Smiling to herself, Lydia considered that her morning
had been far more eventful than she had anticipated.
She had received an invitation to a card party (even
though it was issued by an old harridan), been intro
duced to an attractive young gentleman, and discovered
what appeared to be a budding romance between her
aunt and a mysterious Frenchman. It could not be more
promising!
The countryside was plainly more entertaining than
most people guessed. Her visit might be many things, but
it would not be dull.
It was the unanimous opinion of all who attended Mrs
Wardle-Penfield’s card party that the occasion was a
resounding success. Not that Mrs Wardle-Penfield would
have tolerated anything else, but this time she did not need
to bully anyone into expressing unqualified approval.
It was not the indifferent skills of the various players
which produced such a favorable verdict. Neither whist
nor speculation could animate the guests who had antici
pated having to endure what could not be cured. The stakes
were low, though not so low as the expectations of the select
company which gathered in the large drawing-room of
Fielding Place on that memorable evening.
What ensured that nobody departed dissatisfied with
their lot was a rumor so incredible and so horrifying that
several games were suspended altogether in the recounting
of its manifold details. These became so elaborate and were
related with such conviction that it was not very long
before the truth was lost beneath an avalanche of fancy. For
this was no ordinary
on-dit
involving pilfering by a servant
nor the latest escapades of the Carlton House set. Neither was it the far-off rumblings of fear that Bonaparte might
have escaped from St Helena to once again wreak havoc on
the Continent. This was closer to home - indeed, on their
very doorstep. And this was no light matter. It was murder.
Lydia and Aunt Camilla had no inkling of what awaited
them as they prepared for the party. Lydia derived some
amusement from her aunt, whose nerves were quite overset at the thought that she might commit some
dreadful
faux pas
in the presence of her illustrious hostess. She tweaked every curl in her simple coiffure, smoothed
every wrinkle in her wheat-colored satin gown at least a
dozen times, and murmured dire prognostications about
the weather. It seemed a grim inevitability that the
heavens must open at the very moment that they were
making their way on foot to their appointed destination.
The deluge would cover them with mud from head to foot,
making them the laughing stock of the other guests.
No such terrors dampened the spirits of her niece. Lydia
surveyed herself practically in the mirror above the small
mantel in the parlor. Her hair curled naturally, so she had
little recourse to hot irons. Aside from this boon, there was
little remarkable about her appearance. The creamy
muslin of her gown made her skin appear rather sallow,
and her gloves were a trifle worn, but she was satisfied
that most would not notice these defects and, if they did,
there was nothing to be done about it in any case. One must
be philosophical, after all. It was not as if she were a beauty.
She expected no heads to turn upon her entrance, unless
she tripped over her train.
As usual, she was correct in her assumption. Entering
the abode of which she had heard so much these past three
days, they were greeted with gracious condescension by
Mrs Wardle-Penfield, and hustled off to a whist table where
they were introduced to their partners, the Misses
Digweed. These were two middle-aged spinster sisters who
resided not far from their own house. It was from the lips
of these two garrulous ladies that Lydia and her aunt first heard the news.
They had been involved in play for several minutes, and
Lydia was already learning that her aunt was not the ideal
partner. Lydia was an accomplished player who regularly
bested Papa, but Camilla seemed doubtful as to what game they were playing. She frequently forgot to follow suit, and
it soon became clear that they were almost certainly
destined to lose. There was nothing Lydia could do, but sigh
softly to herself and accept her fate as gracefully as
possible.
‘I suppose,’ the younger Miss Digweed said, with an arch
look at Aunt Camilla over the top of her cards, ‘that you
have heard about the murder, Miss Denton?’
‘Murder!’
Lydia feared that her aunt was going to swoon. She
clutched her cards against her breast while something
resembling a spasm passed across her face.
‘Oh dear!’ the other Miss Digweed cried. ‘It seems that
you have
not
heard.’
It was an opportunity too enticing to resist. There is
nothing so sweet as the pleasure of being the very first to
relate bad news to a listener who hangs upon every word. In this case, they were doubly fortunate in having not one
but two auditors who received their story with all the wide-
eyed attention they could have desired.
The tale unfolded so rapidly, and with such fluctuations
from one Miss Digweed to the other, that Lydia was soon
uncertain as to just what had happened - and indeed,
whether anything had happened at all.
‘A young woman—’ Miss Janet Digweed began.
‘No, no,’ Miss Digweed corrected her at once. ‘An old
man.’
‘In Wickham Wood.’
‘Or very near it.’
‘Stabbed—’
‘Beaten—’
‘Found yesterday morning—’
‘Evening—’
‘By young Tom Fowle—’
‘His brother, Jimmy—’
‘Dreadful!’
‘Horrible!’
‘But - but is it certain?’ Aunt Camilla at last halted this interesting narrative. ‘I cannot believe it!’
‘Forgive me,’ Lydia cut in, addressing both sisters at
once. ‘Who has been killed?’
The Misses Digweed appeared quite startled. Such a question had apparently never occurred to either of them.
‘Well really,’ the elder answered, ‘we do not know.’
‘Nobody knows.’
‘But someone is certainly dead.’
‘It reminds me of the other time,’ Aunt Camilla said, her lips trembling pitifully. ‘I never thought—’
‘I think,’ Lydia said decisively, ‘that you had best have a
seat on the sofa, Aunt. You have had a shock.’
The sisters smiled kindly upon their neighbor, pleased
with their share in her discomfort.
‘Perhaps some negus,’ Miss Digweed offered helpfully.
‘A glass of wine,’ her sister suggested.
Excusing herself happily from their company, Lydia led
her aunt to a corner of the room which was then unoccu
pied. Signalling to a servant, she managed to procure a
small glass of brandy, which she forced upon her aunt. All
this attracted the attention of their hostess, who bore down
upon them purposefully.
‘What is the matter?’ she demanded, looming over the
two seated on the sofa.
‘Dear Mrs Wardle-Penfield,’ Aunt Camilla whispered, ‘I
had not heard until tonight. I did not know....’
‘What are you saying, Camilla?’ the older woman asked,
with justifiable irritation.
‘We have just been told about the death in Wickham
Wood,’ Lydia answered for her.
‘Oh, that.’ The murder was dismissed with a slight shrug
and a twist of the lips which conveyed the impression that
murder was a social solecism of which Mrs Wardle-Penfield
definitely did not approve. ‘Some drunken lout, I’ll warrant,
who fell and dashed his head against a stone.’
‘Does anyone know the identity of the dead ... man?’ Lydia enquired hesitantly.
‘I should think not!’ the haughty dame was scandalized
at the suggestion. ‘Such persons assuredly do not move in
our circles.’
Having thus distanced herself from anyone who was so
ill-bred as to permit himself to be murdered, she returned
to the subject of her dear friend’s nerves. Declaring that
Aunt Camilla’s constitution was far too delicate, and that it was a wonder she was so well-preserved for her age, she
recommended Doctor Humbleby’s Tonic as an unfailing
remedy for anyone prone to the vapors. Then, with a
bracing pat on the shoulder, she returned to her other
guests.
* * * *
Miss Denton’s distress, however, had been perceived by at
least one interested onlooker. The French gentleman,
Monsieur d’Almain, soon made his way over to them. He
expressed genuine concern, and his gentleness and
soothing murmurs had a calming effect upon the
afflicted lady.
Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed before her aunt had
recovered sufficiently to rejoin the whist players. The
company had increased considerably by that time, and
there did not appear to be many openings for another
partner at any of the tables. Eventually, a place was found
for Camilla. However, Lydia was left to her seat against the
wall. This was very much to her liking, as she did not relish
sharing a table with her aunt. It was much more inter
esting to sit quietly and observe the assembled company. It
was better for her aunt to be occupied, in any case, so that
she did not have an opportunity to dwell upon the tragedy.
Within a very few minutes, Lydia spied a large head protruding above the others in the room. It was the young
gentlemen they had met a few days before: Mr Savidge.
Despite his boyish looks, she had learned that he was on
the brink of achieving his majority. To her surprise, he soon
made his way over to her and established himself on the settee beside her.
‘You are not playing, Mr Savidge?’ she asked him, once
the obligatory greetings had been dispensed with.
‘Don’t like cards,’ he confessed. ‘Waste of time, if you ask
me. Prefer the races myself.’
‘Do you often visit Lewes?’
‘As often as I’m able.’
‘I know little about horseflesh,’ Lydia said apologetically.
‘But I must confess that it does sound more entertaining
than such an evening as this.’
‘It could hardly be less entertaining, could it?’
His face folded into a mischievous smile which was quite
infectious.
‘You find life in Diddlington a dead bore?’ she asked him
boldly.
‘Oh, it’s not so terrible.’ He shrugged philosophically. ‘I
mean, one makes the most of whatever’s offered.’
‘The Misses Digweed have informed us that there has
been a rather ... unusual death in the vicinity of the woods
hereabouts.’
‘Indeed.’ He nodded. ‘I make no doubt they made a pretty mess of it.’
Lydia giggled. ‘I can hardly be sure whether the corpse is male or female.’
‘To tell you the truth,’ he lowered his voice, leaning his
head toward her somewhat conspiratorially, ‘it was hard for
anyone to tell much about it. Very nasty, I assure you.’
‘You have actually seen the body?’ She could not quite
disguise the envy in her voice. Gentlemen always seemed
to have more fun than ladies.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, not boasting but simply as a matter of course. ‘My father is Diddlington’s Justice of the Peace.’
‘Is he?’ She was surprised. ‘I had thought your father
owned the Golden Cockerel.’
‘So he does,’ young Mr Savidge said. ‘But he’s also one of
the wealthiest men in town. By rights, Sir Hector
Mannington should be the JP, but he’s over ninety and not up to snuff any longer, poor man.’
‘And you say that the person who was murdered was
unrecognizable.’
‘Seems to me,’ John Savidge said with slow deliberation,
‘that somebody wanted to make certain that he wasn’t
recognized.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, the face had been smashed in with a large stone
which was found nearby. Also—