Early next morning I retired to my office to find a plausible reason for having summoned George so urgently. After a struggle, I managed to jam one of the drawers of the rent-table sufficiently tightly, trying to ignore the fact he looked askance at me as he reached amongst his tools.
As he worked I was profoundly aware of the pace – no, the rhythm – that the House demanded of its denizens. All around young men and women were driven by the requirements of others, whether their demands were justified or not. With only her ladyship in residence, why should all the main rooms be dusted and swept and polished? Why should such a fine array of produce be transformed into miraculous treats that her ladyship might simply dismiss? In fact, of course, Beatrice Arden broke many unspoken rules in giving the delicacies to the servants; many also went to ailing pensioners dotted around the estate, or to sick employees. The charitable errands around the estate were, of course, usually the province of the lady of the house, but here were entirely Harriet’s responsibility – at first I had resented them on her behalf, but now I saw them as a golden opportunity to spend time with her, as our paths accidentally crossed.
I knew that she herself was slightly going against the daily rhythm: she was conducting a quite spurious check of the linen room, and then would sally round the various bedchambers in search of the items she had ‘discovered’ were missing. Much as I ached to go and protect her, I knew that while no one should be alarmed by the prosaic sight of a quiet woman going about her daily round, my very presence might indeed alert someone to her presence. I suspected too that the very thought that she might need to be looked after would be anathema to her.
After five minutes, no more, George was packing his tools away. Even before I could offer possibly shamefaced thanks, there was a knock on the door. It was Thatcher, to say that coffee was ready.
‘Excellent. In here, Thatcher. Enough for George, too, if you please.’ I might smile at him, but I was beginning to wonder if the young man might not be becoming slightly too assiduous in his attentions. Was he just being a good servant or was he too interested in garnering information. If so, for whom?
George didn’t relish the coffee, adding spoon upon spoon of sugar to it, and making it as milky as possible. He seemed very preoccupied as he stirred the pale sweet mixture. ‘Gaffer, I hope you won’t take it amiss, but I had a strange fancy you might want me to break into that locked room when you summoned me so promptly.’
Another smile, though I was inwardly cursing. ‘You have my word, George, that if I did I would not ask you in front of a whole table of interested ears.’
I swear he rubbed his hands in glee. ‘So would we be using a code, like, gaffer?’
‘If and when it becomes necessary, I’ll try to devise one. Now, how is the work on the roof going in this lovely weather?’
‘I could take you up now if you’ve a mind to see.’
I did have a mind to see. It was important for me to be seen wherever important work was taking place. Furthermore, it would keep my mind from Harriet’s activities.
The sheer bulk of the building meant that the activity above their heads was hardly noticeable to most of the inhabitants. When the roof above the servants’ bedrooms was repaired, it would be different – but then, the people making the noise worked far shorter hours than their domestic counterparts. Yes, even when only one of the Family was in residence.
George was pointing. ‘We’ve patched here, but you can see the whole of that section has to be replaced. Look at those cracks: if we skimp now it’ll last a winter, maybe two, but no longer. Best bite on the bullet, I’d say.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. Let me have an estimate and I’ll discuss it with his lordship,’ I said automatically.
‘If he ever turns up,’ George grunted. ‘I hear Elias and his gaffer were sniffing round looking for him – is that right?’
‘They certainly came to talk to her ladyship, but I wasn’t privy to their conversation. Come on, George, you know I can’t comment.’ My change of tone was rewarded with a comradely grin. ‘Now, how long do you think this wonderful weather will last? It’d be good to make the place waterproof while we have the chance.’
‘So do you want an estimate or not?’
‘Of course. An estimate. In round terms. On my desk by the end of the day.’
He looked at me sideways. ‘Very round, then. And when will I get your round answer?’
I used my most pompous voice: ‘I am a very busy man, George – so probably not until eight tomorrow morning,’ I added, clapping him on the shoulder.
Much as I would have liked to go down for coffee in the servants’ hall and thence, of course, the Room, I had already arranged meetings with some of our tenant farmers to discuss improvements I thought were vital and they were inclined to dismiss as new-fangled. I could see from the last few years of their returns that they could well afford them, and could simply have told them to follow my instructions. But in my experience no farmer liked being bullocked into changes: somehow I needed to gain their support. With luck they would all leave my office convinced that they had had the innovatory ideas themselves – even if it took me the rest of the morning. I also needed to send a note down to the rectory to ask if Mr Pounceman was well enough for the meeting I proposed for this afternoon on the plans for Stammerton.
At last it was time to foregather for the midday meal. I found the Trappist regime irksome, but could not, in any case, have spoken to Mrs Faulkner about her morning. In the heat no one wanted to eat much, but seemed to dawdle all the more as they picked at their plates. Eventually, however, Mrs Faulkner gave the signal that the meal was over.
Bowman shut the door behind us with exaggerated care. He even looked askance at the window, opened to its widest point to encourage at least a breath of air, but Harriet shook her head. ‘I don’t want anyone else fainting,’ she said. ‘We’ve had our fill of that this morning, haven’t we, Beatrice!’
Bowman said quickly, ‘Not another child like Maggie in the family way!’
Beatrice shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Dorcas has always been a fainter. And she assures me, quite vehemently, that she wouldn’t let any young man touch her. On the other hand, as I was quick to remind her, sometimes young men don’t wait for permission, and I’d want to know if anyone had … interfered … with her. And that he’d be dealt with. No matter who. Am I right, Matthew?’
What about our little pact about secrecy? It seemed the women had changed their minds. If they had, it was not for me to argue. ‘If it is in my power, of course,’ I said.
‘What if it isn’t?’ Harriet asked, a strange tone in her voice. ‘What then?’
‘Then one hopes it’s in the law’s power,’ Beatrice said.
Samuel nodded, but his face was troubled. ‘What makes you ask that, Harriet?’
‘Something I found this morning.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps you should close the window after all, Matthew. Just for a few moments. I’m sorry.’ There was a long pause, even after I’d completed the trivial task. ‘As you know, I was looking for an excuse this morning to unlock that dressing room. I did indeed find that sheets were missing from the linen room, quite a number, in fact, so my errand was legitimate.’ She paused, swallowing hard. ‘It seems that the linen was not put in a laundry basket, but left in that room. I have no explanation. I’ve left everything where it was. There is blood on three or four of them, and … stains … on all of them.’ Her face burned. ‘Our chambermaids, our laundrymaids, would easily identify the origin of these stains. They deal with them regularly when we have a house party. Married couples.’
‘So why would these not have reached the laundry?’ Bowman asked, apparently deciding that the best way to deal with her obvious embarrassment was to draw attention to the cause.
‘Because we had no married couples in residence, of course,’ Beatrice Arden said tartly.
‘The blood would indicate …?’ I too was embarrassed. ‘That the woman sharing the bed was … might be losing her virginity?’
‘Or might simply be enduring her monthly cycle,’ Beatrice said.
I tried to lift the atmosphere. ‘But let us not get trapped in unlovely details. The fact that these sheets were concealed suggests that someone did not want their activity to be discovered.’
‘Or,’ said Harriet, lifting her head and straightening her shoulders, ‘they were kept for another reason. You see, I found something else. That shelf that wasn’t as deep as the others: I prised the back panel away.’ She patted the scissors on her chatelaine. ‘I apologize in advance to you all. This is deeply embarrassing. You know the specimen cases that some ladies and gentlemen use for small items in their cabinets of treasures? Precious stones? Butterflies? There is a box like that behind the panel I removed. I cannot believe I am saying this in mixed company. But if I asked you all to go and look for yourselves, it might … draw attention.’ She swallowed hard.
I moved to support her, but Beatrice was there before me, taking her hand.
She smiled her thanks, and, though crimson from the neck upwards, continued. ‘Many of the sections of the specimen case are empty. But some are occupied by curls … by hair.’ It was clear she could not continue.
How could I help? ‘Can it be,’ I heard myself asking, ‘that this hair is not from the head?’
‘Exactly. Which is why,’ she said, ‘I wondered if the sheets were … were trophies – of sexual conquest.’ She got up and opened the window, leaning her forehead against the frame. Then she closed it again. ‘One of the victims of such an … one of the victims might be Maggie.’
Bowman spluttered, his face so suffused with blood I feared he was ill. He reached in his pocket, producing a hip flask. But he didn’t drink himself – instead he poured a generous measure into Harriet’s cup. Her hand shook so much that Beatrice had to help her raise it to her lips.
Appalled that the women had had to utter such words, let alone be privy to the shocking and scandalous information, I said quietly, ‘Perhaps you would prefer to resume this conversation when you are feeling better, Harriet. We shall all be better, I fancy, for a period of quiet reflection.’
She lifted her head, smiling bravely. ‘Perhaps you are right. I need to order my thoughts, which are whirling like dervishes. Why, oh why, did none of the girls confide in me?’
I thought of the expression I had seen in Mrs Billings’ eyes when I had questioned her. ‘Fear,’ I said. ‘Fear of someone with power.’