Faith Martin - A Fatal Secret

It had been said in her family that her Scottish grandmother had ‘the sight’ and in that moment, she felt for the first time as if some of that dubious gift might actually run in her veins also. For as she watched the duo, she felt a distinct shiver of foreboding ripple up her spine. It was as if someone had just said aloud that the old man and pretty young woman were harbingers of disaster to come – disaster for the family, and, therefore, disaster for herself and her own comfortable world.

For a second, she couldn’t catch her breath, and she groped for a chair and sat down quickly.

She told herself she was being morbid and silly, and made a concerted effort to pull herself together. As she did so, she couldn’t help but glance up, as if she could see right through the ceiling and plaster, past the floor above that, and all the way up to the top of the house, where the nursery was located.

Soon, Emily would be allocated a bedroom of her own on the adult floor. But for now, the child slept in her single bed next to her younger brother’s rooms and the old schoolroom. And Cordelia couldn’t help but wonder: what was the child thinking right now?

Emily was such a clever little thing, whose quiet manners and innocent smiles could often make you forget just how much it was that she actually heard and understood. Mature for her age though she may be, she was still only a little girl, and she had been so very fond of that farmer’s lad. And soon her grief would turn to anger. Cordelia Roper’s lips thinned. And who knew then what she might let slip if she was ever allowed to talk to outsiders unsupervised? For Cordelia had little doubt that Miss Emily’s sharp ears and sharp eyes missed very little. And too much knowledge was not good for anyone, let alone an unpredictable – and unprotected – child.

Although the death of little Eddie Proctor had shocked and distressed her to the core, Cordelia was far more worried about Emily. And she was determined to watch over her, no matter what the squire said.

Unaware of the housekeeper’s angst, Trudy and Clement made their way through a sudden spell of welcome sunshine towards a tall, mellowing red-brick wall that Clement guessed might provide the shelter for the kitchen gardens.

Passing through a small archway, upon which climbed a splendid clematis that was just beginning to leaf, he caught sight, off to the left, of the square walls and grey-slated roof of a smaller house. It looked very much like a miniature replica of the Hall itself, and catching sight of it too, Trudy frowned at it thoughtfully.

Seeing her notice it, Clement smiled. ‘The dower house, no doubt,’ he said.

Trudy frowned. ‘What’s a dower house?’

‘In the old days, the lord of the manor’s wife ruled the household,’ Clement explained. ‘But when their eldest son married, the new lady of the manor and the mother-in-law didn’t always hit it off. So it became a tradition, when the old lord of the manor died, that his widow – or dowager – would move out into an establishment of her own. Usually, like the case here’ – he nodded towards the house – ‘into a smaller version of the big house itself. She’d take her own staff and maids and what have you with her, and still have a home of her own where she could continue to rule the roost, leaving her daughter-in-law – the new lady of the manor – in possession of the main residence.’

‘Oh,’ Trudy said. Then couldn’t help but smile. ‘I’ll bet that wasn’t always done with much grace,’ she muttered, making her friend laugh.

‘I don’t suppose it was,’ Clement agreed.

They stepped through into the high-walled kitchen garden and looked around with pleasure. It reminded Trudy a bit of her dad’s allotment, only on a much larger and more ornamental scale.

A tall, rather shambling man, with longish brown hair and a weather-beaten face was slowly and carefully training some pear tree saplings to grow along a south-facing wall. He glanced at them with vague curiosity as they stepped through the arch, but it was an older man, almost certainly the head gardener, who approached them first.

He’d been checking under some old galvanised tin tubs to see how the forced rhubarb was getting on, and now he rubbed his hands against the thighs of his not particularly clean trousers as he welcomed them. He had a shock of thick white hair and thick white bushy eyebrows over pale-blue eyes, and was already acquiring a tan, even so early in the season. It had the effect of making the crow’s feet wrinkles at the corners of his eyes appear whiter than they should.

‘Hello, sir, er… madam,’ he said, clearly not sure how to address either one of them. ‘Was you wantin’ someone from the house?’ Clearly strangers in the gardens were not a common occurrence.

‘Not really,’ Clement said, introducing himself and his companion. ‘We’re here because Mr Martin de Lacey has asked us to look into the circumstances surrounding Eddie Proctor’s accident.’

Instantly, the old man’s face fell. ‘Ar, that was a bad business, that was. Mr de Lacey is getting workmen in to fill up the old well.’

Clement nodded. ‘Perhaps that’s a good thing. With the boy’s father continuing to work here and all. Do you know Mr Proctor well, Mr… er…?’

‘Oh, Cricklade sir, Leonard Cricklade. I’m the head gardener here. But that old well came under the jurisdiction, strictly speaking, of the estate manager…’

Clement held his hands up quickly. ‘Oh, we’re not here to apportion blame, or cast any stones, Mr Cricklade. I was the coroner at the boy’s inquest, and I’m satisfied that the organisers of the event made it clear that the children were to stay within these walls.’ As he spoke, he glanced around at the large, walled-in garden with pleasure. ‘I’ve now talked to several of the children who were here that morning, and none of them were aware that Eddie had wandered off.’

‘No doubt he’d still be alive now if he’d stayed put,’ the old man agreed heavily, and joined Clement in glancing around at his domain.

Among the compost heaps, bean poles, various sheds and rows of well-tended vegetables and odd flowerbeds the coroner could well see that any amount of small eggs could have been hidden in this haven.

‘Did you notice the boy leave the garden that morning? And if you did, was he with anyone?’ Trudy asked hopefully, but the old man quickly shook his head.

‘No, weren’t working that day, see, seeing as it was Easter Sunday and all. Me and the missus were in chapel. Methodists, see. We had gone into Oxford.’

‘Of course,’ Trudy murmured. ‘So it was only the organisers of the hunt who were here. None of the family came to watch, for instance?’ she probed delicately.

‘Don’t think so. Well, Miss Emily and Master George would have been here, like, searching for the eggs along with the rest of the village kiddies. But none of the adults from up at the Hall, I shouldn’t think. Mr de Lacey, he don’t mind doing his bit for the village – letting the fete committee have run of the lower paddock and such. But he’s not much of a one for interferin’ like. He says he’d only get under people’s feet.’

Clement hid a smile. He could well understand why Martin de Lacey would prefer to avoid bucolic village festivities in favour of a drink at his club.

‘What about those in the dower house?’ Trudy asked. ‘Are there any de Laceys currently living there now? Might they have seen anything do you suppose?’

‘Mr Oliver de Lacey and his mother live there. Have done many years since. No, they wouldn’t have been present. Mr Oliver is a bachelor still, and so a’course don’t have no kiddies of his own. His mother is a widow – she was married to Mr Clive, the younger brother of Mr Martin de Lacey’s father. I think she was probably in town anyway. She prefers to spend holidays and such in London with friends and her own family.’