Authors: Jean Rowden
Half smiling, Phoebe began to turn away, her thoughts on sleep, but a sense of some movement among the shrubs at the far side of the lawn made her pause. The branches of a bush were moving where no wind stirred. Phoebe bit her lip, worry flooding back and all her good intentions forgotten in an instant. This had happened before, and she thought she knew who lurked there, where they had no business to be.
Sure enough, the figure of a large man appeared, walking half bent as if that would make him less visible. She saw him
for only a second, but there could be no mistake; it was Jonah.
She saw him again, as he crossed an open space and ducked swiftly into the shadow cast by the summerhouse. He didn’t reappear. Phoebe, her hand to her mouth, sank onto a chair. She’d hoped the liaison was over. Suppose she wasn’t the only person standing looking out at the moonlit garden?
Sitting in the dark, watching the moon-shadows moving inch by inch across the lawn, Phoebe listened for the slight creak of floorboards. She dreaded to hear the familiar scratch at the door and the mocking laugh which so disturbed Rodney’s sleep; it would certainly start his nightmares again. Going out for her clandestine assignations, the woman who made those sounds must have heard him cry out; it seemed she delighted in frightening the boy.
Phoebe was suddenly angry. To Lady Pickhurst, rich, beautiful and spoilt, the children meant nothing, and nor did Jonah Jackman. He was merely a diversion, a plaything to be tossed aside when she tired of him. He would be badly hurt, but if the affair was discovered he would suffer a great deal worse than a broken heart.
The footsteps came, soft and swift, just audible in the silence of the night. This time there was no scratch at the door, but a line of light moved across the gap at the bottom, before fading away. Phoebe dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands; if only there was something she could do, some way to cure Jonah of his infatuation. She knew what Lady Pickhurst’s true character was, the whole household was aware of her selfishness, the streak of idle malice that made her so hated by those who had to serve her.
With sudden decision, Phoebe rose. She hadn’t prepared herself for bed and was still fully dressed. She fetched her dark brown coat and put it on. Opening the door an inch, she
peered out and saw a wavering light shining from the stair. With exaggerated care, she stepped out, closed the door behind her, and set off to follow it.
P
hoebe felt her way cautiously along the corridor and down the stairs, inching each foot forward carefully for fear of falling. A sound told her that Lady Pickhurst, if that was whom she was following, had opened the ancient door. When it closed total blackness descended. It had been foolish to come without a candle, but she’d only thought about remaining unseen.
It took a minute to reach the door, and another to summon up the courage to open it. The wind had strengthened and it was difficult to keep the heavy oak door open while she slipped through; Phoebe almost had it snatched from her fingers as she eased it shut behind her. A glimmer of moonlight lit her way across the old refectory, but the place was cold and full of shadows, while the wind whistled eerily through gaps in the stonework.
Phoebe almost turned to flee. The thought of Jonah stopped her; she wouldn’t see him dismissed and disgraced, not if there was any way to prevent it. She ran across the room to escape into the cloisters. Here a light showed dully from within one of the carrels. Shivering with fear and with her heart pounding, she pressed her back to the cold stone wall. There was nothing to hear but the moaning of the wind, nothing to see except the dim steady glow. It took a long time to persuade herself to go on, and when she did she
found only a lantern, left unattended on a stone shelf. The mistress of Knytte had gone on, relying on the moon to show her the way.
Gathering her courage, Phoebe ran on silent feet through the ruins, where imagination suggested a dozen kinds of evil lurking unseen among the deep pools of darkness. The night crowded closer, feeding the ancient terror that lies hidden in every human heart. Reaching the archway which led into the garden she stopped, leaning gratefully against the old stones; this was a familiar spot, a refuge from her earlier panic. It took only a moment to regain her breath and her composure. When there was a lull in the moaning of the wind she could hear the hushed sounds of the creatures that took over the garden by night, and once, pitched low, there was the murmur of human voices.
Crouching low to avoid being seen, Phoebe made her way slowly towards the summer house.
‘You speak of love, yet you refuse me the one small thing I ask of you.’ Lady Pickhurst’s voice came to her, quite clear in the silence. It was filled with an overwhelming sadness. If Phoebe hadn’t known her, hadn’t seen how deceitful the woman could be, she might have believed the emotion to be real.
‘You know I’d give my life for you,’ Jonah protested. ‘I love you, with all my heart.’
‘Then hold me,’ the woman murmured. ‘Show me this love and help me bear this awful burden my life has become.’
Jonah made a sound that was barely human, between a groan and a sigh. ‘You make me a sinner in the eyes of God and man. This is so wrong, yet I can’t help myself …’
Phoebe turned and stumbled back the way she’d come, too overcome with what she’d heard to fear the darkness awaiting her in the ruins. How could Jonah be so foolish? If they were
discovered he would lose everything, all for the sake of an hour in that wicked woman’s arms.
When she reached the lighted lantern Phoebe paused. At the very least, she would let them know their rendezvous had been discovered. Poor Jonah was blinded by love, but Phoebe didn’t believe Lady Pickhurst would jeopardize her position in society, perhaps her very life, for any man, let alone a poor stonemason.
She picked up the lamp and took it with her, back towards the old refectory. Turning the wick down until the flame died, she placed the lantern on the floor in the brightest of the moonlight, where anyone coming that way couldn’t help but see it.
Phoebe opened the door and stepped through, but as she turned to close it the rising wind caught the heavy oak planks. The door crashed back into its frame, the noise so loud it hurt her ears. Stunned, she stood in total darkness as the sound echoed around her. It must have awakened half the household. Frantically she groped for the wall; there should be no obstacles to impede her, apart from the doorway of the old library. Here she almost fell, but then her hand smacked into the door and she recovered her balance, to run blindly on in the dark. At the foot of the stairs she stumbled again, landing on her knees.
Sobs rising in her throat, Phoebe scurried up to the first floor. She was at the top of the stairs and halfway to the nursery when she heard a door open. A light appeared from below and a querulous voice called out, it sounded like Mr Henson, the butler.
‘Who’s there?’
Phoebe ran on, grasping the handle of the nursery door, unbuttoning her dress with urgent fingers as she went through. Only seconds later she was back, wearing a nightgown
and with a candlestick in her hand, as if she had come directly from her bed.
Coper, one of the footmen, appeared at the top of the stairs, a light held aloft. ‘Miss Drake, is that you?’
She hushed him with a finger to her lips and pulled the door closed. ‘Don’t wake the children,’ she whispered, hurrying to join him.
‘I take it that noise didn’t come from the nursery?’ Coper said. ‘Mr Henson told me to come and check.’
‘No, I thought it came from downstairs,’ she said softly.
The murmur of voices wafted to them from below. They went down together, to find Mr Henson and half a dozen other servants gathered there.
‘It wasn’t upstairs, Mr Henson,’ Coper said, ‘Miss Drake is quite certain.’
‘It wasn’t from the library either, as far as we can see,’ another man reported.
‘The door then,’ Henson said, striding to the end of the corridor. ‘Good heavens, it’s unlocked! But I checked it myself, no more than two hours ago.’ He lifted the latch and peered into the gloomy refectory. From where Phoebe stood she couldn’t see outside, but she feared he must notice the lantern.
‘Perhaps it was the burglar,’ one of the maids said shrilly. ‘He’s come to steal her ladyship’s jewels. He might be hiding in the house this very minute. We could all be murdered in ours beds!’
‘Don’t talk such nonsense,’ Henson said, closing the door. ‘Miss Drake, are you sure nobody went past the nursery?’
‘Quite sure. I was awake when I heard the noise, and it only took me a moment to get to the door.’
‘And nobody came through into the servants’ wing. Coper, Wills, go up to his lordship’s study at once, and check that nobody has been in there.’
The girl who had spoken before gave a little scream. ‘Perhaps he’s already made off with his loot.’
Henson glared at her. ‘Be quiet, girl. There’s no call for you to start shrieking. If the sound we heard was the thief leaving then we’ll soon know.’ He sent pairs of servants to search the other main rooms, with particular instructions to be quiet. ‘It seems his lordship and Lady Pickhurst have managed to sleep through all this upset. I’ll not disturb them unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
Phoebe stood in shivering silence, listening to the excited whispers of the remaining servants. If Lady Pickhurst returned to the door before the hunt was over she would be discovered, and who knew what might happen. Biting her lip, Phoebe prayed, though for what she couldn’t be sure. By the time the men returned she was cold to the bone, but they brought reassuring news; all was as it should be.
‘Well, it seems there’s no harm done,’ the butler said. ‘I don’t understand how this door came to be unlocked, but the matter can be looked into tomorrow, once I’ve spoken to his lordship.’ He took a bunch of keys from his pocket and locked the door, then shot the huge bolt at the top, which gave a loud grinding protest as it was pushed home. ‘Back to bed, everybody, and no lingering to gossip; I’ll have no lateness in the morning.’
Sleep was impossible. Phoebe prowled the nursery, going often to the window and staring out towards the summer house. The night seemed to last forever, and it was a relief when Rodney cried out in alarm at four o’clock, needing her comforting presence. She stayed by his side, at length dozing in the armchair, only to wake cold and cramped an hour later to find that dawn was breaking on a dull and cloudy morning.
It was Sunday, when the usual routine allowed her to leave Annie supervising nursery breakfast before she dressed the
children ready for the early morning service. Phoebe ventured down to the servants’ hall. She dared ask no questions, but she deduced that Henson had stood by his decision not to wake his lordship, and that Lady Pickhurst’s maid had already been summoned by her mistress.
How it had been done Phoebe couldn’t imagine, but somehow her ladyship had returned to the house without the alarm being raised. The maids began to gossip about the noise in the night and the mystery of the unlocked door, but they were quickly silenced by Mr Henson.
‘You might learn from Miss Drake,’ he admonished the youngest of them. ‘She comes to her meal on time and in a ladylike fashion, and engages in no senseless tittle-tattle.’
Phoebe blushed and gave the elderly butler a small nod of thanks, taking the earliest opportunity to leave.
It was no great surprise to see Lord Pickhurst set off for church without his wife; she preferred the shorter evening service, and even avoided that when she could. Once his lordship’s carriage had drawn away, Phoebe watched the children being helped into the dogcart, and settled herself between them, glad to find that Nunnings, the under coachman, was driving. He was a pleasant young man, always ready to give her a hand into the carriage, but keeping a respectful distance.
‘Did you hear the noise in the night, Miss Drake?’ he asked. ‘I gather it came from somewhere near the nursery.’
‘I heard it, but I can tell you nothing about what it was,’ she replied, flushing a little at the lie. She couldn’t imagine how Lady Pickhurst had re-entered the house, once the door from the refectory had been locked. ‘Has Mr Henson discovered the cause?’
‘No.’ Nunnings chirruped to the horse. ‘Nearly everyone seems to think it was young Master Rodney up to some
mischief,’ he added, giving her a wink as he glanced back at the boy.
‘I was sound asleep,’ Rodney said indignantly. ‘I wish you’d woken me, Miss Drake.’
‘If I had you’d be tired and miserable this morning,’ she said evenly, ‘and none the wiser for it. Sit straight now, you are slouching. Eliza, put your glove back on this instant.’
Lucille lay staring at the lace hangings above her bed. She felt feverish, thoughts racing through her head too fast to make any sense. Thanks to Jonah’s insistence on seeing her back to the refectory, her absence hadn’t been discovered. Fetching a ladder he’d forced a window open on the second floor and crept silently downstairs, surprisingly quiet and agile for such a large man, to let her in at the refectory door. While Lucille raced up to her room, he’d bolted and relocked the door again, before returning the way he’d come.
The mason’s lovemaking had been intolerably clumsy after Mortleigh’s expertise. She wanted her new lover, but jealousy ate at her; she was still furious at his deception. What could he want with a silly child like Agatha Stoppen? To be sure, the girl was an heiress, but she had nothing to offer that compared with Knytte!
Jonah swore he’d do anything for her, but he was a pious soul at heart. Committing adultery was preying on his conscience; he would never agree to the greater crime that was so necessary if she was ever to be free. Lucille shifted restlessly as she ran through her plan again. Everything depended on Mortleigh.
The distant clangour of the doorbell broke into her reverie. Lucille half rose from her bed. It was most unusual for anybody to call at this hour on a Sunday. Perhaps it was Mortleigh, pretending to have returned overnight from London. Suddenly
calm and ice cold, she reached for the bell rope and pulled it to summon her maid. The girl arrived breathless and pink-cheeked. ‘My lady, Sir Martin Haylmer is here, with another gentleman. When they heard that his lordship wasn’t home from church, they asked if you’d be kind enough to see them. Mr Henson has shown them into the morning room.’
‘Sir Martin?’ It was most unusual for the Lord Lieutenant to come visiting, particularly on a Sunday. ‘I suppose I shall have to see him. Quickly then, help me to dress.’
The two men were standing by the fireplace, the Lord Lieutenant at his ease, the other shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, his gaucheness reminding Lucille of Jonah Jackman, ill at ease as he was in the elegant room.
Sir Martin greeted her apologetically and introduced his companion as Inspector Tremayle of the county police. Tremayle bowed clumsily over her hand, and Lucille invited them both to sit down.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Lady Pickhurst,’ Tremayle said, ‘but when you hear the circumstances I am sure you’ll understand. There has been another robbery. Some very valuable jewellery was stolen from Dunsby Court yesterday.’
‘What?’ Somehow this was the last thing she had expected. ‘But I was there myself, at Miss Agatha Stoppen’s party!’
‘Yes, along with most of the county.’ Sir Martin scowled. ‘My wife and I would have attended, had my duties elsewhere not made it impossible. That’s why I decided to involve myself personally in the investigation. We plan to speak to all the guests. Among so many we can only hope somebody will have noticed something out of the ordinary.’
Lucille’s mind was racing, but she showed no outward sign of it, giving him a sympathetic smile. ‘I wish I could help, but I can’t think of anything. How awful. And poor Agatha, she must be terribly upset.’
‘She is, although it was her mother who suffered the greatest loss. Mrs Stoppen is very distressed at the loss of her rubies.’
Lucille nodded. She had seen the two enormous rubies more than once. They were mounted in a tiara ringed with diamonds. She thought the thing vulgar, but there could be no doubt of its value. ‘Had they given a more formal party she would have been wearing her jewels,’ she said, with a certain satisfaction. ‘I have never cared for garden parties.’
‘Did you go inside the house?’ Inspector Tremayle asked.
‘I did, to the gallery. Reverend Stoppen was eager for my husband to see some new additions to his collection. I sat in a window seat and looked out over the garden. Sadly I saw nothing of interest to anyone except the local gossips.’