Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bennet was bored.
He had polished every pair of his lordship’s boots until they shone like glass. He had rearranged his lordship’s drawers and cabinets three times. He had starched and ironed his lordship’s linen until it could stand by itself.
Mr. Pierce, on the other hand, viewed his lordship’s absence as a holiday and installed himself beside the fire in the servants’ parlour, with the London broadsheets and a steady supply of tea, only proffering advice and instruction to his apprentice when called upon to do so.
Freed of the strictures of military life, Bennet took himself off to the village public house. He settled into the snug beside the fire, pipe in hand, nursing a pint of ale and revelled in the unexpected freedom from duty.
On discovering that he was his lordship’s valet, Wilkins and the locals were quick to share their thoughts about their new Lord Somerton.
As he listened to the praise heaped on Lord Somerton, he felt inordinately proud of his officer.
Up at the hall, the servants, too, approved of their new lord.
Captain Alder had risen to his new position as if born to it.
But then he had been born to it, he just hadn’t known.
Mrs. Wilkins seemed especially enamoured of him.
‘He praised my cooking,’ she said, with a dreamy look in her eye.
Bennet didn’t enlighten her. Sebastian would eat anything put in front of him.
The head groom, Thompson stumped into the parlour and demanded an ale. Bennet enquired if the man would care to join him.
Thompson stared at him. ‘Who the ’ell are you?’
‘That’s his lordship’s man,’ Wilkins said.
‘I avoid the stables,’ Bennet said apologetically, but for answer, Thompson’s mouth twisted in a snarl.
‘Not in the mood for company,’ he said and downed the ale. He procured a dark bottle from Mr. Wilkins and left, slamming the door behind him.
Wilkins shook his head. ‘Got the black mood on him tonight, Molly,’ he said to his wife.
‘What do you mean?’ Bennet said.
‘He gets like this every now and then. You heard about his daughter?’
Bennet nodded. ‘I heard tell she took her own life.’
Mrs. Wilkins sniffed. ‘Oh, that was sad,’ she said. ‘Amy Thompson worked up at the house. Good girl, she was. Hard worker.’
‘Drowned herself in the lake,’ Wilkins put in.
Mrs. Wilkins looked around the room and lowered her voice. ‘They say she was three months gone with child. Such a tragedy.’
This was news.
Bennet shook his head and made a suitable tutting sound. ‘Who was the father?’
‘Well, there are those who say it was his late lordship,’ Mrs. Wilkins glanced at her husband, ‘but that never sounded right to us, did it, Mr. Wilkins?’
Wilkins grunted a warning. ‘Now, now, Mrs. Wilkins—’
Mrs. Wilkins leaned forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial tone. ‘I’m not one to gossip,’ she said, ‘but his late lordship... well... how do I put it? He was never one for the girls.’
Bennet took a large swig of ale. This was news to him, a juicy bit of gossip to share with Sebastian when he returned.
‘What do you mean, Mrs. Wilkins?’
‘Between us, Mr. Bennet, it was the pretty footmen up at the hall who were more at risk from his lordship.’
‘But all I’ve heard is how his lordship was one for the ladies,’ Bennet urged. ‘Always off in London, womanising and the like.’
Mrs. Wilkins sat back. ‘Well, you would, of course. Imagine if it had got about that his lordship weren’t that way inclined. Can you imagine the scandal?’
‘So if you don’t think his lordship was the father of Amy Thompson’s child, then who was?’ Bennet returned to the subject.
Mrs. Wilkins sighed. ‘She was a pretty girl but she set her sights high. If you ask me, it wasn’t likely to be one of the staff.’
‘A guest?’ Bennet suggested.
Wilkins shrugged. ‘We’ll never know. The girl took her own life and that of her unborn child. Two sins. No Christian burial for poor Amy. It drove her mother clear out of her wits. Little wonder poor Thompson has his black moods.’
‘They say her unshriven spirit haunts the lake,’ Mrs. Wilkins put in. ‘Old Tom,’ she indicated an elderly man playing chequers by himself in a far corner. ‘He says he saw her all dripping wet and wringing her hands.’
Wilkins snorted. ‘Now you are being fanciful, Mrs. W. Nothing Old Tom sees that isn’t accounted for by the ale. Enough of this tittle tattle. Back to work, woman!’
Bennet sat back and nursed his ale while he mulled over the intelligence imparted by the Wilkins. His new friends in the servants’ hall were remarkably loyal, he reflected. There had been no murmur about the late lord’s proclivities.
It would be interesting to find out a little more about the death of Amy Thompson. He set down the empty pot, picked up his hat, and, bidding the Wilkins good day, walked slowly back to the hall.
He had discovered the shortcut through the woods and, as the evening drew in, the trees closed around him.
‘Want a drink?’
The slurred voice came from his right, and Bennet, his nerves already taut, started. He whirled around and peered into the dark. Thompson sat on a fallen tree trunk, his shoulders slumped, the bottle hanging loosely gripped in his right hand, between his knees.
As Bennet approached, Thompson raised the bottle and held it out to him. Bennet took the offering and swigged. A rough rum burned the back of his throat and he handed the bottle back as he wiped his mouth.
‘Rough stuff that,’ he commented, seating himself on the log beside the despondent groom.
Thompson lifted the bottle and held it to his lips. His throat worked as he swallowed the fiery drink.
‘You know what today is?’ Thompson slurred.
‘No idea,’ Bennet said, taking the bottle from the man’s slack fingers. It was just about empty, so Bennet discreetly emptied the last drops onto the ground.
‘It’s a year since she died.’
‘Your daughter?’
Thompson swung an arm behind him. ‘There in the bloody lake. Parson wouldn’t bury her in hallowed ground. I tried to tell him that she didn’t take her own life.’ He turned back to Bennet and poked a finger in his chest. ‘I think she was murdered.’
‘And why would you think that?’ Bennet asked, keeping his tone neutral.
‘I saw her body...’ He paused and took a shuddering breath. ‘My beautiful girl...’
He started to cry, great gulping sobs. Bennet sat quietly and waited for the sobs to subside.
‘She had a massive wound on the back of her head,’ Thompson said at last.
Bennet took a breath. ‘What sort of wound?’
‘Like someone had whacked her over the head with something heavy.’
‘Could she have hit her head on something when she jumped into the lake?’
Thompson shook his head. ‘Not where she was found. She didn’t kill herself, Mr. Bennet.’ Thompson hung his head, his big hands slack between his knees. ‘She was happy. Her ma and I had told her that we’d stand by her. She had no reason to take her life.’
‘Did she say who the father was?’
Thompson shook his head. ‘There was rumours it was his lordship, but when I asked her she just laughed. Said the father was a real man and that he’d see her right.’
Bennet sat in silence, digesting this information.
‘Come on, matey,’ he said to the groom. ‘Let’s get you home.’
He put one arm around the big man, and they made a slow, weaving progress back to the stable block. The Thompson family had rooms above the stables, entered from a narrow stone staircase without rails that ran up the side of the building.
Drunk or not, Thompson managed the stairs without incident and threw the door open.
Peter Thompson, who had been sitting on a stool by the cooking fire, with a book on his lap, jumped to his feet. Bennet noted the boy secreting the book in the woodbox.
A low moan came from a pallet on the far side of the room, and Peter, casting a quick, disgusted look at his father, picked up the candle and crossed over to the bed.
‘It’s all right, ma,’ he said. ‘Mr. Bennet, his lordships’ man’s bought pa home.’
The woman in the bed mumbled something, a claw-like hand catching at her son’s sleeve. Peter looked up.
‘Ma’d like to meet you, Mr. Bennet,’ he said, a frown creasing his young forehead.
Little in this life shocked Bennet. He’d seen life and death in every form, but even he took a sharp breath as he looked down on Mrs. Thompson.
She looked like a woman already dead, her face shrunken against the bones of her skull.
A line of dried spittle ran from the corner of her mouth and her body had convulsed into a rigor, the hands more claws than anything recognisably human.
He bent closer and looked into her eyes, seeing the light of life and intelligence, despite her terrible physical affliction.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs. T,’ he said. ‘The old man’s a bit the worse for wear. He’ll ’ave an ’ead on ’im tomorrow.’
The woman choked, the corners of her mouth twitching, and something that could have been laughter flashed into the eyes.
‘Good man,’ she mumbled, her gaze moving from Bennet to the table where Thompson had slumped, his head buried in his arms.
‘My girl,’ she clutched at Bennet’s sleeve.
‘He told me. Don’t fret yourself, Mrs. T.’
‘Find ’im...’ The hand tightened on his arm, the fingers digging into his flesh. ‘He who killed ’er.’
Bennet put his own hand over hers and gently disengaged the twisted fingers. He frowned.
‘You don’t think she took her own life either?’
Slowly, the woman’s head moved on the pillow. A negative.
‘The new lord. I’ll tell ’im. He’ll help you,’ Bennet assured her.
A tear ran from the woman’s eye and the slack mouth trembled. Bennet laid her hand on her chest.
‘Don’t you fuss yourself, Mrs. T.’
He rose to his feet and gestured for the boy to join him at the door.
‘How long’s she been like that?’
‘Since a few weeks after Amy died. She just fell down one day and she’s been like that ever since.’
‘And you and your pa are the only ones to care for her?’
The boy nodded, and Bennet put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. ‘Keep reading those books, boy.’
Halfway down the stairs, he looked up at the youngster who still stood by the open door. ‘Do you think someone killed your sister?’
Peter’s gaze did not waver.
‘Yes.’