turning to the man of law who had been sitting silently listening to this interchange, he asked, ‘Is there nothing else which might be of use to us, Mr Hornsey? There must be hundreds of villages in that area—each with its own church and graveyard, I shouldn’t wonder. No clues to that, I suppose?’
‘You are welcome to copies of the papers,’ Hornsey offered. ‘I was most careful to take down everything in Mr Billingham’s exact words but, of course, the event occurred a great many years ago and his memory was failing. I believe I have furnished you with all the relevant information…’ His eyes scanned the sheets in front of him. ‘He did leave a considerable sum of money for the young lady’s funeral but he said that when the nun questioned him—’
‘Nun! Are you sure?’
Maitland pulled the paper towards him and ran his eyes quickly down the close, spidery handwriting, finally giving an exclamation of triumph when he found the information for which he was seeking.
‘Yes! Uncle Roger quite definitely said “nun”!’ He spun round eagerly to face his puzzled family. ‘Do you see what this means? It must have been a convent, or a priory—Roman, in any event—that will surely be easier to trace!’
‘The young man Étienne,’ said his mother, in growing realisation, ‘he would have been a Roman Catholic.’ She turned to Lady Fenton. ‘What was his name, Eleanor? I’ve been racking my brains trying to recall it.’
The older woman’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Dela”—no—” du” something—or “Des” something…..?’
‘Doubly!’ cried Fenton, in sudden excitement. ‘His name was “Doubly”. You remember, Will—we used to call him “Bubbly Doubly”—after we saw him sobbing away behind the church, that time?’
‘You may have called him that,’ said Maitland shortly, still intent upon scrutinising the lawyer’s scribbled testimony. ‘I remember him only as monsieur. Doubly doesn’t sound very French to me—more likely to have been “D’Arblay” or “de Blaise”.
‘Yes, I remember now!’ cried Mrs Maitland, clapping her hands. ‘D’Arblay! Étienne D’Arblay—I’m sure that was it! Oh, Eleanor! Do you think he could have been there, too—with Melandra?’
There was a heavy silence for a few moments as the two ladies stared at one another, each of them considering the implications of this possibility.
‘Doesn’t look like it.’ Maitland shook his head and indicated some more information he had managed to decipher. ‘Apparently, the nun told Uncle Roger that Melandra had extracted a promise from them that her child would be given its dead father’s name, but when they asked him—Uncle Roger, that is—what he wanted them to do, he informed them that he had no further interest in the matter and that they must place the child in a foundling home—he gave them money with which to give Melandra a decent burial, then he left.’
‘And he never breathed a word to any one of us—not even Jane,’ said Marion Maitland, in wonder. ‘He must have known she would have wanted to keep Melandra’s child!’
‘No wonder he was so distressed at the end! To have carried this burden all these years!’ Billingham’s sister turned her eyes, now wet with tears, towards her son. ‘You must find the boy, Jeremy—Roger was right—a dreadful wrong has been committed! The money is no longer important!’
Fenton raised his eyebrows. ‘I regret to say that the money is very important, Mama,’ he said witheringly. ‘Most of my creditors have held out for so long only because they have been under the assumption that Maitland and I would soon be sharing Uncle Roger’s estate between us—and I’m afraid that I have done little to discourage their belief. This recent development has dropped me right in the suds. I don’t have a year to wait for my full share—I shall likely be in Marshalsea by the end of the month if I can’t lay my hands on some serious blunt so, quite frankly, the sooner we can find this boy—or prove him dead—the quicker I shall be able to climb out of the basket!’
Maitland looked sharply at his cousin, his well-formed features full of concern.
‘Perhaps you would allow me to help you out, Jerry,’ he offered almost diffidently. ‘I dare say I could manage to cover some of your most pressing debts—you can’t owe so much, surely?’
‘Enough to make a very large hole in any fourth part I might receive, old man,’ said Fenton, smiling faintly as Maitland issued a soundless whistle. ‘With the best will in the world, I doubt you could even buy up my vowels—but I’m obliged for the offer. I shall just have to put my faith in your ability to hunt down our quarry—to which end you seem to be progressing pretty well!’
‘Good of you to say so, coz,’ laughed Maitland, clapping him affectionately on the back. ‘Although I don’t care much for your terminology—the lad we’re seeking is our young cousin, remember, not a wily old fox!’
‘Well, let’s hope he’ll appreciate the sacrifices we’re making for him,’ returned Fenton drily and, turning to Hornsey, he asked, ‘No chance of an advance, I suppose?’
The lawyer pursed his lips. ‘I can probably arrange something of that nature by next week, sir,’ he said. ‘Your expenses will be met, of course, but I would first like to be assured that some progress has been made.’
‘Perfectly in order.’ Maitland smiled in agreement, then he frowned as he caught the muted oath that escaped Fenton’s lips. ‘Come now, Jerry—Uncle Roger told you that you’d have to earn your share. That’s only fair, surely? Certainly, the fresh air won’t do you any harm and a few days in the country will keep you out of those gaming hells you seem to spend your life in. I would have said that a repairing lease might be just what you need at the moment!’
Jeremy Fenton eyed the younger man truculently for a moment or two then, with a slight lift of his shoulders, he reached out to grasp his cousin’s outstretched hand and shook it firmly. ‘I’d almost forgotten what a good-natured fellow you are, Will,’ he said, with an awkward grin. ‘I swear I’m looking forward to spending some time with you again, after all these years!’
Chapter Two
Four days later, having agreed that he would meet up with his cousin at the Dun Cow at Dunchurch, Will Maitland headed north from his home in Buckinghamshire and made for Dunstable, from where the newly metalled Watling Street would take him into Northamptonshire and eventually on to join up with the Coventry turnpike. He had sent his bags on ahead of him and had every intention of making quite a leisurely journey of it, since he reckoned that it would take him something in the region of six hours to accomplish the distance, including a couple of halts for refreshment and to water Pegasus, his chestnut stallion.
The summer day was fine and fair, with sufficient breeze to make a steady canter enjoyable and, to begin with, having set out at such an early hour, he had the road much to himself, skirting past the occasional rosy-cheeked milkmaid as she dreamily followed her charges from their field to the milking-shed, and exchanging smiling greetings with the farmers’ wives he encountered driving their laden gigs to the local marketplaces.
The morning wore on and the volume of oncoming traffic increased and, having more than once been forced to hug the hedge as a lumbering stagecoach bore down upon him, he judged the moment suitable to make his first stop, choosing a pretty little wayside inn just outside the village
