3-Book Victorian Crime Collection: Death at Dawn, Death of a Dancer, A Corpse in Shining Armour. Caro Peacock
Читать онлайн книгу.
Lock, a word with you.’
She beckoned a maid to see the children back upstairs and led me into her office.
‘A letter has arrived for you, Miss Lock.’
My heart leapt. The only person to whom I’d given my address was Daniel Suter.
‘Oh, excellent.’
I held out my hand, expecting to be given the letter, and received a frown instead.
‘Miss Lock, you should understand that if anybody has occasion to correspond with you, letters should be addressed care of the housekeeper and they will be passed on when the servants’ post is distributed. Is that quite clear?’
Since childhood, I’d never felt so humiliated. When she brought an envelope from under the ledger, I took it without looking at the writing on the envelope, thanked her and marched out.
At least dear Daniel had not failed me. It was sweet to have this link with my father so I carried it back upstairs to my attic room at last and turned the envelope over, expecting to see Daniel’s fine Italic hand. It was like running into a thorn hedge where you’d expected lilacs – not Daniel’s hand after all but the upright, spiky characters of Mr Blackstone.
Miss Lock,
Livery bills will be paid for the mare Esperance at the Silver Horseshoe until further notice. Please let me know of your safe arrival as soon as is convenient.
That was all; no greeting, no signature. When I read it a second time I saw that it contained a small threat. I had not told him the mare’s name. He’d discovered that for himself and used it, I guessed, quite deliberately to show I could hide nothing from him. Well, I was being a good, obedient spy. In my first few days I’d found out something he wanted to know and had even seized a chance of getting it to him with the help of the daughter of the house.
As for Celia, I’d by no means made up my mind about her. Our talk kept coming back to my mind and sometimes I managed to convince myself that she was nothing more than a spoiled young lady with a lively sense of drama. Then I’d remember the tone of her voice saying she might be in danger and at least half believe it. In any event, we had her brother’s approval of our friendship, though whether that would continue if he knew she wanted me to carry secret letters was another matter.
Celia paid a visit to the schoolroom just before the end of our morning session. The surprise on the faces of her half brothers and sister showed that this was not a usual event.
‘Miss Lock, may I steal you, please?’
As it was so close to their dinner time I told the children they could put their books away and joined her in the corridor. She was wearing a morning gown of cream mousseline, with a pale apricot sash.
‘It was so obliging of you to offer to help with my sketching. It’s driving me quite distracted.’
I realised that she’d said it loudly for the benefit of Betty, who’d come hurrying out of her room to see who the intruder was.
‘I can’t claim to be an expert,’ I said.
‘You’re being modest, I’m sure. I’m working on something that simply won’t come right. Would you come and give me your opinion?’
‘Now?’
‘Why not? Betty can see to the children, can’t you, Betty?’
I followed her along the corridor and down the stairs to the first floor, where the family had their rooms. The pale green carpet was soft as moss underfoot, the doors deeply recessed into carved and gilded frames. Celia opened a door into a sunny room with a blue canopied bed, blue velvet window curtains, two chairs and a sofa upholstered to match. It was pleasantly untidy, a white dress thrown over one of the chairs, a novel upside down on the sofa, and a canary singing in an ornate Turkish-style cage by the window, seed scattered all round it on the carpet. A half-open doorway showed a dressing room with a screen and a full-length mirror.
‘Where’s your sketch?’ I said, humouring her.
‘Don’t worry, it’s quite safe to talk. I’ve sent Fanny down to the laundry to find my pleated silk collar. It will take her a long time because it’s at the bottom of my drawer in there. My letter’s ready.’
She brought it over to me from her desk. It was plump and scented, addressed to Philip Medlar Esq at an address in Surrey. She dropped a smaller packet on to my lap.
‘There’s some money in there for you to give whoever takes it to the post. I’ve tried to think of everything, you see.’
She was anxious to please me. Perhaps she’d caught the look on my face when she gave me the letter. The smell and feel of it had convinced me that it was nothing more than a love letter after all and she’d not been truthful with me. Still, it suited my plans and I wasn’t being wholly truthful with her.
‘How soon can you take it? Tomorrow?’
‘Yes. If I leave at first light, I can be back by the time the children have to be got up.’
She knelt on the carpet and took my hand between both of hers.
‘Oh, I am so very grateful. I do believe you’ve saved my life.’
‘Not quite as dramatic as that, surely.’
‘Oh, you can’t know.’
I said, as gently as I could manage, ‘Are you so very scared of your stepfather?’
‘I am scared of him, yes, but that isn’t the worst of it. Miss Lock … Oh, I can’t go on “miss”-ing you. What’s your name?’
‘Lib—, Elizabeth.’
‘Elizabeth, there are things I mustn’t tell you. But do believe that I might be in the most terrible danger of being put in prison or … or killed even, for something that isn’t my fault at all.’
I wanted to say that there was no need for this drama because I’d carry her letter in any case, but I bit my tongue and slipped my hand from hers.
‘I’d better go back to the children.’
‘How shall I know you’ve sent it?’ she said.
‘That bench we sat on, in the flower garden – if I’m back safely, I’ll pick a flower and leave it there.’
‘Yes. I mustn’t be seen talking with you too much, specially now Stephen’s back. He notices more than Mama.’
‘Where has your brother been?’
‘He stays in London, mostly. He’s studying to be a lawyer.’
I wondered whether to tell her about my conversation with Stephen. It would have reassured her, of course, but I was still annoyed by her dramatics.
Or perhaps I was falling into the spy’s habit of secrecy.
I got back to the schoolroom just in time for my share of minced mutton and green peas. In the afternoon, as a treat for the children, we were allowed the use of the pony phaeton to take them over to the keeper’s cottage on the edge of the estate to see a litter of month-old puppies. Mrs Beedle had half-promised Charles he might have one for his own, if my reports on his progress in Latin and arithmetic were satisfactory. It was good to see them playing and laughing with the puppies, so much more at ease when they were away from the house.
‘I shall tell her he’s doing well, whether he does or not,’ I whispered to Betty.
‘Yes. Goodness knows, they don’t have an easy life, poor mites.’
Betty was watching Henrietta clutching a wriggling puppy and not caring about her dress for once. It seemed an odd thing to say about