That evening, when Hadstock paid his routine visit and had said his piece, Linda mentioned Matt Ashpole’s visit and its reason. ‘It really is dreadfully hard for them, and I do feel sorry; but of course there is nothing I can do. I can write, of course, but I can’t alter something that has been done legally.’
‘No. All progress has to be made over somebody’s dead body,’ Hadstock said.
They won’t all die, surely?’
‘No, no, of course not. Don’t look so horrified,’ said Hadstock, adding, just too late, ‘my lady.’ ‘I only meant,’ he went on, ‘that all change hurts somebody.’
‘You do think that enclosure is progress?’
‘Beyond all doubt. The open-field system was the right, the only one when men, even while they worked, had to be ready to beat off their enemies, human or … well, wolves, for example. Once these times were past it became
a clog, preventing improvement, chaining the best man to the pace of the slowest. Enclosure was bound to come and was bound to hurt somebody; but they’ll adjust themselves—the Waste-dwellers, I mean—and in the end—not yet, but eventually—more produce per acre will make food more plentiful, and cheaper, and the poor will benefit by that.’
‘And that will be a good thing. I speak feelingly,’ she explained, ‘because I know what it is to be poor. Enclosure was partly to blame for that. My father was a clergyman, quite unbelievably unworldly, so he took no care of his rights, and when Didsborough was enclosed he lost almost all his tithe and received nothing in exchange. So we were poor, but we were a very happy family.’ Her voice, though she did not know it, took on a wistful, nostalgic note.
‘I’m glad of that. I mean, my lady, that a happy childhood is a wonderful, enviable thing; something that—if you don’t have it—nothing that comes later can make up for it. I missed it…” ‘Were you poor?’
He laughed, briefly, harshly. ‘No; quite the reverse, in fact.’ He looked her in the face and seemed to make a sudden decision. ‘Not to put too fine a point upon it, my lady, my father, like many others of his kind, was scrupulously careful to provide for his illegitimate children, of whom he had a great many.’
‘Oh, Hadstock,’ she said, using the surname in such a warm, intimate way that it might well have been a term of affection. ‘I am sorry I asked. At least, I mean only that I am sorry if it made you tell me something you would rather not. Though really, if you look at it sensibly, it doesn’t … doesn’t make any difference; not really, does it?’
‘It depends who does the looking,’ he said bitterly. ‘They don’t think, these fine gentlemen in search of an hour’s diversion; or if they think, they believe their poisonous money can make amends for everything. Bring the brat up in luxury, send it to school, make it an allowance—what more can be expected? All perfectly
honourable. The stigma falls on the poor wretch who didn’t ask to be born, should never have been born, or, being born, should be drowned at birth.’
‘Oh, Hadstock, no. Don’t say that. Surely life … to be alive …’ Embarrassment at the situation which her simple question had brought about, and a desire to comfort the man, banished all discretion. ‘If you weren’t alive,’ she said, ‘I should miss you very much. You’ve no idea how much I rely … and that reminds me of something I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time. You’re so knowledgeable; can you tell me what there could possibly be in a locked trunk that could frighten a dog?’
The sudden change of subject seemed to leave Hadstock at a loss for a moment. Then he said, ‘Do you mean Simon, my lady?’
‘I mean Simon, and the trunk belongs to Mr Mundford; it contains things he wanted to store here.’ She told him about the morning when Simon had entered the spare room and how he behaved. ‘That night,’ she said, ‘I locked the door. But now every night when we go past— he sleeps in my room, you know—he behaves strangely. Sometimes he scratches at the door and sometimes he slinks past it as if he were frightened. And I … well, I know it sounds silly … just a locked trunk—that is, two … but at night, alone in this part of the house … it gives me a creepy feeling. There’s a strange smell, too, even though we opened the window; it doesn’t go away. I think it comes from the trunk.’
‘You’re not suggesting…’
‘Dead bodies?’ She laughed rather uncertainly. ‘Oh no. Though I believe Annie and Polly did start up some tales—Annie was there that morning when Simon … No, this is a strange smell, but not altogether unpleasant.’
‘Do you mind if I go into the room and see, and smell? I’ll take the dog. Here, Simon, come along.’
The dog raised his head and pricked his ears at the sound of his name but did not move from Linda’s side.
‘I will come too,’ she said, adding as they went from the room, ‘This is going to present a problem, I’m afraid,
when the time comes for him to go home with you. But perhaps that won’t be necessary, after all.’ Richard’s moods were less virulent nowadays, she thought, and also there was a difference between this large, strong, potentially fierce dog and a small fawning spaniel; even Richard would see that. That Simon was capable of ferocity she had proved several times, and that made his behaviour with regard to the trunk more remarkable and disconcerting.
As often before, Simon ran down the corridor and scratched at the door, growling in his throat as though some enemy were within the room; but when Linda turned the key and opened the door he did not attempt to enter with them but hung back, ceased growling, and took on a cowed air again.
Hadstock sniffed. Then he said, in a relieved voice:
‘Why, it’s incense; that’s all.’
‘Then how silly of me not to recognise it. Some churches.,.’
‘This, I should say, is particularly strong and pure— the best, and very expensive. And if I may hazard a guess, I should say that Mr Mundford has impregnated some clothes with it as a deterrent to moths.’
‘And why should Simon …?’
Hadstock hesitated for a moment.
‘It sounds a long guess, but it is feasible. Race memory. Where his parents come from all churches smell of incense; and dogs are not allowed in church—are, in fact, kept out with shouts and blows. So a devoted dog, once a week, sees his master disappear into a place where he is not allowed; consequently he hates the place and the very smell of it. After many generations such a prejudice may be inborn and qualify to be called instinct.’
‘I suppose it could. That is the only explanation, isn’t it? Oh, thank you, Hadstock; you have relieved my mind.’
‘What were you imagining?’ Hadstock asked curiously. ‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘Something… well, evil, in some obscure way. Actually, to be honest, I never feel very comfortable in Mr Mundford’s presence.’
‘That may be prejudice too. All those old stories are bound to create an impression.’
‘What old stories? I never heard any in connection with Mr Mundford. Did you?’
‘Oh, nothing specific. Just a generally bad reputation.’ ‘In what way?’
‘The usual way,’ Hadstock said. ‘Shall we lock this door again—for Simon’s peace of mind?’
‘If your theory is correct, the locked door and the scent within will only increase his prejudice.’ ‘Clever as he is, will he know that the door is locked?’ ‘For my peace of mind then, yes, please lock it.’ When they reached the spot where Simon was lurking Hadstock put out a hand and gave him a friendly clout.
‘I’m ashamed of you,’ he said, ‘and so are all your ancestors.’
‘But they,’ Linda said, ‘are to blame for his behaviour —again if your theory is correct.’
Hadstock laughed. But as he followed her and the dog downstairs he said, serious again:
‘If you feel nervous at night why don’t you have some servants in this part of the house?’
‘It would be so silly,’ she said. ‘Servants are so very nervous themselves, it would never do to allow them to suspect that I was nervous too. Besides, at the moment, on account of the alterations, there are only three rooms— Mr Mundford’s, Sir Richard’s and mine—in use in this part of the house.’ ‘I see.’
They came to a standstill at the foot of the stairs. Then Hadstock said, staring about as though taking his bearings:
‘If your room is beyond the one we’ve just inspected, it shouldn’t be too far from the stableyard.’
‘It isn’t. One of my windows looks on to the yard.’