06| False or True?

Want of money and the distress of a thief can never be alleged as the cause of his thieving, for many honest people endure greater hardships with fortitude.
We must therefore seek the cause elsewhere than in want of money, for that is the miser's passion, not the thief's.
(
William Blake)


John Thornton was worried.

Not for himself, of course, but for Margaret and her recent passion for proving herself above reproach. And because of this he knew that getting caught up in yet another scandal—and the affair of the Moonstone might well turn out to be one—would bother her greatly, leaving her to wonder, once again, how it might reflect on their future life in Milton.

It was still early in the morning and the sun hadn't yet risen. But, from a lifetime of getting up at the crack of dawn, he had woken at an annoyingly early hour. He would meet Margaret only before noon, and until then there were hours and hours of time to fill. Still in shirtsleeves he went to the washstand, then stood undecided in front of the looking glass, gazing at his own reflection...

John wished he was better at putting Margaret's mind at rest—but he knew Milton gossip for what it was; relentless on those it had no reason to be charitable with. And thus far Margaret Hale had given Milton society little cause to appreciate her goodness. On the outside she appeared all proud and haughty—and just like the appearance of loss of honour meant an actual loss of honour, the appearance of pride was taken at face value.

For Milton society she was bound to be a conceited southener; a new heiress, giving everybody to understand that she considered herself above them—and, for the time being, they would like nothing better than take her down a peg or two.

He picked up his cravat from the backrest of the nearby chair, put it round his neck, and began to tie it.

At first he hadn't seen Margaret's wisdom in postponing their wedding, but since then he had had ample opportunity to acknowledge it; at those times when his fellow mill masters greeted him with a coarse jibe about his dalliance with his landlord; or when, once again, someone brought up her forward behaviour at the riot. Even the incident of her having been seen with a man late at night at Outwood station the year before had cropped up again. Fortunately, her connection with the dead man found at the embankment on the following day had escaped their scrutiny... Unlike his own peers, Inspector Mason could be trusted to keep his mouth shut.

Another point in case had been that his own mother had finally seen the light; and ironically it had been due to Margaret's refusal to marry him on the spot. For the first time Hannah Thornton had given 'that renegade clergyman's daughter' credit for showing common sense. In fact, in some small measure, it had been his mother's rebuke that had seen to his speedy departure to London in order to apologise. And, of course, there had been the matter of the engagement ring...

"Drat!" Picking up his hairbrush he had knocked over a porcelain pot of toothpaste, causing it to fall on the floor and break into pieces, thus leaving a blob of white paste on the wooden floorboards. He crouched down and carefully removed the shards and the worst of the paste with an old newspaper, then threw it away.

Well, at least this meant one task for the morning sorted out; he would have to pay a visit to the chemist, to procure some toothpaste.

He shrugged into his waistcoat, took his frock coat, and went downstairs for breakfast and a choice of morning papers to keep him busy until the shops opened.

No matter how much he lingered over breakfast, he still arrived early in front of the pharmacy. It was not yet open for another few minutes. Walking up and down the street and looking abstractedly at the displays in various shop windows, he became aware that a middle-aged woman rapidly approached the chemist's door and started to knock at it, calling out, "Mr Jennings, open up, please... Mr Jennings! Dr Candy is ill!"

Remembering the name as belonging to the elderly doctor with the unfortunate conversational skills he had met at Miss Verinder's birthday party, Thornton drew nearer.

At that moment the door opened and a youngish man with sparse hair and thick glasses peeked out. "What's the matter, Mrs Simms?"

"The doctor has been taken ill... At first I wasn't much worried; it seemed but a cold, but now the fever has risen and..." She disappeared through the door.

Seeing it stand open, Thornton followed inside and remained standing at a discreet distance.

"... he's rambling!" the woman exclaimed as he entered. "Keeps going on about laudanum, and that he has made someone sleep... 'This will teach him', he keeps repeating."

"I shall come directly, Mrs Simms, as soon as I've attended to this gentleman—" The apothecary nodded in the direction of the door where Thornton was standing. "—and collected my bag of medicines. You go ahead—"

"And haven't I told him?" Mrs Simms grumbled. "Haven't I said that it was madness to ride all the way to Lady Verinder's in an open gig and only wearing his evening frock coat? But would he listen to me?—not him! But then, I'm only his housekeeper... Doctors!" Shaking her head she left the shop.

"Now, what can I do for you, sir?" the apothecary asked.

"A pot of Breidenbach's White Rose toothpaste, please."

"Not many gentlemen ask for this," Mr Jennings remarked, as he rummaged through a shelf containing stacks of small white porcelain pots. "Most seem to prefer areca nut these days—"

Thornton just shrugged; after all, there was no accounting for tastes. "I am sorry to hear that Dr Candy is ill," he said instead. "I met him the other night at Lady Verinder's dinner party. I hope he will soon be better."

"The doctor keeps forgetting that he is not as young as he used to be... But where's the doctor when it comes to curing a doctor? In such cases it's all up to me, a mere apothecary," he muttered. "Mind, even if I say so myself, I'm... Ha! There it is!" He triumphantly held up a pot. "I knew I had at least one in stock... That's sixpence, sir." He quickly wrapped the pot in a sheet of brown paper. "And now I'll better be off—"

Following his customer to the door, Mr Jennings turned the sign to 'closed', and then quickly left in the direction whence Mrs Simms had come only minutes before.


"Lady Verinder's coachman should think about establishing a regular service running into Frizinghall," Margaret remarked as they watched the coach pull away from the kerb in the direction of the station.

"Why is this?" John asked, mystified. "But before you answer... Hello to you, my darling." He raised her—as usual gloveless—hand to his lips, gazing into her eyes as he did so.

Alas, it lasted for all but a moment, and yet he cherished the feeling of her small trim hand in his, the scent of her skin, and the touch of it against his lips. It was but a poor substitute for kissing those full luscious lips, and yet it was a pleasure snatched from the confines of propriety, and it made the real thing—whenever they had a chance—all the sweeter.

"Hello to you, too, John," she replied softly, her eyes dancing.

They lingered over looking at each other, until John, suddenly aware again that they were in public, cleared his throat and said, "How about luncheon at the tearoom?"

"I'd like that very much—"

Offering his arm, he led her the short distance along high street, between the hotel entrance and the tearoom. "So, what about that coachman?" John asked as they walked.

"Oh... it's just that he's on his way to pick up the police inspector from London, then—in the afternoon—he'll take Mr Ablewhite and his sisters to the station..."

"Are they leaving already?... Wouldn't it be customary to stay until after Twelfth Night?"

"I was a little surprised, too, but apparently Mr Ablewhite has received a request for making speeches at a couple of London charities during the next few days; and with many more meetings scheduled in the new year, he said he didn't have the time to return and accompany his sisters back to London at a later date." Privately, Margaret thought that recent events had cast such a pall over their holidays that the Ablewhites were probably not unhappy to have reason to leave.

Picking up her earlier train of thought, she said, "And I shall return to Lady Verinder's with that same coach. And then, tonight, you'll be fetched for dinner..."

"... and taken back to Frizinghall at the conclusion of it," John finished. "I agree. The coachman does have his work cut out today... Well, here we are." They had arrived in front of the tearoom.

They were just about to enter when a placard on a nearby wall drew his attention, announcing a lecture on the phenomenon of hypnotism at the Leeds School of Medicine two days hence. He pointed it out to Margaret.

"I attended a lecture by this Dr Braid some weeks ago when he gave a demonstration at the Milton Lyceum Hall. Dr Donaldson convinced me to join him, and it was quite fascinating."

"Isn't that the same as mentalism?" Margaret asked dismissively. "Edith told me about a show she had seen in spring, where the hypnotist made people do the strangest things on stage, and without them being aware of it at the time... I thought it sounded rather upsetting."

"Apparently, hypnotism is an actual therapy, and Dr Braid has been known to retrieve lost parts of people's memories by it... but, the way I understand it, it's not a precise science, and doesn't always work." He smiled at her. "And it's certainly not worth freezing out here in the cold while discussing it—Let's go inside!"

They had luncheon on potted shrimps and eggs Benedict while leisurely talking about little occurrences both in London and Milton during the last few weeks they had been apart. But eventually they returned to the matter at hand; the disappearance of the Moonstone.

"I don't know what to think of Miss Verinder," Margaret admitted. "I've always found her quite intense, but now she seems out of her mind, alternately angry and devastated—and most of her strange moods are directed at Mr Blake, poor man."

"How so?"

"We sat at breakfast this morning, when she stormed into the room—her hair wasn't even done yet!—and berated him most vehemently for calling in an inspector from London. Called him a hypocrite, and then ran back to her private rooms and locked herself into her bedroom again... It's like she's beset by furies." Margaret shook her head, at a loss for an explanation of such extreme behaviour. "And I fear for her mother, Lady Verinder. I'm afraid she is ill—and, perhaps, more severely so than she wants to let on."

John didn't contradict her, remembering all too well that Margaret had lived with her ailing mother in Milton whose 'low spirits' had eventually proved fatal.

"So, what do you think of that nightshirt we found?" Margaret asked in a low voice. "Where is it, by the way?"

"I left it in my bathroom to dry during the night, and now it is stored in a bag inside my wardrobe."

"Shouldn't we hand it over to the police inspector?" Margaret asked. "It proves that he stole the diamond, doesn't it?"

"It is prove that he was in Miss Verinder's private rooms at one point within the timeframe in which the diamond disappeared," John corrected. "But—" He hesitated.

"But?"

"Stealing a diamond may not be the only reason for a man to enter a young lady's rooms in the dead of night," John said softly, raising an eyebrow.

Understanding dawned. "Oh," she said quietly, blushing.

"You said that, prior to the loss of the Moonstone, they seemed to care about each other, didn't you?"

"Well... it was obvious that Mr Blake cared for her," Margaret clarified. "She was more guarded in expressing her feelings, and they remained a little open to question for the casual bystander... Rumour has it that she refused Mr Ablewhite on the day of her birthday, however."

Thornton remained silent for a few minutes, pondering the pieces of information they had assembled thus far. Suddenly he slapped the tabletop with the flat of his hand. "It doesn't make sense!" he said vehemently. "No matter how I look at it, it doesn't make sense." His furrowed brow spoke clearly of his frustration.

"Maybe we can make sense of it together... So, tell me," she said.

He gave her a grateful smile, then he started to elaborate. "I'd say we can agree that there are two reasons why he, Blake, could have gone to her rooms. Firstly because he wanted to steal the diamond or, secondly, because of a—" He hesitated for a moment. "—a lovers' tryst."

Hearing him say the actual words—however softly spoken—made Margaret squirm.

Seeing her discomfort, he quickly continued, "Now, let's look at the first option... Why would he steal the diamond? Telling by everything I have heard so far, Blake was never under the spell of the Moonstone—he wasn't susceptible to its particular fascination—which only leaves money as a motive for theft. But his family is rich..."

"And he has an extremely generous allowance, Mrs Clack told me," Margaret supplied.

"... all of which makes money trouble unlikely... Which takes us to option number two—a rendezvous—which might either have been consensual..."

"But why would Rachel take such a risk? It's not as if they were star-crossed lovers! No-one would oppose their union in marriage—"

"... or Mr Blake was acting without the lady's encouragement."

"I imagine Miss Verinder to be the vengeful type," Margaret said. "She would be both furious and very upset in such a situation—and isn't she very much both at the moment?—therefore she would seek her revenge in no uncertain ways!" She looked at him triumphantly. "And what better way to have her revenge than accuse him of stealing a diamond worth twenty-thousand pounds?"

"But she is not trying to steer the investigation in that direction!—quite on the contrary; she is doing her level best to obstruct it!" He groaned. "It doesn't add up!... We are missing something."

"But what?"

He shrugged, helplessly. "Let's keep our eyes open during dinner tonight... maybe we'll see clearer afterwards."

"Or, perhaps, the police inspector may find out something—"

"Not if he's as useless as Seegrave," John cautioned.

"To be honest, as the case stands now I don't know if I should hope or fear for his being competent," Margaret said with a bleak smile. "But we should keep quiet about the nightshirt for the time being, until we see where this goes. General knowledge of the existence of that shirt might cause a scandal more detrimental to Miss Verinder than the loss of her diamond." She sighed. "That diamond has already caused a world of trouble, hasn't it?"


There was a knock at the door of his hotel room.

Margaret had met with the coach that would take her back to the manor and, back in his hotel room, Thornton was standing in front of the open wardrobe, contemplating his change of clothes for the evening's engagement.

"Come in," he called out, closing the wardrobe door.

It was the clerk bringing in a message. "Letter for you, sir... The gentleman asked me to wait for your reply."

With a word of thanks Thornton took the envelope, frowning at the unknown handwriting. Reading through the short missive, his frown deepened. "Tell him I will receive him," he said at last. "Show him up here to my room, please."

"Very well, sir."

The message had been by Mr Godfrey Ablewhite—telling Thornton that he was waiting in the hall with his sisters, and asking for a few minutes of private audience just between the two of them in a matter concerning recent events.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr Thornton," Mr Ablewhite said as the clerk closed the door from the outside.

"I was under the impression that you were taking the train to London today."

"I shall do so shortly... but it is not leaving before half an hour hence, and I will have my business stated long before then."

"How can I help you?"

"It is a matter of some delicacy," Ablewhite said, looking suddenly uncomfortable, "and, to be honest, I didn't know who else to approach... I believe you shall be in the vicinity for another few days yet, and dining at Lady Verinder's tonight."

Thornton merely acquiesced those facts with a nod.

"A few days ago I proposed marriage to my cousin Rachel—and she refused me." Ablewhite's bland face took on a sombre expression. "However, I bear her no ill will—she is very young, after all—and I am very fond of her, regardless... I am only telling you this to assure you that my interference in this matter is entirely disinterested." He cleared his throat. "My young cousin has been acting very strangely these last two days, and is still point-blank refusing to help with the investigation into the disappearance of her diamond. Moreover, she is showing a marked animosity towards my cousin Franklin with whom she has hitherto been on amiable terms... and, much as it pains me to say so, Blake seems to have a strange hold over my cousin Rachel." He sighed deeply. "She seems to protect him, all the while she can't bear to be in his sight—"

He and Margaret had come to much the same conclusion earlier in the day, Thornton thought. But wasn't it peculiar that a member of the family stated it so openly in front of a stranger? "Protect him from what?" he said.

"This I cannot say—"

"Cannot or will not?" Thornton asked sharply. He had a hunch that he was being manipulated by his visitor, and he didn't like the idea one bit.

"I'm afraid I don't know anything," Ablewhite assured him in a pleading voice. "All I know is that I fear for my young cousin's peace of mind... and that none of us really know Blake these days—He lived abroad these last ten or twelve years, and returned only very recently."

"And what is my part supposed to be in all this?"

"You, sir, are a magistrate... A man of reason—and of the law. All I am asking is for you to keep your eyes open, and if anything points towards my cousin Franklin's involvement into the disappearance of the Moonstone, to share your concern with Sergeant Cuff... He's the inspector from the metropolitan police who arrived from London this morning."

"Why not do so yourself?" Thornton said irritably. "Instead of asking me to spy on your relations—"

"Spy?—No-one is asking you to spy, good sir!" Ablewhite exclaimed, scandalised. "Just to keep an open mind, and to interfere if need be... And now I must bid you farewell. Thank you for your time, Mr Thornton." He bowed and quickly left the room.

Thornton kept staring at the door. "Disinterested, indeed!" he sneered. As a magistrate he had no business of getting involved in an ongoing investigation outside his own jurisdiction, and he wondered why Mr Ablewhite was so keen on having him take an active interest.

He was certain that there was some ulterior motive. The question was if said motive was anything beyond denounce Mr Blake in order to get back into Miss Verinder's good books. But why bother when, by all accounts, Mr Blake had fallen out of favour already?

He decided—if the opportunity arose—to quiz Mrs Clack about the young Mr Ablewhite in the course of the evening.


Over drinks in the library, ahead of moving on to the dining room, Margaret acquainted John with previous events at the house—and it transpired that a lot had been going on at Lady Verinder's home while the two of them had spent the day in Frizinghall.

Sergeant Cuff, upon inspecting the scene of the crime, had apparently made much fuss about the smear on the newly-painted door. Then he had interviewed the servants one-by-one, and eventually had called for another search of all the private rooms—and he had asked Lady Verinder for the gentlemen and ladies to set an example and have their rooms searched first before the servants' rooms were to be examined yet another time. Lady Verinder has acquiesced, as had Mrs Clack and Mr Blake. The Ablewhites even agreed to leave behind their travel luggage to be searched and then sent after them to London...

"Well, you were in the clear, weren't you?" John said to Margaret. "Your room was searched already."

They stood close together by the mantelpiece, looking into the flames. Mrs Clack sat in an armchair by the window, immersing herself in a book and being, by all appearances, oblivious of her surroundings. Thornton thought mischievously that, in the previous few months, Mrs Clack had quite perfected this attitude in his and Margaret's presence.

"Not quite," Margaret replied. "When Mrs Clack pointed it out to the inspector, it turned out that this time it wasn't just the diamond they were looking for." She looked up at John with a troubled expression, whispering, "I believe Sergeant Cuff tries to find the garment that made the smear!"

John nodded pensively, then he murmured, "But the search proved a failure, for obvious reasons."

"No," she said. "It didn't even start!—because Miss Verinder once again refused to comply... She wouldn't be questioned by the police, she refused to have her room searched, and she eventually became quite hysterical. Mrs Clack said that there is reason to fear for her sanity."

"Does Miss Verinder strike you as mentally frail?" John said.

"I know I said differently earlier today," she answered slowly. "But in my heart-of-hearts I don't believe her disturbed... Not really."

"Me neither... But Mr Ablewhite said something peculiar about her today; he thinks that she's actively protecting Mr Blake—"

"When did you speak with Mr Ablewhite?" Margaret wondered.

John was about to tell her about his visitor in the afternoon when the library door opened and in came Lady Verinder together with some hitherto unknown guests. Mr Blake followed within moments.

With the Ablewhites gone and Miss Verinder excused by her mother for being indisposed, company at dinner was rather subdued that night.

They were eight at table. Apart from Thornton and the three remaining houseguests, Lady Verinder had invited the Grants, a middle-aged couple from the neighbourhood and their very elderly aunt, who hadn't been able to come to Miss Rachel's birthday party.

Sir Rowland enjoyed a recent knighthood, and while he enjoyed it with quiet dignity, the newly-minted Lady Grant had no such qualms. She spoke at length—and with relish—of the ceremony, and of their extended sojourn into London before Christmas, and she did so with a fair amount of name-dropping. Not questioning Lady Verinder's honest desire to entertain her dear neighbours, Thornton nevertheless suspected that the Grants—and most particularly Lady Grant—had been invited for exactly the purpose of deflecting from the fact that the rest of the company had very little conversation that night.

Sergeant Cuff of the metropolitan police was, of course, not a guest at dinner, and Thornton had as yet to lay eyes on the man.

The ladies were about to depart for the drawing room when Betteredge came in to inform his mistress that a snow storm was descending on them. Their guests would not be able to make their respective return journeys in safety that night.

A quiet word by Lady Verinder and rooms were prepared for all of them, and that they would find everything to meet their requirements for an impromptu overnight stay. It was the miracle of large country houses and their army of staff to allow for such arrangements with a minimum of fuss, Thornton mused. Despite owning a number of guest bedrooms, his own mother—presiding over a rather smaller household—would have been much stressed to make similar arrangements on such short notice.

Over a glass of port—all of them declining the cigars Betteredge offered before he quietly withdrew—the three gentlemen came to discuss the cotton trade; and while Sir Rowland had little to add from personal experience, he was good enough to listen with every semblance of interest. Blake, on the other hand, proved remarkably well informed, and it transpired that he had visited several manufacturing towns on the Continent, both in Germany and northern France. Contrary to previous appearances he wasn't just dabbling in fine arts and music, and he mentioned that he had read a book by a chap called Engels, titled The Condition of the Working Class in England, in the German original a couple of years before. While Thornton suspected the younger man of social romanticism, he was nevertheless impressed by his actual profound interest and his lack of prejudice against industrialisation—both rarely encountered in people of his class.

They lively discussed various aspects of relations between manufacturers and workers, and although those discussions were at times controversial, they were always amicable—and to his surprise Thornton found that he actually quite liked the young Mr Blake. It came as a bit of a shock when the chiming of a clock on the mantel told them that they had left the ladies waiting.

They arrived at the drawing room together with the trays of tea and coffee, and while Mrs Clack did the honours and served them each a cup of coffee, Thornton said to Blake, "I heard about the good doctor's bout of illness today—which reminded me of your problems... Are you still suffering from sleeplessness?"

"I'm afraid so, yes," the other man replied. "I thought I had turned a corner the other night after Cousin Rachel's party. For once, I was sleeping like the dead that night... but since then I've been tossing and turning again—"

Thornton glanced at Blake's cup. "Do you always take your coffee black?"

"Black as night and as strong as possible... Why do you ask?"

"I just wondered if that might be the actual cause of your sleeplessness."

"I got into the habit years ago in Italy, and it never bothered me... No! It's stopping smoking just recently that's doing me in." He looked glum all of a sudden. "And now I'm asking myself, if it was actually worth it—"

Leaving Mr Blake with Lady Grant soon afterwards, who had come to join them to talk about some London acquaintances—very casual acquaintances in her case—John went over to Margaret and Mrs Clack. Upon mentioning to the latter that he had seem Mr Ablewhite in Frizinghall prior to his departure by train, they soon came to speak about the gentleman's various charitable endeavours in London.

Mrs Clack was warm in her praises of his diligence, and Thornton listened patiently all the while Margaret remained mostly quiet. John was, of course, aware of Margaret's suspicions that Mr Ablewhite might be in the habit of adorning himself with borrowed plumes, but, as he was fishing for information from an unsuspecting Mrs Clack, he put that point aside for the moment.

"Do the Ablewhites own a townhouse in London?" Thornton asked.

"Goodness me, no!" Mrs Clack replied. "They are quite well-off, but they don't move in the same London circles as Lady Verinder, or the Blakes. The elder Mr Ablewhite is only the local banker... He does own a nice house in Frizinghall, however, currently closed as they are travelling on the Continent." She sighed sympathetically. "Mrs Ablewhite has wished to go on that journey for years—"

"But the younger Mr Ablewhite is permanently staying in London, I understand, isn't he?"

"He lives in rented accommodation in Knightsbridge... It's only one floor, but it's on the belle étage, and very spacious, from what I've heard."

"Then he must be quite comfortably off—" Thornton let the sentence hang in the air.

"Well... I assume so—" Mrs Clack might not always be quick, but she was no fool either—and at this moment she was obviously doing the maths. "Come to think of it, I wonder how he can afford it," she mumbled at last.

"Looks like our worthy Mr Ablewhite is living well beyond his means," John whispered to Margaret as Mrs Clack left them to return her cup.

"So, where does his money come from?"

"Far be it from me to suspect him of skimming off profits from his various charities—" He gave her a ironic smile. "—but I'd never quite trust a goodie two shoes."


Sitting in front of her dressing table mirror later that night, Margaret listened to Dixon's idle prattle with only half an ear. She was pleasantly distracted by the fact that, for the first time, she and John were spending a night under the same roof, albeit in different wings of the house, when something in Dixon's talk caught her attention.

"... and wouldn't it be scandalous, if the stone was never actually taken?"

"What?" Margaret said, suddenly alert. "What are you saying, Dixon?"

"Word's making the round in the servants' hall that Betteredge is upset because he thinks the new inspector from London is starting to suspect Miss Verinder of hiding the diamond herself and leading everyone a merry dance for reasons entirely her own," the maid repeated.

Was that it? Had Sergeant Cuff hit on the truth so quickly? And if so, why was Rachel Verinder making such a bad job of throwing suspicion on Mr Blake?—if that was her intention in the first place.


A/N:

Hopefully you liked this change in perspective to John Thornton's PoV... as well as seeing him—and Margaret, of course—in full sleuthing mode. A dramatic turn of events will be coming up in the following chapter.

As always, any comments on the present chapter will be much appreciated. Thank you all for reading!

... and, finally, for your information: This story will be complete at 9 chapters in total (plus a short epilogue), all of them already written, as mentioned in the author's notes at the end of chapter 1, but all of them still in need of proof-reading prior to posting—the number of typos that I still find even after the umpteenth read-through is truly appalling. Sorry for the delay; I'm a working mum and therefore only ever have time to edit new chapters at the weekends.