Читать книгу Dark Road to Darjeeling - Deanna Raybourn, Deanna Raybourn - Страница 10

And when old words die out on the tongue,

new melodies break forth from the heart;

and where the old tracks are lost,

new country is revealed with its wonders.

—Closed Path

Rabindranath Tagore

I passed the rest of the morning jotting impressions into my notebook. I had tried valiantly to push all thoughts of Brisbane from my mind, but they were insidious, and I spent rather more time nibbling on the end of my pen than writing. It had occurred to me that if I were to solve the murder of Freddie Cavendish on my own, it might go a long way towards convincing Brisbane of my worthiness as a detecting partner, as well as my ability to have a care for my own safety. I imagined myself rejoining him in Calcutta, proclaiming to his astonished face the identity of Freddie’s murderer and collecting his abashed apologies. Even better, I imagined him joining me in the Valley of Eden, having changed his mind, only to find that I had already solved the case. I would be modest and self-effacing, I decided. It would make a better effect merely to smile blandly and tell him it had been quite nothing, really nothing at all, to unmask the villain myself.

But first I must establish a crime had been committed, I reflected, and I turned once more to my notebook, neatly setting down everything I had heard. One must have order in an investigation, I had heard Brisbane say often enough, and by the time the morning had finished, I had filled several pages with my thoughts and observations.

Luncheon was a quiet affair taken again in the morning room from a buffet of cold dishes laid by Jolly. The custom of the house was for whomever was about to wander in and help themselves after he had rung the gong. Jane took a tray in her room and Harry Cavendish lunched in his office at the tea shed, Miss Cavendish informed us. She was pleasant enough, but I regretted her presence. If it had been only Portia, Plum, and myself, we might have compared notes. As it was, I merely toyed with my food as I listened to Plum converse charmingly with Miss Cavendish. Portia was preoccupied, doubtless thinking of Jane, and I was relieved that Plum bore the brunt of conversation. It was unlike him to exert himself to be civil if he was not in the mood, and I hoped his garrulousness meant he was no longer regretting his enforced chaperonage of his sisters.

Miss Cavendish informed us that after luncheon it was the custom to rest. She said this with a genteel belch, and given the amount of food she had consumed, I was not at all surprised. She told us she had planned a tea party in the garden in honour of our arrival.

“Of course, had I known your party was not complete, I should have delayed until Mr. Brisbane’s arrival,” she added with the faintest whiff of condemnation. I think she believed Brisbane was a figment of my imagination, but it was clear she did not approve of married ladies travelling without their husbands.

“How kind of you, Miss Cavendish,” I said with a broad and insincere smile. “He so regrets that he has been detained in Calcutta, but one cannot very well refuse an invitation from the viceroy. I know he would be deeply vexed if you delayed your entertainment on his account.”

Plum smothered a snort and Portia raised a brow at me, but I ignored them. There was still much that Miss Cavendish could tell me about the Peacocks and I had every intention of remaining in her good graces.

Somewhat mollified, she began to tick off on her fingers. “The doctor will be here, his duties permitting, of course. And the Pennyfeathers, the Reverend, his wife, Cassandra, and their children, Primrose and Robin. I expect they will bring that governess with them,” she added, subsiding into disapproval again.

Catching the scent of intrigue, I rose to the occasion, adopting a sympathetic tone. “It must be quite difficult to secure a governess in so remote a spot. Have the Pennyfeathers had troubles in that regard?”

Miss Cavendish’s lips tightened. “I suppose Miss Thorne has proven satisfactory by their standards. She is a local girl, educated at a convent in Calcutta.”

“Indeed? And she returned here to teach? Curious. Her prospects must have been better in Calcutta. Perhaps she was homesick,” I observed.

“Miss Thorne had her reasons for returning to the valley, of that I have no doubt,” she said tartly. She fidgeted with her chatelaine then and changed the subject so definitively I knew there would be no further discussion on the topic of Miss Thorne. “I should so like you to have met Miss Phipps and her sister, Lady Eastley, but they have sent their regrets. An indisposition.”

Indisposition indeed! I had my doubts about that. Knowing of our suspicions, Emma must have been deeply alarmed when she learned that the Marches had come into the Valley of Eden. But she could not elude us forever.

“I think you must have forgot, Miss Cavendish, but Miss Phipps and Lady Eastley are our cousins, a cadet branch of the March family,” Plum put in.

“Oh! I had indeed forgot,” she said, looking momentarily flustered. “We spoke of it on the boat coming home. It made a bond between us, of course, and when Lady Eastley’s husband died, it seemed natural that they should come and stay at the Peacocks until they had got their bearings. Father was very fond of them, particularly Lady Eastley. She has a way with the older generation,” Miss Cavendish confided. “Father could be a little fractious in his last months, and Lady Eastley always seemed to be able to soothe him. They played chess together for hours on end, a diversion for them both, and Lady Eastley was always kind enough to let him win.”

Portia and I exchanged glances. What Miss Cavendish imputed to kindness, I attributed to stupidity. Lucy was not half so clever as her sister.

“And how did they find Pine Cottage?” I asked idly.

“It is part of the estate. Father let it to a widow who died shortly after Lady Eastley and her sister arrived. He offered it to them for a peppercorn rent, and they accepted. It was supposed to be for only a short while as they searched for a property of their own to purchase, but they have left off looking to leave us and mean to stay in our valley.”

She fell into reverie for a moment, then collected herself. “We will be a small party, but a merry enough one, I think, if our chief cook can manage the seed cakes. There is always trouble with the seed cakes.” She rose and gave us a stiff nod. “Until this afternoon then.”

Just then Jolly appeared with his little gong.

“Luncheon is finished.”

To my astonishment, I found myself rather excited about the notion of a garden party. True, the guest list would be tiny, but it would be a chance to meet the neighbours and sleuth out their opinions about the inhabitants of the Peacocks. I should still have to pay separate calls upon the White Rajah and my cousins, but this would do for a start, I decided.

Morag dressed me in a delicious pale turquoise silk with a broad-brimmed hat to match, one darker turquoise plume sweeping down to touch my cheek. There was a warm velvet jacket against the chill of the afternoon, for the mountain air was still cool with the fresh tang of spring upon it. The jacket was toned to match the plume, and beautifully tailored by Parisian hands. It was a flirtatious costume, and as soon as I caught sight of myself in the looking glass, I regretted that Brisbane was not there. I missed him much more than I had imagined I would, and I was not entirely easy about that. My independence had been hard-won, coming with my widowhood in struggle and ashes, and I could not relinquish it without regret. Brisbane had become necessary to me for my happiness. I wondered if he would say the same of me, or was he enjoying himself unreservedly, flitting about the clubs in Calcutta and indulging in a sulk?

The thought soured my mood, and I made my way to the garden feeling more annoyance than anticipation. “Cheer up,” Portia murmured under the brim of my hat. “You will put everyone off with that lemon face.”

I set a deliberate smile upon my lips. “Better?”

“No. You look mentally defective. Go back to sulking and stop treading on my hem.”

Miss Cavendish—and no doubt Jolly—had created an enchanting setting for a tea party. An assortment of little tables had been brought out and laid with lace cloths and an elaborate silver tea service, as well as a staggering assortment of sweets and cakes and sandwiches heaped on porcelain plates. There were bowls of jam and sugar and little candies dotted here and there, and petals dropped from the trees like silken confetti spangling the grass.

Jane was settled into a comfortable chair with a lap robe, and Harry Cavendish went to fetch her a plate of dainties—although from the faintly green cast of her complexion, I suspected she would manage only a cup of tea, if that.

Miss Cavendish, in the same rusty black gown she had worn the day before, was speaking to a couple, the Pennyfeathers, no doubt, while a sullen older girl lurked nearby and a boy of perhaps twelve was tugging at his starched collar. There was no sign of the doctor, and I was not at all surprised to find Plum engrossed in conversation with the most striking young woman I had ever seen. She was dressed in severe grey, a serviceable and correct colour, but the dusky hue of her skin demanded vibrant shades to show her to best advantage. Still, with her wide dark eyes and glossy black hair, she was utterly lovely, and I was not surprised to see that when she lifted her hand, her movements were graceful and languid.

“Oh, God, another attachment we shall have to wean him off of,” Portia muttered. I said nothing. Plum had had a string of unsuitable liaisons before falling desperately and somewhat secretly in love with our sister-in-law, Violante. Insofar as I knew, I was the only one familiar with his unrequited passion, and as I did not wish to break his confidence, I held my tongue. Just then, Miss Cavendish caught sight of us.

She hastened to make the proper introductions, gesturing to each of us in turn.

“This is the Reverend Pennyfeather and his wife, Cassandra, an American,” Miss Cavendish advised us with the merest twitch of the lips. The Reverend Pennyfeather looked precisely as one would expect a Reverend Pennyfeather to look. He was bookish and a little shortsighted, with spectacles that perched on the end of his nose. He peered through them to see us, shaking our hands with great enthusiasm.

“How wonderful to meet you at last, Lady Bettiscombe and Lady Julia! You are so very welcome to our pleasant valley,” he said warmly.

His wife was another story entirely. Swathed in silk robes of violet figured in gold, she was a dramatic and unexpected sight at this thoroughly English garden party. She wore an extraordinary example of the hairdresser’s art—dozens of braids and twists clustered at the nape of her neck, and she carried a lorgnette, peering at us as intently as her husband had done but for different reasons, it soon became apparent.

“You must call me Cassandra. I know we are going to be fast friends.” Before we could summon replies to this astonishing statement, she went on. “What extraordinary bones you have,” she said, looking from Portia to me and back again. “I must photograph you both. You will not refuse me, I hope.”

Her long, equine face bore no trace of humour, and it seemed an odd juxtaposition, such a serious face with such an outlandish costume.

“You are a photographer then,” Portia observed.

“Yes, Mrs. Pennyfeather does like to dabble in pictures,” Miss Cavendish put in. I did not turn to look at her. I could smell the disapproval from where I stood.

“Dabble indeed, Miss Cavendish!” sniffed the extraordinary Cassandra Pennyfeather. “I am an artist.” She turned to us. “I am composing a series based upon the classical myths of ancient Greece. I have a mind to pose you as Artemis and Athena, the virgin daughters of Zeus.”

Portia choked a little and I stepped smoothly into the breach. “How kind of you, Mrs. Pennyfeather, er, Cassandra,” I amended hastily at a gently reproving glance from the lady. “I know I speak for my sister when I say it would be a pleasure and a delight. Perhaps in a week or so when we have had a chance to recover from the fatigue of our travels?”

I ignored the fact that Portia had pinched me, hard, just above the waist. “I hope it bruises,” she hissed as she moved away.

Cassandra puffed a little sigh. “I suppose if I must be delayed.” She made an impatient gesture with her head, and just then one of her little coils seemed to detach itself.

“Cassandra,” I said, my voice shaking only slightly, “I do not like to seem critical, but is that—”

“It is only Percival. Come along, darling,” she urged. As if to acknowledge the introduction, the little snake curved itself down around her ear and leaned toward me, flicking its tongue in and out in rapid succession as if to taste the air.

“You needn’t be afraid,” said a small voice at my elbow. I looked down to see the Pennyfeather boy regarding me thoughtfully. “Percival is a green whip snake, almost entirely harmless.”

“Almost?” I said faintly, but he did not elaborate.

Cassandra excused herself to coax the curious Percival back into her braids, so I took the opportunity to complete the introduction. “You are Robin, are you not?” I asked, extending my gloved hand.

He bowed over it very correctly and straightened with a serious expression. “Did I do that well? Mother doesn’t care much for formalities, you know, but Father says one must learn manners before one can ignore them.”

His father gave a chuckle and I saw that he was looking indulgently at the boy. Robin was an earnest child, with sober dark eyes and a mop of curls that someone had attempted—unsuccessfully—to subdue with a dampened hairbrush. “You did very well, Master Robin.”

“I have not met an earl’s daughter before. I rather thought you would be grander,” he observed.

“Robin!” his father interjected, but I waved him off with a smile.

“That is quite all right, Reverend.” I returned my attention to Robin. “I never mastered the trick of being grand. If it’s all the same to you, I will just be myself.”

“I would like to be myself,” Robin said, pulling at his tight collar and neatly-tied neckcloth, “but it’s rather difficult at present.”

“And what do you do when you’re being yourself? Do you have lessons?”

“Of a sort,” Reverend Pennyfeather put in with a smile. “I do the best I can to make certain he has his history and mathematics and modern languages, but I admit, keeping his attention upon his books is a task for a harsher master than I.” He looked at his son fondly, and it was apparent that the good Reverend was a kindly and tolerant father. “More often, he escapes the schoolroom and roams the countryside with his cages and nets.”

“A budding naturalist then?” I asked.

Robin nodded, his eyes alight with enthusiasm. “I mean to be a great natural historian, like Charles Darwin, and make tremendous discoveries. I have already begun my book upon Himalayan fauna,” he said, withdrawing a disreputable-looking notebook from his pocket. It was stained with a variety of nasty substances, one of which looked alarmingly like blood, and it smelled vile. But it was thick with notes and specimens, and I had little doubt Master Robin would make a name for himself in the scientific world.

And it occurred to me that an observant child might prove an excellent source of information, as well as a perfect excuse for poking about the countryside in search of information. Only later did I reflect that another person might have thought it ruthless to make use of a child, but in that moment, I merely seized the opportunity before me. “I should like to see something of the valley whilst I am here,” I told him. “And I think you are just the person to show me. Perhaps you will have time to guide me.”

He tipped his head to one side, and as his curls parted I saw his ears were slightly pointed at the tips, like a faun’s. “Of course, but if we see something important, you must promise to be very quiet. That’s the only way you see things, you know. If you make noise, you never observe anything,” he added, rolling his eyes toward his sister.

The Reverend caught the gesture and drew his daughter forward. “Ah, you have not met my eldest, Lady Julia. This is Primrose.”

She sketched an awkward curtsey, and I offered her my hand. “How kind of you, my dear, but that is not necessary at all. Shake hands with me instead.”

To my surprise, the sulky mouth drew even farther down, and I thought it was a pity. She might have been a pretty girl were it not for that mouth. Her eyes were a medium, muddy colour, with nothing of the dark charm of her brother’s, but they were wide and well-shaped under gracefully winged brows, and her complexion was unblemished. Her hair might have been her real beauty, but the thick mass of it was plaited unbecomingly into two long hanks that hung down her back, and her dress was frightful, a girlish mass of ruffles and embellishments that strained at hip and bosom. Something simple and plainly cut would have suited her better, for the childish furbelows only served to underscore her age, whereas a well-cut costume would have lent her dignity and poise. I could not imagine the girl had chosen the dress for herself, for she tugged and fidgeted with it constantly, and more than once I caught her eyes lingering covetously upon my severely-tailored silk.

She slipped away as soon as she had shaken my hand, mumbling something as she fled toward the table of cakes and pastries—a mistake, I thought, given her rounded figure.

“Primrose is a little shy,” the Reverend offered by way of apology for his daughter’s churlishness. He gave me a small smile, and I warmed to him. He seemed a genuinely pleasant fellow, and I quite liked his son, even if his wife and daughter were a little curious.

“Never mind, Reverend. I was a girl once. I remember how dreadful I was. We all grow out of it, I promise you.”

The smile deepened. “You are very kind.”

We fell silent and I realised this was the moment to open my interrogations, however pleasant and innocuous they might seem.

“We are newly come into your valley, Reverend. You must tell us about the place. We have not yet ventured out to make the acquaintance of our neighbours.”

His brow furrowed as he thought. “You will know the ladies of Pine Cottage, of course, for I hear they are connections of yours.”

“Indeed. I am rather surprised they have not come,” I said, glancing around the garden and widening my eyes innocently. I was not the least surprised, of course. Lucy was doubtless still smarting from the awkwardness of our last parting and Emma would fear the worst—exposure as a murderess.

But the good Reverend was shaking his head, his expression mournful. “Oh, no. They do not venture out upon any occasion. The world must come to Pine Cottage, I am afraid, for the ladies are almost perfect recluses.”

This was interesting intelligence, for Emma was driven by her longing for independence, a need to be her own mistress and to travel and order her own affairs. If she had indeed withdrawn with Lucy into Pine Cottage, then the mystery surrounding them thickened.

“I shall have to pay a call upon them soon,” I offered. “And perhaps the White Rajah as well?”

Reverend Pennyfeather chuckled. “You must go when you have plenty of time to spare, for he is a garrulous old gentleman and will keep you enchanted for hours with his stories. I do not know if half of them are false, but he is a raconteur without parallel, I promise you.” He leaned forward, pitching his voice to a tone that promised confidences. “I will say to you that Miss Cavendish does not wholly approve of the old fellow. She thinks him indelicate in his morality. She is a good soul,” he hastened to add, “but she can be a little unyielding at times. She is comfortable with her own lapses of conventionality, but sometimes finds them troubling in others.”

I glanced to the tea table where she was bent at the waist to pour the tea, her back rigid within her corset. Unyielding indeed.

“I do understand,” I told him. “I shall be discreet about my visit.”

He gave me an approving nod. “That would be best. No need to trouble Miss Cavendish about things that do not concern her.”

Just then his attention was diverted to the sight of Plum still conversing with the dusky beauty at his side.

“Is that your Miss Thorne?” I asked.

He started, then recovered himself with a rueful smile. “Oh, yes. Miss Thorne is in our employ to finish Primrose.” He shook his head. “A waste, I think. Primrose is all right, or at least she will be in time. It seems a cruel choice,” he added softly, and I was startled, although I could not disagree. To force Primrose, awkwardly positioned as she was between girlhood and maturity, to be in the constant company of the exquisite Miss Thorne could only prove damaging for the girl’s confidence.

“Perhaps Miss Thorne will smooth the way for her. Becoming a grown woman of accomplishment is a difficult task.”

“And Cassandra is rather too occupied to put her hand to it. She is an artist you know,” he said, casting a proud glance at his wife. She had just emerged from the house, Percival once more securely tucked into her braids. She strode dramatically through the garden, breaking off a large, luscious blossom to tuck into her décolletage.

“I cannot think Miss Cavendish will like that,” the Reverend murmured, a twinkle in his eye.

I smiled at him. “I think it is time for some refreshment, Reverend.”

The next half hour or so passed pleasantly enough. As expected, Miss Cavendish made a sharp remark about the blossom nesting in Cassandra’s neckline, but the lady simply waved an airy hand, scattering crumbs from a plum tart as she did so. I imagined not much troubled Cassandra, for she wore the imperturbable expression of an artist to whom material needs are never a concern. I had seen it before upon Plum, but to my surprise, he made no attempt to speak to his kindred spirit. His attentions were fully occupied by the lovely Miss Thorne. The more I watched them, the more interested I became, for she seemed entirely unmoved by his conversation, an unusual thing for Plum. He was, by virtue both of excellent birth and considerable personal attractions, quite accustomed to reciprocal attentions from any lady toward whom he cast his eye—with the obvious and painful exception of our sister-in-law, Violante. Being met with demure detachment would only whet his appetites, I suspected, and it certainly fired the interest of another, for more than once I detected the surreptitious stare of Miss Cavendish directed toward the pair. Before I could reflect further upon the matter, I saw Jane rise, give a little cry and put her hands to her belly, then fall backward into her chair again.

In an instant, Plum was supporting her with the aid of Harry Cavendish, while the Reverend hovered, looking worried. Miss Thorne hastened to shepherd the children aside and Portia, her brow white with fear, took Jane’s hands.

“I am sorry,” Jane said, giving a shaky smile. “I felt suddenly unwell. I am better now,” she said, but her face held no colour and her hands trembled in Portia’s. She gave a quick gasp and took hold of her belly again.

Portia looked around wildly, speaking to no one in particular. “She has another month yet. It is too soon.”

Miss Cavendish stepped forward. “Gentlemen, if you will convey Mrs. Cavendish to her room, we will attend her.”

It was a sign of Jane’s discomfort that she did not demur, but allowed herself to be hoisted gently between Plum and Harry, the Reverend following closely behind should they have need of him.

Cassandra had been watching with a sort of curious detachment, and as we left the garden, I heard Miss Thorne’s voice for the first time, low and beautifully-modulated. “I think it best if I take the children home now,” she said firmly, and Cassandra Pennyfeather seemed to recall herself then. “Oh, I suppose so. I may as well come too,” she replied, trailing after her children and lifting a languid hand to me in farewell.

But Cassandra’s peculiarities faded from my mind as soon as I reached Jane’s room. Portia was busy settling Jane comfortably into bed; the others had gathered just outside the door and an argument of sorts seemed to be brewing.

“She must have medical attention,” Plum was saying, infusing his words with all the authority of a thousand years of nobility. He was accustomed to snapping his fingers and having his will obeyed without question, but the Cavendishes exchanged glances with Reverend Pennyfeather, a silent conspiracy of sorts, and it occurred to me that if Jane’s life were to hang in the balance, the Cavendishes could well hasten the end simply by refusing medical treatment for her.

“My brother is right,” I said in ringing tones. I too was accustomed to imposing my will. “Why do you hesitate to send for the doctor? I am told there is one in the vicinity. Do you wish Jane ill that you would even hesitate upon the matter?”

To her credit, Miss Cavendish looked properly horrified. “Of course not! Jane is of the family now. She is one of us, and her child—” She broke off, her eyes fixed upon Harry’s. “Very well. We will send for the doctor.”

“No!” Harry exclaimed, and even the good Reverend shook his head. “Camellia, you dare not.”

Something of Harry’s insistence, or perhaps it was the Reverend’s familiarity, stopped her. Miss Cavendish’s hands clenched and unclenched at her sides, working quickly as she stood between the two factions, my brother and I to one side of her, Harry and the Reverend to the other.

“Why?” I demanded of the Reverend. He darted his eyes to Miss Cavendish and she nodded slowly, as if bestowing permission.

“He is indisposed. He was supposed to come with us today, but when we called for him, we found him unwell. He cannot attend Mrs. Cavendish.”

“He may at least be consulted,” retorted Plum.

“No, he cannot,” Miss Cavendish said, spitting out the words as if they sat bitterly upon her tongue. “He is an inebriate. If he sees her whilst he is under the influence of hard spirits, he might well kill her.”

This time there was no significant exchange of glances, but rather a deliberate failure to look at one another. Harry studied his boot tips while Miss Cavendish stared at her fists and the Reverend shoved his hands roughly through his hair, unsettling his spectacles a little.

“Who else?” I demanded. “Someone must attend to women in their time if the doctor is unreliable. One of the native women if there is no one else.”

If I had expected Miss Cavendish to be outraged by the suggestion that a native woman attend the mistress of the Peacocks, she did not show it. Instead, she nodded slowly.

“It might do. Mary-Benevolence was a midwife for years. She delivered Harry and Freddie both. She only left off when the doctor came to the valley, but I daresay she has not lost the knowledge.”

“You cannot let the cook attend Jane,” remonstrated Harry severely.

To my astonishment, Miss Cavendish turned on him fiercely. “What choice do we have? If the child dies and you did nothing to prevent it, what will people say?”

The colour drained sharply from his face and when he spoke, his voice was a dry whisper. “Of course. I didn’t think. I will fetch her.”

He turned and ran toward the stairs, returning a moment later with a tiny woman who stood no taller than my elbow. She was dressed in typical Hindu fashion, her arms bared, but she wore a rosary at her belt and when she approached us, she crossed herself. Her hair was white as the snows of Kanchenjunga, and I put her at something over sixty years of age. Her arms, though, were sinewy and brown, and her hands supple and strong. Her step was firm and her eyes bright and clear.

“You have need of me, lady?” she asked her mistress, and to my astonishment, her English was spoken with the slightest trace of an Irish brogue.

Miss Cavendish nodded toward the closed door. “Mrs. Cavendish. It is the baby.”

Mary-Benevolence shook her head. “Too soon. You wish that I should look at her?”

“Yes.” Miss Cavendish looked at us all anxiously, then took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, collecting her courage. “Do whatever you must to save Mrs. Cavendish and her child, should they be in danger.”

Mary-Benevolence gave her an inscrutable look. “And if I can save only one?”

“Save them both,” snapped Harry. He turned on his heel and left, but Miss Cavendish nodded toward Mary-Benevolence to second the commission. The little woman disappeared into the room and we were left alone then, the four of us.

“If I may offer a prayer for the health of Mrs. Cavendish and the child,” the Reverend murmured.

Plum and I had little religion, but it suddenly seemed right and good that we should pray for Jane, and I felt a rush of gratitude toward the man as we bowed our heads. When it was done, he took his leave of us, and Miss Cavendish resumed her usual brusque manner.

“I must go to the kitchen. Without Mary-Benevolence to oversee them, the staff will have done precisely nothing toward supper. And there ought to be beef tea for Jane and some hot milk.”

“A moment,” I said, catching her attention. “I am curious about your cook.”

Miss Cavendish gave a little sigh. “My father was devoted to his Irish mother. In her honour, he opened the Buddhist temple on the ridge to an order of nuns from Donegal. The sisters were unsuited to the life here and eventually abandoned the place, but for a while they ran the only school in the valley. Mary-Benevolence was taught to read and write and to speak English there. She also converted to Catholicism, but it was from her mother that she learned the art of midwifery. She delivered all of the babies in the valley until the doctor came.” At the mention of the man, her expression hardened. “And it seems she may have to do so again.”

“Has he always been an inebriate?” I asked.

“No. He has not. He was a lovely gentleman, very quiet, devoted to his wife. Oh, he liked a drink from time to time, but when she died, he seemed unable to gather himself up again.” Miss Cavendish’s eyes were coldly unsympathetic. “He has a duty to the people of this valley, a duty he neglects in order to nurture his own grief. He would find a better remedy for his pain if he applied himself to his responsibilities,” she finished, thrusting her way past me towards the kitchens.

“Cold comfort there,” Plum observed, raising his brows after her.

“Yes, but she does have a point. Pain, grief, loneliness, they are quicksand. They will consume a man if he does not lift a finger to extricate himself.”

“If you struggle in quicksand, you die faster,” Plum corrected.

I waved an impatient hand. “You know what I mean. If a man in peril uses his wits and his natural ingenuity, he may save himself. But a man who gives up has already perished.”

The words cut too near the bone, I think, for Plum fell into a reverie, and we said nothing more of significance as the hours ticked away. From time to time we could hear voices from within Jane’s room, and once a terrible, prolonged sob. But at length Mary-Benevolence appeared, her face drawn but smiling.

“The child lives, and the mother as well,” she told us. I clutched at Plum’s arm in relief, and he squeezed my hand in return.

“Is it born?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. The pains have stopped and they both rest. She must not rise again until the child is born. Peaceful repose, that is what is required now.”

“Of course,” I told her. “We will do whatever we can to take care of her.”

Mary-Benevolence bowed her head. “I will bring her some refreshment to build her strength, and then she will sleep again. No visitors tonight, I think.”

“I understand,” I told her, suddenly happy that Jane’s care rested in the hands of this tiny, determined woman. “Thank you for all you have done for her.”

She looked at me in surprise. “But it is my duty. She is Mr. Freddie’s wife and she carries his child. She belongs to this house and to this valley now.”

With that, Mary-Benevolence padded away and Plum and I exchanged glances.

“I suppose we can do nothing more tonight,” he said. “I think I will take a tray in my room and go straight to bed. It has been exhausting doing nothing,” he added with a smile. I did not reprove him for his levity. Such relief after so much worry was disorienting, it left one light-headed and peculiar.

Plum hastened to his room while I wandered slowly after, stretching the muscles that had stiffened after hours of sitting in the hall. And as my body stirred to life, so did my mind, and I saw what I ought to have seen hours before: it was entirely possible that Freddie Cavendish had not been murdered at all.