3-Book Victorian Crime Collection: Death at Dawn, Death of a Dancer, A Corpse in Shining Armour. Caro Peacock
understand what you’re accusing him of? I hate you, as much as I’ve hated anybody in my life, but you possess something I want, so I must listen.
‘So here is the proposal which I ask you to consider. It has the merit that it would meet, for a short time, your need for sustenance, a roof over your head, while permitting you to be of some service to a greater cause.’
Am I intended to assassinate somebody, like Charlotte Corday and Marat? I suppose I’d have a roof over my head until they hanged me. Or does he wish me to put on a man’s uniform and go for a soldier?
‘I am proposing that you apply for the post of governess.’
‘What?’ That ended my silence, all this secrecy and drama leading to the most commonplace of conclusions. ‘You invade my lodgings, spy on me, insult my father – to tell me that? I could have come to that conclusion myself, without your valuable … counsel.’
I threw his own word at him, bitterly. The fact was, for a woman like myself with some education but no means of support, becoming a governess was the only respectable alternative to the workhouse, and only slightly less miserable: an underpaid drudge, ignored by gentry and servants alike, neither the one nor the other, condemned to a lifelong diet of chalk dust and humble pie. Yes, it was probably my only prospect, but I hated him all the more for hurrying me towards it.
‘Not just any governess,’ he said. ‘There is a particular family …’
‘Friends of yours, I suppose.’
‘No, anything but friends of mine.’
‘Enemies, then?’
‘Opponents.’
‘So am I expected to put ground glass in their stew and saw through the brakes on their carriage?’
‘Nothing so deleterious. You have merely to observe certain things and inform me, by means which shall be arranged for you.’
‘In other words, to spy?’
‘Yes.’
Honest, at least. My father’s ring was now warm against my chest and I kept my hand on it through my stays to help me think.
‘This family – are they something to do with why my father was killed?’
‘We think so, yes.’
‘How long should I have to stay there?’
‘A few weeks, probably. Months at most.’
‘And what are you in all this – a Government spy?’
‘Far from it. The reverse, rather.’
‘The reverse?’
‘No government has any reason to love me.’
I waited for him to enlarge on that, but he just stood there looking at me in that arithmetical way I’d noticed in the churchyard. He was a miser with information, giving out as little as possible.
‘You must tell me more about this family,’ I said.
‘Their name is Mandeville. They claim descent from one of William the Conqueror’s knights and hold a baronetcy, conferred on them by Charles II. The present holder, the ninth baronet, Sir Herbert, is a very wealthy man and until recently was a Conservative MP.’
‘Until recently? Do you mean he was one of those who lost their seats through the Great Reform?’
They’d been a huge joke to my father’s circle, those lost Members of Parliament. They were mostly country squires and their friends who thought they had something like hereditary rights to seats in the House of Commons. For centuries they’d owned pocket boroughs, consisting of a mere half-dozen easily bribed or bullied electors. The Reform Act of five years before had swept them away, and not before time. I was laughing at the thought of it, but the man in black didn’t smile.
‘Great Reform, you call it. I should have thought it a singularly small reform. Did it give a vote to every working man?’
‘No, but –’
‘Did it do anything to help the tens of thousands toiling in the workshops and factories of our great cities?’
‘No.’
‘Did it take away a single shilling from the rich to give to children hungry for bread?’
‘Sadly, no.’
His eyes were glittering, his thin body swaying to the rhythm of his words. So, I thought, the man is an orator. That explained his sparing way with words, like an opera singer guarding his voice. Perhaps he realised the effect he was having, because he smiled a thin smile.
‘I am sorry to become warm, Miss Lane. You suppose, correctly, that Sir Herbert lost his seat because of the Reform Act. Until then, there had been Mandevilles in the House of Commons for four hundred years. But you would be mistaken to see him as simply a buffoon from the shires. He is a man of ability and ambition. In fact, he has held ministerial office under both Whig and Tory governments.’
‘A turncoat, then.’
‘Certainly a man of hasty and arrogant temperament.’
‘Since he’s rich, couldn’t he simply buy himself another constituency?’
‘For the present he prefers sulking in his tent, so to speak. Sir Herbert has become something of a focus for other men who think the country is going to the dogs.’
‘But what does that have to do with how my father died? This baronet can hardly go round shooting everybody who favoured the Reform Bill. Even old King William had to support it in the end. Besides, how did they know each other? My father did not cultivate the friendship of rich Tories.’
‘I doubt if your father and Sir Herbert Mandeville ever met. There is no reason to think so.’
‘I repeat the question: what does he have to do with how my father died?’
‘Quite probably nothing personally. Your father, unfortunately, blundered into something mortally serious that touches many people.’
‘You keep criticising him and not telling me why.’
He said nothing. I could feel him willing me into doing what he wanted and tried to play for time.
‘They are very rich, then, these Mandevilles?’
‘They own substantial estates in the West Indies. The seventh baronet had profitable dealings in slaves.’
‘I shall hate them.’
‘Governesses can’t afford hate.’
‘Nor spies?’
‘No.’
‘Do they live in London?’
‘They have a house there, but their main estate is at Ascot in Berkshire, not far from Windsor. If successful in your application, you would probably spend most of your time there.’
Ascot. A picture came to my mind of heathland, horses galloping across it. An idea began to form.
‘I may not be successful. If they are opponents, you can hardly recommend me.’
‘That will be attended to. They are advertising for a governess, so an application would not be unexpected.’
The sun was down, the room almost dark. I stood up to light the candle on the wash-stand. My legs had stopped trembling and the idea was growing.
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I shall apply for the post …’
‘I am glad of that, Miss Lane.’
‘But on two conditions. One, you must tell me what I am looking for. I can’t be expected to guess. Is it this woman again?’
‘No. Put the woman out of your mind. The main thing required of you will be to communicate