And that was how the murder had been accomplished!

But this picture held other, much more disturbing, secrets.

Very slowly she raised her candle, fearing to see what she knew she must. There was no escaping it. There was the great tree spreading its shade over Sir Edgar and his lady a and she saw now that it had the unmistakable narrow leaves and spreading crown of a walnut tree. She moved the candle; there, stretched out below the green bench was the very view that she had looked upon as she spoke with Mr Lomax a the only difference being that here were the colours of summer rather than autumn and the ploughed furrows in the distance were replaced by stooks of harvested corn.

It was no wonder that the picture had been hidden away!

She moved her candle back and took one last look at the man, woman and child grouped beneath the tree. Then she crept along the gallery of watching eyes to the window seat and sat herself down to think.

The distasteful calculations must be made. It was, in fact, all a matter of arithmetic. As if she were once more back in the schoolroom, Dido applied herself to the hated subject and, with difficulty and rather more use of her fingers than should have been necessary, she worked out the sums.

And the sums showed her that, although almost everything she had so far concluded might be right, there was a great deal that she had missed. She had a sudden vivid memory of Mr Lomax sitting by the fire in the morning room and pa.s.sing his hand across his face, sighing as if he was relieved at the answers she had given to his questions.

Of course he had been relieved. He had, for a moment, feared that she had uncovered the real secret of the Montagues.

She turned to the window and gazed out across the silent moonlit lawns that were striped black with the shadows of yew bushes, and she reckoned up the figures again.

This was the all important calculation: 1805 take away 23, equals 1782.

If Richard Montague was indeed twenty-three years old a as she had been told a then he must have been born in 1782. But the walnut tree in the park had been felled in the Great Storm of 1780.

It was as if Swisserland had been moved and she must begin to put her map together all over again.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Dido was abroad very early the next morning, reminding herself of another of Shakespeare's characters (whose name and play, as usual, escaped her memory) who said 'not to be abed before midnight is to be up betimes'. For the truth was that she had not succeeded in closing her eyes all night.

Her first visit was to Catherine's bedchamber, where, sitting upon the edge of the bed, she asked, 'Catherine, my dear, do you love Richard Montague very much?'

Catherine sat up blinking, shocked and still stupid with sleep. 'Of course I do.'

'If,' said Dido, 'if it could be shown that his honour was not compromised by what has happened here a that he has, in fact, acted with integrity throughout a would you wish to stand by him, no matter what difficulties and embarra.s.sments he may have to face when the truth is revealed? Would you wish to fulfil your engagement?'

'Yes,' said Catherine, still blinking and clearly bewildered by the early visit and the sudden questions. 'You know I would.'

'Yes,' said Dido, patting her hand. 'I think I do.'

'Aunt Dido, what is this all about?'

'Nothing for you to worry about, my dear,' she said, getting up. 'Go back to sleep now.' But, at the door, she stopped. 'Oh, there is just one more question. Are you quite sure that when Mr Pollard came to Mr Montague at the ball, he did not show him anything? A letter perhaps?'

'No, I am sure he did not.'

'Why are you so certain that he did not?'

'Well, because I saw his hands. When Mr Montague stepped back, I saw Mr Pollard's hands very clearly, and they were empty.'

'You are quite sure that you saw his hands?'

'Yes. Quite sure.'

'I see.'

'Aunt, why must you wake me up to ask these questions?'

'Because, my dear, I believe hands are a very important part of this mystery... And the rats, of course,' she added, half to herself. 'I am beginning to understand now just how important the rats are.'

And then she left before Catherine could say anything more.

Her next visit was to Annie Holmes, who was coddling an egg for her daughter's breakfast and who was clearly alarmed by the sight of such an early caller a and even more alarmed by the questions that she asked.

From the lodge cottage she walked across the park to the chapel and spent some time in looking at its monuments. Then, deep in thought, she started back towards the house.

The dawn had been grey and damp, but now the sun was beginning to break through the mist, turning the trees of the park into long black shadows and the drops of moisture that clung to every blade of gra.s.s into sparkling jewels. In spite of her pattens, the dew penetrated her shoes and chilled her feet, but she did not hurry. Indeed, as she approached the house, her steps became slower and slower, for she was reluctant to arrive before she had decided how she should behave when she was there. How a and to whom a should she reveal what she had discovered?

As she left the park and came into the gardens a where the sun was turning the great fountain into a shower of light and striping the gravel with the shadows of the yews a the bell in the stable tower began to toll slowly and mournfully, clanging out a terrible, unnamed dread into the bright morning air.

The sound made her afraid, though she hardly knew of what, and she began to run up the steps of the terrace before the house. She had just gained the lower terrace and was standing to rest beside the fountain, her hand on its damp stone lip and the rush and splash of it mixing with the solemn tone of the bell, when she saw Mr William Lomax coming down from the front door to meet her.

And the shocked look upon his face told her that something of great moment had happened.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Belsfield Hall.

Wednesday, 9th October 1805

My dear Eliza, Do you remember how Edward used to tell us that we should beware of believing something simply because it was written in a book? Well, I daresay that these last few days have been very useful to you in extending that lesson and I expect that you now know not to believe a thing simply because it is written in a letter.

For it cannot have escaped the attention of such a clever woman that, quite contrary to the information in my last note, neither Catherine nor I have arrived at Badleigh. We are, in point of fact, still here in the lap of luxury at Belsfield and expect to remain here a while.

You see, everything has changed here. And the greatest change is one that I ought, properly, to write of with great sorrow. But the truth is that I feel no sorrow at all and can aspire to nothing more than shock a though the shock is profound.

For, the long and the short of it is, Eliza, that Sir Edgar Montague is dead.

It is true. He was found dead in his bed two days ago and Mr Bartley, who has been in attendance, declares that he was taken with a seizure in the night and died quickly and painlessly. That last I am sure is merely a comfort for his widow, for I cannot believe that Mr Bartley a or anyone else a can judge the exact nature of a seizure by only looking at the mortal remains. However, he talks very wisely of bile and a weakness of the heart and a sudden crisis and I know not what, and we all listen and pretend that we are as wise as he appears to be. But, like the old gentleman at Lyme, I have no great faith in physicians.

Nor, I find, does Mr William Lomax. At least, not in this case. For neither he nor I can forget that someone was listening to our conversation in the morning room. Mr Lomax is of the opinion that Sir Edgar, knowing that his crime had been discovered, took his own life by drinking laudanum a to preserve his family from the shame of a trial. It is a belief which puts the best possible light upon the event and, since Mr Lomax finds comfort in it, I do not speak against it.

He has had enough trouble these last two days in attempting to bring some order to this shocked household, for all the business of the death has fallen upon him. Her ladys.h.i.+p has kept to her room with a sleeping draught of Mr Bartley's. Mr Harris a who might, from his position in the family, have been fairly expected to a.s.sist him a has done little but 'support the spirits of his poor wife' a which support has consisted chiefly of listening to her foolish prosings a and the rest of the household seems to be beyond anything but staring at one another and gossiping. Margaret, it is true, has been so kind as to send an express to Francis, and takes every opportunity of a.s.suring Mr Lomax that he will be of inestimable use, when he arrives. He bears her a.s.surances with great patience and meanwhile proceeds with the all the correspondence and arrangements that are necessary at such a time.

As you may imagine, I have been very unwilling to add to his difficulties, but I had to talk very seriously with him a my duty to Catherine demanded it...

She had, in fact, lain in wait for him some time in the hooded chair in the hall, and, upon him just crossing from the stairs to the library, she had delayed him with, 'Mr Lomax, may I ask a favour of you?'

He stopped, his broad shoulders slightly stooping with weariness, his brow furrowed, and one finger tapping restlessly upon the bundle of papers that he carried; but with his head courteously inclined towards her. 'Of course you may, Miss Kent. I shall be very happy to oblige you.'

'Oh dear, I rather doubt that. You see...' She glanced quickly about the hall to be sure that they were not overheard. But all the company, except her ladys.h.i.+p, seemed now to be gathered in the drawing room. She continued in a lower voice. 'You see, Mr Lomax, I am afraid I must ask you to break a promise which I am sure you have given. In short, I do not wish you to allow the late Sir Edgar's secrets to survive him.'

The effect upon the gentleman was striking. His face became pale and his eyes wary. He too looked about him to be sure that they were alone. 'We had better talk about this in the library,' he said abruptly and, stepping to the door, he held it open for her. She walked in and he closed the door behind them. 'Now,' he said, 'can you explain what you mean by this extraordinary request?'

It was some time before she could collect her thoughts. She took a seat beside the curtained window and looked about the gloomy candlelit room. Between the high, shadowy shelves of leather-bound books was a large table strewn with doc.u.ments and writing materials where he had been working. Like every other part of the house, the room seemed heavy with a sense of mourning and that shocked confusion which always follows sudden death.

Among the many sensations crowding in upon her was a great reluctance to speak and a fear of losing his regard. And, which was perhaps worse, there was a fear, too, that, when this interview was done, she would no longer be able to respect him. Her eyes strayed to the pile of correspondence on the table: some letters lay open for their ink to dry, some were already folded and sealed; there was a scattering of sand still lying on some of the papers and a candle and a block of red sealing-wax were beside them; there was a faint smell of hot wax mixing with the dusty scent of old books.

'You have written to Mr Richard Montague?' she asked.

He nodded. 'I believe him to be in town a at Mr Pollard's lodgings. I have sent to him there.'

'You have asked him to come home and take his place as head of this household?'

He stood for several moments watching her levelly; then he sat himself down beside the table, pressed the tips of his fingers together and rested his chin thoughtfully upon them. He said nothing.

She forced herself to press the point. 'Have you, Mr Lomax?' The silence stretched between them. 'Have you asked him to take what is not his?'

She waited. Outside on the lawns a peac.o.c.k screeched harshly but there was no other sound; just that blanketing silence of mourning which is made of the absence of music and laughter and loud voices.

'Richard Montague,' he said at last, 'will act as he sees fit.'

'Richard Montague is a very young man; he is inexperienced and I rather think that he will be guided by your advice.' She paused. 'What advice will you give him, Mr Lomax? Will you tell him to follow his conscience, or will you suggest that he should fall in with his dead father's wishes and take the fortune to which he has no rightful claim?'

'No claim?' His eyes narrowed a little. 'Now, why do you say that he has no claim?'

'Why indeed? Mr Lomax,' she said, meeting his eye. 'How can a young man a an heir to a great estate a lose, in the course of a few minutes, all his prospects of inheritance?'

He pa.s.sed one hand across his face and gave her a faint smile. 'Is this a riddle, Miss Kent?' he asked.

'If it is, it is a very dull one, for we both know the answer to it.'

'Nevertheless, I think you had better explain it to me.'

'Very well, I shall. It is really very simple, though I confess that I was for some time unable to see it. Because Mr Montague did indeed lose his fortune in those few moments in the ballroom, did he not? He is not the heir to Belsfield. It is not he who should now be coming home to take his father's place.'

He did not confirm, or deny, he merely continued to regard her over his fingers.

'He lost his fortune that night and he did not lose it through the uncovering of some misdemeanour that cost him his father's favour. He could not. Because, as your son was at pains to point out to me, the Belsfield inheritance is not dependent upon anyone's goodwill. It is entailed.'

His face remained impa.s.sive. 'Very well then, Miss Kent, what is the answer to your riddle? How can a young man so quickly lose his prospects of inheritance?'

'There is only one way, Mr Lomax a by discovering that another man has a better claim.'

'And you believe that that is what happened to Mr Richard Montague?'

'Yes, I do.'

'And may I ask who this man is who has a better claim to the Belsfield estate?'

'Richard Montague's older brother, Edgar. The son who was born two years before him. The heir with whom Sir Edgar was painted under the walnut tree. The child who was afflicted and so was banished from this house.'

Lomax stood up suddenly and paced to the hearth. Placing one hand upon the mantel and one foot on the fender he stared down into the fire as if anxious to avoid her eyes. 'You seem to know a great deal, Miss Kent. May I ask how you know it?'

'Oh, chiefly by piecing together a great many little things. There is the painting of course a and Annie Holmes gave me some hints about why young Richard was so fearful of his father's displeasure. He, of course, dreaded that he shared his brother's infirmity and would, like him, be rejected. And then there was the gentleman we spoke to at Lyme. He remembered a little boy of the name of Montague staying at the Old Grange, and Catherine and I both believed it to be Richard a who recuperated from scarlet fever there. But afterwards I saw that it could not have been him. For the man said that the child played out in all weathers a summer and winter. Yet Richard Montague never spent a winter at Lyme. He was there for one summer only...'

'Upon my word, Miss Kent, you are remarkably observant!'

'Thank you.'

'It quite frightens me to think that you have been scrutinising us all these last few days.'

She smiled. 'You need have no fears for yourself, Mr Lomax. Your only weakness is your courtesy. It is only that which gives away your secrets.'

'Indeed?'

'Yes, for although Sir Edgar persuaded you into conniving at the lie that he had only one son, your sense of propriety is always unconsciously betraying you.'

'Is it?'

'Oh yes. I noticed that, unlike everyone else, you never speak of "Mr Montague"; you must always give him his Christian name and call him "Mr Richard Montague" a as is correct for a younger son.'

He shook his head and stirred a log upon the grate with the toe of his boot. 'You are, as I have said before, a truly remarkable woman.' He watched the sparks from the disturbed fire fly up the chimney. 'But, my dear Miss Kent, since you know so much, you must know...' He stopped, seemed to collect himself and began again. 'I don't doubt that you have heard from someone the conclusion of young Edgar's story.'

'Yes. It was not easy to discover, for Sir Edgar has made it very plain that his eldest son is not a subject he wishes to be talked about. But Annie Holmes has a reluctantly a informed me that the boy remained at Lyme a and is supposed to have died there of a putrid fever when he was sixteen.'

'And yet you do not believe this?'