Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

Brine said nothing in reply, but I could see a glint of interest in his eyes at the question.

‘Our arrangement must be on a strictly confidential basis,’ I continued. ‘I’m sure you understand me. And it 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 assisted 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 sturdy 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 than 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 employment 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 on the corner of 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, *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,† 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 class and occupation.

She appeared to be in her late twenties, and had her brother’s sandy hair and pale freckly 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, God 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 maybe 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. ‘But it would suit us, sir, to prepare for the former 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, circumstances 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 anticipation 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 who 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 of 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, after a few more words, took my leave.

Outside the cottage door, the arrangements were concluded with a handshake. 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, I had one other matter that 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 devil? Tell me, or by God I’ll knock you down where you stand, agreement or no!’

Naturally, under normal circumstances, 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 that he would not forget, for I was easily his match in height and weight, and I 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, ‘and that is to send him as speedily as possible, with my very best regards, to the deepest pit of hell.’ Whereupon Brine’s face took on a more compliant expression and he began to apologize, in a fumbling embarrassed 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 associated 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?’