The Mysteries of Pendowar Hall (The Audacious Sisterhood of Smoke & Fire #1)

Chapter Eight

W hite mist billowed around the shrubbery and colorful leaves dotted the lawn, gifts from the oaks, which were dressed in all their autumn glory. Diana inhaled deeply, appreciating the fragrances of damp earth, grass, and decomposing flora that imbued the morning air.

She had allowed Miss Fallbrook to spend the morning riding and was on her way to the village. At the midpoint of the old, wooden footbridge, Diana stopped to admire the view. The river pulsed with energy, rushing past the tropical plants and trees crowding its embankments. A shiver traveled down her spine as she gazed down at the dark, swirling depths.

Diana hurried on, spooked by the fast-moving water and the ancient bridge, as well as by all that she had seen and heard over the past few days: mysterious footsteps, flashing lights, a legend about a mermaid’s ghost—and the butler’s revelations from the previous evening.

“He was not the type of man who would leap to his death out of grief—or for any other reason… But more importantly, he felt suicide was a sin.”

It’s telling , Diana thought as she passed through a stile and crossed a field dotted with grazing sheep, that Mrs. Phillips, Mr. Emity, Mr. Nankervis, Mrs. Gwynn, and Captain Fallbrook, people who had known Sir Thomas for years, had all been surprised to learn he had committed suicide.

“I have always thought there was something wrong about that suicide note.”

Had Mrs. Phillips been right all along?

Diana’s mother’s words also rang in her ears: “If you hear a rumor or see signs that something is amiss, it is probably true.”

Had someone pushed the baronet off that cliff?

And what about the suicide note? Such notes could be forged.

If Sir Thomas hadn’t written it, then who had?

*

The fishing village of Portwithys was small and quaint. A maze of steep, narrow streets and lanes wound down the hillside towards the wharf past houses and shops that were either whitewashed, half-timbered, or constructed of the local grey stone.

Diana asked a passing farmer for directions to the post office, which was housed at the edge of Main Street in an ancient stone building beneath a sign which read, “ A.E. BEARDSLEY, GROCERY PROVISIONS, BUTCHER, AND POST OFFICE. ”

Its proprietor, she knew, was also the parish constable.

Diana entered the shop and nearly collided with a gentleman on his way out.

“Pardon me,” she said, stepping back.

“No, no, forgive me .” Broad-shouldered and attractive, the man looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was elegantly attired in a bottle-green frock coat, dark-blue jacquard waistcoat, and cream-colored trousers. Coming as Diana had from a house of mourning, it was nice to see a man wearing fashionable colors. Tipping his hat, he said, “John Latimer, solicitor.”

Latimer . She recognized the name. He’d been Sir Thomas’s lawyer, the one who had written to Mrs. Phillips.

“You must be the new governess at Pendowar Hall?”

“I am.” In a village of this size, it was understandable that a newcomer would stand out. “Diana Taylor.” She offered him her hand.

He took it and, slowly and ceremoniously, kissed the back of her hand through her glove. The scent of his strong, sandalwood cologne filled her nostrils. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Taylor.” As he raked her with his gaze, his tone and smile made Diana feel distinctly uncomfortable.

“And you, Mr. Latimer.” Diana tried to edge past him, but he blocked her way.

“Captain Fallbrook said you hail from Yorkshire, I believe?”

“Derbyshire.”

“I hope your journey will prove to be worth the trouble. Governesses do come and go from that house as regular as clockwork.”

Diana felt a need to defend her pupil. “Miss Fallbrook is a bright young lady and very sweet.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard. But then, I have not had the pleasure of seeing Miss Fallbrook in quite a while. Perhaps you see a side to her that others haven’t.” Mr. Latimer touched his hat again with a parting smile. “Good day, Miss Taylor. I hope we shall meet again.”

Diana curtsied silently and was relieved when he departed.

The shop was a lively hodgepodge of fresh produce and other goods on display. The sound of unseen, violent chopping came from somewhere in back. Behind the counter stood a tall woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Beardsley.

As the postmistress processed Diana’s letters to her siblings, Mrs. Phillips, and Professor Vaughan, she welcomed Diana to the neighborhood. Diana praised the attributes of the shop, and they chatted amiably about the weather.

“I see you’ve met Mr. Latimer, our solicitor,” the postmistress remarked. “Sir Thomas was one of his biggest clients, or so I’m told, before Captain Fallbrook inherited the hall.” She lowered her voice. “Such a terrible business, what happened to the baronet.”

“Did you know Sir Thomas well, ma’am?” Diana asked, fishing for information.

“I did not, for all I’ve lived in Portwithys my entire life. He couldn’t have set foot in this shop more’n once or twice. Rarely said a word to me or anyone at church. Had his man of business handle all his affairs. Those what did have dealings with Sir Thomas, his tenants and such-like, say he was a changed man the past few years.”

“How so?”

“They say he grew harsh and mean. Rent had to be paid in full and on time, or there’d be hell to pay. Between you and me, there’s some as say they aren’t sorry he’s gone.”

“Indeed?” Diana’s heart quickened. “Mrs. Beardsley. As I understand it, the parish constable who handled the case is your husband?”

“He is.”

“Is he in?”

“Where else would he be?”

“I should like to speak to him, if I may.”

“About what?”

Diana hesitated. “About Sir Thomas’s death.” She decided to leave it at that.

Mrs. Beardsley’s eyes narrowed, and her mouth twitched as if she wished to question Diana further. Instead, she turned to the back of the shop and called out, “Mr. Beardsley! You’re wanted!”

The sound of chopping ceased. A stocky man emerged from a back room, wiping his hands on his bloody white apron. “What’s that?”

“This is Miss Taylor, the new governess at Pendowar Hall. She’d like to speak with you.”

Mr. Beardsley strode over with a frown. “Governess, eh? Not interested then in the nice side of beef that’s just come in?”

“No, sir, although I’m sure it’s very fine.”

“What can I do for you?”

Diana plunged in with the questions she had prepared. “You’re the parish constable, sir? ”

“Aye, that duty’s been thrust upon me.” He glowered. “What of it?”

“I am entrusted with the care and education of Miss Emma Fallbrook, and I wonder if you could help me. I’m worried about her. She’s distraught by allegations that her father, Sir Thomas, took his own life.”

“That’s no allegation, Miss Taylor. It’s a fact.”

“Is it?”

“Without a doubt. Sir Thomas was never the same after his wife and son died. Three years that poor man pined. One morning, he could go on no longer. Flung himself off that cliff to kingdom come.”

“And yet it’s odd, don’t you think? His housekeeper, Mrs. Gwynn, maintains that he was excited about upcoming plans to build a memorial to his wife and son in the churchyard. His butler, Mr. Emity, insists that Sir Thomas was fond of life, and opposed to suicide.”

“Grief does strange things to a man, Miss Taylor. I’ve seen it too many times in this damnable job. And he left a note.”

“Forgive me for asking, sir—but is it possible the note was forged?”

The man’s beady eyes widened, and he let out a scoffing sound. “I beg your pardon?”

“Is it possible that someone wished Sir Thomas harm? That he didn’t throw himself off the cliff, but rather was pushed off?”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest and stared at her, cocking his head, and raising a single eyebrow. “Who are you to question this matter? Are you a relation of the deceased?”

“No, sir, but my godmother is Sir Thomas’s sister. She is curious about what happened to him, and so am I. And as I said, Miss Fallbrook—”

Mr. Beardsley interrupted, his face growing red. “Every morning, I’m up at dawn, running this shop that feeds half the village. But the magistrate had to appoint me to this execrable, unpaid position where I’m expected, in my spare time, to not only prevent and solve crimes in the parish but catch rats; impound stray farm animals; attend inquests; collect taxes; keep order in the ale house; whip beggars, vagabonds, and drunks; and punish poachers, fathers of bastards, and church-avoiders. Do I shirk my duty? No, I do not. If a man’s been murdered, I do my best to find out by whom and why. But this was no murder. It was suicide. I saw the note myself. I saw Sir Thomas’s broken body lying in a heap at the base of those cliffs. He killed himself, for sure and certain. Case closed.” As if breathing fire, he whirled and stomped out of the room without a backward glance.

Diana stood blushing in his wake. She turned to go, but Mrs. Beardsley motioned with her hand for Diana to stay.

“I don’t blame you, miss, for being troubled about this, on account of poor Miss Fallbrook.” Leaning over the counter, she added confidentially, “Between you and me, Mr. Beardsley may not always do as thorough a job with these things as he might. Get it over with as quick as can be and back to the shop, that’s his method.”

Grateful for the woman’s reassurance, Diana replied just as quietly, “What do you think happened, Mrs. Beardsley?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps someone did have a grudge against Sir Thomas and forged that note, as you say. But then you can’t discount the other theory.”

“What other theory?”

“The Mermaid’s Curse. Sir Thomas married his daughter’s governess, didn’t he?”

Not that again.

Before Diana could reply, the postmistress continued with enthusiasm.

“Morwenna still haunts that house and these very seas. Why, Mr. Pritchard, one of our fishermen, was out in his boat one morning when she popped up right in front of him, hovering in the air as large as life. Startled him so much, he nearly fell overboard! Morwenna bides her time, watching every new master and governess, waiting for the next transgression. If she wants her pound of flesh, she’ll have it.”

Suddenly, as if aware of to whom she was speaking, Mrs. Beardsley bit her lip and added, “Mind you, Miss Taylor, don’t go falling in love with the new master, will you?”

*

The vicarage was a crumbling, ivy-covered stone cottage situated on one of the lower streets of the fishing village, not too distant from the wharf. Diana knocked on the front door, hoping to find Mr. Wainwright at home. She had written to him a month ago, reminding him of their mutual connection and letting him know that she had accepted a position at Pendowar Hall.

The housekeeper informed Diana that the curate was not in but could be found in his study at the church. The house of worship, an ancient stone structure that had been battered by weather and blackened by time, stood across from the vicarage, beyond a weedy graveyard enclosed by a wrought-iron fence. Diana found a side door and knocked.

A moment passed. The door opened. A tall man dressed in the black garb of the clergy glanced out.

Diana had only met Marcus Wainwright once, when he and her brother had been in their last year at Oxford, and Diana had been visiting that city. Although he had filled out since then, he was still attractive, with eyes that were a lustrous shade of brown. Diana couldn’t hold back a smile. It was so nice to see a familiar face.

“May I help you?”

“Forgive me for calling on you without warning, Mr. Wainwright. I expect I shall see you in church on Sunday, but as I was in the area—”

“Miss Taylor!” Mr. Wainwright gave a gasp of pleasure and recognition and, thrusting out both hands, clasped hers within his own. “How wonderful to see you! I’ve been hoping you would call. Do, come in.”

She followed him into the small office, which was crammed with heavy mahogany furniture buried beneath piles of books, magazines, paperwork, and knickknacks. Sunlight filtered in weakly through a dusty window, as if desperately struggling to cheer up the space.

“Pray, forgive the state of my office.” Mr. Wainwright chuckled as he cleared off a stack of reading material from a chair and unceremoniously deposited it elsewhere. “I have so many calls upon my time, I never seem to get around to tidying up. There you go. I can offer you a clean place to sit at least. And a cup of tea, although to my regret, I am out of biscuits.”

“A cup of tea will do very nicely, thank you.” Diana took the vacant chair. The curate poured out two cups from a pot hiding under a knitted cozy, handed her one, and sat down behind the desk.

“So! Here you are. Exactly as I remember you from that day we spent together at Oxford.”

“You are kind to say so, sir, but idle flattery will get you nowhere. You, on the other hand, have not changed much at all.”

“Oh, but I have, I have. I am ten years older, and I feel every minute of it. My observation, however, was genuine. You look very well. I hope you are well and happy?”

“I am.” The tea was pale and nearly tasteless. Diana suspected he had been obliged to reuse old leaves. “I hope the same for you, Mr. Wainwright?”

“I am content, Miss Taylor. I am only a curate—the vicar rarely makes an appearance and leaves every duty to me—but I am ever so grateful to Mrs. Phillips for recommending me for this position. And to Sir Thomas, God rest his soul, for hiring me. My time here has been fulfilling.”

“I am happy to hear it. My godmother said I would be glad to have a friend in the district and how right she was.”

“I cannot tell you how many times your brother mentioned you and your sisters over the years. It’s strange, isn’t it, that I have never met Miss Athena and Miss Selena? Every time I visited Damon, you were all living elsewhere. How are they?”

“Fine, I believe. They are both working as governesses at present, in Yorkshire and Lancashire.”

“And here you are in Cornwall, doing similar good work. I hope it is not selfish of me to say I’m glad you came.” He set down his teacup. “How is Damon? It has been ages since I had a letter from him.”

“Me, as well.” She adored her brother and missed him dearly. “He is so devoted to his parishioners, he rarely takes a moment for himself, much less to write a letter.”

“My hat is off to him. I daresay I should never have the nerve to work in the East End of London, what some call ‘the worst slum in Europe.’ But your brother holds himself to a very high standard.”

“He always has.”

“I believe myself to be extremely dedicated to my labors—but everyone deserves to have a personal life as well. To this day, your brother considers me too frivolous.”

“Surely not, Mr. Wainwright.”

“Oh, but he does. I know he does.” The curate gave his head a light shake. “In our early days at Oxford, we came to verbal blows over the subject too many times to count. But the university, in its great wisdom, had placed us in a room together, and despite ourselves, we were forced to associate. In time, we found subjects over which we connected, and this built the foundation for our friendship.”

“Damon once made a similar observation when he spoke of you.”

“Did he? It occurs to me,” Mr. Wainwright mused, “that one of the points of connection he and I share is something I also share with you.”

“What is that, sir?”

“I lost my mother at a young age.”

“Oh—I am sorry to hear it.”

“My father passed a few years later. I was raised by an aunt and uncle in Plymouth.”

“I hope they provided well for you?”

“They did their best. But they had a house full of children of their own. When I was eleven years old, I gained the respect of the rector in our parish, who financed my education.”

“A fortunate acquaintance.”

“It is circumstances like these which shape us, I think. We are obliged to grow up more quickly than children who are privileged to have a mother’s constant devotion and guidance.”

“I know what you mean, sir.”

“Remind me. How old were you when your mother died?”

“Seven.”

“So young.” His mouth curved down in sympathy. “Damon told me that, even as a child, you began managing the household straightaway.”

“I did.”

“That is a great deal of responsibility for shoulders so small.”

“I survived. So did you. And that is all in the past now.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Sometimes, these events of childhood haunt us into adulthood.”

“Thankfully, I do not feel haunted by…” Diana’s voice trailed off. No , she thought. The weight that burdened her was not resentment over childhood duties after her mother’s death. It was her part in causing that death. Her head felt light as the memory of that day came rushing back, along with all the pain, guilt, and self-recrimination that always accompanied it.

“Are you unwell, Miss Taylor?”

She looked up to find Mr. Wainwright observing her closely, his eyebrows knit together.

“Not at all. I was just… I was thinking of my pupil, Miss Emma Fallbrook,” she lied. “Are you acquainted with her? ”

“I know she is Sir Thomas’s daughter. I have seen her at church.”

“Her situation is similar to what you described. She lost her mother at birth, and now her father is gone.”

“My heart goes out to her.”

His remark mirrored Diana’s own sentiments and was a good opening for the questions on her mind. She placed her empty teacup on his desk. “Mr. Wainwright. I need to ask you something. It might seem impertinent, but I assure you I have good reason for asking it.”

“Go on.”

“Did Sir Thomas ever speak to you about his feelings on the issue of suicide?”

He stiffened slightly, then went quiet, toying with a letter opener on his desk. “He did come to see me a few times,” he said at last. “But I’m afraid our conversations are a private matter.”

“I understand. But…” Diana explained her concerns about both Miss Fallbrook and Mrs. Phillips. “If you know something that might ease their suffering, I should be grateful to hear it.”

“Miss Taylor…” He shook his head.

“I’ve spoken to the parish constable,” Diana persisted. “He’s convinced that Sir Thomas took his own life. Case closed. And yet, Sir Thomas’s butler and valet, Mr. Emity, seems equally convinced that the baronet would have never done himself harm. That he felt suicide was a sin. You knew him, Mr. Wainwright. Was that true?”

The curate set down the letter opener and sat in silent deliberation.

“The man is gone now,” Diana added earnestly. “Anything you tell me cannot hurt him.”

He sighed and said, “All right, Miss Taylor. For Miss Fallbrook’s sake, and Mrs. Phillips’s, I shall tell you what you wish to know. It’s true. Sir Thomas confided his fervent belief that life is a gift and suicide is an act against God. When I heard the news that he had taken his own life, I was much surprised—not only because of that, but for another reason as well.”

“What other reason?”

He looked at her solemnly across the desk. “It was Sir Thomas’s dearest wish to be buried in the churchyard one day beside his wife and son. He arranged with me in advance for a plot for that very purpose. Taking his own life would have made that goal impossible—as it indeed has—and he surely knew it.”