Quietly, Scylla went out to Goble.
“Goble, will you please go to Petworth House and—and have Lord Egremont informed as to what has happened here?”
Dull-eyed, the old man looked up at her.
“Ah, that’d be best, missy; I’ll go an’ fet’n drackly.”
“Goble,” said Scylla—she could hardly trust her voice, her breath was coming in irregular gulps—“Goble, you don’t know anything about this, do you? About—about little Master Thomas being lost?”
His expression was that of a desolate dog, beaten for some fault it does not understand.
“God’s my witness, I don’t, missy; I only wish I did; by the pize, I do.”
She let him go on that; she could not bear to ask the question that trembled in her mind: whether he thought that Cal had anything to do with it. Cal? No, it was just not possible. Not as a prank; no, he would never do anything so horrible. Not when it involved Fanny…
Wearily Scylla returned to her chamber—which bore evidence of having been roughly searched—and sat on the bed, staring straight in front of her.
Presently she pulled out Miss Musson’s letter and looked at it.
“I think you should know of the depth, the strength, and disinterested attachment of his feeling for you—”
After she had looked at them for a while the lines swam before her eyes.
Nineteen
Lord Egremont arrived at noon. Thomas, by that time, having learned that Cal had left Petworth, was insisting that his cousin must have stolen little Thomas and demanding that he be fetched back.
“Skulking off like that at nighttime! It’s as plain as day that that’s what he must have done. The man is mad—epileptic—spiteful and raving!”
“Oh, tush, my dear fellow. Lieutenant Paget? Absurd! Why should he commit such an act? He is a gentleman! Stealing babies? Good God, man, you must have a maggot in your idea box. No, no, depend upon it, you will find that some local ruffians are responsible for this. Bad business, shocking business, but I hope we’ll very soon get to the bottom of it.”
Egremont, as Scylla had expected, initiated a far more intelligent and speedy inquiry than the constables had done, sending out members of his own staff to question half the town, dispatching a message to London for Bow Street runners, and organizing an intensive search of the Hermitage and its environs.
At about four in the afternoon, when early winter dusk was already beginning to close in, a kind of shocked hush succeeded the uneasy bustle that had surrounded the house all day. Scylla, Fanny, Bet, and Patty were huddled in the parlor, over a dismal fire which nobody had the heart to blow brighter.
All of a sudden—“I believe they have found something,” said Scylla.
They all listened, straining their ears. The sounds had been coming from outside and seemed to have centered around the ash tree. Scylla, moving to the window and parting the curtains, could see nothing; all beyond appeared already black as midnight. But in a few minutes the hall door opened and they heard low voices.
“Who’s to tell her?”
“Not I, for sure.”
“I will tell her,” said Lord Egremont’s voice, firm and clear, and he came into the room. He was still wearing his greatcoat and had mud daubed on his hessian boots; for once he was not smiling; his face was grave and stern.
He glanced about the room, observed Scylla, made her an infinitesimal signal with his head, as if to gesture her toward Fanny, then, moving up to the latter, took her hand, saying, gently but firmly:
“My child, I have some very bad news for you. I see no means of softening the blow but by telling you directly.”
Fanny looked up into his face.
“The child is dead?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Wh-where did you find him?”
“He was buried under the tree outside. The ash tree. Had it not snowed in the night he must have been found sooner, but the snowfall disguised the broken earth.”
“The ash?” Fanny said. Her lips scarcely moved. “He was buried under the ash tree?”
“I am afraid so. Yes.”
Scylla moved to take Fanny’s arm but the latter seemed almost unconscious of her surroundings.
“What had—how had he been killed? He had not—he had not been buried alive?”
“No.” Lord Egremont’s face was set as if he hated to speak, but there was no help for it. “His throat was cut.”
“Oh, dear God,” Fanny whispered to herself, and then, puzzled, blindly looking up. “Who would do such a thing? To a child?”
“My dear, I do not know. But we will find out, depend upon it. Now I want you to come with me up to Petworth House, where Liz will look after you.” His eyes met those of Scylla; she nodded, agreeing with the plan. “You should not be staying here just now. This is too sad a place for you.” Fanny, however—shocked, appalled as she was—would not budge. “I must remain here. Thomas will need me. Where is Thomas?” For the first time a gust of emotion shook her. Tears started from her eyes. “Oh, Thomas—poor Thomas! What will this do to him? I must go to him directly.”
Again Egremont’s eyes met those of Scylla, and he slightly shook his head.
“No, ma’am, I do not think you should do that just now. Your husband is—not himself.”
“Where—where is the baby? Can I see him?”
Egremont shook his head decisively.
“The constables have—have taken charge of the body, ma’am. There must be an inquest, you see.”
“An inquest. Yes.” Fanny nodded. “Like poor Miss Fox.” A kind of shudder went through her. After a moment she said:
“I think I should like to lie down on my bed for a little.”
“Very sensible, my dear—though I wish you will come back with me. But if you remain here—somebody must be with you.”
Scylla said, “Bet—why do you not take your stepmother upstairs? I will come in a moment.”
Patty followed her sister and stepmother. Directly she was alone with Lord Egremont, Scylla went on:
“Sir, I have to tell you something. I—I feel it is my duty. My brother, as you know, returned to sea today. Yesterday evening he had a violent quarrel with Captain Paget.”
“Yes, my dear, so I have heard.” Lord Egremont smiled faintly. “After such a quarrel, witnesses are not backward in coming forward! Half the servants seem to have overheard it. And indeed Thomas told me himself.”
“Of course.” Scylla swallowed; then went on to relate the story of Cal’s vigil in the garden. “I do not—do not know if this has anything to do with the crime, but I thought it right to inform you.” Should she mention that Goble had something on his conscience? No—that was between him and Cal.
“Has—has Captain Paget accused my brother?”
“Indeed he has,” said Egremont calmly. “And in no uncertain terms! But we have made due allowance for his distressed state of mind. I do not doubt but that he will have had second thoughts by tomorrow. We shall have to send for your brother, however.” He took Scylla’s hand and added, “Ma’am, it is with reluctance that I leave you in charge of this stricken household. Do not hesitate to send for me, though, if anything occurs to trouble or distress you. Now I will bid you good night.”
Scylla went slowly upstairs to Fanny, whom she found lying perfectly motionless on her bed, wrapped in a shawl, staring at the ceiling.
Scylla sat down on the bed by her and took her hand. After a moment Fanny said:
“Is Thomas accusing Cal?”
“Yes.”
* * *
By next day, however, Thomas had changed his tune and was accusing Fanny. And with more apparent justification. For early next day two Bow Street runners arrived and proceeded to conduct an exceedingly intensive and thorough search of the house and garden, sifting through ashes of
fires, prodding patches of loose earth, raising loose floorboards. One of the first things they discovered, in the vault of an outside privy at some distance from the house, was a blood-soaked garment which proved to be one of Fanny’s cambric nightdresses. And wrapped up in it was a discarded razor of Thomas’s, which Fanny had been in the habit of keeping in one of her bedroom drawers. She said vaguely, when questioned about it, that she had made use of it for undoing seams “when taking out tucks, so as to enlarge garments.”
Meanwhile an express messenger, sent posting after Cal, had arrived too late; the sloop Asp, under command of its new captain, had sailed last night with the evening tide, under sealed orders from the Admiralty. Where was its destination? Nobody knew.
During this period gossip ran rife in the town. Who could have done the horrid deed? Most townspeople suggested that for the criminal the runners need look no further than one of the inmates of the Hermitage itself. “Very likely one o’ the daughters—the eldern’s a plain, spiteful mawk, an’ ’tis well known the liddle maid were tarnal jealous o’ the babby, allus tormenting and tarrifying of it.”
Since it hardly seemed possible, however, that little Patty was capable of lifting a large baby from its cradle and cutting its throat, let alone digging a two-foot hole and burying it in frozen ground, suspicion rested more heavily upon Bet.
Indeed the Bow Street runners questioned her intensively for several hours, and at the inquest she was subjected to a formidable interrogation by Captain Dallyn, the chief constable.
Dr. Chilgrove gave evidence as to the state of the body: “The child’s throat had been cut to the bone by a sharp instrument; there had also been several stab wounds in the corpse, which was quite drained of blood. At least three pints must have been lost. The body was cold and stiff when I examined it at 4:30 p.m. I am of the opinion that death had taken place at least twelve hours previously, probably more.”
Parsons, one of the constables, gave evidence as to the open window. This produced a considerable sensation in the town hall (where the inquest was held) and public opinion veered back to the theory that some piker, mumper, or waygoer had broken into the house, possibly with the intention of burglary, had accidentally roused the child, and murdered him to stifle his noise. But then, what about the nurse Jemima’s unnaturally heavy slumber? What about Mrs. Paget’s nightdress soaked in blood? And the razor, which had been kept in her drawer? The inquest jury demanded that Mrs. Paget be questioned; but this Dr. Chilgrove flatly refused to allow, informing Captain Dallyn that she was in a state of collapse. Scylla, Bet, and the maids all gave evidence, but none of them had anything useful to contribute. Thomas, again by Dr. Chilgrove’s order, was not questioned; his grief and distress were too profound to make him capable of answering rationally.
The inquest jury returned a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown.
Later on that day, quietly, without stir or commotion, Fanny was arrested and taken away; not to Petworth jail, where she might become the target of local hostile and angry feeling, but to Chichester, fifteen miles distant, over the Downs. She was treated with civility and consideration; allowed to take a small bag of her own toilet things and nightwear; and assured that, owing to Lord Egremont’s good offices, she was to be incarcerated in a cell by herself, and even be allowed a cot bed instead of a straw pallet. She received this news unemotionally, with the distrait, absent calm which had characterized her behavior since she first received the account of the child’s death. It was Scylla who, outraged and furious, demanded by what right they took her off, how dared they accuse her? Surely Lord Egremont could not countenance such a miscarriage of justice?
“Lord Egremont be lord lieutenant o’ the county, miss,” one of the arresting constables pointed out phlegmatically. “Nothing can’t be done without he knows about it.”
“Do not trouble about me, pray, Scylla,” Fanny said wearily. And she added in a low tone, “I never loved either of them. I have only my own self to blame.”
“Fanny! Do not talk so!” Scylla was horrified. “I shall go to see Lord Egremont directly—I—I shall be coming to visit you in pr—over there—as soon as possible. I am certain that, very shortly, this injustice will be set right.”
Thomas was not present when his wife was taken away. Indignantly, Scylla went in search of him and found him in his bedroom, methodically instructing Mrs. Strudwick and the weeping Tess to pack up all of Fanny’s clothes and belongings.
“Thomas! What are you doing?”
“She is a murderess,” he said coldly. “She killed my son. I do not want any relic of her to remain in this house.”
“Have you gone mad? You know Fanny could not do such a thing! To her own child!”
“I know nothing of the sort. She had always neglected the child. She would not take it about with her. She disliked it, she was ashamed of it; she would not show it to people. For a long time she had been wishing it dead. I know her nature!” He lifted his eyes—angry, bloodshot, full of dreadful sufferings—to those of Scylla. “Pray do not refer to this again, Cousin; it is inexpressibly painful to me.” Scylla left him and took herself up to Petworth House, where she found Liz Wyndham, alone and deeply troubled.
“George has gone over to Chichester; he is doing what he can to ensure that Fanny will be used with civility and given comfortable quarters.”
“He is very good,” Scylla mechanically said. Then she burst out, “Liz! For God’s sake! How could he permit her arrest? He cannot believe she did it?”
“I do not think he does.” Liz looked even more distressed. “But George cannot flout the processes of law. And the evidence against her is very strong, Scylla.”
“But Fanny—so good, so gentle, who would not hurt a fly—her own baby? The hours I have seen her trying to teach that poor little thing to crawl, to take food, to talk—”
“Yes, that is true. But, Scylla, I don’t believe she loved the baby—in fact I know she did not, she once said as much to me… And she may well have come to hate her husband—”
“She had cause.” Scylla’s tone was bitter.
“Very likely. But that is why—don’t you see, I am so afraid that, in the end, the baby may have come to represent Thomas in Fanny’s eyes.”
“I do not believe it.” But, in spite of herself, Scylla was shaken again. She exclaimed, “Oh, God! Why did Cal and I ever come to Petworth? If we had not come here, Fanny and Thomas, might never—might never—Oh, how I wish Cal were here now.”
“Well, George is doing his best to get him back,” Liz said. “He has applied to the Admiralty for an urgent message to be dispatched after the Asp—wherever it has gone. We can only wait.” She added doubtfully, “Let us hope that whatever your brother has to say will clear Fanny entirely.”
Scylla shivered. “In fact, I do not see how it can. He did not see Fanny again after—after his quarrel with Thomas. His last words to me were a request to say good-bye to Fanny—”
Her voice faltered.
Liz gave her a very piercing glance.
“Did they love one another?”
“It is possible,” Scylla had to admit. “I have sometimes thought… They dealt so happily together, with his poetry and her music.”
“Possible? Say rather, inevitable. Your brother such a contrast to—How could she help it? And Thomas intensely jealous, no doubt?” Liz added dryly, “How does he behave himself to you?”
“Oh—he has been friendly enough.” Scylla was not going to mention that look in Thomas’s eye. She went on, “But now—after this—as Cal’s sister—I am not sure how he will feel—I believe he thinks that Cal and Fanny somehow connived together to do the deed.”
Liz said, “Would it not be best if you were to come and stay here with us? You must necessarily feel uncomfortable, alone in the house with Thomas, and only those two dismal girls as chaperones.”
“Well—inde
ed I must say that I should be only too thankful—that house is horrible to me now. But perhaps it is my duty to stay there and comfort the girls—” Scylla began doubtfully.
“Fudge! Let their father do that. Do you go home and pack your things—I will send down a carriage for you in an hour’s time. Indeed we shall be glad of your company!”
Acknowledging to herself her own relief at being thus firmly taken in hand, Scylla returned to the Hermitage. The house which, only three days before, had been so cheerfully brimming with life and activity was like a stricken place, mournfully silent, except when a gust of January wind elicited in some quarter the wild keening wail which made the servants shiver and exchange looks pregnant with ominous meaning.
“It were a-waiting—all the time—for summat to happen,” commented Tess, helping Scylla pack her clothes. “I’ll be out o’ this place so fast—when me time’s up—you ’on’t see me for dust!”
“Tess,” said Mrs. Strudwick, putting her head around the door, “have you seen Master’s old pea jacket? Missus was on at me t’other day to sew on a couple of buttons that were coming loose, and I can’t seem to lay me hands on it anywhere.”
Tess disclaimed any knowledge of it. “But there’s Master a-coming down the stairs this minute, ask him himself, why don’t you?”
“I’m half afeered to speak to him, he looks so mazed and dreesome.”
Indeed Thomas, when applied to, glowered at the housekeeper and told her not to pester him with trifles at such a time; and then, apparently recollecting, he said that he had given the jacket to a beggar several weeks ago.
“Well, I never!” muttered Tess to Mrs. Strudwick out of hearing. “I never knew Master give anything away afore—leastways, not something that still had some wear in it!”
“Saves me a job,” said Mrs. Strudwick, and returned to the kitchen.