Miss Carswall carried us with her into the house and took us not into the library where Mr Carswall sat but into the parlour. Mrs Lee was dozing by the fire and Sophie was reading to the boys, who were spending the day unwillingly in the rôle of invalids.
“Such excitement, my love!” Miss Carswall cried. “Mr Harmwell and Mr Shield have found a ring in the ice-house. It is a mourning ring for Amelia Parker. We believe she must have been one of Henry’s ancestors.”
For a moment the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the mantel. The colour fled from Sophie’s cheek, and her bosom rose and fell.
“Treasure!” Edgar burst out in a piercing whisper to Charlie. “There – what did I say?”
Miss Carswall thrust the ring at Sophie. “So pretty,” she went on, seemingly unaware of the awkwardness she had caused, “but so morbid, too, and the diamond is cut in that dull, antique way, and the setting is dreadfully old-fashioned. Have you seen it before?”
Sophie looked up, her face pale but composed. “No. But I know who Amelia Parker was. Her daughter married Charlie’s grandpapa, which was how Monkshill came to the Frants.”
Charlie leaned on the arm of his mother’s chair and she allowed him to take the ring. “Mama? Will it be ours?”
“I doubt it, dearest – mourning rings are often made for a person’s family and friends – sometimes a dozen or more. There’s no reason why we should have a right to this one.”
He dropped it on the palm of his mother’s hand. “But she was my family.”
“What a pity Sir George and the Captain are not still here,” Miss Carswall said. “We might have asked them if they had seen it before. Still, I am sure they will be back after they have inspected Grange Cottage.”
“In the meantime, should we give it to Mr Carswall?” I said.
Miss Carswall glanced at me. “Indeed, you are right, Mr Shield. I wonder if poor Mrs Johnson dropped it in her last moments. But that is by the by. In itself, it must be a ring of some considerable value, for the stone alone, and Papa should see it. But first I shall make a note of the inscription – I am sure Sir George will be interested.” She sat at the table, took pencil and paper and began to make a copy of the words. The point of her pencil broke. “Oh! How vexing!”
“Allow me to sharpen it for you,” I said.
She watched with flattering interest as I trimmed the point with my penknife. Afterwards, she asked me to check the accuracy of what she had written. Having thanked me prettily, she fluttered out of the room.
“Sir George and Captain Ruispidge have conferred with Mr Carswall,” Sophie said quietly. “They have also seen their unfortunate cousin. Now they have ridden to Flaxern.”
“They mean to return today?”
“After they have called at Grange Cottage, they will come back through the park.”
A moment later Miss Carswall reappeared and said that her father wished to see Mr Harmwell. The boys scampered out of the room in his wake, leaving me alone with the three ladies.
“Such a pretty stone,” Miss Carswall said. “One could always have it re-cut and re-set. By the by, Mr Shield, I find that you have fallen out of favour with my father.”
I bowed. “I regret to say that I have unintentionally offended him.”
“Oh.” She waited for me to continue, though she must have known how I had offended him and how delicate the matter was. When I remained silent, she glanced from me to Sophie and then back again. “Should you like me to speak to him?”
“You are very good, Miss Carswall, but I do not think it would answer. Besides, perhaps Mr Carswall is in the right of it: it is better that I leave.”
Sophie looked up. “When are you going?”
“I was to leave this morning but the death of Mrs Johnson has made it necessary to postpone my departure.”
“I wish –” she began; but I was never to know what she wished because at that moment the door opened and there was Mr Carswall himself.
“Shield,” he said. “A word with you.” He beckoned me into the hall and then into the library. “Close the door. Harmwell tells me it was he who actually put his hand on the ring, but it was you who saw the hiding place beforehand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He said you chanced to meet in the ice-house, and that he is interested in the construction of such buildings, and that was why he was there: is that correct?”
“That is what he told me. I cannot express an opinion as to the truth of what he said.”
Carswall grunted. “Sir George may need to see you: you must stay within-doors for the rest of the day. You will not dine with us, by the by. You may go.”
I opened the door to pass out of the room. But he called me back.
He lowered his head and glared at me through tangled eyebrows. “I hold you directly responsible for the boys’ imprudent escapade last night. It might have led to serious injury, if not worse. I shall inform Mr Bransby so.”
What he said was clearly audible to everyone in the hall, to Harmwell and both the footmen. I did not attempt to rebut so unfair a charge because I knew it would serve no purpose. Instead, I bowed again and closed the door on that cruel, fleshy face.
I avoided meeting Harmwell’s eyes. I went up to the schoolroom. On the way I caught the boys kneeling beside the door of the Blue Room, with Charlie peering through the keyhole while Edgar kept up a running commentary.
“No, you great booby, look to the left and you can see the corner of the bed, and there’s a bit of black cloth, which I think might be her –”
He broke off, turned his head and saw me. Both boys leapt to their feet.
“Are we – are we to have lessons today?” Charlie inquired.
“No, I believe not.” I realised that no one had thought to tell them that they would never have lessons in this house from me again. “In fact, I shall soon be leaving you.”
“You return to Mr Bransby’s, sir?” asked Edgar.
“Probably.” Though for how long, I dared not guess. “You are to remain here, Edgar, at least for the time being – Mr Carswall will write Mr Allan. So, unless Mr Carswall finds you another tutor, you will have to run wild for the next fortnight.”
Boys are strange creatures. They stared up at me in silence for a moment, their faces curiously similar, in expression as well as feature. Then, without a word, they turned and ran along the landing.
Dusk came earlier than usual that afternoon, the colours and shapes fading steadily as though a shadowy mist were creeping through the house in search of someone or something. More than once I found myself wondering whether they had lit a lamp in the room where Mrs Johnson lay.
I spent the rest of the day beside a small fire in the schoolroom. By now, news of my disgrace had spread far and wide. I had half expected the servants to rejoice in my downfall but to my surprise they seemed almost sorry at the prospect of losing me. The housekeeper arranged for my spare shirt to be washed and ironed. The little maid who saw to the schoolroom offered to brush and sponge my outdoor clothes, which had suffered from the adventures of the morning and the previous night.
During the afternoon I heard the bustle of arrivals below. Sir George and Captain Ruispidge had returned. The girl who took my clothes told me that the brothers were to dine at Monkshill and spend the night. She also had a message for me from Pratt the footman, now grown too grand to run errands to a mere tutor himself: a groom would take me into Gloucester in the morning; the gig used by the servants was ordered for eight o’clock. From this I deduced that Sir George, in his capacity as a magistrate, saw no legal reason why I should be detained any longer.
I dined early with Mr Harmwell. He was reluctant to talk about recent events and spent most of the meal sunk in thought. Afterwards he shook hands with me and said that he and his master would soon be leaving Monkshill themselves.
“Do you go to South Wales?” I asked.
“I believe Mr Noak has changed his plans. We shall probably travel back to London.” He gave me an unexpected smile. “How I long to return to America.”
We bade each other Godspeed. I returned to the schoolroom and tried to read. In a short while, the maid brought up my clean shirt.
“Please, sir,” she said, stumbling over her words and blushing, “but Mr Pratt says he saw your penknife in the parlour.”
The girl was not allowed to enter the parlour herself, but I wished Pratt had had the kindness to give her the knife so that she could return it to me. I had left it on the table after sharpening Miss Carswall’s pencil.
I waited until the family had gone into dinner and went downstairs again. I slipped into the familiar room feeling almost like a thief. Though it was empty, a fire burned brightly in the grate, and candles were alight in the wall sconces.
I found my knife and was about to go when I noticed on the table beside it, lying in a little enamelled dish, the mourning ring we had discovered earlier in the day. I was surprised at Carswall’s carelessness. I picked it up for a moment and held it to the flame of the nearest candle. The lock of Amelia Parker’s hair was a black smudge behind the diamond. I had no taste for the preservation of mementoes of the dead. But I could not help wondering about Henry Frant’s grandmother who had lived at Monkshill sixty years before.
I returned the ring to the dish. As I crossed the hall to the stairs, I heard the bray of Carswall’s laughter from the dining room. The boys, jigging from foot to foot in their excitement, were waiting for me in the schoolroom. They burst into speech as soon as they saw me.
“We regret that you are leaving us, sir –” Charlie began.
“– and we would be grateful if you would do us the honour –” Edgar interrupted.
“– of accepting this small keepsake, as a token of our esteem –”
“– and gratitude.”
Charlie held out a large red handkerchief with white spots. It had been washed, ironed and folded into a neat square.
“I hope you do not mind our giving you something, sir,” he said. “We were concerned in case it was not quite the thing. But Mama said it would be perfectly proper.”
I bowed. “Then I am quite sure it is.”
The gift unexpectedly stirred my emotions. The boys explained that such a handkerchief had many purposes. Worn round the neck, Edgar told me, it would give me the appearance of being a bang-up sporting cove, even a coachman. Alternatively, Charlie pointed out, I might wrap my bread and cheese in it, or use it as a napkin at table, or perhaps blow my nose on it. Suddenly embarrassed, they made the implausible excuse that it was bedtime, and left me in an undignified hurry.
I sat on. My belongings were already packed. I passed the time by drawing up a memorandum of the events that had taken place during my stay at Monkshill-park, and in particular those of the last few days. I wrote in my pocketbook for nearly an hour, interrupted only by the maid bringing back my brushed clothes. I was thus engaged, sitting at a small table drawn almost on top of the fire and writing by the light of a single candle, when there came a tap on the door.
Miss Carswall entered, wearing a black gown out of courtesy for Mrs Johnson, or rather for Sir George whose cousin she had been, and with a grey cashmere shawl draped becomingly over her shoulders. I sprang to my feet. Her boldness astonished me.
“My father says you leave us early in the morning,” she said. “I hope I do not disturb you, but I wished to say goodbye.”
I set a chair for her by the fire and she sat down with a rustle, the movement sending a waft of her perfume to my nostrils. I wondered if she had learned the reason for my dismissal.
“The gentlemen are still at their wine,” she said. “We have been talking all evening about this sad affair with Mrs Johnson. I wish you had not been obliged to discover her last night. It must have been truly frightful.”
I acknowledged her consideration with a bow.
“Pray sit down, Mr Shield.” Miss Carswall indicated the chair I had just vacated. “Yes, a terrible accident. Sir George says she may have been drunk, too.” She broke off, her hand flying to her mouth, and her eyes fixed on my face. “Oh, I should not have said that, I’m sure. Sometimes I have only to open my mouth for the most wildly indiscreet things to fly out.”
“I had heard something of the sort before, so you have not betrayed a confidence.”
“You had heard it?” She sounded disappointed. “It is common knowledge?”
“That I cannot tell you, Miss Carswall.”
“They say she drank too much because she was unhappy. By all accounts Lieutenant Johnson is a poor fish.”
I nodded, and Miss Carswall smiled. Our chairs were scarcely two feet apart. The room was lit only by the feeble glow of the fire and the single candle on the table. The circumstances created the illusion of privacy that perhaps encouraged her to regale me with servants’ gossip. It is true that there was a streak of vulgarity in her a yard wide but it was part of her charm: she would not trouble to affect a sensibility she did not feel.
“There was a brandy flask in the pocket of her coat. Did you know she was wearing her husband’s clothes? No doubt it was eminently practical on so cold a night, but so shockingly immodest! I cannot understand how she could have borne to do it.” Miss Carswall’s eyes sparkled with reflected fire from the candle. “A most unusual sensation, I should imagine,” she added in a low voice. “Still, we may depend on it, the Coroner will not make too much of it. Sir George will see to that.”
“So what will the verdict be?”
“That the unfortunate lady died by accident. What other verdict can there be? She was ill – quite possibly feverish – her mind unsettled by her husband’s long absence – and no doubt lonely, too, in the cottage because her servant was not there. So she took advantage of Papa’s kind invitation to walk in the park, but dusk fell early and caught her unawares; and then the snow began, and she took shelter in the ice-house, which was standing open after the men had left. Alas, she blundered in, not knowing her way, and plunged straight into the empty pit of the chamber. How terrible! And then, by the most unfortunate chance, the side of her head struck that great iron grating. Sir George says that was the blow that killed her. Or so Mr Yatton told him – he is the surgeon from Flaxern.”
“And the mastiffs, Miss Carswall?”
She opened her eyes very wide. “Hush! Papa has given out that it was poachers from the village. That’s all my eye, as the servants say. You must not tell a living soul but Sir George and Captain Ruispidge found a great quantity of arsenic in the larder at Grange Cottage.”
“They believe Mrs Johnson poisoned the dogs?”
“I know it is hard to credit, but who else could it have been?”
“Why should she do such a thing?”
“Because she wished to walk in the park at night when the dogs were loose, and they would not let her. It is agreed that the circumstance will not be mentioned at the inquest, it would be too unkind. Sir George believes that she nursed an inveterate and wholly irrational hatred for my father. She – she held him to some degree responsible for the ruin of Mr Frant.” She hesitated. “You are familiar with that aspect of the matter?”
I nodded. “I understand Mrs Johnson and Mr Frant had been childhood sweethearts.”
Her voice had been becoming quieter and quieter, but now she had dropped it to a thrilling whisper. “It was the ruling passion of her life. Mrs Lee says she never got over him. The ring confirms it, of course. Mr Frant must have given it to her when they were young, as a love token. Sophie had never seen it.”
“I still do not understand why she found it necessary to go into the park.”
“Who can tell what disordered fancies filled the poor woman’s brain? For all we know, she meant to murder us all in our beds. Sir George is in the right of it, do you not think? It is the kindest thing for everyone, including Mrs Johnson and indeed the poor Lieutenant, to say that her death was nothing more than a dreadful accident. Which of course is all it was, leaving aside the question of her motives for being there.”
She looked at me and smiled brightly – and she had a smile that would charm the Grand Inquisitor himself. I thought I knew what she was at. Mrs Johnson’s death at Monkshill-park was bad enough, and could not be concealed, but Miss Carswall did not want any more scandal to cast a blight upon her forthcoming nuptials. This evening she had set out to ensure I understood her position: and that was the purpose of her visit. For all her appearance of candour, she had told me very little I did not already know or guess.
Miss Carswall stood up. “And now I must leave you. In a moment, the gentlemen will be wanting their coffee.” She took something from a reticule she carried over her arm. “I beg of you, Mr Shield, do not be offended, but I think my father has his head so full of other matters that he may not have considered your expenses.”
“Miss Carswall, I –”
She waved aside my attempts at protest. “Pray consider it a loan. I would like to think of you travelling back to town in some comfort. It is such an inhospitable time of year for a journey.”
She held out a five-pound note and would not allow me to refuse it. I did not protest so very much, because I had scarcely any ready money at Monkshill. But it felt like a bribe or a payment, a transaction to be entered in her account book.
“Well, goodbye, Mr Shield. I hope we shall meet again.”
As I took her hand, she came a step closer, raised herself on tiptoe and kissed my cheek.
“There,” she said, smiling at my confusion. “Consider that a payment of interest on my loan.”
Miss Carswall turned and waited for me to open the door. I stood in the doorway and watched her walking along the landing to the head of the stairs. Her hips swung as she moved, a fluid, graceful motion that reminded me of a snake I had seen at a fair, swaying to the flute of his Hindoo master.
But we were not alone. Sophie was at the other end of the landing, in the doorway of the room the boys shared, and her eyes were fixed on my face.