A Place of Confinement: The Investigations of Miss Dido Kent (Dido Kent Mysteries) Read online

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Also by Anna Dean

  Copyright

  For my sister, Elizabeth Jane, with love

  Chapter One

  Charcombe Manor, Saturday 18th April 1807

  My dear Eliza,

  I am in prison and I do not know how much longer I can bear my confinement. The crime I have committed does not merit such a severe punishment. I must find some method of escape, or else run mad …

  * * *

  Miss Dido Kent ceased writing and looked with disgust at the words on her page. They were marred by ink running from an overloaded, careless pen – and with all the selfishness of an overburdened mind.

  She was thoroughly ashamed of the momentary weakness which had led her to write what must distress her sister. She drew in a long breath, wiped clean her pen and sat for several minutes composing herself before taking another sheet of paper from her desk and beginning the letter afresh.

  * * *

  My dear Eliza, (she wrote in a neat, restrained script)

  Aunt Manners and I have at last arrived at our destination, and we are both well. At least, I have suffered no great injury in our journey and our aunt, though racked with ‘indescribable pains’ and ‘so weak she can scarcely stand’, is, you will be very glad to hear, quite determined upon not mentioning these facts – for she does not wish to trouble anyone. I know this because she tells me so – a dozen times every day …

  * * *

  She stopped again. It seemed impossible for Dido, once she had a pen in her hand, not to express what was on her mind. But dwelling upon her aunt’s offences would not do at all.

  She lifted the dangerous instrument from the page and looked about for some unexceptionable topic; something which might amuse Eliza and raise her own spirits.

  * * *

  I like Charcombe Manor quite as well as I anticipated, she wrote. It has all the solidity, charm and beauty which I have heard described by other visitors. We found the house already full of company upon our arrival yesterday, but our host, Mr Lancelot Fenstanton, made us very welcome indeed. A whole hour’s speech was insufficient to express the vast debt of gratitude which our visit to his humble abode inspires.

  My aunt’s letter informing him of our visit had arrived only the day before. And a mighty fine surprise it’d been. D— him if he hadn’t been smiling about it ever since! It was thirty years since she’d set foot over the threshold and he didn’t know how he’d make enough of her and her charming young friend.

  ‘Young friend’, Eliza – did you mark that? I like Mr Lancelot very well indeed! His gallantry is a little extravagant, I grant. And if he did not look so handsome and laugh so much over his own nonsense, I might find him ridiculous. But one simply cannot mock a man who mocks himself continually.

  I am writing now from the great hall. I sit here at my writing desk surrounded on all sides by old Flemish tapestries of hunting scenes; there is a broad hearth with black firedogs, a harpsichord which looks as if it may be a hundred years old, an ancient carved screen shutting out the doors to the offices, and a staircase with wide, shallow treads worn smooth by generations of Fenstanton feet. It is a very nice hall; but at present it has for me something of the nature of a prison. For ‘I cannot get out’, as Mr Sterne’s starling complains.

  Aunt Manners is taking her afternoon rest, but is so very apprehensive of the indescribable pains returning that she has forbidden me to stray beyond the possibility of an urgent summons. Oh Eliza! I confess that the confinement of the past two weeks is beginning to tell upon my spirits – and my temper …

  * * *

  Dido stopped again, read over the letter, and decided that this, more moderate expression of misery might be allowed. If she was to be permitted no honesty at all, completing the letter would become impossible.

  She continued as rationally as she could …

  * * *

  When Margaret devised this attendance upon Aunt Manners as punishment for my recent offence, she chose very well indeed. It is a heavy penance. Since our setting out upon this journey, I do not believe I have been permitted to stir fifty yards from our aunt’s side – except upon errands for her convenience. And there is no term fixed for my imprisonment. I have asked again and again how long we are to remain here, but cannot obtain an answer. Catherine has invited us to pay her a visit when we leave Charcombe and I am longing to go to Belsfield …

  * * *

  The pen halted again. Dido had now strayed onto ground which was much too dangerous. She had better not dwell on thoughts of Belsfield Hall, nor her reasons for wishing to be there.

  What was needed, she decided, was a subject which would engross her and make her forget, for a while at least, her present state of exile – and the terrible cause of that exile. She laid down the pen and looked about.

  Before her, the vast front door (thick enough – by its owner’s account – to withstand a cannon’s blast) stood open upon a sunny garden of dark clipped hedges and bright flower beds. Warm scents of gillyflowers and box made their way into the cool hall, together with the faint salty breath of the sea which was little more than a mile away.

  On the lawn beyond the flower beds, Charcombe Manor’s other visitors could be seen walking about and sitting upon the green benches. Dido rested her chin in her hand and fell to watching them, for all the world as if she were sitting in a theatre looking out onto a stage.

  Now here might be matter to distract her thoughts from her own ills!

  She took her penknife from the desk and sat for several minutes thoughtfully mending her pen. Then she laid down the knife, turned once more to her page – and began upon a new topic.

  * * *

  Eliza, I believe that there is something amiss among the other people gathered here at
Charcombe Manor. This is not a house at ease with itself. I had begun to suspect it even before our delightful host had completed his speech of welcome.

  You see, for all Mr Fenstanton’s fine words and compliments, there has been a coldness in our reception – a grudging silence – among the other guests. I hardly know how to describe the feeling which hangs over the house. But if you have ever inadvertently walked into a room in which people were making love, or else quarrelling with one another, you may be able to imagine the sensation. We are supernumerary; we have intruded. This house is filled with unfinished conversations and anxieties which must be hidden from us.

  One cannot help but feel uncomfortable … And one cannot help but feel curious too …

  * * *

  Dido’s eyes travelled back to the bright garden beyond the open door. She would dearly love to walk out into the sunshine – but dared not attempt it for fear of her aunt’s summons. However, though she was denied fresh air, exercise and society, she might at least observe the unfolding of the household’s drama. When a woman is in a state of disgrace and exile, she is well advised to snatch at amusement where she can …

  And, as she looked out, the guest who immediately caught her attention – the figure which, as it were, held dominion over the green stage – was Mrs Augusta Bailey, marked out by the brilliance of her scarlet shawl and the dramatic clasping of her hands to her breast as she addressed Miss Martha Gibbs who strode restlessly beside her.

  * * *

  … Mrs Bailey, wrote Dido, is, of everyone presently gathered here, the most discomposed, the most nervous – and the most resentful of our arrival.

  Mrs Bailey is the wife of Mr Lancelot Fenstanton’s ‘very oldest friend’; but Mr Bailey is away at present on business overseas. Mrs B is rather a pretty woman with a very high opinion of herself and her consequence in the world. She is a little rouged and powdered, and possessed of a figure which is almost youthful. However, there is a certain stiffness in the way she walks, a slight creaking when she sits down, which suggest there may be a little more to Mrs Bailey than is allowed to meet the eye. I am sure there is ten years more to her age than she is willing to allow.

  And, whatever the secret may be which is being concealed here, I am sure it concerns Mrs Bailey rather nearly …

  * * *

  Dido tapped one finger upon the table as she considered …

  * * *

  In point of fact, I believe the mystery to be all about the ward of Mr and Mrs Bailey – a Miss Letitia Verney: a young lady I have not yet met, but have heard talked of. When my aunt enquired after Miss Verney upon our arrival yesterday, Mrs Bailey turned as red as her shawl and became most remarkably interested in our journey hither and in describing to us the extremely fine weather we are to enjoy during our stay.

  As you know, it is not in Aunt Manners’ nature to notice or be pained when her remarks offend others, which is fortunate for her – else she would live in a continual state of suffering. But I could not help but notice that her question was unwelcome, and I began immediately to take a great interest in the name of Letitia Verney. I soon found out that Miss Verney is a very beautiful young lady of nineteen who has been in the care of Mr Bailey since she was a child. She is the particular friend of Miss Martha Gibbs – who has been invited here on that account. I understand that Miss Gibbs, Miss Verney and Mrs Bailey all arrived together at Charcombe Manor about a fortnight ago …

  * * *

  The pen stilled once more as Dido gazed out into the bright garden, this time turning her attention upon Miss Gibbs who was loping awkwardly beside Mrs Bailey. She was holding on to her bonnet with one hand, for the breeze was almost dislodging it – though it did not appear to be stirring her companion’s hat at all. And it seemed all of a piece with the hapless Miss Gibbs’ character that the wind should vent its spite upon her bonnet and nobody else’s …

  * * *

  … I found myself seated beside Miss Gibbs at dinner yesterday, so I took the opportunity of expressing the – very understandable – hope that we shall meet her friend Miss Verney during our stay at Charcombe.

  Oh Lord! But she did not know about that! For there was no knowing was there? And her spoon was dropped into her soup plate and the conversation was lost in a great mopping up of soup with a napkin – which ended in the overturning of a flower vase.

  Yes, all in all, I am almost sure that it is Miss Verney who is making the company uneasy. Or perhaps I should rather say that it is the lack of Miss Verney which is making the company uneasy. For she has not yet appeared, and her whereabouts are never mentioned …

  I should dearly love to know what has become of her – and why her absence is causing so much anxiety …

  * * *

  Dido’s pen was halted yet again – this time by an urgent drumming of hooves upon the high road.

  Out in the garden the shadows were beginning to lengthen and the spring day was growing cool. The company was gathering upon the upper lawn now, preparing for a return to the house.

  From her seat in the hall, Dido could look past the lawns, along the length of the carriage drive which rose gently to tall iron gates shaded by beech trees which were just breaking into leaf. The gates stood open and, on the road beyond, she could now see a horse approaching – and turning into the drive at a speed which set the gravel dancing about its hooves.

  Everybody on the lawn turned to look, and Lancelot Fenstanton began immediately to run towards the house. He joined the rider as he dismounted at the foot of the steps, and the two men fell into an earnest conference.

  Dido would have dearly loved to know their subject, but their voices were pitched inconsiderately low. The rider drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to Mr Fenstanton, remounted and started off along the carriage drive.

  Mr Fenstanton remained upon the step, broke the seal of the letter with a quick movement and began to read. And he proved to be one of those people who must read aloud. Dido could see his lips moving, hear the rhythm of the words. So eager was she to catch the meaning too that, insensibly, she had risen from her chair – taken a step towards the door – when Mr Fenstanton ceased reading and turned about.

  She sat down with her heart beating rapidly, earnestly hoping that her impertinence had not been detected. But the gentleman was in the hall now and he looked so very anxious that she felt authorised to cry out, ‘I hope you have received no bad news, Mr Fenstanton.’

  ‘Ha! Bad enough!’

  ‘I am very sorry to hear it.’

  Lancelot Fenstanton stood a moment beside the door, beating his hat against his leg and gazing out along his carriage drive as if he had never seen it before. Then he crossed the hall in long strides, threw himself down in the chair opposite Dido and tossed his hat onto the table.

  He bowed his head with something of the air of a good-natured little boy puzzling over his lesson. He was a well-looking man of about forty and his countenance seemed made for smiling. He was not above average height, but powerfully built; his black hair was only touched with grey at the temples and the lines in his rather tanned face seemed all fashioned by laughter and an outdoor life.

  He looked up, caught Dido’s watching eye and smiled broadly. ‘I’ll tell you what, Miss Kent,’ he cried, ‘I think you are suspicious of us all!’

  Dido coloured and disclaimed immediately, but he was not to be put off.

  ‘Yes, yes, I see how it is,’ he said. ‘Dear Mrs Manners may have noticed nothing, but you,’ he waved the letter in his hand, ‘I fancy you have been taking the measure of things ever since you arrived. I am right, am I not?’

  Dido was not used to being understood so very easily. She would have to be a little careful of Mr Fenstanton …

  ‘I am very sorry if I have seemed impertinent,’ she said, ‘but I confess that I have detected a certain … uneasiness in the house. I hope there is no great trouble.’

  ‘Ha! Yes, we are uneasy enough, I should think! And, do you know, I said to dear Mrs
Bailey yesterday that we might as well tell you all about it. For it’s damned awkward keeping secrets within the house, and I’m sure you won’t breathe a word of it.’

  ‘No, indeed I shall not,’ said Dido virtuously. ‘Am I to understand that it is a rather delicate matter?’

  ‘About as delicate as it can be! The long and the short of it is,’ he said, picking up his hat and turning it about in his hands, ‘our Miss Verney has disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’

  ‘There is no other way of telling it, Miss Kent. Two days ago a young man called upon her here. A gentleman she has known for some time and who was come to stay with friends ten miles away. Mrs Bailey had already hinted to me that she was a little uneasy about the acquaintance. But we did not any of us think there was any great danger. However, Miss Verney went out walking with this young man – and she has not been seen since.’

  ‘You fear that she has—’

  ‘It seemed plain that they were off to Scotland together and we’ve had men searching for them along the turnpike – making enquiries at the inns. We have traced a carriage to the Bristol road.’

  He looked so very dejected that Dido very much wished to help him. She watched him compassionately as he began to tap a finger fretfully upon the table. ‘The young lady’s going must be a very great worry to you,’ she said.

  ‘It’s the very devil!’ he cried. ‘For poor old Reg Bailey – he’s Miss Verney’s guardian, you know – he asked me particularly to watch over the girl while he’s away settling his affairs in Antigua.’ He sighed extravagantly. ‘But I thought Miss Verney was a sensible girl; high-spirited, certainly, but never foolish. I had no idea of her getting into this kind of scrape. And I’m damned if I know how to get her back.’

  Dido smoothed the soft barbs of her pen. ‘Is Miss Gibbs not able to supply any information?’ she suggested. ‘A young lady’s intimate friend is often a party to such a scheme.’

  ‘No, poor little Martha Gibbs knows nothing at all. She is as shocked as the rest of us.’

  Or so she claims, commented Dido internally. ‘And what of Miss Verney’s maid?’ she asked aloud. ‘For I understand that in cases of elopement the young lady’s maid is generally the first to be enquired of.’