The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet Page 27

  “Elizabeth, there were bars over the windows,” Fitz said, his face horrified. “They were supposed to be removed before Lydia was sent to Hemmings. It had been the home of a madman. Why didn’t Miss Maplethorpe explain?” He took her hands, she thought absently. “I keep asking myself, why Hemmings? How could a nest of thieves plan such a thing when Lydia was moved there in such a hurry? It was less than a week between that dreadful scene in the dining room and her removal to Hemmings! Yet they were ready with the lady’s companion, and their plan—how is that possible?”

  “And Lydia was murdered? Fitz, it makes no sense!”

  “Perhaps Miss Maplethorpe enlisted with Miss Scrimpton’s agency prepared to take the first opportunity that came her way—at the moment my mind inclines that way, for it does make some sense. The jewels were worth about three thousand pounds, if Jane’s pearls are the ones I believe she gave away. The furniture and silver would not be worth more than a thousand pounds, though the carpets were rather fine—I bought them new for two thousand. The barouche and its pair of matched horses represent the most valuable thing they stole—about four thousand. The pony and trap was negligible.”

  “A total of about ten thousand pounds,” said Elizabeth.

  “Yes. A good haul, I suppose, even for professional thieves, who will certainly know where to dispose of their loot for the best price. If they lose about a third to the fellow who buys from them, then they have indeed prospered. Miss Maplethorpe will pay her men two hundred pounds apiece, and emerge about five thousand pounds the richer. It may be that she saw far grander pickings, since my name was associated with the position. I don’t know, except that she certainly displayed no patience. Scarcely a day on the agency’s books, and she was on her way to Hemmings.”

  He began to stroke the smooth skin of the backs of her hands rhythmically; it calmed and soothed him, and he wondered why they had taken to quarrelling every time they met. A part of the trouble, he knew, was his inability to tolerate her perpetual teasing, the habit she had of making fun of him. In the days when his passion had burned white-hot, he had suffered it, divining that for some reason beyond his understanding she thought it did him good to be teased, tormented, made fun of. But the longer they were married, the harder it had become to bear this capricious flightiness, and finally he had begun to round upon her each time she belittled him. At this moment, however, she was not moved to mock, so it was very pleasant to be with her, feel his blue devils dissipate.

  “You have a very powerful mind, Fitz,” she was saying. “Bend it to this conundrum. There must be a better answer! When you find it, we can rest.” She moved her head, the halo dissolved and he saw that her beautiful eyes were filled with tears. “Poor, poor little Lydia! Such a bad business, right from the beginning. Who believes in fifteen-year-old love? We did not, Jane and I. Nor did Papa, though he was too indolent, too indifferent to his duties as a parent to curb her. We judged her elopement moral laxity, but I see now that it was the only way she could keep her George. She loved him with every part of her! And he was such a villain, such a liar. His father did him no service, to raise him alongside you as if the pair of you were equals. His expectations were nonexistent, while you were heir to one of the largest fortunes in England. I remember him from Longbourn days as naïve, grossly under-educated—yes, I know he went to Cambridge, but he learned nothing there, or at his school. Certainly his entire plan was to use his looks and charm to marry money, but at every turn he was foiled. So I suppose with Lydia came a certain measure of security, through our connection to you.”

  “You don’t believe that I was instrumental in sending him to his death?” he asked.

  “Of course not! He was a soldier by profession and died in battle, so Lydia said.”

  “Only three sorts of soldier die in battle, Elizabeth. One is the brave man who dares all. One is the hapless wretch who stands in front of a ball or a bayonet. And one is the lazy cur who finds a secluded spot to sleep the battle away—without first ascertaining whether his spot is in range of the enemy’s artillery.”

  “Is the third way how George Wickham died?”

  “So I’m told by his superiors. But Lydia will never know that now.” He got up, kissed her hands. “Thank you for your understanding, Elizabeth. Her body is coming to Pemberley. We’ll bury her here.”

  “No, it must be Meryton. Jane and I will take her.”

  “With Mary still missing? Are you sure?”

  “You’re right. Oh, she will hate to be buried here!”

  “She can always vent her spleen at me by haunting Pemberley. She’ll have plenty of company.”

  A groom from Pemberley located Charlie, Angus and Owen in Chapel-en-le-Frith, a village as old as its Norman name, and situated an easy ride from the cave district, which was why Charlie had chosen it. As the groom caught them before they set out for a day spent underground, they abandoned their plans and rode home.

  Apart from forging a strong friendship, Charlie and Angus had a liking for caves in common—a liking that Owen refused to share. As his revulsion was more fear than detestation, he was, the other two informed him frankly, a dashed nuisance, especially when the cave under exploration was more a tunnel than a chamber. So Owen rarely went caving; he preferred to pass his time at Pemberley with the Darcy girls. With them he felt useful; he could ride (astride) with Georgie, function as a candid critic of Susie’s art, help Anne with her Classics, and try to talk Cathy out of some harebrained prank sure to see her sent supperless to bed. As luck would have it, the day they were sent for was a caving day for Owen, who had ridden from Pemberley at dawn and joined his two friends for breakfast. Now they were all returning to Pemberley—what a relief!

  All three were mystified by Fitz’s curt summons. The groom knew nothing, and had been ordered not to ride back with them, which suited the trio very well—they could speculate aloud in peace. From which it could be deduced that they did not ride in an abstracted worry, but rather with an eye to any likely hole in a hillside or gorge, of which there were many, though not all proved to be more than a single small room. Angus had devised a system whereby they didn’t make the mistake of exploring the same opening twice; those they had examined bore a bright red rag firmly fixed outside.

  “There’s one without a rag,” said Angus suddenly. “Oh, I wish we had better maps! I have written to General Mowbray for army survey maps, but so far not a squeak from the man. Which probably means they do not exist.” He marked the cave as best he could on his map, noting the look of the terrain in the vicinity. “It’s somewhat off the beaten track as caves go, Charlie,” he said anxiously.

  “Don’t fret, Angus, it will be attended to as soon as we go a-caving again,” said Charlie in a soothing voice.

  Angus was not looking very Puckish these days, Charlie thought. His hair had less apricot in it, and the creases in his cheeks were threatening to become fissures. Any doubt he had experienced about the depth of Angus’s affection for Mary had vanished; the man was head over heels in love, and quite demented by worry. Over five weeks, and not a sign of her anywhere. If she were still alive, she had to be held in a cave. Of course she might have been spirited several hundred miles away, but why?

  Under the lee of a curling cliff they encountered a bizarre procession coming toward them on foot, and courteously drew off the bridle-path they were following to let it pass. Perhaps thirty small forms clad in brown habits, hoods pulled right over their heads, walked two abreast behind a little old man clad in the same fashion, save that his hood was pulled back and he wore a large crucifix on his chest. He looked somewhat like a Franciscan friar. In the rear came two bigger children pushing a hand cart loaded with boxes that clinked as if they contained bottles.

  “Hola, Father!” called Charlie as the friar drew level with him. “Where are you going?”

  “To Hazel Grove and Stockport, sir.”

  “For what reason?” Charlie asked, not sure why he asked.

  “The Children of J
esus are on His business, sir.”

  “And what business is that?”

  “Follow me.” The friar stepped aside. “Children, walk on,” he said, and the children obediently walked on.

  How miserable they seem! Angus thought, watching them as they passed. Shoulders hunched, cowls entirely hiding their faces, and their eyes fixed upon the ground. Flinching and shivering as if in distress, even emitting faint moans. Then he saw that the friar was moving toward the hand cart, and followed.

  “Halt!” the old man cried. The procession halted. One gnarled hand indicated the boxes. “Pray open any of them that you wish, sir. They speak of the purity of our intentions.”

  A box of blue bottles was labeled CHILDREN OF JESUS COUGH SYRUP, and a box of green bottles were a remedy for influenza and colds. A sluggish brown liquid proclaimed itself an elixir for the cure of diarrhoea. A box of clear bottles contained red liquid that said CHILDREN OF JESUS PAINT FOR BOILS, ULCERS, CARBUNCLES & SORES. A box of tins were an ointment for horses.

  “Impressive,” said Charlie, concealing his smile. “Does this mean you make nostrums and potions for diseases and ailments, Father?”

  “Yes. We are on our way to make deliveries to apothecary shops.”

  Charlie held up a tin of horse ointment. “Does this work?”

  “Pray take it and give it to your stable master, young sir,” said the friar.

  “How much do you charge for it?”

  “A shilling, but it will retail for more. It is popular.”

  Charlie fished in his waistcoat pocket and produced a guinea.

  “This is for your trouble, Father.” He managed a trick he had learned from his father, of looking very sympathetic, yet all steel underneath. “It’s such a beautiful day, Father! Why do your boys wear their cowls up? They should be getting some sun.”

  Rage danced in the pebbly blue eyes, but the answer was smooth and reasonable. “They have all suffered from bad masters, sir, and I have to physick them with a lotion that reacts badly in the sun. Their skins would burn.”

  Angus intervened. “Father, have you seen a lost lady in your travels?”

  The rage died, the eyes widened innocently. “Of what kind is this lady, sir?”

  “Tall, thin, about forty, reddish-gold hair. Handsome.”

  “No, sir, definitely not. The only lady we have seen was poor Moggie Mag. She was bringing home rabbits for her cats and lost her way, but we set her upon it.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Angus said. “Whereabouts do you and your children live?”

  “In the Children of Jesus orphanage near York, sir.”

  “A long way to walk,” said Charlie. “Given that there are no monasteries anywhere in this part of England, where do you stay?”

  “We beg for alms and we camp, sir. God is good to us.”

  “Must you go as far afield as Stockport to hawk your wares?”

  “We do not hawk, sir. The apothecaries of this part of England like our remedies best. They’ll take everything we can manage to bring with us.”

  The three men prepared to ride on, but the friar held up a hand to detain them, and addressed Charlie.

  “When I thank God for this guinea, sir, I would like to mention its donor’s name. May I ask it?”

  “Charles Darcy of Pemberley.” Charlie tipped his hat and rode off, the others following.

  “The Children of Jesus,” said Angus. “Have you ever heard of them, Charlie? I haven’t, but I’m not from these parts.”

  “I’ve never heard a whisper of them. Still, if they really do hail from York, that would account for my ignorance.”

  “Except,” said Owen thoughtfully, “why are they on a bridle-path? A bridle-path through wild and desolate country? Surely this is not the main route from York to Stockport? They look like Roman Catholics and may be trying to avoid several kinds of odium and petty persecution—the kind of thing that happens to Gypsies. The friar said they camped and begged for alms, which likens them to Gypsies.”

  “But no one could mistake them for Gypsies, Owen, and they’re little children—boys, I hazard a guess. One very small fellow must have had a bee inside his cowl, and dropped it long enough for his companion to shoo the bee. A boy, and tonsured. People in rural fastnesses tend to be kind—’tis in cities that the quality of mercy is shoddy,” Charlie said. “I shall ask my father to make enquiries about them. As an MP, he must know the location of all orphanages.”

  “They’re not Romans, Charlie,” Angus said, splitting hairs. “Monastic orders don’t sell a remedy for impotence, and most of the boxes on the cart were full of that. It also answers why the old man can sell his Children of Jesus wares as far afield from York as Stockport. ’Twould seem to me that his remedy works, else he’d not concentrate upon it.” He grunted. “Children of Jesus! One of the very many Christian sects that afflict northern England, do you think, Charlie?”

  “I do, though the prize for the most perspicacious question must go to Owen—what are they doing on this bridle-path?”

  Once the three riders were out of sight, Father Dominus again halted his progress.

  “Brother Jerome!” he called.

  Lifting his skirts, Jerome came at a run, leaving Ignatius to mind the cart.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “You were right, Jerome. I should not have brought the boys out into daylight, no matter how deserted our route.”

  “No, Father, not wrong, just mistaken,” said the only literate Child of Jesus, who took care to be obsequious in all his dealings with the old man. “They have been naughty, they needed a special punishment, and what better than a day in the light of Lucifer? It is besides the shortest way to the shops.”

  “Have they been punished enough?”

  “Given that we have encountered Mr. Charles Darcy, I would say so, Father. Ignatius and I can take the hand cart on by ourselves once the boys are back in the Northern Caves. They may not like living there as much as they have the Southern Caves, but today’s ordeal will reconcile them,” said Jerome, at his oiliest.

  “Brother Ignatius!” Father Dominus called.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “Jerome and I are going to take the boys back to the Northern Caves now. You will remain at this end of the tunnel with the hand cart until Brother Jerome returns. There is food and beer enough on the cart.”

  “What about Sister Mary?” Ignatius asked.

  “What about her?” Jerome asked.

  “She will be taken care of, Brother, have no fear,” said Father Dominus.

  Brother Jerome, who aspired to donning Father Dominus’s habit when the old man died, understood the implication of that statement, but Brother Ignatius did not.

  “Back to your cart, Brothers. Children, walk on!”

  They resumed their progress, but not for long. At the hill gorge where sat the aperture Angus had marked on his map, they produced dirty tallow candles from their robes, lit the first one from Father Dominus’s tinder box, and filed inside, for it was narrow to enter, though much wider within. Last to come was Brother Jerome, who first made sure he obliterated all traces of their leaving the bridle-path, then pulled out some bushy shrubs by their roots and put them across the aperture until it was entirely filled in. From outside, the cave had disappeared. Inside, sufficient light still percolated to make Ignatius’s wait with the hand cart a bearable one, and he had a lantern for the night hours. It suited him to stay there, peacefully alone, though it never crossed the limited terrain of his mind to spend some of those hours freeing Sister Mary, not very far away. The walk in daytime had pierced him to the marrow, just as it had the little boys; only Jerome and Father could tolerate the brightness of Lucifer’s Sun, and that because God had specially armed them to war against evil.

  The Children of Jesus had twenty miles of utter blackness to walk, but Father Dominus had catered well. At intervals there were stocks of imperishable food and candles, and water was never far away as the underground streams carved throug
h the soft limestone.

  Just a mile beyond the entrance loomed a side tunnel that led to the old kitchen and Mary’s cell, but they ignored it to tramp on. Sometimes even the smallest boy had to bend double, while the bigger ones crawled on their bellies, but the way remained patent from one end to the other, though not in a straight line; its kinks and twists were tortuous. The walk took a whole day, but they never stopped beyond short pauses to eat, drink and replace candles.

  Eventually the walkers emerged into a series of wind-blown caverns dimly lit during daylight hours by narrow holes, many of them made at Father Dominus’s command, for the ground was a crust only feet thick, half of that a clayey subsoil; every hole had been planted outside with a bush that survived the constant wind, and no one dreamed that the Peak District caves extended so far north.

  The entrance the Children normally used lay behind a waterfall on a tributary of the Derwent, and here outside the ground was solid rock that did not betray a footprint or the iron tyres of a hand cart.

  The work to join the laboratory cave and the packing cave to the dozen chambers behind them had taken many years, for Father Dominus had first laboured alone, then after sending to Sheffield for Jerome, with some assistance. As the older of the boys grew strong enough, they too were put to the task, which finally began to quicken significantly. The ventilation holes consumed most of their time, and were always dug from the bottom upward, first with a pick, then, when the subsoil was reached, with a sharp-edged spade. The mystic in Father Dominus would much have preferred to keep the darkness, but he needed the caves to house his children in closer proximity to the place where they manufactured his cures.

  What he had not counted on was a minor rebellion: the children refused to move, and in the end had had to be driven like sheep at dead of night across the moors, weeping, moaning, trying to run away. They hated the laboratory cave and the packing cave, and, though they could neither read nor write, were quite intelligent enough to understand that this move meant longer hours at their smelly, disgusting, sometimes dangerous work. Even after Therese was in her kitchen—much better appointed too!—they tried every night to return to their beloved Southern Caves. Then Father Dominus had an inspiration: to take the boys out into the light of day and force them to walk for miles. Jerome had objected, afraid that, even on a deserted bridle-path, they would encounter someone, but the old man dismissed the possibility with a sniff. He was too much an autocrat to respect sage advice when it was given. But of all people, Charles Darcy! That could spell ruin, after what Jerome had told him about Sister Mary, who was in all the newspapers. Fitzwilliam Darcy’s sister-in-law! And the woman had cursed him, called him apostate!