we should have found traces in the snow of such a recent passage. And her body would still have been warm to the touch.
The conclusion followed inescapably: someone else had sprung the trap. I remembered the sound of hooves I had heard last night, after we had found the boys, the sound that had worked its way into my dreams. Who would be out on horseback at such a late time? The night had been moonless, the ground treacherous with snow and ice.
I approached the ice-house warily, alert to the possibility that Mr Carswall might have placed a guard on it. But there was no one in sight, and the doors stood wide open. Fumbling in the pocket of my greatcoat for the stump of my bedroom candle, I entered the passage. At once I heard the sound of stealthy movement in the chamber beyond. I tiptoed forward and looked down. The light of a lantern flickered on the domed ceiling. Harmwell stood in the pit below, lantern in hand. He must have heard something because he was looking directly at me, the whites of his eyes very bright.
“Why, Mr Shield. What brings you here?”
“A very good day to you, Mr Harmwell. I might ask you the same question.”
He waved his arm. “As you are aware, I have made a study of the construction of ice-houses. I am particularly interested in the commercial applications. Crystal-clear block ice, that is what the modern world requires –” he pointed down at the slush on the floor “– not this poor, polluted substitute dragged here from any frozen ditch, however dirty. No society can call itself truly civilised that allows ice of such degraded quality on its table.”
While he was talking, I swung myself on to the ladder and climbed down to the floor of the ice chamber. “You are a persuasive advocate, sir. But I confess I still do not understand why you are here.”
Harmwell backed away from me and leaned against the wall, affecting a nonchalance I did not think he felt. “The explanation is perfectly simple: it lies there.” He pointed at the great circular drain in the middle of the chamber. The cartwheel which served as the drain’s grid was still propped up against the chamber wall and the opening to the sump was a great black disc.
“I do not follow, sir.”
“The ice-house at Monkshill is particularly well drained – or at least it should be. The man who designed it knew what he was about.” He squatted and held the lantern over the sump. “See – this will take a crouching man with ease. And the drain that leads from it is remarkably broad. It will have several other grills, I fancy, rather finer than this wheel, to keep out rats and other undesirable invaders. You can see the first of them below, like an iron gate dividing the sump from the drain proper. As straw and other débris descend into the sump, the grills become blocked, and the melt-water backs up into the chamber itself. Hence the foulness of the air.”
“I think I recall Mrs Kerridge mentioning a shaft?”
He straightened up to his full height, and his shadow ballooned out into most of the chamber. “You are perfectly correct – a shaft, allowing access to the drain from the outside world and no doubt also serving as a vent. I understand that it is now unfortunately blocked, but the principle is sound: it permits both the drain and the sump to be periodically cleaned out, even when the ice-house is full. Such a refinement is most unusual.”
“So this should be a veritable nonpareil among ice-houses?”
“Exactly so. I had hoped to have a sight of the original plans, but Mr Noak tells me that Mr Carswall is not able to lay his hands on them.”
“I confess I had no idea there was so much to learn about the subject.”
“I hope I have not prosed on at tedious length, sir. You must forgive me – it is something of a hobbyhorse, I confess – and one day, perhaps, it may be something more: there are fortunes to be made from the manufacture and trade of ice, I believe, particularly in America.”
I crouched beside the sump. Mr Harmwell obligingly held out the lantern so its rays shone into the depths. I had no doubt whatsoever that his interest in the manufacture of ice was genuine – there was no mistaking the enthusiasm in his voice – but, as I had once observed to Mr Carswall, a man may have more than one motive for his actions. Harmwell had wished to linger in the ice-house last night, and now he had taken the first opportunity to come to it when there was nobody else there. Last night, I had assumed he wanted to search the body of Mrs Johnson: now I wondered whether his real aim had been to search the ice-house itself.
“Look,” I said. “Is not that a little recess – there, on the left?”
The effect of my words surprised me. I had spoken almost at random, to keep the conversation going, to avoid the awkwardness of a silence. Yet Harmwell immediately swung himself down into the sump. The drop was about four and a half feet. He shone the lantern at the small rectangle of shadow I indicated with my finger.
“How curious,” he said. “I had not noticed. It looks as if two of the bricks have worked loose.” He put his hand into the recess and sucked in his breath.
“What is it?”
“Yes – how – how very curious.” He withdrew the hand and brought out a small object which he proceeded to rub against his coat and then to examine in the light of the lantern. He looked up at me and once again the whites of his eyes gleamed. “Do you know, I believe it might be a ring. See for yourself.”
While Harmwell was hauling himself out of the sump, I examined the ring. I cleaned it with my handkerchief and discerned first the glitter of gold and then the sparkle of a diamond. Was it possible that the discovery had been made too easily? Had the ring been put there only a few minutes before Harmwell had pretended to find it?
My companion cleared his throat. “Perhaps Mrs Johnson dropped it?”
“Perhaps.” I knew as well as he did that this suggestion was absurd: why should Mrs Johnson drop a ring into the sump in the first place, and why should the ring bounce, fly neatly into the back of a recess, and cover itself with sludge, all in defiance of the principles of physics? “We should take it to Mr Carswall.”
“Oh yes.” Mr Harmwell bowed, as if in acknowledgement of my wisdom. “After you, sir.”
So we left the ice-house and walked briskly back towards the mansion. As we were approaching the side door, Miss Carswall came round from the front of the house.
“Mr Shield – Mr Harmwell. I trust – why, Mr Harmwell! – you are soaking!”
“It is nothing, miss. A trifling mishap.”
“We have been down to the ice-house,” I said, choosing to gloss over the fact that we had returned together but met by chance. “We made a discovery in the drain in the floor of the chamber.”
I thought it wise to share the discovery with as many people as possible. I felt in my pocket, found the ring and handed it to Miss Carswall. For the first time we saw it clearly in the broad daylight. It lay in the palm of her gloved hand, the great stone winking at us in the sunshine. Though the ring itself was of gold, the outer edge was enamelled white and delicately wrought so that it resembled a ring made of twists of ribbon rather than gold.
“It is a mourning ring,” Miss Carswall said suddenly. “See, there is writing: and look, under the stone, there is a length of hair.”
She held the ring against the light so we might see it. Beneath the diamond I glimpsed a rectangle of coarse brown hair.
“What does it say around the edge?” Harmwell asked.
Miss Carswall held it closer to her eyes and read out in a halting voice: “Amelia Jane Parker ob: 17 April 1763.”
“I know the name,” I said.
Miss Carswall looked up through her lashes at me and smiled. “Is she not buried in the church at Flaxern Parva? The Parkers had Monkshill before the Frants, I believe – she must have been one of Charlie’s forebears.”