Chapter 8
Reverend Cartwright-Jones sat, drinking tea and eating macaroons in the nursery with Anne.
“Dear me, I can see why you have been isolated here, but it’s hardly…,” he tailed off.
“It’s very nice, actually,” said Anne. “Julian apologised, but I told him, there is no need. Having a haven, somewhere peaceful, without having to worry about a room-mate who sets things on fire, or being tortured to make me sign away my inheritance.”
“Which you could not do, in any case, as your father seems to have tied things up with the betrothal contract,” said Cartwright-Jones. “And it is in regards to this that I have come to see you.”
“Oh?” said Anne, guardedly.
“I need to check that you do not feel coerced into marrying Ravenscar,” said Cartwright-Jones.
“Not in the least; I like him very well indeed,” said Anne. “I think I am falling in love with him, but I was ready to settle for affection.”
“Very well, so long as you do not feel under pressure,” said Cartwright-Jones.
“I do, but only in terms of being afraid of my uncle until I am married safely and out of his possible control,” said Anne.
“Well, you must fulfil residency, for 15 days,” said the vicar.
“Another week or so, then,” said Anne. “Good, not too long.”
Cartright-Jones smiled.
“I am glad it pleases you,” he said. “Remember, marriage is not something on which to embark lightly; there is no easy way out of it.”
“I feel comfortable with Julian,” said Anne.
oOoOo
Mr. Blackman looked nothing like his urbane self when he walked into a certain stockbroker’s offices. He appeared to be on the wrong side of fifty, and you would swear he was a little thin on top, and his clothing was a little too big for him as if he had lost weight. Shadows beneath his eyes, a sad moustache and a harried expression completed the look.
“Look, I’m trying to make a deal with someone,” he said. “I need to go somewhere else for a while… Jamaica would suit me fine. I have some shares in a quarry in Lancashire which I’m prepared to offer as a straight exchange, no questions asked.”
“I have no such customers at the moment, but I will ask around,” said a certain Mr. Brabant. One of his customers did own extensive shares in Jamaica, but was unlikely to be selling.
Mr. Blackman pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.
“I… I’ll be asking around, but if you can send a messenger if anything comes up? Or even a seller directly.”
“I’d like to see your shares,” said Brabant.
The shares were good, legitimate stock and worth more than the face value; Brabant knew the real thing when he saw it.
“How soon do you need to, ah, relocate?” he asked.
“None of your business,” snapped Mr. Blackman.
“My apologies; you just don’t seem to be the type of man to be seeking to escape the consequences of a fatal duel,” said Brabant.
“I said to mind your own business,” said Blackman. “It’s a family matter.”
Mr. Brabant lined up several scenarios in his head; ‘killed the wife in a quarrel,’ coming to mind first, followed by ‘caught interfering with the wife’s juvenile nieces,’ through more exotic speculation. He was personally veering towards ‘caught in flagrante delicto with a young footman and a woman from Harris’s list specialising in discipline.’ Mr. Fredericks – for such Blackman’s card proclaimed him to be – seemed to be that sort of man.
And it was a hanging offence as well, not just a scandal.
“I’ll let you know,” he said, taking the address of the hotel where ‘Mr. Fredericks’ was staying.
Brabant was to be amazed that Mr. Denver came in later, wanting to offload his shares in his plantation, and directed his client to the relatively quiet backwater of Durrant’s Hotel.
“A straight exchange, Mr. Brabant said,” Denver attempted to take control of the conversation with the seedy-looking ‘Mr. Fredericks.’
“I… yes,” said Blackman. “I want to leave England in a hurry.”
“And you have shares in a quarry to the sum of eighty thousand?” persisted Denver.
Blackman got out a stack of share certificates.
They were not the same ones he had shown to Mr. Brabant, which he had borrowed from Julian. Mr. Denver, however, did not know this, and would not have recognised the difference between highly successful shares, and the no less genuine, but now worthless ones from a quarry quite worked out, which Mr. Blackman had acquired during his travels, and which were now to be of some use.
Signatures were exchanged and so were share certificates. ‘Mr. Fredericks’ checked out quickly, and took the shares to a Quaker of his acquaintance who would be glad to pay a quarter of the price on the shares in order to use them to emancipate some slaves. It was still a profit to Mr. Blackman, after all.
Denver did not bother to return to his stockbroker; he took the shares home, there was time enough to take them to his stockbroker later to register his ownership for the share pay out. A day or two would make little difference.
All thought of them was driven from his head when he arrived at the same time as the postman.
“Good morning, sir! Three and six to pay on this one, it’s from Switzerland,” said the postman cheerfully.
Denver went white, but paid. He went in the door before opening the letter with trembling fingers, even before Wilcox could relieve him of his coat and hat.
“But… but she can’t! she isn’t…,” he said, trembling.
Wilcox twitched the letter from him and read it. He looked troubled.
“Dear Uncle Thomas and Aunt Amelia,
You may imagine my astonishment when I was called to Mme DuQuensne’s office to be told that my betrothed husband’s man was there. Fancy Papa having managed to make a betrothal with someone as distinguished as Ravenscar! I am all agog to meet him, and those of my English classmates are just green with jealousy. I am to set out for England within the week, and I am to sail on his lordship’s private yacht! How exciting it all is.
Now, as to general news, Mlle Lebrun still has a permanent sniffle, and it is still irritating, but I am better able to ignore it to study history. We are studying the Plantagenets at the moment, on both sides of the German Sea, and it is extraordinary the amount of betrayal and backstabbing that can go on in any family. Herr Weiner is still as snuffy as ever, but he gives me reason to believe that I am not entirely devoid of musical ability though he suggests I should play only French airs and not to attempt to sully German music with my antics.
I was not responsible for the mouse incident, so do not believe Mme DuQuesne if she says I am. It was not me, and I do not know who it was.
Your niece,
Anne Bonnet.”
“I don’t understand,” said Wilcox. “Why, it’s the sort of letter a young girl would write from school. But we know she has never been to Switzerland.”
“It’s uncanny,” said Denver. “Well, I know you can’t have done this so me, and nor can Amelia. I… dear God! Do you suppose Ravenscar found her, and took her to Switzerland just to write this?”
“I wouldn’t put it past that devil,” said Wilcox. “Though I’m not sure what he’s attempting to achieve.”
“Revenge,” said Denver. “To try to upset me.”
“Looks like he succeeded,” said Wilcox. “Pull yourself together; there is nothing he can do about anything that counts, other than stealing her inheritance. Which is unfortunate, but at least he can’t prove anything malicious. You can claim that sending her to Switzerland was a white lie because you were embarrassed about her madness. A vicar and some shabby genteel ladies and a doctor will agree she was very sick indeed. You did not wish to admit it to Ravenscar. Any judge in the land would swallow that.”
“Unless he produces her to put on the stand.”
“Lucid periods, Denver, she has lucid periods, when she forgets her periods of madness, but has delusions of persecution.”
“I… yes, yes, it makes sense,” said Denver. “And he must have found her, that is her writing.”
“But all he can do is to try to unsettle you. Hold on to that. Somehow he has got someone into the house to introduce the mice and the copper pins. It’s nothing but tricks.”
“Indeed, nothing but tricks,” agreed Denver.
“And that she writes about mice proves it!” said Wilcox.
“I… yes, I suppose so,” said Denver. “But who can it be? I sacked all the servants, except you and Amelia’s muffin-faced maid; Amelia isn’t capable, and nor is her maid, and you would be encouraging me to go to pieces if it was you. And I can’t believe that Clarinda has the brains, even if Ravenscar had seduced her.” He froze. “Watkins said that he thought the other young lady was sewing clothes for mice! He saw a girl with dark hair! Do you suppose Anne is hiding in the house without our knowledge?”
“I don’t see how she can,” said Wilcox, biting his lip.
“I found a piece of knitting, done on hat pins,” said Denver. “In her room. Summon all the servants; have them stay in the vestibule, and you and I will start with the garrets and work our way down.”
Wilcox nodded.
“If anyone is hiding here, I should think we will find her,” he said. “And yes, it has to be her. She wrote a letter for him to have someone take to Switzerland.”
Jem, eavesdropping, was impressed by the cool and intelligence displayed by Wilcox, but had to dodge back to the servants’ room before Wilcox came to summon them.
Jem and Chalky and the cook and two chamber-maids as well as Jane South congregated in the vestibule. The two chamber-maids clung together in terror at the look on the faces of the master and Mr. Wilcox. Wilcox peered closely at both, to check that neither was Anne in disguise.
The search was exhaustive and exhausting. Wilcox and Denver went through every room, looking under beds, into cupboards, in the linen closet, box room, and down through the family living quarters, irritating Amelia Denver, who was pleasing herself in a daydream of her husband being as frisky as his ‘mistress’ made him sound, and was caught at it by Wilcox. It might be said that she was sufficiently carried away that having Wilcox demonstrate some techniques pleased her more than it shocked her; and there was an unspoken promise of more to come.
Clarinda Denver was also to be put out by the exhaustive search. She had smuggled in one of the grooms to be frisky in his own way, if only to spite Wilcox. She was found in her bedroom with her lover by her father, who swore at her and her lover, and fired him as soon as he realised who he was, and chased out, holding the bundle of his clothes as best he might, by Denver’s own belt, which he also plied on his daughter’s naked backside. Wilcox came and smirked, which was probably to Clarinda a worse punishment than her father’s rather feeble and inept efforts to whip her.
The ground floor also received its thorough search, and below stairs, where the joint for dinner was found to have dried up enough to be inedible, for the want of basting, and no sign of any illicit person was found. The two men returned to the vestibule.
“Sir? Were you looking for… her?” asked Jem, innocently. “Of course, you looked on top of the testers, and made sure all the beds were empty without someone lying spread out under the covers?”[1]
Denver and Wilcox stared at him in horror, and ran back upstairs.
They found nobody; but there was the unspoken recognition that someone might have moved from either of those hiding places, and gone almost anywhere.
“I can’t do it all again,” groaned Denver. They virtually limped back down to the vestibule.
“I was thinking, sir,” said Jem. “The back door has no key, and it would be easy to slip down to the mews.”
“You and White, go and search the mews, and use pitchforks in the hay in the hayloft,” said Wilcox.
Jem went off with Chalky.
“What are we looking for?” asked Chalky.
“The old man has been seeing ghosts,” said Jem. “It’s easier to play along, same as with his thing about mice.”
“I s’pose there are worse sorts of madmen,” said Chalky.
They searched assiduously, so that they could say that they had, and commiserated with the groom who had been so rudely interrupted and thrown out of the fair Clarinda.
“I wouldn’t worry if I was you,” said Jem. “He’ll have forgotten in a week or two.”
He and Chalky went back to the house, and Jem worked on pacifying the cook by dropping the roast into a pan with a little boiling water in it and steaming it to regain some moisture, and then shredding it, adding lardons of bacon, chopped onions, dill, and coriander and shaping it into a meat loaf in a loaf-tin lined with bacon rashers.
“Three-quarters of an hour in the oven, it’ll be delicious,” said Jem, patting the hysterical cook on the arm.”
“You have saved my life!” declared the cook.
“I haven’t saved much of your bacon, though,” said Jem.
“I will buy more. It is immaterial,” said the cook, who was half French but wholly temperamental. Jem mentally shrugged that the figure of speech as a joke had passed the fellow by, but it was unimportant.
He wanted to get word out to Julian that though Denver was well rattled, he was also being propped up by Wilcox.
He would have to wait for Wednesday, for his half day off, but that was no problem.
He was, therefore, gratified, that one of the grooms slipped in early in the morning.
“Your cousin’s in the mews,” he said.
Jem slipped out, and found Robbie waiting. He reported everything, and Robbie went off chuckling.
That meant the letter from France should arrive today as well. Jem was looking forward to it.
[1] I’ve hidden spread out under the covers for a game of hide and seek, and fell asleep in boredom because nobody found me.
