The Truth-Seeker's Wife Read online

  I had only a faint memory of the village from my previous visit and nothing had struck me then as particularly interesting. It did have, as such places so often do, a very old church. But I’d visited that the last time. I might not be very interested in the village, but the villagers I encountered seemed fascinated by me. They probably seldom saw a strange lady walking down the street. They smiled and nodded. Their welcome helped me to overcome the ruffled feelings my meeting with the Dawlish sisters had left me with. I was pleased, too, to observe a wooden sign on the fascia of what appeared to be a general store, declared that this was also the post office. Writing to Ben was what I should be doing.

  Outside the post office was a saddled horse, the bridle held by a scruffy, tousle-headed boy in hand-me-down garments a little too large for him. I guessed the rider must be inside the building. On cue the door opened, the bell positioned above it jangled and a man walked out. He was certainly handsome, perhaps in his mid-forties, with well-tailored clothes, but without the casual manner of a man of independent means. Rather, he had a capable air about him, as if he carried practical responsibilities. To this was added a degree of wariness when he saw a strange lady standing in the street by his horse.

  I realised I was studying him, and felt myself blush because no wonder he was puzzled. He took off his hat, bowed and said, ‘Good morning, ma’am.’ His voice was educated.

  I returned the greeting and we stood a little awkwardly. The boy who held the horse’s head stared at us both with a complete absence of any interest that was more disconcerting than if he’d shown curiosity.

  ‘You are a visitor, I think, ma’am,’ the rider prompted.

  ‘Yes, indeed, I am staying at The Old Excise House, together with another lady,’ I told him.

  He relaxed and smiled broadly, ‘Then you must be, I fancy, Mrs Ross? And the other lady must be Mrs Parry. We shall meet again, ma’am! My name is Harcourt. I believe we shall be dining together this evening.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, taken aback. ‘At Sir Henry Meager’s home?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Until then, Mrs Ross.’ He set his hat firmly on his head, gave the boy who’d held the horse a small coin, remounted and, with a touch of his hand to the brim of his hat, clattered away.

  I turned and set off back to The Old Excise House. I was curious about the horseman and puzzled. Something about him had seemed familiar, but I couldn’t think what it was. Well, my curiosity would be answered later that evening.

  Passing by the cottage, I saw that the wooden seat by the road was now vacant. The sisters had either gone indoors to prepare their luncheon or they were about other business. Davy was nowhere to be seen, either. I was heartily relieved.

  On my return, I took my writing materials into the garden where I found a pretty sheltered arbour. Climbing roses twined about a wrought-iron framework, though they were only just beginning to come into flower. There was a paved floor and, standing on it, a small round table with a gaily coloured tesserae surface. I guessed the Hammets had brought that with them from Italy on one of their previous tours.

  I had promised to write Ben a full account of our adventures as our holiday progressed. But this first letter would set the tone, and I did not want to worry him. So, although I described Davy Evans and the dogcart, I made no mention of the Dawlish sisters: and certainly none of Aunt Cora’s grim prophecy.

  I had just about finished when Mrs Parry appeared, ready for the day. She wore a gown patterned with broad lilac stripes. It had trumpet-shaped sleeves reaching down to a little past the elbow, teamed with separate crisp white lawn ballooning sleeves to cover her forearms from elbows to wrist. This fashion she clearly considered holiday wear.

  She exclaimed, ‘Ah, there you are, Elizabeth! Quite hidden away. Will you not come indoors? Mrs Dennis has set out a quite delightful luncheon.’

  We went in and, sure enough, Mrs Dennis had set the table. Jessie was bringing in the soup.

  ‘And how have you been occupying yourself this morning?’ asked Mrs Parry, shaking out her napkin and studying the table with approval.

  I told her I had walked down to the village and located the post office, and that I had encountered a gentleman by the name of Harcourt, who had told me he would also be at Sir Henry’s dinner table that evening.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Mrs Parry. ‘Another landowner?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ I confessed. ‘He didn’t say. I don’t think so. He would have said. He has some other—’

  But I didn’t complete my sentence because I didn’t quite know what I did think about Harcourt.

  ‘Schoolmaster? Clergyman?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, no, neither of those.’ Of that I felt quite sure.

  Fortunately Mrs Parry lost interest in the subject.

  I did not tell her of my meeting with the black-clad sisters, or my fleeting sighting of Davy Evans. It struck me that, what with having to be careful what I told Ben, and careful what I told Mrs Parry, I would need my wits about me for the whole time we were here.

  ‘And already you are so much brighter in manner, more yourself, Elizabeth,’ she observed. ‘I knew our sojourn here would do you good.’

  I couldn’t let that pass without a mild challenge. ‘Mrs Dennis,’ I said, ‘seems to think we are to stay the full month.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mrs Parry comfortably. ‘That was what we agreed, was it not?’

  I wanted to shout that no, it wasn’t. But it would have done no good. She had convinced herself that I had agreed to stay the full month, because that is what she wanted to believe. I was so annoyed that, just for a fleeting moment, I contemplated telling her of Aunt Cora’s declaration that I had brought death with me. However Mrs Parry was not, to my knowledge, superstitious; nor was I. I said nothing. Nobody likes the bringer of bad news, and in particular they don’t want to hear that news over luncheon.

  Chapter Four

  Be careful now. Don’t make a mistake at this late stage.

  Elizabeth Martin Ross

  There is a marked difference between meeting a complete stranger unawares and meeting, for the first time, someone you are expecting to see, of whom you have been told a little.

  In the first instance, a chance meeting with strangers, such as with Aunts Tibby and Cora, one’s opinion is informed by what one sees and hears for oneself.

  In the second instance one may already have constructed a mental image. This in turn leads to certain expectations. Such was the case with Sir Henry Meager.

  I knew his name and who he was. I had met a member of his family, Andrew Beresford, five years before, and liked him. Accordingly when we set out to dine with the gentleman that evening I expected an elderly, white-haired gentleman of old-fashioned style and kindly manner. He might be corpulent from good dining and lack of exercise and, because of the gout that afflicted him, it would not have surprised me to see his bandaged foot propped on a stool.

  Married to a police detective I should have known better. ‘Expect everything and expect nothing!’ Ben had once said to me. ‘Always base your conclusions on the evidence of your own eyes and ears, and proven facts.’

  I would have done well to remember that. My first sight of Sir Henry would then have come as less of a surprise.

  But before this happened I had my first view of ‘the Hall’, as Tizard named the house, and was fascinated by it. The carriage turned into a long drive, a little neglected perhaps because the berlin, once again sent to carry us, lurched over an uneven surface. We drove between a ceremonial guard of tall elms to either side. Beyond them, someone had introduced a much more modern fashion in gardening in the shape of rhododendron bushes. Now, in late spring, they were still resplendent in their white, pink and red blooms, and seemed to float like islands on the green lawns. But if someone had tried at some point to bring the gardens up to date, no one had seen any need to touch the house itself. The drive brought us to the door of a once-splendid Elizabethan mansion, extended in Jacobean style bu
t left in peace by later Georgian fashions in architecture. That this, like the driveway, could have done with a little better maintenance did not matter. It seemed to grow so naturally from the landscape that its weatherworn exterior made it of a piece with the venerable elms. Seeing it, I now thought the rhododendrons out of place and understood that whoever had ordered their planting had realised this and abandoned any further attempt to impose the taste of the present day.

  It would be a mistake to assume from Mrs Parry’s self-indulgent appearance that she was an unobservant woman. She was not. Little escaped her sharp gaze and she, too, had taken note of the elm avenue.

  ‘When I was a girl,’ she said unexpectedly, ‘country people still held to various superstitions connected with that species of tree. Their roots lead down into the underworld, many believed, and supernatural beings were drawn to them. Fairies and so on, you know. Such nonsense, of course, but one cannot help but wonder whether here, so far from London, there are not some who still believe it.’

  I thought it quite likely hereabouts. It was the sort of tale Tibby and Cora would tell. But we had little time to observe any more. We were ushered into the house, led across a square entrance hall and shown into a long, narrow drawing room. The lower sections of the walls were oak-panelled and very dark, clearly of a date with the house. The ceiling was of stucco and painted. But two centuries of smoke from the splendid open hearth with its carved stone surround, from the gentlemen’s tobacco and from the candles that had preceded the gas lighting now installed, had discoloured the images above our heads and it was not possible to make them all out. I hoped I might get the opportunity to view this room in daylight. Family portraits adorned the walls above the wainscot, together with paintings of sailing ships of a type much less seen now in the age of steam. The air held the lingering scent of an old English country house: tobacco, fine port and dogs. The dogs had been banished for this evening, however, and there was one unexpected note of sophistication. The room contained a piano. It was not draped, as so often, in some sort of oriental shawl, and crowned with an array of photographs. These things are signs that the instrument is there as a fashionable piece of furniture only. This fine grand piano was bare and well polished. I wondered if, later, someone would be invited to play. I hope the request wouldn’t be made of me.

  A reception party of four other people awaited us. Two of them I recognised at once. One was Andrew Beresford, whom I’d met on my last visit to the area. He greeted me with a smile of genuine pleasure as he rose to his feet. I was not surprised to see him, because I already knew that his family and the Meagers were connected. There was a young woman who had been seated by him, perhaps in her late twenties, with plain but not unpleasing features. Would she be the pianist?

  The other man, who had risen to greet us, was Harcourt, whom I’d encountered that morning. He bowed and fixed me briefly with a conspiratorial look. I fancied it carried a message. It might be advisable not to admit I’d met him already. Well, if he did not wish it, I would not mention the encounter. Aunt Parry wouldn’t refer to it because she would already have forgotten what I’d told her before lunch that day. I decided that Harcourt seemed an odd person but I liked him.

  That left our host, who rose to his feet as we entered, with the aid of a cane but without other assistance. The gout was not so bad as to incapacitate him. He was of commanding aspect, a little thick in the body but not corpulent, only strongly built. I judged him in his mid-sixties. He still rejoiced in a full head of thick, iron-grey hair and splendid side whiskers, with the result that he might look a little younger than he really was. Still, he was a fine-looking man, I thought, who must once have been very handsome. If he were born around 1810, then what we saw here was a Georgian buck, still with all the dash and swagger of his youth, even leaning on a cane. I glanced at Mrs Parry and saw she was impressed.

  ‘My dear ladies!’ said Sir Henry. ‘I have the honour of receiving Mrs Parry beneath my roof, I believe? You are very welcome in my house. I am delighted you are able to dine this evening.’ He bowed in the direction of Aunt Parry.

  He stretched out his hand in a gallant gesture. Mrs Parry placed her plump little white hand on his, and he raised it gracefully to his lips. Mrs Parry, already quite pink from pleasure, now dimpled, glancing up at him beneath fluttering eyelids, and I wondered if I ought to stand by to catch her if she fainted.

  Fortunately he released her hand. He turned, leaning a little more heavily on the cane, and fixed me with a gaze that made me feel I could have no secrets from such a man. ‘And this must be Mrs Ross? You are most welcome, ma’am.’ He bowed again, a little more stiffly; there would be no kiss of the hand for me. Instead, he indicated Beresford and the young woman.

  ‘You have met my nephew, Andrew Beresford, I believe?’

  ‘Indeed, I have,’ I said. ‘On a previous visit to the area some five years ago.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to see you again, ma’am,’ said Beresford. He put his hand on the arm of the plain young woman in what struck me as a reassuring gesture. ‘May I present my wife, Agnes?’

  Well, he had not been married when I was here before. Agnes Beresford blushed and looked down. She is shy, I thought. Is it because she knows herself to be plain? Pretty girls soon get used to being the centre of attention. She is embarrassed by it. Yet she has made a good marriage and ought to have more confidence. Or is she worried about being asked to play for us after dinner?

  It only remained for the other gentleman to be introduced and Sir Henry did this now, with a somewhat casual gesture towards him. ‘My estate manager, Robert Harcourt.’

  Robert Harcourt bowed again and said, ‘I hope you will enjoy your stay in our county, ladies.’

  He didn’t smile this time, and still made no reference to our earlier meeting in the village, so neither did I. If anything, I thought he seemed a little put out. This, I thought, is why he didn’t explain himself more fully this morning. He has been invited to make up an even number and ensure that there are three ladies and three gentlemen, and he knows it. Still, estate manager was an important position and carried much responsibility.

  And so the evening began. I have often thought back to it and tried to remember everything that was said and the impressions I received. We learned early that Sir Henry was a widower. Our way into dinner led us past a number of family portraits, gathered in a display. We were invited to turn our attention to one of them. ‘My dear late wife, Madeleine.’ He added: ‘We were married only five years before her untimely death.’

  The portrait showed a young woman I judged to be in her early twenties. Her features were regular and her expression somewhat wooden. But perhaps that was the fault of the artist and not a true reflection of the sitter. Her most distinguishing feature was her hair. That had been drawn up into an elaborate wired topknot, balanced by thick bunches of glossy curls either side of her face. Either the profusion of curls or the topknot must be false, or the late Madeleine Meager had been blessed with more than the usual amount of natural hair. This way of dressing the hair, and the style of her gown, confirmed the portrait to have been done in the 1830s. Had it been for the new young wife, I wondered, that the rhododendrons had been introduced to the gardens? With her early death, had the interest in novelty been extinguished? Now they were her monument.

  ‘And have you children?’ asked Mrs Parry, after she had expressed her condolences on his early bereavement.

  ‘Sadly, ma’am, my dear Madeleine and I were not blessed with children.’

  I don’t know why at that moment I glanced towards Robert Harcourt, but I did, and caught a fleeting, angry expression on his face. Then he saw that I looked at him and he smiled at me in a friendly enough way.

  Sir Henry was drawing our attention to another portrait; that of a dashing young fellow in naval uniform, posed against a background of rocks, crashing waves and distant ships of the line. ‘My father, as a young man’, he said. Then, indicating a companion portrait, ‘And later o
n in life.’

  This second version of the late naval hero showed him with fine white whiskers, a red face and a slightly mad look in his eye.

  ‘And who are the two young boys in that painting?’ asked Mrs Parry, pointing to a smaller oil.

  ‘That, ma’am, shows my late father and his brother, Henry, in childhood. Both were sent into the navy. My Uncle Henry, after whom I was named, died of fever in the West Indies.’ Sir Henry walked on and we had perforce to follow.

  When we had settled at table, Mrs Parry took our host’s words concerning his childless marriage as a cue. She began to tell the gentlemen about her nephew, Frank Carterton, who was a Member of Parliament and at the beginning of what would surely be a distinguished career. What was more, he and his delightful wife, Patience, had just been blessed with an infant son.

  At that, Sir Henry raised his glass of wine and proposed a toast to the new arrival.

  ‘And you, Mrs Ross, have you and Mr Ross a young family perhaps?’ Harcourt asked me unexpectedly.

  ‘No, unfortunately, we do not,’ I told him.

  Sir Henry had overheard and said, rather abruptly, ‘My nephew, Beresford here, will be my heir.’

  It was difficult to tell, in such a warm room and by artificial light, but I thought Harcourt flushed and did not look best pleased for a second or two. Nor did Andrew Beresford. Suddenly, the lingering unease I had sensed in the gathering when we arrived crystallised into a something I could pinpoint. There had been some kind of dispute before Mrs Parry and I arrived. Probably Agnes Beresford had not been involved in it, but the three men certainly had.

  After dinner, we returned to the drawing room.

  ‘And will you not play something for us, Agnes, my dear?’ asked Sir Henry with a smile and a bow of the head towards Mrs Beresford.

  Agnes flushed rather pinker than the warmth of the room and the good dinner we had eaten might have accounted for. Again I saw her husband touch her arm lightly. He also turned his head to smile encouragingly at her.