Page 37 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle

He shook his head. ‘I’ve seen inside,’ he said. ‘No baby in there. No baby napkins or clothes, either, drying by the fire or outside.’

‘I dunno what you’re talking about. Gimme my money.’

He caught her upper arm again, to stop her escaping. ‘What have you done with it?’

Mrs Mattock, hearing voices, came to the cottage door, saw them together, and scuttled back inside in an action redolent of guilt. Tabby wriggled, testing his grip, and knew the game was up. She blew out an angry gust. ‘It’s gone, all right? I give it to that lady in the village, that do-good, to put with a fambly, and that’s the end of it. Did you think I was going to saddle meself with a brat for the rest of me life? You try it, Mr Richard Tallant, with your fancy clothes and your big house. You didn’t want it, did you? So why should I? It’s gone and that’s that. Now gimme my three pound.’

He released her arm, saddened, but not surprised. ‘You’ve had two pounds already.’

‘Yeah, and I had to give it to that Miss Whassername to take the baby. I need the rest.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘The money was to support the baby, and there’s no baby to support any more.’

She lowered her voice to a hiss. ‘The money was for me to get your precious William off the hook, and I done it. So don’t you come the high-and-mighty with me! If I want a sermon I’ll go to Rector. Five pound for talking to the pleece, that was the bargain, and don’t you dare go back on it.’

He stared at her without speaking, and she took a half-step closer to him. ‘You give me the other, or you know what I’ll do. I warned you! I’ll go to the pleece and tell ’em you bribed me to lie.’

‘That’ll get you into trouble.’

‘Won’t do you no good either – and you’ve got further to fall. What’d your brother say, what’d your ma say, if you was put on a charge?’

Richard knew she was right. He felt a little sick. ‘If I pay you, what will you do?’

‘Get to hell out of this place,’ she said promptly. ‘Go to London and disappear. You’ll never see me again, you can bet on that.’

‘How do I know you’ll keep your word?’

She laughed coarsely. ‘You don’t! That’s the joke, ain’t it? But I don’t wanter be here any more’n you want me here. I’ll clear all right. I’ve only been waiting for the money.’

He really had no choice. He could only hope that self-preservation would make her go away and stay away. Reluctantly he reached into his pocket and handed her the money. She made it disappear into her bodice so quickly it was a blur. ‘All right,’ she said. She looked once into his face, then turned away. ‘Better clear off, Mr Tallant, ’fore anyone wonders what you’re doing here.’ She sniggered. ‘They might think you’re paying me for a—’ She used a coarse word, and he flinched. She laughed. ‘You look as if you could use one all right. But you won’t get it from me!’

She went on down the path, and he hurried away, feeling unaccountably as though he needed a bath.

When giving a ball for a debutante, one of the most important things for a hostess was to secure enough unmarried men. Nothing, as Maud knew, was more deadly to the success of a ball than an excess of girls over men, and the consequent sight of rows of girls in their finery sitting out, wilting slightly like cut flowers for which there was no vase.

It was in her mind as she read the letter from Cecily Tullamore (who was actually her aunt, but as they were of an age and had grown up together, they always called each other cousin). It was a letter of courtesy, informing Maud that the whole Tullamore family was coming up to London for the Season, and would be taking a house in Russell Square – which was a little too far east for fashion, but though the Tullamores were wealthy (Cecily’s husband owned a good deal of land and several coal mines) they were not of the first consequence.

All the same, among the Tullamore children there were two grown sons, Angus who was twenty-four and Fritz who was eighteen, both nice, well-behaved boys. She considered long and hard, tapping the end of her pen against her lips. Angus and Fritz would do to dance with some of the less important girls, who might otherwise find themselves without partners. But if she invited them, Cecily and Gordon might also want her to invite the eldest girl, Beata.

Perhaps, she thought, she had better write a completely frank letter to Cecily, who as a mother would understand the issue at hand and send her two eldest sons on their own. Maud could always dine her and Gordon later in the Season as a way of saying thank you.

And another happy thought came to her. There were among the Tullamore brood two very young children, Mannox and Mary, who, if she remembered correctly, were about ten and eight respectively. Would it not be very convenient if Cecily were to invite Linda’s children to stay while everyone was in London? They could play with the youngest Tullamores, and the Tullamore nanny could take charge of them all.

Otherwise, since it was obvious that Linda did not mean to go back to Dorset, but was clinging on to Portman Square like a barnacle, Maud might end up with Arabella and Arthur under her roof, which would not be convenient.

Yes, a letter to Cecily, framed in just the right language, with the hint of a dinner and perhaps a longer stay at Ashmore Castle at some point in the summer . . .

She drew paper towards her, and as she dipped her pen, her eye fell on a card that had been left earlier by Prince Paul Usingen, just arrived in London. He was considerably older than Rachel, but very eligible, and he had shown interest in her during their stay in Germany. Probably he had come to London looking for a bride. Yes, she must make sure he got an invitation – with ‘Do come!’ written across it in her own hand. People could never resist the personal touch. She’d do it straight after the tricky letter to Cecily.

Crooks found William in the plate-room lethargically sorting out the silver for dinner. He had always been a well-fed young man with a high colour, but since his ordeal in the police cell he had changed. He was gaunt and pale now, and drooped moodily. He avoided the other servants as much as possible, and could often be found hunched in an obscure corner of the yards, smoking and staring at nothing. Some of the maids tried to be kind to him, but there was an undertone of no-smoke-without-fire suspicion about him, and Sam, who had shared a room with him until his arrest, had asked to be moved. No-one else wanted to share, and there were no single rooms. But when William listlessly seconded the request, Mr Moss had allowed him to move his bed into a tiny room among the rafters that had been used for storage. It was probably not helping his mood.

Crooks felt sorry for him. There must always be an element of doubt while the killer of Speen went unidentified, but he knew the adage of the law, that a man was innocent until proved guilty, and felt that as Englishmen they should put that into practice. Of course, he thought, being a gentleman’s gentleman, he naturally had more refined sensibilities than some of the lower servants. Still, William was one of their own and ought to have their loyalty.

So he paused in the doorway and, after watching for a moment, said in a kindly way, ‘Separate salt cellar for each place, don’t forget.’

‘I know,’ William said, not looking at him.

Crooks stepped in. ‘Come, now,’ he said, ‘you’ve got to try and buck up.’