Lady Mary was dismissed from the stand and went to sit next to the still smirking Lord Wansford. Mr Reinfield let the court settle and then began again.
“To conclude my argument, I would like to present to the court, my lord, the love letters of Sir Thomas Thorpe to his betrothed, Lady Mary Liston. Exhibit A. The first letter we have is dated, Easter Sunday, 1815. ‘My dear Lady Mary, I beg you to forgive the presumption of a letter addressed to you because of the understanding that now exists between us. I write to thank you from the bottom of my heart for doing me the honour to consent to be my wife.’” Reinfield paused to let his words take his effect. “‘You may now count me among the happiest of men, knowing I have secured such a creature as my bride. Please believe, I esteem you above all things in the world, and it will be my only object to look to your comfort and care,’” Reinfield went on. “‘You and your father must soon come to Priorscote and we shall be able to make plans for all the necessary alterations. I have left off any refurbishment since I came of age, thinking it best to wait for a feminine taste to guide my hand.’”
Griselda frowned. That did not make sense. Thorpe had made many alterations to the house. The housekeeper had told her about them, how Sir Thomas had done this and that: how he had repainted the book room and put a Rumford stove in the kitchen; how the dairy had been retiled and the stables rebuilt.
The letters were forgeries, she realised. She knew in her heart that Thorpe could not write such things. It was just as he said. But Lady Mary did not know that they were forgeries. She was part of the plan, a poor helpless dupe, who had put together all the wrong conclusions so she could go on the stand and apparently tell the truth. Of course Lord Wansford would not make his daughter perjure herself. No, he only sought to deceive her, as he was trying to deceive everybody else and at Thomas Thorpe’s expense.
In front of her sat Sir Thomas, his back as straight as ever, apparently not moving a muscle. Griselda reckoned it a miracle of self control. If she had to sit and listen to such lies told about herself, she would have jumped up and slapped Reinfield across the face. But Tom Thorpe was capable of extraordinary self control. She had seen it for herself. Last night how easy would it have been for him to hurl insults at her. Instead he had left her, coolly yes, but with some dignity. Whereas I had no dignity at all, she thought, thinking how she had sat crying on the floor, lacerating herself with her own sense of self-disgust.
At least I can believe him in this, she thought. In this matter at least he has told nothing but the truth. And accepting that, she felt her conscience lighten a little.
But who could have written these things? Randall had told them at dinner he had had little luck in his search for the forger. Griselda had listened to his words with silent scepticism. But now, confronted with the real truth in the matter, her scepticism swept away, she realised she might in fact have the key to the whole strange business. A curious theory was developing in her mind, which for a moment shocked her, but which seemed more and more plausible.
Reinfield was still reading.
“This is more than I can bear,” she murmured to Lady Farquarson. “I am going to get some air.”
“Shall I come with you?”
“No, no, I shall be back shortly.”
And so she slipped out of the courtroom.
***
It seemed to Tom as if Reinfield was going to read the entire packet of scurrilous lies aloud to the court. Thankfully, the Judge’s patience waned and he interrupted: “I think, my learned friend, we quite get the gist of these letters. Please conclude your arguments. It will be time to rise for dinner.”
“Thank God for a judge’s stomach,” said Will, when Reinfield had made a devastating and spiteful closing argument, and the judge had adjourned until the following day and withdrawn to his chambers.
“I feel I’ve been attacked with a horsewhip,” said Tom rubbing his face. He was exhausted and demoralised. Griselda’s onslaught of the previous night had been enough to bear without this. “What a foul pack of lies! And to hear it admitted as the truth in a court of law!”
“You could have spared yourself that if you had let me cross examine the girl,” Woburn said gathering his papers.
Tom got up and turned and saw the empty seat where Griselda had been sitting. Her absence depressed him further.
“Where’s she gone?” he asked Lady Farquarson.
“To get some air.”
Tom was not convinced.
“She has probably walked out in disgust,” he muttered. Will overheard.
“Take heart, man. She’s probably sitting in the carriage, waiting to comfort you.”
“I don’t think so. Come, let’s go and get something to drink.”
They came out onto the street.
“Damn it, where is the carriage?” he said, looking about him. “Where has she gone?”
***
“Here we are, my lady,” said George the foot boy, opening the carriage door for her. “60 Ellis Street and Madam is at home and will be very glad to see you.”
They were in a quiet street in Islington, a terrace of brand new, white painted houses, with the fields still in sight beyond.
“Thank you, George,” said Griselda.
“So this will save the master, you think?” he said, as he handed her out of the carriage.
“If I am right, yes,” said Griselda. He gave a very satisfied grin. It was notable how much the servants thought of Thorpe and how kind and friendly were his relations with them. It was a virtue which should not lightly be dismissed.
Griselda climbed the steps to Number 60, where a maid in a print dress was holding the door open for her.
Mrs Clarke came down the stairs to greet her. She looked flustered. In the background on the landing the little girls were milling round until the French governess shooed them up to the next landing.
“What a pretty house,” said Griselda, as Mrs Clarke took her into a drawing room that smelt of fresh paint. There was a dazzling new suite of satinwood furniture, a fancy blue French wall paper patterned with magnolias in the Chinese manner, and the large windows were hung with a complicated arrangement of blue and daffodil striped silk that shrieked out that it was the most fashionable thing anyone could possibly hope for in the way of curtains. “And such a charming room.”
“Thank you, my lady, thank you very much,” said Mrs Clarke, who, now Griselda had arrived, seemed not quite to know what to do with her.
“I like the way you can still see the fields here,” Griselda said, admiring the prospect from the window, although she had to lift a glass cloth or two to see it. “It must remind you of your Rectory in, er, Lincolnshire? I think you said Lincolnshire, did you not?”
“Oh no, Staffordshire. Compton End. The Marquess of Wansford has a house there – a shooting box really, and he was so good as to give Mr Clarke the living.”
“Really?” said Griselda. “I had no idea that Lord Wansford was your husband’s patron.” But she had hoped it was the case, and it was the beginning of the proof she needed.
“Oh yes, he is. We have been very fortunate. My Lady Thorpe, your husband’s mother was so kind as to put Mr Clarke’s name forward. It is quite wonderful that he has taken us up as he has done. Such a kind man and so hospitable. We have even had the honour of staying at Felsham.”
“How gracious.”
“Extraordinarily,” said Mrs Clarke. “Oh, won’t you sit down, Lady Thorpe?”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Griselda, taking a chair. Mrs Clarke took a chair herself and moved it a little closer to Griselda.
“And his manner throughout was so…” she began. “How do I put it? He was never condescending. We had the best of everything. And he had such questions for Mr Clarke about old documents, and so forth. Just the sort of thing that Mr Clarke loves so well. He is something of a scholar, you see, and where some men like to shoot and ride, Mr Clarke likes nothing better than to spend a day such in a library with all sort of old things to amuse him. He could have not have been happier.”
The maid brought in some ratafia, and Griselda sipped a small glass full while Mrs Clarke carried on with candour. She was in a complex explanation of how Lady Mary had showed her a new stitch for netting a purse when the door opened and Mr Clarke walked in.
He was not quite able to conceal his surprise.
“My lady,” he said. “I hardly expected to see you here today,” he said.
“Where did you think I might be?” Griselda could not resist saying.
“I imagine a lady like yourself must have many more important things to do than drive all the way up to Islington and honour us with her presence,” he said.
“Believe me, Mr Clarke, this is very important. It is a matter of – ” Griselda took a deep breath. “Reputation. My husband’s reputation.”
He furrowed his brow in a show of puzzlement. At least Griselda hoped it was a show. If she was wrong about this then she would be slandering an innocent man. She wished she had Mr Woburn or Will Randall with her to prise the truth out of him with clever questions.
“How does that concern me, Lady Thorpe?”
“Mrs Clarke was just telling of your stay at Felsham,” she said. “And how Lord Wansford kept you busy in the library.”
“Indeed. He has a very fine collection of papers from the Civil War. Quite fascinating.”
“Tell me, Mr Clarke, how does a scholar know whether such documents are genuine or not?” Griselda said, and gave him the coolest stare she was capable of. “How can you tell when a thing is a forgery?”
She saw a muscle on his face twitch in a spasm of nervousness, as he thought for a moment.
“I see that you are of a scholarly disposition,” he said. “Perhaps you would care to come downstairs to my book room and see some examples in my own humble collection.”
“I would be very glad to.”
Mrs Clarke looked bewildered as her husband briskly ushered Griselda out of the drawing room. When they were downstairs in the stuffy little book room at the back of the house, that smelt of snuff and cheap Spanish brandy, he closed the door behind him and leant on it as if he were afraid she was going to run away.
“Now,” he said. “I think you must be plain with me, Lady Thorpe. I infer you have come to make some kind of allegation.”
“Oh no,” said Griselda. “I would not dream of accusing you of anything. No, I only wish to appeal to you, as a gentlewoman to a gentleman, to look to your sense of honour.”
“My sense of honour?”
“Yes.”
He walked across the room and poured himself a glass of brandy which he drank in one gulp.
“I am correct, I think,” Griselda said gently after a long pause, “in what I have guessed. It was that piece of paper, you see, when your wife made you write down your address.” Clarke filled his glass again and sighed heavily. So Griselda carried on: “And of course you did teach Tom Thorpe his letters as a boy. Naturally, then, your hands would resemble each other. The capital S is particularly striking…”
“Enough, Lady Thorpe, enough!” he exclaimed. “And you say you have not come here to accuse me?” He swallowed down the brandy in one gulp. He gave her a hard appraising look. “Tom Thorpe’s a lucky dog to have found such a clever wife. But then luck always runs with such people. They never want for anything. People like you with your guineas and your fine graces. Have you any idea what it is like to have nothing and no prospects? To have four daughters to marry and barely enough money to feed them, let alone dress them according to their station. And then everything one does turns to dust. The luck always runs against me.” He turned back to the writing table and the flask of brandy. Then having refilled his glass he sat down by the fireside, staring into the fire.
“Lord Wansford tempted you, then.” Griselda sensing his weakness, decided to persist. “He offered you a living.”
“And cleared my debts,” said Clarke. “I had a few of those. Such generosity and such a small thing to secure the bargain. To write a few damned letters.” He sighed again. “So then, Lady Thorpe, there you have it. What will you do with it?”
“That is rather up to you,” she said. “But as I said, I have come here to appeal to your sense of honour.”
“You have not,” he said. “You don’t believe I have any.” He laughed. “I suppose the question is what would be an adequate recompense for my imminent ruin, Lady Thorpe? I think I ought to be encouraged to do the decent thing, don’t you?” He got up from his chair and faced her, wearing an unpleasantly suggestive smile. He reached out and pinched her cheek.
Griselda pushed his hand away.
“How much do you love your handsome husband, Lady Thorpe?” he said. “His reputation or yours?”
“No, you do not have a sense of honour,” said Griselda. “And fortunately I do not have to trade mine. I’m not such a ninny to think I should and I’m not the least riled by you. I know that the court can compel you to appear as a witness in the case and if you admit so much to me, sir, then the greenest young barrister of Grey’s Inn will have no difficulty exposing you in court.”