Kedleston

The cloak settled what Judith Pike’s account had tried to obscure.

Whatever had happened beside the river, it had not been the accident Judith described; the river’s direction exposed that lie. Catherine had gone beyond Duffield Bridge, and Judith had helped the family believe her dead.

Kate read over the accounts once more, but they could tell her nothing about the questions that now troubled her. Catherine had escaped punishment. What had she stolen, and why was it worth faking her death for? What had happened that night at Kedleston?

She wrote to the estate, identifying herself as a schoolmistress and a distant relation of one of the performers who had appeared there in 1777. She asked whether she might see the Hall and learn anything still remembered of that evening. Her letter made no mention of the cloak, the false drowning or Judith Pike.

The reply came a few weeks later, granting her permission to visit.

The morning she chose was fine but cold, with the first suggestion of autumn in the trees. The road from Derby carried her through open country before turning towards the estate. For some distance the house remained hidden. Then the trees broke, and Kedleston Hall appeared at the end of the drive.

It seemed less like a house than the front of some ancient temple set down in Derbyshire. Columns rose above the steps of the central block, with curving passages stretching away on either side towards separate pavilions. Everything appeared balanced, deliberate and complete.

Kate looked at it and wondered how easily a woman could disappear inside.

The servant who answered the door read her letter of permission and left her waiting in a small entrance chamber. After several minutes, an elderly woman in a dark grey dress came to receive her. She introduced herself as Mrs Henshaw, the housekeeper at Kedleston.

Mrs Henshaw’s manner was neither friendly nor unkind. She had the practised reserve of someone accustomed to visitors who mistook curiosity for entitlement.

“You wished to see the house?”

“And to ask about a performance held here many years ago. One of the performers was related to my grandmother.”

“Were they close?”

“I don’t believe so. My grandmother wrote of her once, but not enough to explain what became of her.”

Mrs Henshaw studied her for a moment.

“What was the lady’s name?”

“Catherine Bell.”

The housekeeper’s expression changed, though Kate could not have said whether it was surprise or recognition.

“I see.”

“You have heard of her?”

“It is not a name I have heard in many years. But yes, I have heard of her. I was a maid here when it happened.”

“Then you remember the performance?”

“Not the performance. I was too young to be serving above stairs at that hour.” Mrs Henshaw folded Kate’s letter once, pressing the crease with her thumb. “I remember the next morning. Little else was spoken of for weeks, either upstairs or below.”

“What was said?”

“That the woman had taken a Curzon heirloom from Mr Curzon’s apartments and run from the house. Another of the performers followed her, and said she had drowned in the river.”

“Was the heirloom ever recovered?”

Mrs Henshaw returned the letter instead of answering.

“The family are not at home at present. You may see the principal rooms.”

They entered the great Hall from one side. Kate had seen large rooms before, though never one that seemed to have been built chiefly to demonstrate how small a person might feel inside it. Pale marble covered the floor. Columns of rose-coloured stone stood beneath a high ceiling. Statues occupied the walls as though they had been waiting there long before the Curzons arrived. The housekeeper recited the dates of the rebuilding, the succession of architects from Brettingham to Paine and Adam, and the Roman ideals behind the Hall’s design; Kate retained little beyond the names.

“The entertainment was held here that evening,” Mrs Henshaw said.

“Catherine’s performance?”

“There were songs, instrumental pieces and dramatic scenes. The first Lord Scarsdale entertained frequently, a practice continued by his son.”

“Do you know where the performers stood?”

“At the far end. Screens were put up behind them, and the company were given other rooms in which to change.”

Mrs Henshaw gestured towards the southern end of the Hall.

Over the next half-hour Mrs Henshaw showed her the Saloon beneath its dome, the Library with its dark shelves, the Music Room, the Dining Room and the State Bedroom. Some doors stood open and some did not. More than once they returned by a way Kate had not noticed on entering.

Eventually, they returned to the Hall, where they stopped before the portrait of an old man. His hair had thinned and whitened, but his posture remained upright and his expression severe, with his hands clasped in his lap.

“The late Lord Scarsdale,” Mrs Henshaw said.

“Nathaniel Curzon?”

She nodded. “In 1777 he was the Honourable Nathaniel Curzon, one of the members for Derbyshire. His father held the title until his death in 1804.”

Kate looked at the name painted upon the frame.

Nathaniel Curzon, Second Baron Scarsdale, 1751–1837

“He died last year.”

“Yes. His son, also called Nathaniel, inherited his lands and title.”

The young man in the newspaper account had become this. He had married, inherited the estate and grown old within the same walls. Catherine had remained twenty-five, disgraced and drowned.

“The heirloom was his?”

“It belonged to the family. It was kept in his private rooms.”

“And Catherine was known to have stolen it?”

“She disappeared during the interval. The ornament was gone. She had fled, and died, before she could be questioned.”

Before Kate could ask more, a tall, thin man carrying several books beneath one arm entered the Hall.

“Mr Wainwright,” Mrs Henshaw said, waving him over. “Miss Bell here is enquiring about the entertainment of 1777.”

“Which entertainment would that be?”

“The one concerning the Curzon heirloom theft.”

“Ah.”

“Mr Wainwright here assists with the family papers,” she explained to Kate.

“Assists is generous,” he said. “I prevent them from being eaten by damp and silverfish. The papers otherwise do largely as they please.”

He was perhaps forty, with ink stains across two fingers.

“Do any records of the performance survive?” Kate asked. “A programme, perhaps?”

“Oh yes, I’m sure of it. There are boxes of musical bills and invitations from all the events over the years. The steward also made some notes after the affair, though I cannot promise they will tell you what you wish to know.”

Mrs Henshaw regarded him with a warning look.

“Miss Bell may read whatever properly concerns the performance.”

“Of course.”

The housekeeper left them, heading towards the staircase. Mr Wainwright led Kate into the Library before setting his books on the table.

“Mrs Henshaw has served this family for most of her life,” he said.

“And yourself?”

“Oh goodness me, no. I’ve only been in the employ of the family for the last eighteen months. Local history is an interest of mine, so I know most of the stories about Kedleston.”

He opened a cabinet and searched through a stack of folded papers. Concerts, dinners and amateur theatricals passed through his hands, some printed on fine card and others on paper browned at the edges.

At last he drew out a single folded sheet.

“Here.”

The heading read:

AN EVENING OF MUSIC AND RECITATION

KEDLESTON HALL

17 AUGUST 1777

Kate ran her finger down the programme. Catherine’s name appeared four times. Judith Pike was listed both as a performer and as the person responsible for the arrangements.

Near the bottom of the first part appeared:

THE LINNET’S COMPLAINT

Sung by Miss Catherine Bell

Beneath it, a line marked the interval.

The second part began:

MINUET IN D FOR TWO VIOLINS

Performed by Mr Hart and Mr Ellis

It was followed by:

THE SHEPHERDESS’S FAREWELL

Sung by Miss Catherine Bell

A note in faded ink had been written beside Catherine’s name.

Piece omitted.

“She was set to perform after the violins, but did not appear,” Kate said.

Mr Wainwright nodded and returned to the cabinet. After a search, he removed a narrower bundle tied with black thread. He looked through it briefly, then handed the bundle to Kate.

“These are not witness statements in any legal sense. The steward appears to have written down whatever the family solicitor thought useful. Some are in the witnesses’ own hands. Others are summaries.”

The first account was signed by Nathaniel Curzon.

I withdrew to my apartments shortly before the second part of the entertainment. During the Minuet I found the case for the Curzon family brooch standing open, and the brooch itself gone. It had been present when I had left the apartments to attend the event at the start of the evening.

On returning to the Hall I informed the staff of the theft. It soon became apparent that the performer scheduled to follow the Minuet had left the house without explanation.

The writing was controlled and even.

“He did not name her immediately?” Kate asked.

“Not in this account.”

Mr Wainwright passed her another sheet. This one was a summary made by the steward rather than a signed account.

William Cooper, footman, stationed in the Hall at the northwest doorway, observed Miss Bell in the Dining Room shortly before the company was called to resume. She appeared agitated. During the violin performance, Mr Curzon passed through the doorway, crossed the Hall and entered the Music Room. No other person passed through it before the theft was announced.

Kate read the passage twice.

“Why was Catherine in the Dining Room?”

“No one seems to have asked her.”

The next sheet was written in a cramped hand and signed Ellen Greaves.

I was assigned to attend to the performers and had been with them from their arrival until the interval. After Miss Bell completed The Linnet’s Complaint, I accompanied her with the other ladies back to the room set aside for dressing. She complained that the air was close but seemed otherwise composed. Some minutes into the interval she left us by the inner door and passed into the State Bedroom. I believed she wished to be alone and did not follow.

“She went into one of the family’s state rooms?”

“It was not quite as improper as it sounds. The state rooms were often used for changing when entertainments were held at Kedleston.”

Kate continued reading the accounts that Mr Wainwright handed to her.

Sir George Statham recalled speaking with the Honourable Nathaniel Curzon in the Saloon during the final moments of The Linnet’s Complaint. Mr Curzon remained only briefly. Sir George afterwards saw him cross the Hall to the Dining Room but paid no attention to where he went thereafter. Sir George remained in the Saloon until the steward later summoned him for his recollections. He stated that the violinists were the only performers he had seen in the Saloon during the interval.

Mr Wainwright drew out one final statement.

Robert Nash, servant to the Honourable Nathaniel Curzon, reported that his master entered the family apartments alone as the Minuet began. Mr Curzon appeared disturbed and instructed Nash that he was not to be interrupted. He emerged before The Shepherdess’s Farewell was announced and ordered that the steward attend him.

She looked again at the programme. The evidence did not form a story so much as a handful of rooms, each occupied for a moment and then abandoned.

“Is this everything?”

“Everything kept with the steward’s memorandum.”

Before Kate could ask what that qualification meant, an elderly man appeared in the Library doorway. His coat hung loosely across his shoulders and he held his cap in both hands.

“Mr Wainwright, Mrs Henshaw said the kitchen account was ready.”

“It is on my desk, Pym.”

The old man glanced at Kate, then at the papers spread before her.

“What’s all this? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

“Miss Bell is a guest at Kedleston today, enquiring about one of the events held here,” answered Mr Wainwright.

Pym looked closer at the papers on the desk. “Bell? Any relation?”

“Catherine was my grandmother’s cousin,” Kate replied.

Pym looked at Kate with renewed interest.

“I was here that night. Kitchen boy, they called me, though I did whatever work they were short of hands for.”

“You still do,” Mr Wainwright said with a smile. Pym ignored him.

“You remember the performance?” Kate asked.

“Not much of the music. I remember the running about.”

Pym turned the cap slowly between his hands, worrying the worn brim with one thumb.

“One of the footmen was taken ill,” he continued. “I carried wine upstairs during the interval.”

A maid appeared at the door and said Mrs Henshaw required Mr Wainwright in the steward’s office. There was some disagreement over a delivery account.

He asked Pym to remain with Kate until he returned.

Pym watched him go, then turned to Kate.

“Heard all sorts of gossip that night,” he said. “Folk never noticed us kitchen boys unless they wanted something carried.”

“I can imagine,” Kate said. “What sort of things did you hear?”

Pym’s brow furrowed as he tried to recall.

“I saw one gentleman in a fancy outfit getting too familiar with a maid behind one of the screens. Then there was Mr Curzon. I was fetching a bottle of wine from the Dining Room and heard him arguing with someone behind the door. Only caught a few words. ‘You must return it,’ he said. ‘Now that I am wed.’ All the house had been talking of the wedding that week, so that stayed with me. Then, while everyone was waiting for the violins to begin, Sir George told a lady that the wine tasted as though it had been watered down. I know it wasn’t, though. I would have been the one told to do it, only I hadn’t, and—”

“Did you tell the steward any of this?”

“No one asked me about voices. They wanted to know if I’d seen the woman. I told them I’d seen her in the Hall singing. Got a cuff behind the ear for that one, heh.”

Mrs Henshaw appeared behind him.

“Mr Pym, the kitchen account has been waiting for nearly a quarter of an hour.”

“It will wait a quarter more.”

“It will not.”

Pym touched his cap to Kate and left.

“I hope he has not been filling your head with old servants’ tales,” the housekeeper said.

“He had some colourful gossip,” Kate said.

“John Pym has spent much of his old age remembering things no one else can confirm. Now, if you have finished with the papers, I will show you the remaining rooms.”

By the time they returned to the Hall, afternoon light had begun to fade from the high windows.

Near Nathaniel’s portrait, Kate stopped.

“Mrs Henshaw, did he ever speak of Catherine afterwards?”

The housekeeper looked at her quizzically. “Why would he? The matter resolved itself.”

“Everyone was sure Catherine was responsible?”

“That was never doubted.”

“Not even by you?”

Mrs Henshaw’s gaze moved to the portrait.

“I was twelve years old. I woke the next morning to a house in uproar; everyone was saying that a thief had fled in the night. Are you suggesting otherwise?”

“Not at all. I am merely trying to understand what happened.”

Kate thanked her for the tour.

Outside, her hired carriage had not yet been brought from the stable yard, so she waited beneath the portico with her notebook in her lap.

She read the programme again, then the notes she had made from Wainwright’s papers. She had copied every observation, but the accounts refused to join together. Before long, the carriage appeared at the far end of the drive.

Behind Kate, the door opened.

Mr Wainwright hurried down the steps without his coat, carrying a single folded page.

“Miss Bell! I am glad you have not yet gone.”

“What is it?”

“Pym returned the kitchen account a little while ago. When I put it away, I thought to look through the older household books. I found this among those from 1777. It mentions Catherine.”

The note was written in another hand and signed with a mark beneath the name Mary Glover.

Miss Bell came through the kitchen alone and in great distress. I asked her if she needed water, but I do not think she heard me as the violins had just started. She left by the service door in a hurry.

Kate held it a moment longer before folding the note and returning it.

“Thank you, Mr Wainwright. You have been most helpful.”

He gave her a slight bow, then returned inside.

The rooms Kate had seen that afternoon came back to her, no longer as a procession of paintings and furniture but as an arrangement of doors.

By the time the carriage reached the steps, Kate understood why the old story had never required a confession. Catherine’s flight had done the work of one.

She climbed inside and looked back at Kedleston Hall, symmetrical and serene, every window in its appointed place.

Its story was not so orderly.