Letter from a Dead Man Read online

  I managed to hold my tongue by reminding myself, as I had a hundred times throughout these past months, of the terrible strain she was under, and that I ought to make allowances for her behaviour. If only I had more patience, I thought. When helping father with his work I’d had all the patience in the world, but I had none at all for the kind of trivial matters my aunt fussed over.

  Aunt Thirza was my mother’s sister, although the only portrait I possessed of my mother showed little resemblance between them. My aunt’s hair, on which she had set a cap of the finest lace, was very much darker than mother’s fair curls, which I had inherited, and her features were rather plain, but at forty her figure was still trim, and in elegance she outshone us all.

  She was married to Charles Frere, a Frenchman by birth, whose father had died when he was a baby. His English mother had soon returned to London, bringing up her son as an English gentleman. But when his French godfather unexpectedly left him a property in Normandy, offering a degree of affluence he’d never thought to enjoy, my uncle sold his London home and moved his family to France; which seemed the sensible thing to do early in that year of 1788. Just eighteen months before the storming of the Bastille, and the start of the revolution.

  His property was not large, nor was he very rich, but in France landowners were now the enemies of the people. When Charles Danton, one of the revolutionary leaders, became Minister of Justice, my uncle had sent my aunt and cousin to Westfleet for their own safety, while he stayed behind in the hope of saving his estate from the Revolutionaries. His weekly letters, arriving fairly regularly throughout the autumn and winter, were optimistic; unlike the newspapers, which were full of reports of murder and mayhem, and of hordes of sans-culottes running riot.

  Even so, it wasn’t until February, when France declared war on England, that my aunt began to despair. For, without my uncle’s letters, how was she to know if he was safe? Giles, seeing her distress, arranged for an exchange of letters to take place every Saturday, at a secret location in Normandy; my uncle’s letter brought by a loyal servant, my aunt’s by an Island smuggler, paid by Giles. For the last two weeks, however, my uncle’s servant had not arrived. Anxious as I was too, I suggested the man must be ill, for my uncle dared trust no other servant. Meanwhile, we could only wait and hope. A situation that made her increasingly difficult to live with, for she picked a dozen arguments a day with servants, Lucie, myself, and even it seemed, with poor Jess, the kitchen cat. I had never in all my life had to bite my tongue as much as I did now.

  CHAPTER TWO

  What Aunt Thirza needed was some useful occupation, something to help take her mind off her fears for my uncle. I knew exactly what she would enjoy, and I meant to suggest it to her if the situation didn’t change soon. But in the morning she was much more cheerful, even insisting I went for my usual ride. Thus, I sent a message to the stables for Orlando to be saddled, meaning to return within the hour. Utterly unaware that this was to be no ordinary morning ride.

  After a fast gallop across Hokewell Down, I stopped at the highest point to enjoy the view, patting Orlando’s neck and murmuring soft words of endearment. Glancing in the direction of Ledstone woods, my eyes were inevitably drawn to the spot where I had found Mr Saxborough’s body, and I shuddered. I hadn’t had time to write down the facts about his death yet, but I was determined to do so this afternoon, when my aunt and cousin planned to visit friends.

  I was about to urge Orlando on again, when I saw the parson cantering through the Ledstone Place parklands towards the woods, his ungainly manner of riding being quite unmistakable, even from up here. If he was heading back to his parsonage at Westfleet, I could not hope to avoid him up here on the open Down, and I was thoroughly sick of the wretched man, having bumped into him every day for the past week.

  And that was why I did it really. Spurring Orlando into a gallop, I soon reached the woods, and seeing no sign of the parson on the bridle path, I plunged into a dense area of shrubs and trees, meaning to wait until he had passed by. If only it had been that simple.

  The deafening report of a gunshot was my undoing. Fired from a spot so near to the tree I was hiding under, that my horse whinnied and reared up in fright, pitching me straight into a mass of vicious looking stinging nettles. I failed to hang on to Orlando’s reins, and as the tall nettles closed over me, stinging every bare inch of my face and neck, I heard him crashing through the undergrowth in panic. Thrusting the nettles aside with gloved hands, I scrambled up onto my knees, and uttered a word that would have shocked my old nurse. At which point, from somewhere behind me came a deep male chuckle. ‘Dear me. How very unladylike.’

  A tall man, in a fawn shooting jacket, strode into sight, laid his gun against a tree trunk, and clasping his hands firmly round my waist, lifted me out of the nettles with commendable ease, for despite my slender build, I am no featherweight. But my face was smarting too much to dwell upon that, or to care what he thought of my language, and I simply pointed to some nearby dock leaves, uttering a heartfelt, ‘If you would be so good, sir.’

  Grabbing a handful of the healing leaves, he passed them to me. ‘Can I assist?’ I shook my head, rubbing the leaves vigorously over my face and neck, until I began to feel a little more human again. But instead of expressing regret for his behaviour, as I had expected, and which I would have happily accepted, he said, ‘I don’t wish to pry into your affairs ma’am, but may I ask why you were skulking under that tree?’

  ‘I was not skulking,’ I retorted, choking with anger, for his tone of voice clearly implied that whoever was at fault, it certainly wasn’t him. ‘I suppose I must count myself fortunate not to be lying dead at your feet.’

  His lips twitched in amusement. ‘Impossible. I was aiming in the opposite direction.’ Utterly unperturbed he also advised, ‘Dark clothing is not easily seen in the middle of a wood. I might have noticed red.’

  ‘Indeed?’ I retorted icily. ‘Unhappily I cannot wear red at present. I am still in mourning for my father.’

  He was instantly contrite. ‘I do beg your pardon, Lady Drusilla. It slipped my-----’

  I gasped. ‘How do you know my name?’

  His brows rose in prim reproach. ‘I learnt it ma’am when we were formally introduced.’

  My anger subsided quickly, as it always did, and I stared at him, utterly baffled, having assumed him to be a guest of Thomas Saxborough at Ledstone Place. If we had met, I was certain I would have remembered him, if for no other reason than I had to look up at him. A situation I did not often find myself in, but he was at least three inches taller than me, slim yet muscular in build and about my own age. His countenance was interesting rather than handsome, he had jet black thick, wavy hair, and bushy eyebrows; a combination that made his eyes appear a much deeper shade of brown than perhaps they really were.

  Smiling down at me, his dark eyes assessed me with practised ease. ‘Admit it ma’am, you have forgotten me. Whereas I remember you very well. Your pretty fair curls, sparkling hazel eyes, and so much firm resolve in your nature, that I am at a loss to understand why you were under that tree. Who were you hiding f-----?’ He stopped speaking on seeing Mr Upton riding slowly along the track some fifty yards away, leading my horse, and asked in disbelief, ‘Him?’ I felt my cheeks flushing, for I saw how absurd my behaviour must appear to him. But, before I could answer, he said, ‘I had the dubious honour of meeting the parson yesterday. I grant you the man’s a dead bore and rides like a demented wasp, but----’

  ‘He is also the most pompous, irritating little man it has ever been my misfortune to meet.’

  Feeling decidedly foolish, I started to explain why I wished to avoid the parson, but he wasn’t attending, his eyes being on Mr Upton who, having tethered the horses, was forcing his way through the tangled undergrowth towards us. ‘Nothing seems to be going right for you today, does it,’ the anonymous gentleman murmured under his breath.

  Mr Upton, now within hailing distance, called out, ‘Lady Drusilla, th
ank goodness I’ve found you.’ Struggling through a patch of low brambles, he gasped, ‘Oh, and Mr Reevers too.’

  ‘Reevers?’ I repeated, turning to that gentleman in surprise. ‘Radleigh Reevers? Giles’s cousin?’ We had met at Ledstone as children; but only once, Cuthbert Saxborough having discouraged visits from his six sisters and their families, who all lived on the mainland.

  ‘Giles’s obnoxious cousin was what you used to call me,’ he reminded me provokingly, his eyes alight with laughter.

  ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I.’ Reflecting on the episode with the nettles, I murmured, ‘I really should have guessed.’

  I was still thinking of that when Mr Upton reached us. He was a short, skinny man of around fifty, with thinning grey hair, whose sermons were long and tedious, and who was too fond, in my opinion, of preaching to his congregation that it was their duty to bear, without question or complaint, whatever misfortunes came their way.

  I thanked him sincerely for looking after Orlando, but he wasn’t really listening; his mind clearly on something else. ‘Lady Drusilla, as you know, I am never one to shirk my duty. And I must ask you, what is going on here?’

  I stared at him, completely bewildered. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  He looked from Mr Reevers to me, and back again, in a way that left me in no doubt of his meaning. And I saw a muscle twitch at the corner of Mr Reevers’ mouth. ‘When I came across Orlando grazing by the track, I feared you had suffered an accident. Now I find you alone with Mr Reevers. What am I to think, ma’am?’

  For a moment I was too dumbfounded to speak, but Mr Reevers quelled this insufferable little man with a single look. ‘You forget yourself, sir. Lady Drusilla did suffer an accident, as you suspected, and I merely came to her assistance.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ he acknowledged, unabashed. ‘In that case---‘ And he frowned, as another thought struck him. ‘But ma’am, what made you ride so far into the dense part of the wood?’

  Again, Mr Reevers was equal to the occasion. ‘Lady Drusilla saw a – um - a bird, I think you said, ma’am?’

  He was standing slightly behind the parson, his expression clearly inviting me to enter into this farce, which I did with great relish. ‘You can’t have forgotten already, Mr Reevers.’

  ‘Memory like a sieve, ma’am,’ he confessed meekly. ‘Let me think… was it a curlew?’

  ‘A curlew?’ the parson burst out in astonishment. ‘In the woods?’

  I shook my head, laughing. ‘Not a curlew, Mr Reevers. A cuckoo.’

  ‘Ah, I knew it was something beginning with a ‘c’.’ And the corners of his wide mouth turned upwards into a most engaging smile.

  Mr Upton did not possess a sense of humour, but never missed an opportunity to air his knowledge. ‘A curlew is a wading bird, Mr Reevers,’ he announced, with a superior smile. ‘Its habitat is always by water.’ Mr Reevers listened in such apparent rapt attention, I had to bit my lip. ‘The cuckoo, of course, does favour woodland areas. It is heard more often than seen. Lady Drusilla was indeed fortunate to see----.’

  ‘I was,’ I agreed. ‘By keeping very still, I was able to watch it for some time.’ After which it was a simple matter for Mr Reevers to relate how he’d inadvertently fired a shot, causing Orlando to unseat me.

  I was still smiling as I rode home, for Mr Reevers, seeing the humour of the situation, had given way to it at once. Back at Westfleet, having explained what had delayed me, my aunt lectured me on the evils of riding unaccompanied by a groom, as I sometimes did. Which I endured in silence, gritting my teeth, and reminding myself I must not upset her.

  A brisk walk round the gardens calmed me down, and when my aunt and cousin left to visit their friends, I went indoors to write down what I knew about Mr Saxborough’s death. Finding Jeffel in the hall, I informed him I would be in the workroom if he needed me. Catching the faint look of surprise on his face, I admitted a little ruefully. ‘Yes, I know, I have rather neglected it lately.’

  ‘Very understandable, if I may say so, my lady.’ Jeffel, a man of good sense, cheerful disposition and quiet efficiency, had been at the Manor for some twenty-seven years, and I could not imagine Westfleet without him. Tall and dark-haired, he had immense patience, as I remembered from my childhood, when he had never minded me pestering him, sometimes giving me piggyback rides around the hall if the weather was foul and father had gone out on business. But that had been a long time ago, and he said now, ‘You’ll find everything as you left it, my lady. And the windows were cleaned only yesterday.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I smiled.

  But I didn’t reach the workroom, for at that moment Giles, Thomas, and young Tom, came bowling up the drive in a gig. Being fond of them all, I was always pleased to see them. Once we were seated in the drawing room, Giles handed me a small package. ‘We thought you might find this useful.’ Hearing Tom’s stifled giggle, I unwrapped it warily. Inside were several dock leaves. ‘In case Orlando throws you into any more stinging nettles,’ Giles chortled. And they all fell about laughing.

  Half smiling, I commented dryly, ‘I suppose it was foolish of me to expect any sympathy from you three.’

  Wiping his eyes, Giles spluttered, ‘What was it father said in his Will?’ He clasped a hand to his forehead, making a pretence of thinking. ‘Ah yes, I remember now. He said, you were the only female on the entire Island capable of riding his horses.’ Mr Saxborough had settled a sum on money on his other godchildren, which would have meant nothing to me, as father’s death had left me a very wealthy woman. As I learnt later, it was Giles’s suggestion that I should choose a horse from my godfather’s stables.

  Thomas continued in the same bantering tone. ‘The question must be asked Giles, were you wise to propose that kind of bequest to him?’

  Ignoring their teasing, I said,’ I’m very glad you did.’ I’d coveted Orlando from the moment I first saw him, and Thomas had insisted on giving him to me the day after the Will was read.

  Giles smiled. ‘He actually asked my advice. The first time I ever remember him doing so.’ I caught the faint hint of sadness in his voice, for he had never been close to his father.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t be more grateful.’

  He beamed at me warmly. ‘I’ll remember that when I need a favour.’

  ‘A favour?’ Thomas hooted in brotherly derision. ‘When did you ever ask anyone for help?’

  I joined in the laughter mocking Giles’s legendary independence. ‘Yes, Giles, do tell us. I should like to commit such a unique occasion to memory.’

  Tom chimed in cheekily, ‘You can’t remember, can you Uncle Giles?’

  Giles pretended to cuff his ear. ‘Quiet, shrimp. There’s nothing wrong with relying on oneself.’

  ‘I’m not a shrimp.’

  ‘Indeed, you are not Tom,’ I agreed fondly. In fact he was almost as tall as Thomas, and rather handsome too, having inherited the Saxborough blue eyes and blond hair. Whereas Giles barely reached even medium height and had his mother’s angelic looks, which combined with the Saxborough eyes and hair, gave him an almost girlish appearance. A sickly childhood having left him on the skinny side, he looked as if a gust of wind would easily bowl him over, leaving no outward indication of the iron resolve that lay behind those delicate features.

  I’d noticed Tom was still limping slightly, and I asked when he was going back to school. ‘Not until next term.’ And he grinned. ‘Dr. Redding said one hour at Winchester could undo all his efforts.’ The day after Cuthbert’s funeral, Tom had damaged his knee rather badly in a fall from a tree, when trying to extricate his kite. ‘He won’t even allow me to ride for another week.’

  Giles ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Still, he did say you can go sailing.’

  ‘That’s good news, Tom,’ I encouraged.

  His father said, ‘He’s to sit on the boat like a lady, and simply enjoy the sea air. And he’ll do as he’s told, if he wants that new fishing rod he’s been pestering me to buy for his birthday.’


  Before they left, Giles told me there had been no exchange of letters from my aunt and uncle on Saturday. ‘That’s three weeks now,’ I said, a cold shiver running through me. ‘My uncle’s servant wasn’t there, I suppose?’

  He shook his head. ‘Try not to despair, Drusilla. It so happens I’m acquainted with some people in that part of Normandy. I’ll write to them. They might have heard something, you know how these things get about. Jacob, the man who collects your uncle’s letters, is willing to deliver it.’

  ‘I would be so grateful, Giles. But you must tell Jacob not to put himself at risk. My uncle wouldn’t want that.’

  ‘Jacob is a smuggler, Drusilla. He’s used to taking risks. In any case, nothing may come of it,’ he warned. ‘It’s just a chance, that’s all.’ I promised to pass the message on to my aunt, but she would know, as I did, what a very slim chance it was.

  The only hope we could cling to, was that my uncle might be in hiding, although I didn’t really believe it. I feared it was far more likely he was either dead, or in the hands of the revolutionaries.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Once the three Saxboroughs had driven off, I crossed the hall to the workroom, advising my butler, ‘If anyone else calls Jeffel, I am not at home.’

  ‘Very good, my lady.’

  Taking one very deep breath, I went inside. Shutting the door, I leant against it, my senses instantly assailed by the old familiar smell of books, mixed with a faint hint of the sea from the fossils we had collected. I soon saw that everything was precisely where it had been on the night my father died. The room was free from dust, cleaned by the servants in the way father had directed, without disturbing what we were working on.