Flowers Stained With Moonlight Page 3

  Your loving sister,

  Vanessa

  Maidstone Hall, Saturday, June 11th, 1892

  My dearest Dora,

  I have come – I am here – I have arrived! At this very moment, I am settled in a bedroom in which a certain chill and unused look persists, in spite of the family’s best efforts to cheer it up for me with lamps and candles, and fresh sheets and a pretty spread upon the iron bedstead. The day has been long, and I have been impatient for some time already to find myself alone. I must reflect on what I have seen and learnt (little though it is for the moment!) and look over my newspaper clippings once again.

  The clippings are the work of Arthur. He woke me, early this morning, by tapping gently on my window, and by the time I had drawn the curtain and peeked sleepily out into the garden, he was beckoning to me from the garden table, where he was to be seen casually installed in a ray of sunshine filtering between the leaves, which quivered gaily in the light summer breeze. In front of him stood a lovely steaming teapot, a basket of rolls, sundry pots of jam and a large sheaf of newspapers. It would be difficult to conceive of a more tempting prospect; breakfast in the garden is a rare treat, as one does not, generally, have the courage to beg the use of her personal table from Mrs Fitzwilliam (and this in spite of the fact that she never sits at it herself). Arthur had gone to a special effort for me, and I made haste to dress and join him, wondering within me what turn his thoughts had taken over the night, and how he would address the burning issue which still lay unresolved between us.

  ‘What a lovely breakfast,’ I said, as I took my place across from him and reached for the teapot. ‘But why all the newspapers?’

  ‘The newspapers are for you, Vanessa,’ he responded, looking at me with a restrained twinkle in his eye. ‘I picked up the whole week’s worth from college, where they lie about on the coffee table. What you are undertaking is anything but amusing, but the way you go about it is another story! Are you going to dash off into the middle of things without even finding out what it’s all about? Don’t you think you ought to try and learn at least the basic facts before being served up the local version of the story?’

  I was all ready to feel properly indignant at these remarks, but it occurred to me that, after all, he was right enough, and more, his very words carried a gentle indication of a decision to renounce any attempt to change my intentions. His tone was almost light, but I felt the weight of his unspoken thoughts. Still, if his easy manner did not fool me as to the difficulties he may have felt in forcing himself to adopt it, it certainly smoothed some away for me! I accepted his speech like a gift, therefore, and answered laughing,

  ‘Yes, of course – I meant to! Well, all right, Arthur, I didn’t mean to, but simply because I hadn’t thought of it. I should have if I had. But I don’t suppose the newspapers are really likely to contain anything more than what I shall soon learn, and even less that they are accurate or trustworthy! Still, let us have a look.’

  ‘I already have, actually,’ he said, laying aside several pages. ‘There is only one article of real interest, frankly. It dates from Monday, the day after the murder, and appears to contain the main facts with less sensationalism than the others.’ And he handed me the page containing the clipping which I enclose for your perusal.

  MURDER STRIKES THE QUIET COUNTRYSIDE

  George Burton Granger of Haverhill Manor in Lower Haverhill, on the outskirts of Cambridge, was found shot dead yesterday in a grove of trees on his estate. A self-proclaimed country squire hailing from Manchester, possessor of a respectable fortune from dealings in the City, Mr Granger acquired Haverhill Manor two years ago from Miss Emmeline Haverhill, last remnant of the Haverhill family who built the manor in the sixteenth century. ‘It was a sad day for me when I had to move out,’ said Miss Haverhill, 87, when asked to describe the new proprietor of her ancestral home. ‘Mr Granger had money, to be sure, and he transferred a sizeable quantity of it to me on the day he bought my house, but I don’t think he quite realised that no buying of houses can change who you are and where you come from. If you’ll allow me to say so, the man was not to the manor born. I expect all the old homes in England will pass to such people sooner or later. Birth no longer has the rights and privileges it used to. I don’t know what the country is coming to, I’m sure. Mr Granger talked all kinds of nonsense about central heating and bathrooms. Why, make life too easy, and you lose all the force of it, and the hardships that sculpt people into what they are! What kind of a person expects to be warm while dining! A proper dining room is large enough to seat at least forty; it’s silly to want to heat such a place, you might as well heat the garden. Why, that’s what the wine and spirits are served for! Little did he know, that Mr Granger. He thought that the things we did were things a person can learn. Riding and hunting, for instance. He actually learnt those things. What’s the point of that? Anyone can see that you’ve learnt it, that you weren’t born to it, from a mile off. It isn’t the same thing in the least. Installing a groom and all, thinking he was doing the same as my dear father, never realising how silly he looked, poor man. But he would go hunting. Well, it all caught up with him in the end, didn’t it? Here he’s gone and gotten himself shot. Dear, dear.’

  Mr Granger’s body was actually discovered by the very gamekeeper referred to above, who was crossing the grounds on his morning rounds. He is not available for interviewing as the police have forbidden him to discuss the case because of the importance of his testimony as a witness in a possible forthcoming murder trial. However, this journalist has succeeded in learning from the police that Mr Granger was shot in the chest at quite close range, by a very small foreign firearm which has not been found anywhere on the premises. The lack of any particular expression of fear on the face of the deceased, and the position of his body, quite as though he had been shot in the middle of an ordinary conversation, have led the police to believe that the person who accosted him was a familiar. The police have a theory, and a very simple one, but are presently engaged in collecting testimonies from every person who can possibly have been within hearing distance at the time of the crime.

  Mr Granger leaves a widow, Mrs Sylvia Granger née Bryce-Fortescue.

  ‘What a peculiar article,’ I mused. ‘I almost feel like laughing! What nasty things old Miss Haverhill says about poor Mr Granger – she really seems to feel he was killed because he was the wrong kind of person for her house! Yet I can understand how sad it must be to have to give up one’s old home. I expect one simply must exercise a little irony to put up with such a loss. Still, fancy wanting all those remarks to be published in a newspaper! And I wonder if he really has learnt all that he hints from the police. Do they really talk so much to journalists about their private theories, or is he just making it up? I wonder who he is; the article is signed merely “PO”. Do you think there’s any way one could find out?’

  ‘I have a little theory about that, actually,’ replied Arthur. ‘I had occasion to meet a journalist on the paper last year, during a mathematical event of note; his name was Patrick O’Sullivan, and he was a freckled Irishman of the purest sort – dashing all over the place, talking and asking questions till your head ached! He had a bit of a strange sense of humour. I shouldn’t be surprised at all to find he was the author of this piece. If you like, I could try to locate him.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ I cried, ‘I’m sure that would be good. He seems to know what the police are doing, at least he hints so, although perhaps that’s just for the glory of it. But if I met him, maybe I could find out what he really knows. And how useful it might turn out to be, if he had some real information. Look, Arthur, at what it says about a “simple theory”. It seems clear enough that it is Mrs Granger who is hinted at! And that, of course, is exactly what poor Mrs Bryce-Fortescue most fears. So she is not inventing it.’

  ‘It does sound like that’s what is meant, with that last sentence,’ he admitted. ‘But Vanessa, don’t forget this: the police might be right. Listen, I’ll tr
y to look out Pat, and I’ll write you if I succeed. I shall write you anyway, and you must write to me as often as they carry the post – if you write to me half as often as you do to your sister, I shall be content. Now you had better finish packing your things, for they’ll be coming to fetch you quite soon, and I must go to work.’

  He rose and kissed me rather solemnly. The kiss was quite intense enough to clearly communicate the disproportion between his feelings and his words.

  ‘Oh Arthur, I am grateful,’ I murmured into his ear.

  ‘It would be harder if … if I didn’t feel that you are trying to do something which may, which must surely be a good and necessary thing, however … disturbing and even frightening it is to me to see you mixed up in such things. I thought last night about the first time you came to me in prison – it seemed wrong then, to me, for you to have come. A wrong place for you to be. And yet in the end it was right, and you could have done nothing better. So how should I presume to judge? Still, I cannot help feeling very worried. You’re too d-daring, Vanessa. I wish you were more easily afraid. Remember Laertes: be wary then; best safety lies in fear.’

  And he turned from me and went into the house rather more quickly than necessary, leaving me to carry the crockery in to Mrs Fitzwilliam.

  I returned to my rooms and prepared a small suitcase. I did not know how much to take nor exactly how long I should be away, but I decided that surely I should return to Cambridge no later than next Saturday, even if just for a night, to see Arthur. So I packed economically, and then sat down rather tremblingly to wait for Mrs Bryce-Fortescue and her carriage.

  I did exactly nothing but wait, straining my ears, for a good half an hour, yet so startled was I when the knock finally came at my door, that I leapt out of my seat, heart pounding! I hastened to the door, was greeted and invited to depart with no further delay.

  ‘If I had known, I would have put this off until tomorrow,’ she told me as soon as we were seated within. ‘The police are sending their inspector over this afternoon, yet again, to speak with Sylvia. I cannot think of allowing them to see her alone, and am quite worried that they may come whilst we are still on our way, although in principle they should not be at the house before four o’clock. Sylvia is under strict instructions to say that she has a headache and cannot see them until I am home. Make haste, please, Peter!’ she added in a slightly louder voice, addressing herself to the red-headed driver, whom I now observed for the first time.

  He made a peculiar impression upon me. I would not, somehow, have expected Mrs Bryce-Fortescue to have this style of servant. Tall and young, with immensely long legs stretched before him, he leant back in his seat, a straw between his teeth, and drove the horses with a je-ne-sais-quoi attitude; it sounds ridiculous to say this, but it was quite as though they belonged to him. He did nothing wrong or impolite, to be sure, and yet his whole bearing and expression radiated a certain calm and cheerful ease which nearly verged on disrespect! Definitely not a youth from the country, it was easy to see, in spite of his familiarity with the horses. I could not resist putting a delicate question to Mrs Bryce-Fortescue.

  ‘Has your coachman been with you long?’ I said lightly. ‘He doesn’t look like someone from these parts.’

  ‘No indeed,’ she replied with a very slight touch of asperity. ‘I may as well tell you, since you are bound to learn a great deal about my family, and it will surely be necessary for you to ask a certain number of questions, some of which may be disagreeable, that my financial situation is really not one which could permit me to keep my own carriage and driver. In any case, you will easily be able to observe our train of living, once you arrive at the house. Peter Middleman and this carriage belonged to – to Sylvia’s husband. I – it is most disagreeable for me to speak of these things, but I realise that I myself have begged you to come, and I truly believe you may be able to help us, and I really do not know where else to turn, so I simply must force myself to do what does not come naturally to me. In a word, you must know that as long as the police inquiry is going on, my daughter cannot – her inheritance is blocked. Not only is she not yet the legal owner of her husband’s estate, but she is not even allowed to set foot there, which I suppose is normal enough, given that the house and grounds are being searched and studied for clues. However, the police have deigned to allow Peter to drive her to my home in her own carriage, and to stay with us until the – difficulties – shall be resolved. He is a peculiar young man, I agree, and I cannot say that I feel comfortable with him. I believe that he also comes from Manchester, and became acquainted with Geo—with Mr Granger there.’

  ‘Mr Granger was from Manchester, then?’ I knew it already, of course, from the newspaper article, but it seemed expedient to let Mrs Bryce-Fortescue tell me everything she could or would in her own way.

  ‘Yes, he was born there and lived there for many years before moving to this part of the country,’ she answered soberly.

  ‘It is embarrassing to ask questions – it does seem like prying,’ I said with some hesitation, ‘but I will certainly need to know as much as I can about Mr Granger’s background. Could you – could I know how old he was?’

  ‘I quite understand your hesitations, but we must both of us understand once and for all that such considerations will be nothing but a handicap. We had better leave them aside entirely,’ she answered, with a rather forced smile. ‘With me, at least, you can and should feel free to pry. With the others, that is to say, my daughter and her friend Camilla, and the servants, and perhaps Mr Granger’s servants – with them you will of course need to exercise a little more delicacy, as naturally none of these people have the slightest idea of your purpose in coming. Indeed, it is necessary for you to know that I have told them that you are the daughter of old friends, and that as you have come to live in Cambridge, they asked me to befriend you. If you find yourself obliged to invent any further details, please have the kindness to let me know. Now, about Mr Granger. What did you ask?’

  ‘How old was he,’ I insisted awkwardly. I felt rather than thought that she disliked the question, and wondered vaguely why.

  ‘Ah. Yes. He was … let me see, I do not know his exact age.’

  ‘But roughly?’

  ‘Roughly speaking, he must have been nearing – near fifty years old.’

  ‘Oh!’ My exclamation was not very discreet, but the information surprised me. As the husband of her daughter, I had naturally imagined a much younger man. Why, Mrs Bryce-Fortescue herself did not look so much.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied calmly. ‘You seem surprised. I suppose you expected my daughter to be married to a man closer to her own age.’

  ‘Yes, but it was a foolish prejudice,’ I answered humbly, disliking to have my thoughts read, even if they were very silly and obvious thoughts. ‘Can you tell me how Mr Granger became acquainted with your daughter?’

  There was a faint pause. She seemed to be recollecting, or collecting, her thoughts.

  ‘He met her through me,’ she said. ‘I met Mr Granger at the home of some mutual friends, some seven or eight years ago. I was intrigued by him, for he was very unlike the men I was used to meeting. He had a strong and dominating personality, the kind of personality which leads a man to success no matter what his background. He had done far more, with far less advantages, than any other man of my acquaintance, and I felt a certain … admiration for him. He became a frequent caller at our house; Sylvia was then a girl of fifteen or sixteen. She was not in the least bit interested in him, but she was a very lovely girl, and I see now that he may have been … fond of her from the beginning, although he said nothing about it for many years. Indeed, he never said or hinted a word of any such thing until two years ago – all at once, and most unexpectedly.’ She flushed.

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Then he asked to marry her,’ she responded drily.

  ‘Was she pleased? How did she feel about it?’

  ‘I do not wish to speak for my daughter,�
� she replied with a shade of coolness. ‘Naturally, she was pleased, as she accepted the proposal. The age difference certainly did not constitute an insurmountable obstacle. But I cannot give you any details about her feelings or about the marriage. Neither my daughter nor I are given to the expression of transports of feeling. You must see if you can learn directly from her what you wish to know.’

  There was something curious in her attitude; something strange, contradictory. She seemed to wish to enlighten me, and yet something blocked the flow of information, as though there were something about her daughter’s marriage, or about private affairs in general, that she seemed to feel and yet to be unable to pronounce, maybe even to herself. Perhaps she was simply obeying the impulse of discretion and the need to present a certain face to the world.

  At any rate, one thing appears clear: Mrs Bryce-Fortescue is not going to drown me in a spate of worldly chatter. She will put her house at my disposal, and answer factual questions to the best of her ability, but I do not think she is sincerely capable of doing more. Her character forbids it.

  At length, and after a good deal of mutual silence, the carriage drew up in front of Mrs Bryce-Fortescue’s imposing home. The house is indescribably full of charm; summer roses fall in clusters over the low, projecting southern wing, and the warm stone of an unusual rosy hue, bringing to mind the ‘Maidstone’ of the house’s name, peeps through them in the sunshine. Light glints on the casements and large trees cast shade over a wild little garden surrounded by a low, moss-covered wall, with a gate giving onto the vast fields and lanes beyond. I stopped, delighted, and stared about me.

  ‘Here we are: welcome to Maidstone Hall. I am afraid that it is in rather a sorry state,’ said Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, leading me up the somewhat overgrown garden path. ‘I have not been able to keep it up as it deserves, since my husband died.’