Philippa Carr - Pool of St. Branok

“There is one thing that matters to me more than anything else.”

I smiled at him ruefully and left him.

When I returned to the house Grace was there with my mother.

“I had to come and see you,” she said. “It is just a flying visit.” She smiled at my mother. “I heard you were in London and I told myself I must see you.”

“I was just saying to Grace how nice it is to be here and that I hope she will come to Cornwall when this election is over.”

“Thank you,” said Grace. “I should like to. But you can imagine how it is in Manorleigh just now. There is very little respite.”

“How is Lizzie?” I asked.

“Oh …” She frowned. “She is always tired. She doesn’t really like all this public life.”

“It rust be a terrible trial to her.”

“I help her all I can and she manages.”

“It’s a change from Golden Creek.”

“Indeed yes. I hear you have been doing wonderful things at the Mission. Your mother has been telling me about the poor girl whose stepfather is on trial for murder.”

“It’s a very sad case.”

“And Timothy Ransome has taken her in?”

“He is a wonderful man,” said my mother.

“He must be. And you have just returned from a visit to his place. Frances thinks a great deal of him, I gather. I always admire those people who give up so much of their time to good works.”

“Angelet has been doing her share lately.”

“So I heard. You’re rather friendly with Mr. Ransome, I believe.”

“Oh yes … we’re good friends.”

My mother was smiling a little complacently.

“I am lucky to have this work,” went on Grace. “It’s done a lot for me. I suppose you feel the same about the Mission. It can be lonely for a widow … on her own.”

“Well,” said my mother, “perhaps life will change for both of you.”

I did get a few words alone with Grace before she went.

She said: “Is it true that you are going to marry Timothy Ransome?”

“No. Who told you that?”

“I gathered it from the way they were talking … Amaryllis and your mother. They seemed to think that an engagement was imminent.”

“No … not imminent.”

She nodded. “It’s a big step … marriage. One needs time to consider it particularly when one has already experienced it. You realize how easily things can go wrong. It makes you cautious.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Well, Angelet, I wish you every happiness. I hope it works out well for you. I do know that Timothy Ransome is a very good man. People talk. And … good men are rare.”

Another, I thought, who wants to see me married.

She left that afternoon with Ben and Lizzie for Manorleigh; and the next day my mother went back to Cornwall.

I had just had breakfast and was in the nursery with Rebecca when one of the maids came round with a message from Aunt Amaryllis. Would I go to them at once.

Uncle Peter was there. He was preparing to leave. He looked white-faced and shocked—quite unlike himself.

“Oh, Angelet,” cried Aunt Amaryllis, embracing me, “I wanted to tell you before you heard elsewhere. The papers are full of it. Uncle Peter is going straight away to Manorleigh. He knows Ben will need his support.”

“What is it, Aunt Amaryllis?”

“It’s Lizzie …”

“Lizzie? Is she ill?”

“She’s … dead.”

“Dead!” I cried. “How? Why?”

“It looks like an overdose of laudanum.”

I clutched a chair. I felt I was going to faint.

Aunt Amaryllis was beside me, putting an arm round me.

“I’m sorry. I should have broken it more gently. We’re all so terribly shocked.”

“Tell me. Tell me all about it.”

“They found her … this morning … It was Grace who was the first. She went into her room and found her … dead.”

“Where was Ben?”

“He was in his room, I suppose. They had separate rooms, you know. There was the bottle beside her bed. Poor Lizzie …”

“I’m going down to see what can be done,” said Uncle Peter. “I’ll be in touch as soon as possible.”

He left us and Aunt Amaryllis said to me: “I’m going to get you some brandy. You look so shocked.”

“No thanks, Aunt Amaryllis. It’s just …”

“I know how you feel … I do the same. It’s so awful. That poor child … I don’t know what it means.”

She made me drink a little brandy, but I knew that nothing could stop the terrible thoughts which were crowding into my mind.

We sat there. Aunt Amaryllis was talking. Grace had gone in and found her. … Ben had sent a message to his grandfather at once.

“Peter will sort things out,” said Aunt Amaryllis.

How did one sort out death in such circumstances? I wondered. Surely that was beyond even Uncle Peter’s powers.

I don’t remember the next few days in detail. It was like living in a nightmare.

I went back to my house. Morwenna and Justin came to see me.

“This is terrible,” said Morwenna.

“The papers will have a field day,” added Justin.

“Yes,” I said. “They will.”

“This is a little different from the snippets of scandal we’ve had so far,” said Justin. “Is Grace still there?”

“Well, she was with them. She and Lizzie were great friends. She was such a help to her. Oh, poor Lizzie, she never wanted to leave Golden Creek.”

“I wonder if Grace will stay there,” said Justin.

“She’s been helping with the campaign. I suppose that has to go on.”

“It will be a hopeless cause now.”

“You mean …”

“Why, Angelet, you don’t think they would elect a man whose wife has just died in mysterious circumstances?”

“Mysterious circumstances …”

“It will come out at the inquest. No one can say till then. I wonder if Grace will stay. She can’t very well without Lizzie’s being there.”

“What does that matter?” I asked. “Lizzie is dead. I can’t believe it.”

I lived in a daze. There was one thought which kept coming into my mind. It was what Ben had said: “Don’t give up hope. Something will be done.”

Something had been done.

No. I would not believe that of Ben. He was vigorous in his pursuit of what he wanted. He had married for it. Would he murder for it?

There! I had said the word to myself. And now it haunted me and I could not get it out of my mind.

There was great anxiety in the family. We met and talked over the matter. They all said that Lizzie had been taking the drug to help her sleep. Some drugs were dangerous. It was easy to take too much.

Uncle Peter was staying at Manorleigh for the inquest.

We were all waiting for the outcome. That would either still our fears or make them realities.

We did not want to read the papers but we could not stop ourselves. They were full of the case. Everyone was talking of the sudden death of Mrs. Elizabeth Lansdon … wife of one of the candidates in the constituency of Manorleigh. She had been found in her bed by the close friend of herself and her husband … Mrs. Grace Hume, widow of the Crimean hero, grandson of Peter Lansdon the philanthropist. Why did they have to go into those details every time they mentioned them?

There were hints as to what might have happened. Mrs. Elizabeth was shy and retiring; she had given the impression that the life of a successful politician’s wife had little charm for her. It was her friend, Mrs. Grace, who had shone at the meetings; she it was who mingled with the people, kissed the babies and expressed general concern for the welfare of the voters … taking on the work and duties of the candidate’s wife.

Hints … all the time. I was amazed how the press enjoyed the hunt for sensation. They reminded me of a pack of hounds chasing a fox. Ben had angered them. He had been too clever, too successful they hated that. And now was their opportunity to destroy all that success.