Property of a Lady(85)

20th November


It’s becoming known, by gradual stages, that the police have questioned William Lee, and that he has said a burglar entered the house and resisted Lee’s attempts to throw him out. His wife came to his assistance, and in the scuffle the intruder lashed out at her, landing a blow which sent her tumbling down the stairs to her death. Lee is known to be distraught at his loss and is seeing no callers.

Everyone in Marston Lacy is quivering with sympathy and a ghoulish curiosity. There is genuine concern for the child. I have concern as well, but I am ashamed to write that alongside the concern is a selfish anxiety. Did she recognize me when we stared at one another on the landing? She cannot have done – as far as I know she has never seen me before.

But if she sees me in the village at any time, will she remember who I am?





21st November


The police have asked everyone in the village if a stranger has been seen in the area. Clearly, they are taking William Lee’s statement of a burglar seriously. I was in the Black Boar last evening, and the four-ale bar was alight with speculation. The village constable, seated morosely in a corner with his notebook and modest glass of cider, made notes of everything that was said, and as the evening wore on it began to seem that three-quarters of Marston Lacy had seen a sinister stranger on the very day of Elizabeth’s murder. A shifty fellow he was, they said, egging each other on. Wall-eyed and low-browed. He shambled through the main street, muttering and cursing to himself, opening and closing his hands as if looking for a victim to throttle. This last was hastily corrected to ‘looking for a victim to push down the stairs’. By closing time, the stranger’s appearance had attained the grotesque proportions of the deformed bell-ringer of Notre Dame and was possessed of much the same attributes and lusts as R.L. Stevenson’s Mr Edward Hyde.

I contributed my own mite by a vague half-memory of having noticed a tall, thin man wearing a trailing coat and worn boots walking through the village at dusk. I did not embellish this thumbnail sketch – I have always found far more notice is taken of a brief, unemphatic statement than of the hyperbole of the ale-flown.

It may be the beer I drank tonight, but I am starting to feel safer. There have been no police enquiries at my door, and I am daring to believe that either Elvira Lee was unable to give the police any useful information – or that her father has not allowed her to be questioned by them.

They have been glimpsed briefly in the area, sad figures in their black clothes, the child holding tightly to Lee’s hand.





23rd November


A difficulty now presents itself. The clock commissioned by William Lee is finished, and I cannot decide what I should do about it. But I am loath to lose 150 gns, and the clock was made to a specific and approved design, so it may be months before I find another buyer for it. The cost of the materials was quite high – rosewood is expensive, and the blue enamel for the face was specially cut.

I have drafted a letter to Lee that is partly-condolence, partly-business . . .

My dear Mr Lee,



Permit me to offer my deepest sympathy on the tragic death of your wife, and to condole with you on the terrible circumstances surrounding it. I had never met Mrs Lee, but had seen her occasionally from a distance and believe her to have been a gracious and lovely lady, well-respected in these parts.



I am in something of a quandary, since the long-case clock you were so kind as to commission from my workshop is now complete – indeed, has been so for some three weeks now. If acceptable, I could arrange for its delivery to Mallow House in the next few days. I would be most grateful if you would let me know if that is a suitable arrangement.



Believe me, sir, your very humble servant,



Very sincerely,



Brooke Crutchley



Master Clockmaker



I have posted the letter and await a reply.





24th November


The reply has come already.

My dear Crutchley



I am in receipt of your letter and thank you for your kind sentiments and condolences.



You will appreciate, I am sure, that in the present circumstances I had forgotten the commission for the clock. However, I am aware you will have expended considerable time and cost in its making, so would be happy if it could be delivered here any time on Thursday. A note of your account will oblige.



Yours etc.,



Wm. Lee



I have decided to accompany the clock when it is taken to Mallow. It’s risky, but it is my custom to do so with all new clocks. On this occasion it will resolve in my mind whether or not Elvira recognizes me. I cannot continue in this dreadful state of unknowing.

I believe I shall destroy those books that set out spells and enchantments. They seem to me to represent a period of my life when I was not sane. Do I believe in them any longer, I wonder? I don’t want to. And yet I cannot forget how the locks clicked open before the Hand of Glory that night, and how both Elizabeth and William seemed to sleep so deeply and only woke when I snuffed the light . . .





TWENTY-SEVEN





26th November


I have spent the night in tumult. I have no idea what to do, but I have finally been able to come down here, and I hope that setting down the events of the last twenty-four hours may serve to calm my mind.