There isn’t a man here now. That’s what Mother said and I’m struck by the oddness of that “now”. There has been no man in the house since they moved out here.
Or has there? Did Davenant Burgoyne come here before I arrived? And now they meet at the tower?
His hands on her waist, on her bare skin, on the smooth roundedness of her breasts. His mouth on hers, on her neck. She gasping out pants of pleasure at his fingers on her most intimate parts. Is my sister sneaking out to meet her lover like a bitch in heat?
[This is the next of the anonymous letters relating to the case and it is addressed to Mrs Lloyd. Note by CP.]
Tuesday 29th of December, noon.
Euphemia went off to Lady Terrewest at about eight. That makes two days in succession!
Old Hannah arrived with a letter for Mother shortly after that. I brought it into the parlour and was at the table when she opened it. She gasped and sat down quickly. I tried to get her to tell me what it said but she clasped it against herself and stared at me shaking her head. Then she read it again.
I suddenly realised what it was. What a dunce I have been!
I begged Mother to let me read the filthy thing but she refused and was about to throw it into the fire but I said: Don’t do that, Mother. Please. If you destroy it, we lose any possibility of identifying the sender.
She asked me how I knew what it was and I told her. I said: I assume it was a letter of that kind that upset Effie the other day?
She nodded. Still she refused to let me read it. However, I guess she is hiding it wherever she hides the cash.
3 o’clock.
When Effie came back Mother told her she had had “another horrible letter” and that I had found out about them.
We speculated on who the author could be and I pointed out that the attacks on farm animals must be connected. To my amazement Mother accused Mrs Paytress of being the author. She was taking her revenge against those who had ostracised her and had tried to disguise her rank and her gender by writing in a way that no respectable woman could.
Mother said: The Lloyds are convinced that she is the author. Mrs Lloyd received a letter which alludes to her and Mrs Paytress having been educated in France. That’s why they cut her at church yesterday.
I was so angry that I had to walk out or I would have said something. Why on earth would Mrs Paytress do such a thing?
5 o’clock.
Have just told Mother I was going into the village and asked if she wanted anything from the shop. She gave me ninepence for some cotton-thread. She took it from her pocket so I still don’t know where she hides things.
7 o’clock.
Walked to the village. Bought the thread and then asked Mrs Darnton about people posting letters and buying stamps. Had anyone started posting more letters than usual in the last week or two? She was surly and would tell me nothing.
Went to the tower: There is one grimy window about halfway up and a small door about four feet off the ground. It looks as if it might have been opened recently.
Coming back I ran into the bewhiskered old party I had talked to when I was trying to find Mrs Bittlestone’s cottage. It occurred to me that he might know Tom the Swell so I put that question. I was in luck and he was anxious to tell me. So while I accompanied him to the door of his cottage I learned the following: This egregious individual used to come down for dog-fights in the district and for about half a year he brought a dog that defeated all challengers.
I said: So he made money from his dog?
He did at first but of course that didn’t last. He explained that after the dog had won a number of fights, nobody would bet against him. He said: He dursen’t show his face around here. Not after the last match when he done the Fancy brown.
He would say no more than that.
When I mentioned the attacks on animals, however, he became positively loquacious. Horses and sheep have had their eyes gouged out and there have been several assaults on pregnant cows involving the ripping of their bellies with what is believed to be a slaughterman’s or a thatcher’s tool. He said that several guard-dogs have been poisoned which has led to speculation that the perpetrator is planning to break into houses.
9 o’clock.
Over dinner Mother and Euphemia talked about the letters each had received and Effie, insisting that Mrs Paytress had nothing to do with them, said that hers seems to be the work of a deranged young man who has some knowledge of the area. I asked her if she had any particular person in mind and if so, whom she meant. She declined to say.
Mother said: I don’t believe it’s a man. It has too much insight into how to wound a woman.
Well, I said, I know a young lady who is more than capable of writing malicious letters.
I was thinking of Lucy’s face when she was telling Enid of the betrothal.
Mother instantly said: It’s not the work of a young lady.
10 o’clock.
Not the work of a young lady. What makes Mother believe that? Does she mean that Mrs Paytress is not young or not a lady?
How frustrating to know that I could glean so much from a sight of just one of the letters!
· · ·
He done the Fancy brown. He cheated the dog-fighting fraternity? Hence that surly young labourer’s resentment?
½ past midnight.
Came up here and gave in to temptation. Now that I’ve started again it seems that I can’t stop. But it helps. It helps so much.
½ past 8 in the morning.
∑
A little before midnight I stole from the house and walked east along the shore of the mere. Saw a flickering light moving a few hundred yards from me on my right. Had no idea if it was a marsh-light or someone carrying a lantern but I hurried towards it. I thought of the old stories of how the evil spirits that haunt the wetlands try to lure victims into the boggy ground where they drown. Following it as best I could while it vanished and reappeared hundreds of yards away, I rounded the headland. Far out beyond the mudflats I saw the lights of ships that winked as they rocked with the waves. After that the light turned inland where the land begins to rise.
Somewhere around there I lost sight of it—if it had ever existed and was anything more than the fiery emanation of the marshes.
Now light was seeping into the darkness of the eastern sky like cream being poured into a bowl of puréed blackberries. I stood entranced as a great orange sun edged above the horizon with a vivid luminescence spreading from it like a bruise while bare trees on a hill before me raised their branches like a chorus of witches with their arms up to invoke a curse.
Wednesday 30th of December, 11 o’clock.
Felt terrible when I woke up. I must stop. I must take all of the things from the trunk and hurl them into the ocean. I will do that. I will do it very soon.
5 o’clock.
Just read all morning. Since it was a fine cold day Mother and I decided to walk out to meet Euphemia coming back from Lady Terrewest. Just as we were at the end of the lane we encountered Old Hannah. She said she didn’t have anything for us today but there was something she clearly wanted to impart. Have you heard what happened at Farmer Edwards’s place? she asked. He found one of his billy-goats this morning with a sharpened stick fastened in it. Mother asked: Where? Before the old woman could answer in—I am sure—anatomical detail, I said: In a paddock, I assume. Mother is so embarrassing sometimes.
Then the old creature said that a certain person was recognised near there about the time the deed was done. Who could she mean? Edwards’s farm is not far from where I was last night. Could the light I saw have been carried by the offender?
We had gone some way past the village before we met Effie. Coming back we were at the top of Brankston Hill when we saw a carriage some distance away coming to a halt beside a figure in the road. Someone got out. As we drew nearer we saw that it was Mrs Quance who had descended to speak to Miss Bittlestone.
The Rector’s wife greeted us without enthusiasm b
ut Mrs Greenacre poked her head out of the window and in the most friendly manner introduced herself to Mother and they talked of having known each other slightly in Thurchester. Mrs Quance seemed surprised and even dismayed that we knew her. Mrs Greenacre reminded her of the dinner to which they had invited her on New Year’s Day.
At that moment, Mr Greenacre leaned out of the carriage to doff his hat and say to Mother: You must come and dine with us on that day. Your son and daughter as well, of course. He smiled benignly at Effie and me.
Mother accepted, though she was evidently as disconcerted as Mrs Quance and Mrs Greenacre were.
The carriage moved away.
There was an awkward silence in which we heard the creaking of the ice as the waters of sociability froze. Mother began to talk rapidly about the Greenacres: how charming they were, what beautiful children they had, and so on. That, with mutters of agreement from Mrs Quance, got us to the bottom of the hill.
It seemed absurd to me that nobody had raised the topic that was on everyone’s mind. When Mother paused to draw breath, I said: My mother has received one of those letters.
As if doubting me, Mrs Quance swung her massive head towards her with an interrogative expression.
Mother nodded meekly.
My remark had drawn the enemy’s fire: Master Shenstone, you walk about the countryside a great deal. She paused meaningfully and then said: It is obvious that whoever is sending the letters is also responsible for these outrages against dumb animals. I wonder if you can throw any light on the matter?
None at all, I said. As I mentioned a few days ago, I never leave the house at night.
She stared at me as if silently accusing me of lying. And what a pleasure it was to know that I was telling her a flagrant untruth. I caught Mother’s eye and she gave me an anguished look.
How is poor Miss Quance? she asked in desperation.
Mrs Quance sighed heavily and began a reply.
I fell back and talked to Miss Bittlestone. I reminded her of our previous conversations about who would benefit from Davenant Burgoyne’s death.
Who, I asked, is this mysterious younger half-brother.
In fact, he is older.
In that case, I said, why is he not the heir?
She lowered her eyes and a pinkish tinge flushed her cheeks. He is the acknowledged son of the earl’s brother.
All was clear. The man is in plain English a bastard. I asked what was known about him.
She has never heard his name and knows only that he has no money and, since he is estranged from his uncle, will inherit nothing.
Unless, I said, Davenant Burgoyne dies.
Before his twenty-fifth birthday, she returned. Those are the terms of the trust their father established.
When is that date?
A few months from now.
I mentioned the defamatory letters and the flood-gates opened. She had received one herself! It was such a recognition of her importance that I believe a love-letter from Mr Disraeli could not have occasioned more joy. However, she would not say what was in it except that it made “the most unspeakable allegation” against Lucy.
So much for my theory that Lucy is writing the letters. She would hardly attack herself to a third party.
· · ·
Those women in the shop were talking about a man being disinherited by his younger brother. Were they discussing the earl’s nephews?
7 o’clock.
This afternoon I was on Bransbury Lane when whom should I see in the distance but Lucy herself! She was with a younger sister. I wondered if she would deign to stop and speak to me. I strode on keeping my eyes ahead as if I had not noticed her.
She marched right past.
I turned back and half-ran towards her but she must have heard my footsteps because she glanced round and then she and the girl began to walk very fast. I stopped and resumed my way.
10 o’clock.
I think Old Hannah believes I am the madman who was at the Edwards farm that night. Was it a mere coincidence or does the perpetrator lurk along the lane at night and follow me?
· · ·
During dinner I had such a strange fancy. I looked at my mother and sister and thought: These people are strangers. If I had met them for the first time today I would not wish to know them.
A ¼ past 11 o’clock.
I can’t throw off the feeling that something malign is coming nearer and nearer. And in this house at the end of a promontory, I’m trapped. There is only that single lane back to the road. Unless there is a way to cross the marshes to the south-west.
If I were to attempt it, it would have to be at low-tide. If that story of the mad bride is true, however, to venture into that marsh is to embrace a muddy death.
A ¼ to midnight.
I think I’ve worked out Mother’s hiding-place: her ever-present work-basket.
· · ·
2 o’clock in the morning.
Wicked ugly foul perverted filth! I wanted to tear it up and burn the pieces and take the ashes out of the house and throw them into the mud where such foulness belongs. I almost wept to think of poor Mother reading such words.
Is that what is being said? Every day!
When everyone was asleep I crept downstairs and found the work-basket on the sopha. At first I could discover nothing but then I noticed a hidden pocket containing some coins and the letter.
The Harrow allusion explains Mrs Quance’s interest. And why Effie believes Bartlemew is the author. But I think the name implies “one who harrows” or “harries”. Bartlemew could not be so well informed about Mrs Paytress and the Quances. And besides, he would certainly not have written such an illiterate letter.
Is it a man or a woman?
The letters are sent to women and defame and abuse that sex which implies female authorship, although the language and attitudes are unwomanly.
(I wonder, however: Did old Fourdrinier receive one? He asked me if I had had A letter from someone I don’t know.)
What I might call the “strategy” the writer is using is to defame one person to another because while people will conceal allegations against themselves, they will pass on charges against their neighbours.
· · ·
I’ve just managed to make out that the postmark is Thurchester. I need to know if letters handed in locally are franked here or there.
Who are the possible authors?
Nr 1.) Betsy. Yet Mother said she is unable to read or write.
Nr 2.) Mrs Yass. She departed in fury and the first letter arrived not long after that. But she has left the district so she would have no way of knowing what is going on here.
Nr 3.) Old Hannah. She hears everything and is a bloodhound for scandal.
Nr 4.) Mrs Darnton or her miserable slave at the shop, Sukey.
But the assaults on animals and the slogans—they must be part of the same wicked campaign, and a woman out in the fields at night would attract too much notice.
So is it after all a man?
[This is the next of the anonymous letters relating to the case and it is addressed to Mrs Quance. Note by CP.]
Thursday 31st of December, 11 o’clock.
Found an opportunity to test Betsy. I left a volume of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall on the table and sat down. When she came into the room I said: I think there’s a book I want there.
She picked it up and began to walk towards me but I said: No, tell me its title.
She stopped dead and looked at me strangely and then said: I have not learned my letters, sir.
Of course, that might not be the truth. If she is writing those letters, pretending to be illiterate is the best disguise.
1 o’clock.
Have just done the most reckless thing of my life and nearly died in the attempt: I tried to find a way across the marsh.
The weather was perfect for it—an icy sunlit day with a bright hard light. I could see the road to Upton Dene a few hundred yards away. I found no stepping-ston
es but could place my feet on the tussocks. The stench of decaying seaweed and brackish water was overpowering. The ice in the puddles cracked under my feet like a glazed cake and only in some places was thick enough to bear my weight. But for that I would have slipped deep into the slough. As it was my legs kept sinking and finding no terra firma, and then I was forced to go back and try another route.
At the furthest point I reached I could see firm ground only twenty or thirty yards away but the marsh that lay between us offered nothing that would bear my weight. So I turned back. I thought I was retracing my steps precisely but I must have made a mistake for suddenly my left leg sank up to the knee and kept on sinking. I moved my right leg forward to keep my balance and that, too, began to descend and the mud reached the top of my boot before I managed to lean sideways and grab a clump of vegetation from a tussock. Luckily it held and for some time—ten seconds? a minute?—I hung there feeling the tug of the quagmire and wondering if I would be dragged into it. Then I slowly began to pull my right leg free of the tenacious loam and eventually I succeeded in manoeuvring my foot onto the tussock so that as I straightened up, I was able to lever my trapped leg up from the grip of the marsh.
· · ·
2 o’clock.
After cleaning my boots I went to the shop. Mrs Darnton grew distinctly cool when I asked her some questions: What happened to a letter that was handed in? Did she frank them herself? Stared at me as if she thought my wits were distracted. Of course not. They are taken back by the chaise that brings the mail and are franked in Thurchester.
I had had my quota. She is a tall woman with black eyes and looked rather terrifying when she said: That’s enough questions, Master Shenstone. Is there anything you wish to buy?
6 o’clock.
Every receiving-house in the district must be on the watch and so it’s virtually certain that the letters are posted in Thurchester and probably into the box outside the main office.