The Shrouded Walls Page 6

  Supper began. We were halfway through the roast beef when the door opened and Ned came into the room. It was the first time I had seen him in a clear light and I was struck by the fact that his clothes were dirty and shabby, and that he obviously had not troubled to change or wash for the meal.

  “I’m sorry to be so late,” he said. “I was attending to the horses.” There was a slight pause. At the head of the table, Axel laid down his knife and leaned back in his chair.

  “Whose job is it to look after the horses?”

  Ned stopped, one hand on the back of his chair.

  “Well?”

  “The grooms.”

  “Have I employed you to be a groom?”

  “No.”

  “Then in the future you will be punctual at meals and not tend the horses when you should be at the table.”

  Ned said nothing. I noticed that the tips of his ears were a dull red. “And I’m afraid I can’t allow you to sit down to a meal looking as unkempt and untidy as a farmhand. You’d better go and eat in the kitchens, and take care to mend your ways in the future, for next time you appear like this in the dining room you’ll be thrashed.”

  The room was very still.

  “Do you understand that?”

  There was a heavy silence.

  “Answer me!”

  “Yes,” said Ned, “you damned bloody foreigner.” And he was gone, the door banging behind him, his footsteps echoing as he crossed the hall towards the kitchens.

  The silence was painful. The footmen tried to pretend they were mere statues incapable of sight or hearing; Esther looked horrified; the girl Mary’s eyes were almost as round as the dinner-plates on the table before us. On my right, Vere was motionless, his knife still poised in his hand, and beyond him Alice seemed to be inspecting what appeared to be an imaginary spot on the tablecloth.

  Axel shrugged his shoulders. “This food is excellent,” he observed to no one in particular. “It would be a pity to let it grow cold any longer.” And he leaned forward in his chair to resume his meal.

  “George,” said Esther in distress, “I really feel I must apologize for him—”

  “No,” said Axel strongly. “That’s not necessary. I would not accept any apology which did not come from his own lips. There’s no reason why you should assume responsibility for his insults.”

  “He gets more uncouth daily,” was all she said. “I’m beyond knowing what should be done with him.”

  “He’s trying so hard to be a second Rodric,” said Vere, “that he has overreached himself and his attempts at emulation have merely resulted in a distorted parody.”

  “But he is nothing like Rodric!” Esther cried angrily. “Nothing at all!”

  “No,” said Mary, speaking for the first time. “He is so different from Rodric.”

  “Rodric had such charm, such wit, such...” Esther broke off, and to my discomfort turned to me. “It was the most dreadful tragedy,” she said rapidly. “No doubt George has mentioned—”

  “Yes,” I said. “Axel told me.”

  “Now, ma’am,” said Vere to his mother, “you mustn’t upset yourself.”

  “No, I’m not upset, but it’s just that now we’re all gathered together again around this table I seem to see Rodric’s ghost the whole time—”

  “Ah come, Esther,” Axel said unexpectedly. “Talking of Rodric’s ghost will make you feel no better. We all miss Rodric to some degree, just as we all miss Papa, and certainly you are entitled to miss both of them more than any of us, but dwelling on your loss will only aggravate your grief. You must know that.”

  “I should like to know,” said Vere, “—just out of interest, naturally—which of us had missed Papa.”

  His voice was extremely polite. While everyone looked at him he cut a slice of beef from the plate in front of him, speared it with his fork and ate it tranquilly.

  “Well, of course,” said Axel, equally courteous, “we all know there was little love lost between you and Papa, and still less between you and Rodric.”

  “One might say the same of you,” said Vere. “We all know what you apparently thought of Rodric. It was clear from your silence at the inquest that in your opinion Rodric was a murderer.”

  “Are you suggesting that he wasn’t?”

  “Why no,” said Vere, his blue eyes open wide. “If Rodric didn’t kill Papa, then who did?”

  There was a clash of a glass shivering into fragments. Alice rose abruptly in dismay, her dress stained with wine from the glass she had overturned. “Dear Lord, look what I’ve done—”

  The diversion was immediate. One of the footmen darted forward with an ineffectual white napkin; the butler murmured “T-t-t-” in distress, and Esther said: “Oh Alice, your new gown!”

  “So careless I was,” said Alice. “So clumsy. Pray excuse me ...” The men rose as she left the table to try and repair the damage, and then seated themselves again.

  “Such a pity,” said Esther absently. “The stain will never come out.” She turned to me without warning. “Well, my dear, tell us more about yourself. George said so little in his letter.”

  I began to talk, my voice answering her questions naturally, but my mind was confused by the glimpse of the emotions which I had seen unleashed during the earlier conversation, and I found concentration difficult. I was thankful when at last the meal was over and Mary and I retired to the drawing room while Vere and Axel remained in the dining room with their port. Esther had excused herself from us to see if Alice had been able to reduce the stain on her gown, and so Mary and I were alone together.

  There was suddenly so little to say. Even though we were only three years apart in age the gulf between us seemed enormous. After five minutes of desperately difficult conversation I seized on the first topic which entered my head.

  “If it will not affect you too much,” I began cautiously, “please tell me a little about Rodric.” That seemed somewhat bold, so I added, lying: “Axel told me he had a remarkable personality.”

  I could hardly have imagined the effect my words would have. All trace of nervousness seemed to leave the girl; her face was suddenly alive with animation. “George was right,” she said. “Rodric was a most remarkable person.”

  I was prepared to relax now that I had discovered a topic on which we might both converse for a time, but I did not. Something in her manner was so unexpected that I felt my nerves sharpen more than ever in my effort to discern the truth.

  “Mr. Brandson—my guardian—was most anxious that I—that Rodric and I...” She blushed, hesitated a little. ‘‘Of course, I was then too young for any formal mention of it to be made, but it was intended that Rodric and I...” She paused delicately.

  I stared at her. “You mean Mr. Brandson wished you both to be betrothed when you were old enough?”

  “Well yes ... yes, he wished, hoped...” Her hands worked nervously at her dress. “I am orphaned now, as you no doubt know, but my father was a baronet with an estate in Hampshire and I have a considerable portion which he willed to me ... It would have been a suitable match.” Her pale eyes misted slightly. She turned her head aside with a sharp movement as if to hide her emotions.

  “I see,” I said, trying not to sound too amazed.

  “Rodric was so noble,” she said. “He was such a fine upright worthy person. Fond as I was of my guardian, I sometimes think that on many occasions he did not treat Rodric as he deserved.”

  “I heard,” I said, “that they often didn’t see eye to eye.”

  “My guardian was so blind, so prejudiced ... Rodric is—was—unusually gifted.”

  “Gifted?”

  “He wrote,” said Mary. “He was never happier than when he had a pen between his fingers and an inkwell and paper on the table before him. He wrote mostly articles and political tracts—he concerned himself very much with politics and used to ride as far afield as Dover to speak for the Cause.” Seeing that I looked blank she added: “The Whig Cause. It was a dr
eadful disappointment to my guardian who hoped Rodric would support the Tories and become a member of that party in Parliament. But my guardian didn’t understand Rodric, didn’t understand that Rodric couldn’t acquiesce in accepting ideals he didn’t believe in.”

  But I was more interested in Rodric’s possible literary talent than in his possible noble soul. “Did he write any novels?”

  “Only one—I read part of it and thought it excellent.”

  “What was it about? Where’s the manuscript? May I read it?”

  Her expression changed. “No,” she said flatly. Vere burned all the manuscripts after Rodric’s ... death.”

  In the pause that followed the door opened and Esther entered the room. Remembering her distress when the subject of Rodric had been introduced at dinner I knew that it would be impossible to continue the conversation with Mary. Apparently Mary had drawn the same conclusions, for she was already moving across the room in search of her sewing basket. “Alice managed to remove most of the stain from the dress,” Esther said as she sat down by the fire. “She knows so many of these old wives’ recipes! I believe she has a secret recipe for everything, from curing hay fever to making toadstool poison to feed the mice in the cellar. These village girls have an amazing knowledge of such things.”

  I was aware again of the honeyed tones which did not quite conceal the barbed sharpness of her tongue.

  “She has just gone to the nursery to look in on the children,” Esther was observing, and suddenly the slanting black eyes were turned in my direction. “Alice,” she said, “is the most excellent mother.”

  I smiled politely, not fully understanding the sudden intentness of her gaze.

  “Mary dear,” said Esther, “just run down to the saloon and fetch my shawl, would you? I’m a little chilled.”

  The girl departed obediently.

  “I did not quite gather, my dear,” said Esther after a moment, “how long you and George have been married.”

  “Only a week.”

  “Ah.” She picked up a copy of the “Spectator” idly and began to glance through the pages. “And have you known him long?”

  “About a month.”

  “I see.” She went on looking at the magazine. “So you don’t know him well.”

  “Well enough,” I said, “by this time.”

  She must have read some meaning into my words which I did not intend, for she glanced up sharply, her beautiful mouth curving in a smile, her unusual eyes sparkling with amusement. “Yes,” she said, “I’ve no doubt you do. If George had anything in common with Rodric, it was his talent for making himself extremely well known to any woman he fancied in the shortest possible time.”

  If I had been less angry I might have thought how odd it was that Rodric’s name was spoken so often in this house, but I was too incensed by the implications of her remark to notice this at the time. I sat facing her, she a poised woman well accustomed to the intricacies of drawing room conversation, I perhaps thirty years her junior but much too furious to be intimidated by her maturity and experience.

  “All young men need to sow their wild oats,” I said coolly, repeating a phrase my father had often used. “If Axel hadn’t sown his in his youth I would have thought him strange indeed. I hardly think I need add that his behavior, towards me has always been exemplary in every respect.”

  “Of course,” said Esther. “Naturally.” She smiled. “No doubt he now wishes to settle down and be a satisfactory husband. And father.”

  I did not answer.

  “He is anxious for children, of course?”

  I was certainly not going to tell her it was a subject we had never discussed.

  “Yes,” I said, “especially now that he owns Haraldsdyke.”

  The door opened. I glanced up, expecting to see Mary returning with the shawl, but it was Alice who stood on the threshold. She had changed her gown, and the style did not flatter her condition so that her pregnancy was very obvious.

  I had a sudden, inexplicable longing to escape from that room and those women.

  “Will you excuse me?” I said politely to Esther. “I am afraid the long journey has made me more than usually tired. I think it best if I retired to bed now.”

  They were both extremely solicitous. Of course I should rest and recover my strength. Was there anything either of them could do for me? Anything which could be sent up to my room from the kitchens? Could I find my way back to my room unaided?

  “We so want you to feel at home here,” said Alice. “We so want you to feel welcome.”

  I thanked her, assured them there was nothing further I needed, and escaped as courteously as possible with a candle in my hand to light the way down the long corridors.

  I reached the door of our suite of rooms without difficulty and then paused as I heard the sound of voices raised in argument. The door of the sitting room, or boudoir, was ajar and a shaft of light slanted out across the dark passage before me.

  I stopped.

  “You think too much of Rodric,” I heard Axel say, and his voice was harsh and cold. “It’s time you stopped idolizing his memory and saw him as he really was. You’re nineteen and yet you behave like a young schoolboy moonstruck by the current School Hero. Rodric wasn’t the saint you imagine him to be, neither was he the crusader in shining armor, fighting for truth. He was a misfit who could not or would not conform.”

  “You were always jealous of him.” Ned’s voice was low and trembling. “You pretended to be friendly so that he was deceived, but you never liked him. You were Father’s favorite until you went back to Vienna and then when you returned later on you found Rodric had taken your place. You resented him from the moment you saw he meant more to Father than you did—”

  “What childish nonsense you talk!”

  “And you hated Father for rejecting you because you chose to live in Vienna—you wanted to pay him back at all costs—and pay Rodric back for usurping you...”

  “I’m beginning to think you want another thrashing. Be very careful, Ned. You forget I still have the whip in my hand.”

  “You can’t frighten me! You can beat me and sneer at me and send me away into the army, but I’ll still spit in your face, you bloody murderer...”

  There was the stinging vibration of leather on flesh, a sharp cry of pain. “You knew Father had altered his will in your favor so you killed him with Rodric’s gun and then pushed Rodric in the Marsh before he could deny the charge!”

  The whip struck again. I listened transfixed, unable to move. Then: “You liar,” said Axel between his teeth. “You...” And he used words I had once overheard my father use, syllables never used in civilized conversation.

  Ned was half-sobbing, half-laughing. It froze me to hear him. “Deny it as much as you wish!” he shouted. “Curse as much as you please! But who inherited Haraldsdyke when Father died? Who inherited all the land and the money? Who had the best reason for wanting Father dead?”

  “Get out! Get out, do you hear? Get out of my—”

  “Not Rodric, George Brandson! And Rodric never killed him! Rodric wasn’t a murderer!”

  There was the sound of a scuffle, the impact of fist against flesh, a small spent sigh and then a jarring thud as if something very heavy had slumped to the floor.

  Silence fell.

  Very softly, almost unaware of my own actions I crept forward, snuffed my candle and hid behind the curtains that concealed the window at the far end of the corridor.

  The silence seemed to go on and on without ending.

  At last after an interval which seemed to endure as long as an eternity, the door opened and through a chink in the curtains I saw Axel walk away down the passage to the head of the stairs. His head was bent, his shoulders stooped and he moved slowly.

  I went at once to the room. Ned was sprawled half-conscious on the carpet, the blood soiling his black hair as it oozed from a cut above his temple. As I knelt beside him and reached for his pulse he groaned and stirred feebly
, so I poured him a glass of water from the pitcher in the bedroom and tried to help him to drink.

  He opened his eyes and looked so ill that I thought he was going to vomit. Hastening into the bedroom again I seized the chamber pot, which was the first receptacle that I could think of, and brought it to him just in time.

  Afterwards he started to tremble. He was chalk-white with the nervous reaction from the scene and as I helped him drink from the glass he seemed very young and defenseless, very frightened and alone. He seemed utterly different now to the enraged defiant accuser whom I had overheard earlier and I suspected he had only spoken in that manner out of bravado.

  I was reminded of Alexander; my heart ached suddenly.

  “I slipped,” he said. “I was trying to hit George when I slipped, fell and hit my head.” His voice was little more than a whisper and his eyes were dark with humiliation. Then: “What are you doing here? Leave me alone. ” He wrenched himself free, and as I stared at him with mute sympathy he stumbled towards the couch where his coat lay and dressed himself with shaking fingers.

  “Why did you let Axel beat you?” I said at last. “You could have struggled and escaped.”

  “I did struggle,” he said wryly, “and fell and cut my head.” He sat down abruptly. I guessed that he was feeling dizzy again after his experience, and I went to him, as I would have gone to Alexander, and put my arm around his shoulders to comfort him.

  He recoiled instantly. “Don’t,” he muttered.

  “I only want to help you.”

  “I shall be well in a minute. Leave me alone.” He looked at me suddenly. “George would be angry,” he whispered. “He would be angry with you. Don’t let him see you with me.”

  His eyes were bright with tears. I saw then that he was desperately afraid of Axel and terrified at the memory of the scene which had just passed. And as I stared at him in appalled silence there were voices far off in the distance and footsteps resounding in the corridor.