Lady Gwendolen Investigates

Gwen didn’t attempt to deny it. ‘There was a vast disparity in our ages, it is true,’ she agreed, before a certain twinkle, which Martha Gillingham would have recognised in a trice, began to flicker in her eyes a moment before she added, ‘And I suppose I must be generous and make allowances. Anyone having attained middle age might consider someone in her mid-twenties a mere child.’

The unkind and altogether inaccurate barb undoubtedly hit its mark. Consequently she experienced a degree of satisfaction to see those dark eyes narrowing perceptively a second before he swung round, and headed across the room in the direction of the decanters. All the same, she had no intention of engaging in open hostilities or attempting to attain the upper hand on the few occasions she was likely to find herself in his company. She was neither vindictive by nature, nor was she one to harbour a grudge. She was quite prepared, henceforward, to award him the same civility as she would any other casual acquaintance, providing he, in turn, reciprocated, and didn’t attempt to treat her as though she were a mere featherbrain.

‘No, I thank you, sir,’ she said, belatedly taking a seat by the hearth, while declining the offer of refreshment. ‘I never imbibe in the forenoon as a rule, but do not demur if others choose to do so.’

She didn’t suppose for a moment he’d care a whit if she objected or not, for already she had gained the distinct impression he was a gentleman of strong character who, more often than not, would follow his own inclinations, no matter the opposition. Yet she knew it would be grossly unfair of her to assume on so short an acquaintance that he went out of his way to be hostile or even contentious. She was inclined to believe that what she had gleaned from her housemaid was not far removed from the truth. She gained the distinct impression too that, being a blunt, no-nonsense kind of fellow, he would possibly appreciate plain speaking in others, and so decided to adopt just such a policy in any dealings they might have in the future.

Only before she could commence to explain the reason for her visit, Mr Northbridge, who had been staring at her rather intently since settling himself in the chair opposite, confirmed the conclusions she had thus far drawn by declaring, ‘Ma’am, I cannot help thinking we’ve met somewhere before. Yet for the life of me I cannot imagine why I should suspect as much, since I’m positive we’ve never been formally introduced, owing to the fact that your husband never returned to his home after your marriage.’

For a moment or two Gwen remained in two minds, not knowing whether to admit to the brief and unfortunate first encounter, or allow him to remain in ignorance. Then a sudden well of pride decided the matter. She had no intention of alluding to an insignificant incident that would set her at a distinct disadvantage. After all, hadn’t he little enough respect for her sex, without her fuelling his biased inclinations?

‘It is absolutely true, sir, I never visited this county before I recently took up residence in my late husband’s house.’ Evasiveness on a grand scale it might have been, but at least she had refrained from telling an outright lie. ‘I was born and bred in the north of Hampshire, and never once stirred from the county until after my marriage. Perhaps you were a frequent visitor to that part of the country and our paths crossed there.’

For a second or two his regard remained uncomfortably penetrating, then he shrugged, evidently having decided to dismiss it from his mind, and merely offered a token apology for not having called upon her. ‘The truth of the matter is, ma’am, I’ve been away from home, and only arrived back here late yesterday evening.’

‘I never made the least attempt to discover whether or not you were in residence,’ Gwen wasn’t slow to confess, having experienced no second thoughts about maintaining a policy of plain speaking where the gentleman seated opposite was concerned. ‘The truth of the matter is, sir, it is the female you employ as governess that I particularly wish to see.’

Study him though she did, Gwen found it impossible to assess what was passing through his mind during those following moments. He certainly didn’t appear taken aback, or even offended by the admission, for that matter. No, if anything, she thought she detected what might well have been a guarded expression, before dark brows rose in exaggerated surprise, and he regarded her much as he had done when he had first entered the room.

‘You must allow me to felicitate you, ma’am. I had no notion Sir Percival retained such—er—reserves of stamina in his latter years.’ He paused for a moment to observe the bewilderment, which his visitor did absolutely nothing to disguise, widening vivid blue eyes. ‘All the same, in this particular instance I fear I cannot oblige you. Besides which, you should find it no difficult matter to engage a suitable female yourself to educate your offspring.’

A full half-minute passed before Gwen had comprehended fully. ‘But—but I bore Sir Percival no children,’ she eventually managed to reveal, her voice betraying such mortification that it was clear she was experiencing the utmost difficulty understanding why he should have harboured such an absurd notion in the first place. ‘There was never any question of children,’ she added, not realising precisely what she was revealing to her interested listener, who turned away briefly, thereby concealing a flickering, enigmatic smile.

‘Forgive the assumption, ma’am,’ he responded, with just a trace of unsteadiness in his voice. ‘However, in my defence I must say it was an understandable mistake to make. Furthermore, if you have no children in your care, I fail to understand why you should require the services of a governess.’

‘I do not wish to employ a governess, sir…any governess,’ Gwen swiftly assured him, after having silently acknowledged there was some justification for his jumping to the totally wrong conclusion, ludicrous though it had undoubtedly been. ‘I merely wish to attain your permission to exchange a brief word with your governess, Miss Jane Robbins.’

All lingering traces of amusement vanished in an instant from Jocelyn Northbridge’s ruggedly masculine features. ‘I regret to say I am unable to acquiesce to your request, Lady Warrender. Miss Robbins, sadly, is no longer in my employ.’

Gwen made not the least attempt to hide her astonishment, though after a moment’s reflection she began to appreciate that it was perhaps understandable why, given her employer’s caustic temperament, Jane had eventually sought another post. What wasn’t so clear was why Jane had failed to furnish her with a forwarding address. After all, she had been well aware that her childhood friend would shortly move into the locale. Why on earth hadn’t she left a note in Mrs Travis’s care, or sent one to London for Mr Claypole to pass on at Gwen’s arrival in the capital?

She began to experience a definite feeling of unease. ‘Do you happen to know where Miss Robbins presently resides, sir? Could you possibly furnish me with her direction?’

For a moment Gwen feared he might, for reasons best known to himself, withhold the information, but then he informed her, without betraying the least emotion, ‘Yes, I am in a position to do that, ma’am. She has taken up permanent residency beneath the shading branches of a large yew tree in St Matthew’s churchyard.’

Jocelyn Northbridge could never have been accused of harbouring much sympathy towards females who suffered the vapours. In fact, his tolerance hovered only just above zero. Yet in those moments that followed his blunt disclosure, when he watched what he had already decided was a very sweet countenance lose every vestige of healthy bloom, the chivalrous streak in his nature welled as never before, and an unexpected desire to protect almost overwhelmed him.

Within seconds he had poured out a generous measure of brandy and was forcing the glass into a finely boned hand. ‘Drink!’ he ordered at his most dictatorial, a command seemingly that she could not or did not choose to disobey. Then he was able to observe, with a degree of satisfaction, the subsequent shudder and coughing fit restore a semblance of colour to delicate cheeks.

For a few moments he continued to watch her closely, all the time cursing himself under his breath for a boorish, unfeeling fool. Even a simpleton might have guessed that Warrender’s widow and Miss Robbins were likely to have enjoyed more than just a casual acquaintance, he told himself. Yet his voice when he offered an apology for breaking the news in such a callously abrupt manner remained quite impersonal, betraying none of the annoyance at himself or regret he was experiencing.

‘Evidently you and Miss Robbins were well acquainted, ma’am?’

‘As she was sadly orphaned at an early age, we grew up together, sir.’ Her voice, though soft, was blessedly level and free from any threat of tears. ‘She was my mother’s goddaughter. I looked upon her as a sister.’

As Joss turned at that moment and headed towards the bell-pull sited on the far wall, Gwen failed to see the self-deprecating expression flickering across his features. ‘You must allow me to summon your maid, ma’am. You have suffered a grievous shock.’

‘Indeed, I have,’ Gwen acknowledged with quiet dignity, while maintaining such remarkable control over her emotions that the gentleman who turned once again to study her could not help but admire her self-restraint. ‘And you need not summon my maid, sir. I assure you I’ve no intention of causing you or myself embarrassment by falling into a swoon. I should much prefer that you return to your seat and explain to me what happened to Jane. Was she yet a further casualty of the influenza epidemic that has been sweeping through the county in recent weeks? I have learned from the doctor that half his patients have fallen victim at some time or other, and sadly not all have survived.’

Instead of resuming the chair opposite, Joss took up a stance before the hearth. ‘Believe me, Lady Warrender, I wish I could confirm that it was so.’ There could be no mistaking the deep regret in his voice now. ‘Miss Robbins’s death could not be attributed to natural causes.’

He paused to reach down for the glass of burgundy he had placed on the table by his chair, and tossed it down in one fortifying swallow, before adding, ‘She met her end whilst out walking in Marsden Wood.’

For several long moments it was as much as Gwen could do to stare up at him, as she at last began to recall with frightening clarity elements of that conversation she had overheard between this gentleman and his friend in a certain posting-house in Bristol. Then, maintaining that admirable control, she asked bluntly, ‘Are you trying to tell me, sir, Jane Robbins was murdered?’

Almost a week passed before Gwen could even attempt to bring herself to come to terms with the fact that her surrogate sister had died in such horrible circumstances; and in the days that followed she discovered a deal more about Jane’s demise than Jocelyn Northbridge had seen fit to impart.

It was from her newly appointed housemaid, a mine of local opinions and gossip, salacious or quite otherwise, that Gwen learned that Jane had by no means been the only female in recent years to meet her end in Marsden Wood. Although a little reticent at first, the good doctor too had been persuaded to reveal certain other salient facts surrounding the deaths, and Jane’s in particular. From the local vicar, Mr Harmond, one of the few people whom she had agreed to see during this time of deep depression and sorrow, Gwen had discovered the identity of the person who had ensured that Jane had at least received a decent burial and had not been placed in a pauper’s grave.

‘What a complex gentleman Mr Northbridge is, Gillie,’ she remarked, as she led the way out of the churchyard, having at last brought herself to visit the grave. ‘A mass of contradictions! He even went to the expense of buying a decent headstone.’

Unbeknownst to Gwen, Martha Gillingham had thoroughly approved of Mr Northbridge from the moment he had insisted they make the return journey in his own carriage, after that one and only visit to his home.

‘A very solid, dependable sort, I should say, Miss Gwennie.’

‘Yes, and beneath that brusque exterior, he’s surprisingly kind and considerate too.’ She managed a weak smile, the first to curl her lips in days, as memory stirred. ‘One might not suppose just how kind he can be on first making his acquaintance.’

‘I think he’s what’s termed a man’s man, Miss Gwennie. He doesn’t look the type to stand any nonsense.’

Gwen readily agreed with this viewpoint, even though she knew it could be a big mistake to make snap judgements about people. After all, hadn’t she been guilty of doing precisely that, after their unfortunate encounter in a certain crowded posting-house? Whether or not she could ever bring herself to really like him, perhaps only time would tell. But at least she experienced no lingering animosity towards him whatsoever. How could she after the respect he had shown towards her dearest Jane?

‘I must write, thanking him for his kindness, and offering to reimburse him for the expense he has incurred paying for Jane’s funeral. I don’t suppose for a moment he’ll accept any money from me. But the least I can do is offer.’

‘Well, it looks as if you’ll be able to do so in person,’ Martha announced, as they turned into the driveway. ‘Because, unless I’m much mistaken, that’s his carriage standing there at the front door.’

As she had instantly recognised the comfortable equipage too, Gwen didn’t delay, once she had dispensed with her outdoor garments, in joining her unexpected visitor in the front parlour.

Standing over six feet in his stockinged feet, Jocelyn Northbridge was an impressive figure by any standard, and in the confines of a parlour that was only moderately proportioned he seemed more imposing than ever. Yet, strangely enough, as she moved towards him, hand automatically outstretched in welcome, Gwen felt not one iota intimidated by his superior height and breadth. In fact, the opposite was true—she felt oddly reassured to see him standing there before her hearth.

‘Do make yourself comfortable, Mr Northbridge,’ she cordially invited, once he had released her hand, after the briefest of clasps, so that she could indicate the most robustly made chair, the one that was sure to withstand his weight. ‘May I offer you some refreshment? I came across numerous bottles of a very fine burgundy whilst I was inspecting the cellar shortly after my arrival here.’

She was well aware he was studying her every move during the time it took to dispense two glasses and rejoin him at the hearth. Fortunately the short walk from the local church had done something to restore her healthy bloom, even if it could not disguise the fact that a total lack of appetite in recent days had resulted in weight loss, a circumstance that wouldn’t escape his notice, as very little did, she strongly suspected.

This was borne out by the exaggerated upward movement of one dark brow when she placed the two crystal vessels down on the table between their respective chairs. ‘Breaking with tradition on this occasion, Lady Warrender, and imbibing in the forenoon, I see,’ he quipped. ‘I’m relieved to discover you’re prepared to make adjustments from time to time to suit various occasions, and are not bound by monotonous convention or routine. Such persons swiftly become bores.’

Gwen came to the conclusion in that moment that if one wished to rub along with Mr Jocelyn Northbridge even just tolerably well, one must swiftly make allowances for his somewhat acerbic manner and forthright opinions. In view of the fact that she was very much beholden to him at the present time, it wasn’t too difficult a decision to reach to do precisely that.

Which was perhaps just as well, for when, a second or two later, she attempted to thank him for the consideration he had shown in dealing with Jane’s funeral, he interrupted with an expletive of impatience, dismissing her offer to reimburse him with a wave of one large, yet surprisingly shapely hand.

‘Kindness doesn’t enter into the matter, ma’am,’ he continued in the same blunt manner. ‘I had been assured by Miss Robbins herself, when she applied for the post, that she had no close relatives living. Consequently, when the tragedy occurred, I felt duty bound, as she was in my employ at the time, to deal with the matter personally.’ He paused to sample the dark liquid in his glass, favouring the remaining contents a moment later with a look of decided approval. ‘Needless to say I was oblivious to your close association, otherwise I would have taken the trouble to write apprising you of the tragedy. I happen to know she corresponded on a reasonably regular basis with someone residing in the capital, but could find no clue as to this unknown’s direction among her effects.’

‘That would undoubtedly have been Mr Claypole of Messrs Claypole, Claypole and Featherstone. Many of the letters Jane and I wrote to each other during my first years away from this country went astray. But when Percival and I visited Italy in more recent times, Mr Claypole the younger was kind enough to undertake the task of forwarding the letters, which resulted in many more eventually reaching their respective destinations.’

‘I found no letters among her belongings, ma’am. Which, incidentally, I’ve brought with me today. I thought you might like them.’

Gwen felt moved by the gesture. ‘That was kind of you, sir. I thank you.’

He didn’t attempt to throw her gratitude back in her face this time. He merely watched as she sampled the fine wine with what appeared to be a deal less appreciation than he himself had done.

Acutely conscious of this continued close scrutiny, Gwen turned her head slightly to stare down at the burning logs in the hearth, thereby offering him a prime view of a small, tip-tilted nose and slightly protruding upper lip.

‘Since learning of Jane’s tragic demise, I’ve discovered she was by no means the only female to have met her end in this Marsden Wood.’

No comment was forthcoming. Undeterred, Gwen added, ‘The daughter of a wealthy farmer is believed to have been yet another casualty. She, so I have been led to believe, was murdered some few years ago. There has been a further body unearthed, so I understand. Apparently it was too decomposed for any definite identification to be made. Although, because of a bracelet found close to the body, and remnants of clothing, it is strongly supposed she was none other than a local corn merchant’s daughter who disappeared last summer. Whether she suffered the same fate as Jane was, I’m reliably informed, impossible to ascertain. But it is strongly suspected that she too was violated…a fact you chose to withhold from me, Mr Northbridge.’

He didn’t attempt to deny it. Instead he cursed, long and fluently under his breath, before demanding in the blunt, dictatorial manner to which she was becoming increasingly less resentful, ‘Who have you been talking to…? The local sawbones, I’ll be bound!’

Without experiencing the least need to resort to profanity, Gwen returned the compliment by not attempting to prevaricate, either. ‘Dr Bartlet was, eventually, a deal more forthcoming than you were, sir, certainly. As was my new maid, Annie, a veritable fount of local knowledge. And no mean judge of public opinion, I might add.’

‘Is she, by gad!’ He was decidedly unimpressed, as his next words proved beyond doubt. ‘And what good has it done you to discover all the unsavoury facts surrounding the death? It was enough for you to learn you had lost a good friend in such a fashion without learning every last sordid detail.’

Gwen favoured him with a searching stare, and easily detected a look of concern lurking behind the sparkle of annoyance in those dark eyes. ‘I believe you were trying to be kind in sparing me the unsavoury facts, sir. But let me assure you, I’m no child. My husband always did his utmost to protect me, but he never once attempted to prevent me from increasing my knowledge of the world. I’m fully aware of what Jane must have endured before she was strangled.’

One expressive brow rose at this, betraying his scepticism, but he refrained from comment, leaving Gwen to rise to her feet and go over to the window, whilst the silence lengthened between them.

‘What’s of most concern to me now is what’s being done to bring the murderer to book.’ She swung round, catching a guarded look, not untouched by guilt, flickering over his strong and decidedly aristocratic features. ‘From what I’ve discovered thus far, no one has been charged with the crimes, though several likely suspects have been named.’

‘Sheer gossip, more often than not stemming from some personal dislike or grievance,’ he returned, totally dismissive, before running impatient fingers through his thick, slightly waving dark hair. ‘Of course enquiries were made about Miss Robbins. And the other women, too. But nothing ever came to light. No one ever came forward admitting to having witnessed the tragic incidents. In point of fact, no one has ever come forward with any relevant information at all, as far as I’m aware. And as far as Miss Robbins is concerned—no one, myself included, even saw her leave Bridge House. Her absence wasn’t discovered until the evening, when she failed to go down to the kitchen for her dinner, and so a maid took a tray up to her room.’

The lines across his forehead grew more pronounced, making him appear more forbidding than ever. ‘Naturally I instigated a thorough search of both house and grounds. But it was dark by that time, so there was no possibility of widening the search. Her body was discovered two days later by a man called Furslow, Lord Cranborne’s gamekeeper.’

Gwen found these disclosures both interesting and puzzling at one and the same time. ‘Was Jane in the habit of wandering about the countryside when the mood took her?’ she asked, thinking him a very generous master in allowing his employees so much free time.

He wasn’t slow to set her straight on the matter. ‘Of course not! Not unless she undertook to take her charges out for some fresh air,’ he answered snappishly. ‘If her intention was to walk any distance, she was, at my insistence, always accompanied by a male servant, footman or groom.’ His expression relaxed markedly and his voice became noticeably less caustic, too, as he added, ‘Miss Robbins was extremely conscientious. She more than met my expectations. My wards improved in every respect under her charge.’

Although he continued to stare directly across the room in her general direction, Gwen gained the distinct impression he was seeing quite a different aspect. ‘It just so happened that my wards were among the first to succumb to the recent, widespread influenza outbreak. I took what precautions I could to ensure my entire household wasn’t afflicted by giving instructions that my old nursemaid was the only one to attend the sickroom until the girls were over the worst of it. Miss Robbins undertook to help me catalogue the books in my library during that period. But even so she was left with plenty of free time on her hands. Unfortunately, the weather naturally being so inclement at that season of the year, she rarely left the house.’

The cleft between his dark brows deepened once again. ‘If my memory serves me correctly the girls were well on the way to a complete recovery, and Miss Robbins had decided to recommence lessons, at least in part, the very next day. Maybe she decided to take full advantage of the last of her free time by taking a walk, and went further than intended.’

As she had done little travelling about since her arrival in Somerset, Gwen was unfamiliar with the area, and frowned as she attempted to recall the countryside she had passed through on that one and only visit made to Bridge House. ‘Is this Marsden Wood situated close to your home, sir?’

‘It’s about a mile and a half or so away, and lies to the south-east of my property.’

Gwen took a moment to consider what he had disclosed thus far. Jane, she clearly recalled, had been an avid walker years ago, and the mile-and-a-half hike would have meant nothing to her, a mere stretch of the legs, as it were. Even so, choosing to explore a wood in the middle of January did seem rather odd behaviour for someone of Jane’s sensible inclinations. Surely she would have been more likely to have explored the shelves in her master’s library for a suitable read than have run the risk of returning to Bridge House with skirts and boots caked in mud, after an exploratory stroll in a wood? And what was so interesting to view there at that season of the year? Furthermore, would she deliberately have gone against her employer’s express wishes and gone there alone? The answer came hard on the heels of the question—no, she would not, unless she had a very good reason for doing so. Odd…yes, it all seemed decidedly odd!