"Perhaps you"d like to wait in there, sir," he said as he led the horses away to their stalls. A few minutes later he returned. There was still a distrusting look about him, but he appeared inclined to resume his story.
"There"d been a hard frost. We"d ridden all over the Park . . . "
"Excuse me," I interjected, "do you mean that you accompanied the boy?"
"I was only a lad myself, and my old father, who was his Lordship"s groom, was ill that day and said I should go with them instead the boy and his Lordship to make sure all was well. But after we came down through the woods, the boy took off on his own. Headstrong, you see, like his mother.
"Well, we set off after him, of course, but my horse picked up a stone and I could not keep up. He"d taken the path that goes up to the Temple you"ve seen it yourself, sir: steep, uneven, dangerous even for an experienced horseman. And, as I say, there"d been a hard frost. His Lordship dismounted and called the boy back. But that was a mistake, for as he tried to turn the pony round, the beast slipped and threw the boy off. I never thought to see that man cry, and I ain"t seen it since. But cry he did, most dreadful to behold, and I don"t ever want to hear such a sound again. It fair tore your heart out to hear him, with the poor little chap lying there at his feet so pale and still.
"And so they buried him, Lord Tansor"s only boy, and since that day his Lordship has never set foot in the Temple, and few others go up there."
"But someone has been there," I said, "and recently. Someone who knows a good deal more about the attack on Mr Carteret than we do."
I did not know how far I could trust the man; but then I thought how he had taken it upon himself to go to London, on Mary Baker"s behalf, to search for news concerning her sister, the doomed Mrs Agnes Pluckrose. That action spoke of a generous and courageous spirit, and, with Mr Carteret dead, there might be a question as to how he would earn his daily bread; and so, having already recognized the need to find a means of informing myself on the doings of Evenwood and its residents, I decided to risk taking him into my confidence a little.
"Brine, I believe you to be an honest man, and a faithful servant to your former master. But you have no master now, and Miss Carteret"s future, I venture to say, is far from certain. My acquaintance with your late master was short, but I know him to have been an excellent gentleman who did not deserve his fate. More than this, his death has thrown the outcome of our business together into jeopardy, and that must be rectified. I cannot say more on this point, at least for the moment. But will you now trust me and help me, as you are able, to seek out those responsible for this dreadful act, and in so doing a.s.sist me to conclude the matter that brought me here? Our arrangement must be on a strictly confidential basis I"m sure you understand me and would involve no risk to yourself. I simply wish to be informed on what happens here, who comes, who goes, what is said amongst the servants concerning the late Mr Carteret, that sort of thing. I shall pay you well for your loyalty and discretion, and shall ensure that it will never be a matter of regret to you that you a.s.sisted me in this matter. And so here"s my hand, John Brine. Will you take it?"
He hesitated, as I expected he would, and looked me square in the eye, without speaking, for some seconds. But whatever he saw therein appeared to decide him. He gripped my hand, like the st.u.r.dy fellow he was, and shook it hard.
But then he appeared to hold back a little, and I thought at first that he had repented of his decision.
"What is it, Brine?"
"Well, sir, I was thinking . . . "
"Yes?"
"My sister Lizzie, sir, who is maid to Miss Carteret. She"s a canny girl, my sister, and a deal smarter than me in knowing what"s what, if you take my meaning. And so I was thinking, sir, if I can put this to you straight, whether you might feel your interests would be even better served if you was to extend the arrangement you have so kindly offered me to her as well. You won"t find better nor her for the work. She"s with her mistress privily every day, and comes and goes as she pleases to Miss"s room. Yes, sir, she knows what"s what round here, and she"ll keep it all as tight as you"d ever want. If you"d like to meet her for yourself, sir, she"s but a step or two down the road."
I considered the proposition for a moment. Through my work at Tredgolds, I had acquired long experience of recruiting such as Brine to serve my purposes; but it was often the case that a certain sort of woman proved more adept, and more subtle, at the work than the men.
"I will see your sister," I said at last. "Lead on."
We walked a little way into the village, to a cottage just beyond the lane that led down to the church.
"I"ll go in first, sir," said Brine at the door, "if you don"t mind."
I nodded and he entered through the low doorway, leaving me in the roadway to walk up and down. At length, the door opened again, and he ushered me inside.
His sister was standing by the blazing hearth, a book in her hand, which she placed on a table as I walked in. I saw that it was a volume of poems by Mrs Hemans,2 and, on looking round the simply furnished room, I noted a set of Miss Austen"s works, a recent novel by Mr Kingsley, and a volume or two by Miss Martineau,3 together with a number of other modern works which indicated that Miss Brine possessed literary tastes far superior to those of most people of her cla.s.s and occupation.
She appeared to be in her late twenties and had her brother"s sandy hair and pale skin, but was shorter and slighter, with darting green eyes and having as her brother had accurately described her the unmistakable look of someone who knew what was what. Yes, she was a sharp one all right. I thought she might do very well.
"Your brother has explained to you the nature of the proposed arrangement, Miss Brine?"
"He has, sir."
"And what do you say to it?"
"I"m very happy to oblige you, sir."
"And do neither of you feel disquiet at what I am asking you to do?"
They looked at each other. Then the sister spoke.
"If I may speak for my brother, sir, I will say that no such arrangement would have been possible, or considered by us, if our dear master was alive. But now he is gone, G.o.d bless his soul, we are somewhat anxious concerning our future prospects here. Who knows but that my mistress will not take it in her head to flit back to France, where she always says she was so happy. If she does, she won"t take me, that"s for sure. She"s told me as much in the past. And may be she"d stay there, and then what would we do?"
"Perhaps she might marry and still live here, though," I said.
"She might," she replied, with a strange little smile. "But it would suit us, sir, to prepare for that eventuality. To put a little money by against the day, if it should come, would be a great comfort to us. And we would give good service."
"I"m sure you would."
I plainly saw that Lizzie would be the more useful member of the partnership, and that she would also keep her brother in line.
"So you do not feel the same loyalty to your mistress as you did to her father?"
She shrugged.
"You might say that, sir, though I would not." Lizzie replied. "But it is true that, circ.u.mstances having changed so suddenly, we must look to ourselves a little more than we used."
"Tell me, Lizzie, do you like your mistress? Is she kind to you?"
The question caused her brother to look at her a little asquint, as if in antic.i.p.ation of her reply, which did not come immediately.
"I do not complain," she said at last. "That would not be my place. I am sure, as my mistress has often told me, that I am slow and clumsy, and that I do not have the delicate manners of the French girl that looked after her in Paris, and who she is always setting up as an example to me. It may be, too, that I am stupid, for of course I would not expect a lady possessed such accomplishments as Miss Carteret to think much of a poor girl like me."
She glanced in a deliberate way towards the volume of poetry lying on the table.
I thanked her for her frankness and wished her a very good night.
Outside the cottage door, after a little more discussion, the arrangements were concluded. And so it was that John Brine, formerly Mr Paul Carteret"s man, together with his sister Lizzie, Miss Carteret"s maid, became my eyes and ears in and around the Dower House at Evenwood.
As John Brine and I walked back to the Dower House, I had one other matter I particularly wished to set before my new agent.
"Brine, I wish you"d tell me about Josiah Pluckrose."
The effect of my words was extraordinary.
"Pluckrose!" he roared, his face colouring, "what have you to do with that murdering scoundrel? Tell me, or by G.o.d I"ll knock you down where you stand, agreement or no!"
Naturally, under normal circ.u.mstances, I would not for a moment have tolerated such insolence from a common fellow like John Brine; even as things were, I was within an inch of teaching him a lesson he would not forget, for I was easily his match in height and weight and knew, perhaps better than he, how to conduct myself in such situations. But I drew back; for, after all, what difference of opinion could possibly exist between us regarding Josiah Pluckrose?
"I have only one aim in view with respect to that gentleman," I said, with deliberate emphasis, "and that is to send him as speedily as possible, with my very best regards, to the deepest pit of h.e.l.l." Whereupon Brine"s face took on a more compliant expression and he began to apologize, in a fumbling embarra.s.sed sort of way, for his outburst; but I stopped him and told him straight away of my conversation with the housemaid Mary Baker, though of course I did not go so far as to divulge my prior acquaintance with friend Pluckrose.
And then he told me, in a quiet, feeling way, which almost endeared me to the fellow, that he had once entertained what he termed a "fondness" for Agnes Baker, which it was left to me to interpret how I would.
"Well, Brine," I said, as we walked under the gate-house arch, "I see there is common ground between us on the matter of Josiah Pluckrose. But what I would particularly like to know," I continued, feeling the need for another cigar, but having no more about me, "is how such a man came to be a.s.sociated with Mr Phoebus Daunt. I cannot be alone in observing the incompatibility of the relationship. Can you tell me, for instance, how Mr Carteret viewed the matter?"
"Like any right-thinking gentleman would," said Brine, a little evasively. "I know, because I heard him telling Miss Emily."
"Telling him what, Brine? Speak up, if you please, for there must be no secrets now between us."
"I"m sorry, sir, but it just don"t seem right, that"s all, speaking of what was said privately."
d.a.m.n the fellow for his scruples. A fine spy he was going to make! I reminded him, rather pointedly, of the terms of our engagement and, after a moment or two, though still somewhat unwillingly, he began to recount the substance of the conversation he had overheard between Mr Carteret and his daughter.
"His Lordship had given a dinner, and afterwards it fell to me to bring the master and Miss Emily back from the great house in the landau. It"s an old thing that belonged to Mr Carteret"s mother, but it gives good service and "
"Brine. The facts, if you please."
"To be sure, sir. Well, sir, as I say, I went up to fetch the master and the young Miss back in the landau, and I saw straight away that something was up. Black as thunder her face was as I helped her in, and Mr Carteret looking nearly as bad."
"Go on."
"There was a fair old wind that night I remember that very well and we had a rough time of it on our way back, I can tell you, especially coming up from the river, battered and buffeted and I don"t know what. But though the wind was hard in my face, there were times when I could still catch what Master and Miss were saying."
"And that"s when Mr Carteret spoke of Pluckrose?"
"Not by name, though I knew it was him the master was speaking of. He"d driven a carriage up that evening with Mr Phoebus Daunt and another gentleman it was that same cursed evening that he first spied Agnes. There"d been some trouble in the servants" hall Pluckrose had been given his supper there while t"other two gents were upstairs with the quality, and he"d threatened his Lordship"s butler, Mr Cranshaw. I heard all about the rumpus from John Hooper, a footman up at the great house, who saw it all. Well, we got home and I handed her out Miss Emily, I mean and blow me she fair stormed into the house, with her father following and calling her to stop. And so I brought the landau round to the yard and stabled the horses, like tonight, and then went along to the kitchen, for "twas a rare old night, as I say, and Susan Rowthorn would always have a little something waiting for me, in the way of refreshment, as I might say, on such a night. "Well," says she when I open the door, "here"s a to-do. Master and Miss are going at it hammer and tongs." Those were her exact words: hammer and tongs. Now Miss has a temper we all knows that. But Susan says she"d never heard the like, doors slamming and I don"t know what."
"And what was the cause of the upset, do you suppose?"
"Oh, I don"t suppose, sir. I had everything pat and in apple-pie order from Susan. She"d heard everything and noted everything, just as it happened, as is her way. I don"t know, sir, as you hadn"t ought to have brought her into your employ rather than me."
He smiled a stupid smile, and I silently d.a.m.ned him and his feeble attempt at humour.
"Get to it, Brine, and quickly," I said impatiently. "What did the woman tell you?"
Now, to spare you any more of John Brine"s ramblings, I intend to present my own account of what happened on that fateful evening, when Josiah Pluckrose came to Evenwood in the company of Phoebus Daunt, and Mr Carteret and his daughter fell out with each other for the first time in their lives. It draws directly on the recollections of the Carterets" housekeeper, Mrs Susan Rowthorn, and of John and Lizzie Brine.
Returned to the Dower House, having been b.u.mped and blown all the way, Miss Carteret ran inside, with her father calling after her, and went straight up to her room, slamming the door behind her. She had barely had time to ring for her maid, Lizzie Brine, when there was a short knock at the door and her father entered, still in his great-coat, and still in an extremely agitated state.
"Now this will not do, Emily. Really it won"t. You must tell me all, or you and I shall never be friends again. And that"s the long and the short of it." With which he removed his spectacles and began to polish them furiously.
"How can I tell you all when there is nothing to tell?"
She was standing before the window, her travelling cloak over her arm, her hair disarranged from the wind, which continued to howl all around the house. Dismayed and still angered by the turn of events, and feeling that she had been humiliated by her father, she was in no mood for conciliation.
"Nothing to tell! You can say that? Very well. Here it is. You will have nothing further to do with that man, do you hear? We must of course observe the decencies of social intercourse with our neighbours, but there must be nothing more. I hope I make myself clear."
"No, you do not, sir." Her anger was now uncontained. "May I ask of whom you speak?"
"Why, Mr Phoebus Daunt, of course, as I said before."
"But that is absurd! I have known Mr Phoebus Daunt since I was six years old, and his father is one of your most valued and devoted friends. I know you do not esteem Phoebus as others do, but I own myself amazed that you should take against him so."
"But I saw you, at dinner. He leaned towards you, in a distinctly . . . " He paused. "In a distinctly intimate manner. Ah! You say nothing. But why should you? That"s your way, I see, to let me think one thing while you are doing another."
"He leaned towards me? Is that your accusation?"
"So you deny, do you, that you have been secretly encouraging his . . . his attentions?"
He had placed his hands in his pocket and was rocking back and forth on his heels, as though to say, "There! Deny it if you can!"
But deny it she did, and with a kind of cold fury in her voice, though turning her head away as she spoke.
"I do not know why you treat me, so," she went on, angrily throwing her cloak on the bed. "I have, I hope, been ever attentive to your wishes. I am of age, and you know I could leave here tomorrow, and marry anyone I pleased."
"But not him, not him!" said Mr Carteret, almost in a moan and pa.s.sing his hand through his hair as he did so.
"Why not him, if I so chose?"
"I beg you again to judge him by the company he keeps."
She stood for a moment waiting to see if her father intended at last to elaborate further on his statement. Just then came another knock at the door. It was Lizzie Brine, who found her mistress and Mr Carteret facing each other in silence.
"Is anything the matter, Miss?"
She looks at her mistress, then at Mr Carteret. Of course she has heard the door slamming, and the sound of angry voices. Indeed she has been lingering in the pa.s.sage for some time before making her presence known. And she has not been alone, for the housekeeper, Susan Rowthorn, a.s.siduous as ever in her duties, has found a pressing reason to climb the stairs as quickly as her short legs will carry her in order to inspect the room adjacent to Miss Carteret"s, which contains a connecting door, the keyhole of which Mrs Rowthorn feels obliged no doubt for good housekeeping reasons to place her eye against.
"No, nothing is the matter, Lizzie," said Miss Carteret. "I shall not need you tonight after all. You may go home. But be here sharp in the morning."
And so Lizzie bobs and departs, slowly closing the door behind her. But she does not go home immediately. Instead she tip-toes into the adjacent chamber to join Mrs Rowthorn, who, crouching down by the connecting door, turns and places a finger on her lips as she enters.
Left alone once more (or so they think), father and daughter stand awkwardly for a moment or two, saying nothing. It is Miss Carteret who speaks first.
"Father, as you love me, I must ask you to be plain with me. What company is Mr Phoebus Daunt keeping that appears to be so abhorrent to you? Surely you do not refer to Mr Pettingale?"
"No, not Mr Pettingale. Though I do not know that gentleman, I have no reason to believe anything ill of him."
"Then whom do you mean?"
"I mean the other . . . person. A more loathsome, villainous creature I have never seen. And he calls himself an a.s.sociate of Mr Phoebus Daunt"s! You see! This swaggering brute, this . . . this Moloch in human form, comes here, to Evenwood, in the company of Mr Daunt. There now: what do you say to that?"
"What can I say?" she asked. She was calm now, standing framed by the curtained window in that characteristic pose of hers, hands crossed in front of her, her head tilted slightly back and to one side, her face devoid of all expression. "I do not know the person you describe. If he is indeed an a.s.sociate of Mr Phoebus Daunt"s, well then that is Mr Daunt"s affair, not ours. There may be perfectly good reasons why it is necessary for him, perhaps temporarily, to a.s.sociate himself with the person you describe. You must see that we are not in a position to judge on this point. As for Mr Daunt himself, I can a.s.sure you, on my dear mother"s life and before Heaven, that I can find no reason no reason at all to rebuke myself for any dereliction of the duty a daughter owes to a father."
Though she had said nothing very specific, her att.i.tude, and the emphatic tone in which she had delivered the words, appeared to have a composing effect on Mr Carteret, who ceased continually removing his spectacles and replaced his handkerchief in his pocket.
"And am I truly wrong, then, my dear?" The question was asked quietly, almost plaintively.
"Wrong, father?"
"Wrong to think you cherish a secret regard for Mr Phoebus Daunt."
"Have I not said so? Dearest father . . ." Here she reached forward and took his hand in hers. "How can you think I could deceive you? I cherish no particular regard for Mr Daunt, other than what is due to a neighbour and a childhood friend. If you believe otherwise, than you are mistaken. And if you force me to be frank, then I will confess that I do not like Mr Daunt, though I will always be civil to him, for his father"s sake. If you have mistaken civility for affection, then I am sorry, but I really cannot be blamed."
She was smiling now, and what father could have resisted such a smile? And so Mr Carteret kissed his daughter and said he was a foolish old man to think she could ever go against him. Then a thought seemed to strike him.