(Good for the old man!)
Wilson went on: Fortunately his clerk—a smart fellow who should go far—remembers distinctly that it was the 4th. So there we have it. Evens on both sides. Do you happen to remember, Mrs Shenstone?
The most extraordinary thing. Trembling and speaking in a small voice, Mother said: It was Monday the 4th of January and I recall it distinctly because it was the night my son came home with his clothes ripped and stained with blood.
Wilson turned to me in surprise.
I stood paralysed in a state of complete shock. My mother could only have said that if she believed I had murdered Davenant Burgoyne. And that I had written the letters and maimed the beasts. In a desperate attempt to save myself, I said: No, Mother. You’ve confused that occasion with an earlier one. It was another time that I lost my way in the mist and fell into a ditch beside the road.
Almost whispering, Mother said: I’m quite sure of my dates, Mr Wilson.
I grabbed Wilson by the arm and muttering that I would see him out, I led him into the hall. When I was sure we were far enough from the parlour not to be heard I said: I admit it, Sergeant Wilson. I’ve been lying to you. It was very foolish of me but I simply assumed you would not believe the truth. You are right. It was I who attacked Mr Davenant Burgoyne a week ago. We blundered into each other in the fog and mist and I did not know it was he and thought that whoever I had collided with intended to harm me and merely defended myself.
He raised a sceptical eyebrow. You had no idea it was he?
He must have guessed that I was holding something back. Did I expect him to believe that it was by chance that I had run into the one man of all the inhabitants of Thurchester whom I was now suspected of murdering?
I had to say: I knew I was in the street where Mr Davenant Burgoyne lodged but I could not know whom I was fighting. I have frankly admitted that I lied to you about that incident but that is the only lie I have told you. I stopped. With a kind of recklessness, I clutched at the truth to save me from drowning: No, there was one other lie. The fact is that I arrived here at one o’clock on Sunday and not earlier. I tried to lie about that because I was frightened when I came to understand the whole case against me and see how strong it is. And yet I am entirely guiltless. I did not write those foul letters nor maim cattle and I did not kill Mr Davenant Burgoyne.
His face conveyed neither acceptance nor disbelief.
With an increasing sense of my predicament I went on: The evidence has been constructed to incriminate me. Let me give you an example that you are not yet aware of. When you see him tomorrow Mr Fourdrinier will certainly identify the murder weapon as the tool that was stolen from him. But I did not steal it. I can explain all of that just as I can explain every shred of evidence against me. The trouble is that I’m not sure if anyone will believe me.
Wilson had listened attentively. Now he said: I’m a just man, Mr Shenstone. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I won’t apply for a warrant merely because Mr Fourdrinier confirms that his tool was used to commit the murder and that he is sure you stole it. Though that would be prima facie evidence for any justice of the peace. No, what I’ll do is I’ll look into another matter, one that I haven’t mentioned so far. Some of the revolting communications received in the district seem to have been written by a man who felt that a young woman—apparently a close relative—had been seduced and abandoned by Mr Davenant Burgoyne. Now I know you accused him of having behaved discourteously to your sister during your confrontation with him at the ball, but of course the letters started a couple of weeks before that. So I’ll ask my new friends and see if you had any reason to think that the murdered man had impugned the virtue of your sister in the weeks or months before the ball. Is that fair?
It’s very fair, Sergeant Wilson, I said with feigned cheerfulness.
I’m going back to Thurchester now and I’ll drive out to Mr Fourdrinier’s house first thing tomorrow and show him the weapon. I need to establish the truth about that. Then I’ll talk to some of the kind neighbours like Mrs Quance and Mrs Greenacre who have asked to speak to me and give me some more of the letters and I’ll get to the bottom of this business of who wrote them and who had a grudge against the deceased. If I decide I need a warrant, I’ll have it in my hand by the evening.
I managed a smile and Wilson shook my hand and I saw him out. This time there was no constable waiting for him and he walked up the lane alone. He had mentioned a pony-trap but I could not see one.
I went back into the parlour and found Euphemia and Mother sitting where I had left them—the former holding a book and the latter bent over her embroidery-frame. I said: Mother, I want to speak to you in private.
Still looking at her work she said quietly: Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of your sister.
I said: I just want to ask you, how could you have told the detective about the blood-stains?
She wouldn’t look at me.
I said: I am innocent. How can I make you believe that?
She just shook her head.
Suddenly Euphemia said: Stop bullying Mother, Richard.
I looked at her and she stared back impassively and after a long while during which we held each other’s gaze, she dropped her eyes to her book.
½ past 2 o’clock.
Why did Mother say that? Even if she thinks I am guilty—which is an astonishing reflection anyway—why did she volunteer that damaging piece of information?
The trap is closing around me. Now more than ever in my life I need to keep calm and think this through rationally.
Could I put pressure on Euphemia by threatening to reveal to our mother the iniquity of her actions? Would she be swayed by that? No, of course not. How ridiculous to think she could be shamed into condemning herself! If she were capable of feeling shame she would not have embarked on this undertaking.
Could I frighten her into betraying Lyddiard? What argument or strategy could I use? She would impeach Lyddiard only if she were sure that I could prove that they conspired to commit murder and that her only chance of escaping a guilty verdict would be to turn Queen’s Evidence against him and plead that he had forced and tricked her into it. Yet I cannot prove that Lyddiard was anywhere near the scene of the murder at that time. He has crept about at night and hidden at the house of Lady Terrewest so that nobody can testify to his presence in the neighbourhood. That time I saw him hiding in the cart as he went back to Thurchester, he was in the guise of Tom the Swell and I cannot even be sure of proving that they are one and the same man.
Apart from Euphemia, only Lady Terrewest and her servants know that he hides at her house. And perhaps even they did not realise he was there on the night of the ball since he has a key to his own part of it.
I can imagine how enthusiastically the Quances and the Greenacres and other wagging tongues will provide all the evidence against me that Wilson needs: Davenant Burgoyne publicly compromised my sister and then abruptly threw her over when the scandal of our father’s wrong-doings threatened to erupt. Everything points to me as the defamer and the murderer: the abusive letters, the tool stolen from Mr Fourdrinier, my foolish threats against Davenant Burgoyne at the ball that were echoed in the last letter.
The one chink in the armour of the conspirators might be Betsy. She knew that Lyddiard was here—even slept here. And if she knew that, then Euphemia might have told her things that could be used in evidence against her. But would Betsy tell me anything? She is as offended and upset with me as I am with her.
Odd how concerned I am to think that she is unhappy because of me. Can’t forget her miserable little face when she said This is my home.
I suppose I treated her badly. She is only fourteen. But I can’t apologise to an illiterate servant-girl. And yet I keep thinking of the way she took a handkerchief and mopped up what I had spilt on her belly with such intense concentration and then when she had done that, she smiled at me as if to reassure me that she was not annoyed. And it’s not her fault that her father and bro
thers did those things to her.
Even if I could find a way to prove Euphemia’s guilt, I don’t want to send my sister to the gallows in my place.
· · ·
It’s as if I were sitting in a darkened theatre waiting for the curtain to rise on a play whose script I have already read: I will be arrested and tried and convicted and hanged and I can do nothing about it. Everything I will say in my defence will be seen as the rantings of a lunatic or a man desperate to save himself from death. Euphemia will brush aside my allegations against her. Why will she care if I impugn her reputation? She will be married to a wealthy man.
What witnesses will I have to speak in my defence? Old Mr Boddington? But he can say nothing to overturn the evidence against me. It will be claimed that Bartlemew posted on my behalf the defamatory letters that I was writing and although he will deny it, once his character has been established, he will not be believed.
· · ·
Idle thought: I wonder what was in the part of the letter that the earl did not let Wilson read. Was there some hideous allegation against the murdered man that would have brought shame on his memory?
· · ·
Mother believes that I am guilty of the murder and that is why she has refused me an alibi and even volunteered to Wilson that damning piece of evidence against me. That is the high Roman style: My son has done wrong and I will not defend him. But does she not understand what will happen? Does she not see the inevitable consequence of her decision? As to why she would not tell a lie to protect me, is there something that I don’t yet know about? Is it to do with what happened in the autumn? And that terrible secret she threatened to reveal to me?
I must talk to her alone.
3 o’clock.
I found her in the parlour. I said: Mother, I’m in dreadful danger. I need to know everything. And I’ll be equally frank and tell you all that occurred in Cambridge.
Without giving her a chance to respond, I went on: I borrowed money from Edmund but then I needed more than he could give me and we conceived the idea of my taking a loan from his father using my own father as security. That’s how I obtained the seventy pounds.
She looked at me in surprise.
No, you’re right. My father didn’t consent to that. He knew nothing of it. Edmund’s father’s bankers, of course, required his signature guaranteeing repayment. I knew he would never sign it and since the loan was between friends and Edmund promised to pay it back when he reached his majority, we didn’t think it mattered.
I thought it would be hard to confess but she seemed to be paying little attention to my words. I went on: So I forged my father’s signature. But then Edmund and I quarrelled. At that moment my father died and the news of his death upset me so much that I wrote a cruel letter to Edmund accusing him of having made me an opium-smoker and then seduced me into forging the signature in order to put me in his power. Edmund saw me as his only friend in the world and if he chose to die—and I don’t know if he did—then my letter might have tipped him over the edge. It was found beside his body. Edmund’s father used it to press the authorities to make trouble for me. He convinced himself of the absurd idea that I had a hand in Edmund’s death because he was my creditor. That was why the Dean and Master rusticated me and reported me to the police for fraud. And perhaps worse.
She said: I don’t know why you’re telling me this now.
I said: Because I want you to tell me the truth with equal frankness.
When she didn’t speak I said: Mother, I had nothing to do with the death of Mr Davenant Burgoyne.
She did not even look at me.
I said: I suspect that this terrible event has something to do with whatever happened between Euphemia and him while I was in Cambridge. I’m surely entitled to know about it now?
Still she kept silent.
I said: They’ll say I killed him because he publicly humiliated my sister in the sight of Thurchester society.
She put her hands up as if to shield herself from my words.
I asked: What happened, Mother?
She just shook her head.
I said: Mother, I beg you. You know me. You can’t think I wrote those filthy letters? That I killed a man?
She made no response. How could I persuade her that I had nothing to do with those crimes without pointing towards Euphemia? I had no choice. I had to tell her. I warned her that I was going to tell her something that would shock her terribly.
I said: This involves Willoughby Lyddiard.
And then I told her what I had seen at Thrubwell on Sunday morning. I said: He was sneaking into the house like a criminal and I know he had just killed Mr Davenant Burgoyne.
She remained impassive. I concluded: I implore you to tell me everything you know. My one chance is to find something that I can produce as irrefutable evidence.
She said: This is all nonsense. You’ve taken leave of your senses. It’s because of what you’ve been smoking in your room that your conduct has been so irrational since you returned from Cambridge. That wicked practice has addled your wits.
I said: Please listen to me. Lyddiard is the man who has done the things that I’m being accused of.
I went over the evidence that will surely convict me if I am put on trial: my threats at the ball; the letters attributed to me—especially the one sent to Davenant Burgoyne; and finally Mr Fourdrinier’s famous dibber.
All the while she stared at me, shaking her head as if mourning my insanity.
I said: There is something much worse, much more painful that I have to break to you. It’s going to distress you terribly. I fear that my sister knew at least something of what Lyddiard was planning.
She turned her head away and did not answer me. I suppose she was hiding her shock.
Then I said that Euphemia had been somehow persuaded or intimidated into helping him write the defamatory letters at the house of Lady Terrewest which he then posted in Thurchester. He had plotted the murder of Davenant Burgoyne in order to inherit the fortune that would come to him on his death and it is possible that Euphemia at least had some inkling that he was planning that. I put it that way to soften the blow for her.
Now for the first time Mother turned to look at me. In a harsh voice I had never heard before, she said: Leave Euphemia out of this.
I said: I can’t. It was she who first involved me!
Mother hissed at me: You will not interfere with your sister’s plans. You will not ruin her life as you have ruined your own.
½ past 3 o’clock.
Even if Mother thinks I am guilty, why would she not tell a small lie to protect me? She must believe that to exonerate me is to endanger Euphemia.
Is there something that I don’t yet know about? If so, Miss Bittlestone might have the answers. I must pay her another visit.
4 o’clock.
Up the lane and just before the turning to Netherton there was a horse and trap with a postboy on the seat and a man sitting beside him who was in civilian dress but was very obviously a policeman. He had a shotgun propped beside him. When I had gone a hundred yards up the lane I looked back and of course he was following me. He tagged me through the afternoon and I’d stake my life that he or his relief will be there all night guarding the only path from here. This house has become my prison.
When I pushed open the door in response to her call, Miss Bittlestone greeted me without any surprise: Oh, Mr Shenstone, this terrible news about poor Mr Davenant Burgoyne!
She showed no fear or even unease at the sight of me. It was very cold and there was no light in the cottage except from the glowing embers of the fire. She cannot read in that gloom and I wonder what she does hour by hour alone in the near-dark with no living creature save her cat.
I said: We both know, don’t we, Miss Bittlestone, who will inherit his fortune now?
She nodded slowly. Then she pointed to the battered but heroic old chair once reserved for her most illustrious visitor and said: Please be seated.
; As I did so she said: I wish never to see that chair again. When I saw your mother on Saturday I asked if you could come and take it after the service on Sunday morning but she said you would not be able to.
With great ceremony she reached into the scuttle and put another lump of coal on the fire in my honour.
The cat emerged from a corner and began to weave a pattern around his mistress’ feet. Miss Bittlestone said: I’ve got such a treat for you, Tiddles.
She bent down and offered him a small piece of meat. I suspect she gets more pleasure from feeding her cat than herself.
The old lady saw my eyes fall on a newspaper lying on a dresser, The Thurchester Intelligencer. Kind Mr Lloyd gives it to me when he’s finished with it, she said.
So the Quances’ enemy has become her ally—like a rival empire taking on a vassal state from which the opposing troops have been withdrawn.
I looked at the shipping pages. The Hibernian Maid of the Black Ball Line sails with the first tide from Southampton on Thursday the 14th bound for Newfoundland. I still have Uncle T’s mandate to her captain.
Miss Bittlestone was anxious to tell me her news: the detective, Sergeant Wilson, had visited her earlier today. She said: He is a very charming person, extremely courteous. Only he does have a strange manner of conducting a conversation. I even wondered at one moment if he were intoxicated.
I asked: And what did he want to know?
I’m afraid he was dreadfully inquisitive about you and what he called your “nocturnal perambulations” which made them sound very sinister. I assured him that there was nothing in the least reprehensible about them. He asked if you had “bothered” the Quance girls with unwanted attentions. I said the contrary was more probably the case.
(Now there’s a surprise!)
I told her that for all his affability Mr Wilson believes me to be the author of the abusive letters and a murderer.
She gasped and covered her mouth.
I said: There’s something I need to understand. Just before I went up to Cambridge, Miss Whitaker-Smith and Mr Davenant Burgoyne were close to announcing their intention to marry. Then the engagement was broken off. Can you tell me what happened?