Authors: Caro Peacock
Daniel caught my eye and nodded towards the door.
‘You are a woman of spirit, Mrs Martley. Would you excuse us, we must leave you for a while.’
‘Will the fat devil come and find me?’
‘Miss Lane won’t be far away,’ Daniel said reassuringly. ‘She might even be able to find you a pot of tea and something to eat.’
He and I went down together to the landing outside the maids’ dormitory.
‘Do you believe her?’ I asked him.
‘I do, poor woman. I can see why your father decided to help her. I only wish he’d told us about it.’
So did I, but I couldn’t afford to think about it now.
‘Lord Kilkeel’s guilty of a crime, isn’t he? He knows who killed my father and he’s done nothing about it.’
‘I’m no lawyer, Liberty, but I think what she’s told
us makes him at least an accomplice to murder.’
‘Then what do we do?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not even sure that conversation she overheard would amount to proof in a court of law.’
‘If we were to go to a magistrate …’ I said.
‘In his own county?’
‘In London, perhaps.’
‘The word of a bereaved daughter, a musician and a woman who would probably be dismissed as mad, against a lord who also happens to be a lawyer? I believe they’d laugh at us.’
‘Then what can we do? Isn’t there some way of facing him and making him name the man who killed my father?’
‘I could challenge him, I suppose.’ Even in the half-dark of the landing I could see Daniel’s face turning red when he realised the bitterness of his joke.
‘Libby, I’m sorry.’
‘There has to be a way. Even if they laugh at us, I must at least try telling somebody.’
‘Then we must ride this horse as far as it will take us. It occurs to me that there’s one gap in the evidence we might fill.’
‘What?’
‘Getting Mrs Martley to identify Lord Kilkeel as her milord. Is there any way of giving her a sight of him in our presence without his seeing her?’
‘But why? It’s perfectly obvious. I know he’s the
same man who tried to kidnap me in Calais, and I saw him with his travelling coach at the livery stables, at a time when she must have been under the floorboards.’
‘Be patient with me, Libby. I’m trying to think like a lawyer for once. If we could show her Kilkeel and hear her say that he’s her man, it might close one loophole.’
I was still unconvinced, but Daniel was doing his best, so I tried to think.
‘All the house guests will be going in to dinner again tonight. It won’t be a grand banquet like last night because of the ball, but Mr Brighton will be there so I suppose Kilkeel will be too.’
‘You seem to know all the back ways of this house. Could it be managed?’
‘I think so, yes. Possibly while they’re all in the hall, before they go in to dinner.’
I thought of Mrs Beedle’s door behind the orange tree. Even dead, she was still helping me.
‘Can you persuade Mrs Martley, do you think?’
‘I’ll try,’ I said. ‘I’m sure she’ll be happier if you’re there. But what are we going to do with her in the meantime?’ ‘Can’t she stay in your room?’
‘Suppose Sir Herbert or Kilkeel comes looking for her? They know Mrs Beedle was waiting in the schoolroom, and they might guess she’s not far away.’
‘Would they even know their way round the servants’
quarters?’ Daniel said. ‘Leaving her where she is might be safer than trying to move her.’
‘Perhaps so. Even if we took her out down the back stairs, where could we hide her? I’ll just have to tell her to go up on the roof again if she hears anybody coming.’
‘I suppose I must go back to my musicians now, or somebody will be asking questions. When shall we meet and where?’
‘Six o’clock by the back door. They’re dining early because of the ball.’
Once I had seen Daniel on his way, I brewed tea over the oil lamp in the nursery kitchen and found a piece of stale currant cake and a morsel of cheese that Betty must have missed. It wasn’t much, but Mrs Martley seemed grateful when I took it up to her and squeezed my hand.
‘That’s a good gentleman of yours.’
‘He is a good gentleman, but not of mine.’
It was past nine o’clock by then. Betty was giving the children their breakfast and trying not to be annoyed over my long absence. The two boys were sad and listless, Henrietta weeping into her bowl from combined grief at the death of her grandmother and not being allowed to go to the ball. Betty herself had changed into a black dress and made a broad black band for my sleeve. Mourning for Mrs Beedle, both in heart and in the formalities, was observed more on the nursery floor than in the rest of Mandeville Hall.
After breakfast we settled to our studies as best we could in the makeshift schoolroom. Twice I left the children to their books and ran upstairs to see that Mrs Martley was safe. The first time she was sleeping on the bed, snoring gently. The second she was awake, thirsty for the new pot of tea I brought with me, and prepared to listen to the plan for identifying Lord Kilkeel.
‘You’ll make sure he can’t see me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m afraid of being near him. He’ll twist my brains again.’
‘I’ll be there and so will Mr Suter.’
It was the promise of Daniel’s presence that won her over in the end, and it was agreed that I should come to fetch her at half past five.
All through the morning I’d been expecting Celia to visit the nursery corridor, guessing her nerves would be on edge too, but by our dinner time at half past two there was no sign of her. After the meal, Betty decided it would be all right to take the children for some air in the garden, and although I was worried at being so far from Mrs Martley, I couldn’t think of an excuse. Running about and playing hide and seek were ruled out by their state of mourning and we were all promenading sadly between the clipped box hedges of the knot garden when Celia and her brother came towards us. She was wearing a black-and-grey silk dress and looked as if she hadn’t slept, face pale, eyes puffy and even the
lustre of her red-gold hair dimmed. Stephen was dressed in black and looked almost as strained as she did. Even in their saddened state, it struck me what a handsome pair they made. He spotted us first and came quickly towards us.
‘Hello, Betty. Good afternoon, Miss Lock. I understand you found my grandmother. It must have been painful for you. I’m truly sorry.’
His dark eyes met mine. I looked away and murmured something about sympathy with the family’s loss.
‘Yes, she’ll be much missed,’ he said. ‘Especially by Celia.’
Celia was standing at a short distance, apparently listening to something Betty was saying, but her eyes were on Stephen and me. I wondered if they’d discussed their grandmother’s death and if he knew it hadn’t been from heart failure.
‘I sense that she’ll need your friendship more than ever, Miss Lock. We’re both grateful to you.’
I mumbled something, thinking how little gratitude he’d be feeling towards me in a few hours’ time, when he found his sister gone. More than ever, I felt guilty about what I was doing. He thanked me again and walked away. Celia was at my side in an instant.
‘What were you talking about?’
‘Your grandmother.’
‘Thank goodness for that. You both looked so serious I was terrified you’d told him about tonight. Feel my heart thumping.’ She picked up my right hand and laid
it on the pulse in her wrist. It was twitching like something imprisoned. ‘Oh, Elizabeth, I am so scared.’
‘I’m scared too,’ I said. ‘By the by, my name isn’t Elizabeth. It’s Libby, for Liberty.’
I thought I would never see her again after that night and somehow it mattered to say it, although I was not sure that she heard me. She took my hand in hers, hiding it in the folds of her dress, pretending to point out a flower with her other hand.
‘I think Stephen guesses something’s happening,’ she said.
‘Yes, I think my brother would have guessed if I were going away.’
‘But he mustn’t know. He really mustn’t know. Don’t try to persuade me again because it’s no use.’
Her hand was crushing mine.
‘Very well.’
‘I can feel your heart thumping too. It’s good of you to be so scared for my sake.’
I didn’t tell her that I had worse things than an elopement to be scared about.
‘I shall leave the ball after the first set,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll go upstairs and change into travelling clothes. I’ve given Fanny the evening off to watch the dancing. Will you wait for me in my room?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve written a letter to my mother. It’s on the dressing table. Please make sure she gets it tomorrow morning when … when I’m gone.’
Tomorrow morning seemed a world away, but I promised.
‘I shall see you again, one day. If I can ever help you in any way, I shall. I promise, Elizabeth.’
(So she hadn’t heard me.) I thanked her, sensing there was still something she wanted to say to me. But her next words were an exclamation.
‘Oh, confound the man!’
She was looking at somebody over my shoulder.
‘What man?’
‘One of the guests. I don’t even know his name. He was watching us from the terrace when I began talking to you and now he’s coming down the steps. I’m in no mood for talking silly politenesses to people.’
She raised her grey parasol and walked quickly away. I turned to look for Betty and the children and saw the man she meant. He was walking rapidly between the hedges as if determined to catch up with her. Today he was elegant in carefully chosen graduations of grey, his jewellery restricted to a couple of rings and a gold seal on a chain round his neck. His ringlets gleamed and bounced in the sun but his expression was stern. He strode up to me.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Disraeli,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid you’ve just missed Miss Mandeville.’
‘I wasn’t looking for Miss Mandeville. I was looking for you, Miss Lock.’
His eyes were cold and challenging. I gave him look for look.
In spite of his sternness, the strange feeling of fellowship I’d felt for him at dinner as another adventurer adrift, flared again. Seeing me in close conversation with Celia would have increased the impression I’d given him that I was a friend of the family, but I saw no obligation to correct it.
‘And now that you’ve found me …?’
‘Now I’ve found you, I hope we can continue the conversation we were having at dinner, when you fled so precipitately.’
‘As you please.’
‘Miss Lock, I asked you if you knew why we’d all been invited here. You didn’t answer me. I don’t take you for a fool, and I assure you that I am not one myself.’
‘I’m grateful for your good opinion.’
I tried to speak coolly but sensed an anger in him, reined in by a dandy’s concern not to show emotion rather than any concern for me. If I had not been so angry myself, it might have scared me more.
‘On the contrary, I’m beginning to have a very bad opinion of all this,’ he said. ‘On the urgent advice of a friend, I agree to attend a weekend party which seems to consist of out-of-place politicians, several of the most reactionary members of the House of Lords, a senile bishop and one of the biggest rogues ever called to the Bar. And those are only the ones I recognise. I can only guess about the rest. Quite probably you know more than I do.’
‘No.’
He moved close to me, so close that an observer might have thought he was speaking intimacies. I smelled oil of jasmine from his curls.
‘But as a friend of the family, you almost certainly do know why our host is taking such pains to launch a Hanoverian by-blow on society. Ah, so you did know?’
He must have been watching my expression very closely. I wasn’t aware of giving anything away.
‘Which of the many twigs of our prolific royal tree does this one hang from, I wonder? The Fitzherberts or one of Clarence’s brood? Goodness knows, with so many to choose from, you’d think he might have picked a better specimen.’
‘So of no use at all in your political career?’ I said, deciding to go on the attack.
‘Miss Lock, what is happening here is quite enough to wreck a political career at the outset. I suspect the friend who had me invited of acting from malice, or from very poor judgement, which is even worse. I suppose Mandeville wanted to recruit some of the up-and-coming men to the cause.’
‘You being one of the up-and-coming men?’
He nodded.
‘Miss Lock, when you and I spoke last night, I sensed something wrong. Now I’m entirely sure of it. What really happened to Mrs Beedle?’
I looked down at a butterfly sunning itself on a clump of mignonette, knowing that in the next few
breaths I must make one of the hardest decisions of my life. I needed desperately somebody who might believe my story and be in a position to do something about it. Nobody who mattered would listen to me, nor, I feared, to Daniel. His goodness of heart and honesty might be handicaps in the world of the powerful. Mr Disraeli, on the other hand, seemed to have at least a foothold in that world. Whether he was good-hearted and honest I had no way of telling – I rather feared not – and yet I sensed a kind of honour in him. If the butterfly stays where she is when I move my hand, I thought, I shall tell him some of the truth; if she flies, I’ll say nothing. All the time, I was conscious of his eyes on me.
‘You spoke to Mrs Beedle just before we went in to dinner. What she had to say to you was urgent. It must have been quite soon after that she suffered her … heart seizure?’
He made the last two words into a question. I moved my hand. The butterfly stayed where she was.
‘It wasn’t a heart seizure,’ I said. ‘She was struck on the head. My father was killed too, for knowing about Mr Brighton.’
I told him as much of the story as I wanted him to know. It was quite a considerable amount, but there were two people I left out of it: Mr Blackstone and Mrs Martley. I cared very little for Blackstone and yet the memory of him resting his worn-out body on the bench with his face to the sun made me more tender
than I might otherwise have been. I said simply that a friend who knew about my circumstances had helped me get employment as a governess with the Mandevilles.