The Dorset House Affair (14 page)

Julia Maltravers set out on her journey to Normandy on the morning of Monday, 10 September. She travelled by train from London to Newhaven, where she was lucky enough to catch one of the three weekly boats sailing direct to the ancient river port of Caen. They left Newhaven at midday, and arrived in Caen at ten o’clock that night.

During the wearisome ten-hour journey, she had found, both to her pleasure and relief, that a kindly French cleric of her
acquaintance
, Canon Grandier, was travelling to the same part of France.

‘I’m on furlough from my duties at Brompton Oratory, Miss Maltravers,’ he said. ‘I expect you know that I’ve ministered there
to a congregation of French exiles for many years. I’m looking forward to visiting my nieces and nephews in Bretteville, which is a little town a short distance away from Saint-Martin de Fontenay, where the ancient manor-house and demesne of the De Belleforts is situated.’

As they disembarked at the riverside landing-stage at Caen, Canon Grandier decided to give his young companion some sound advice.

‘Miss Maltravers,’ he said, ‘it is late, and you are no doubt fatigued. You must stay the night here, in Caen, and proceed on your journey tomorrow, rested and refreshed. Alas! It is too late for you to see the glories of our ancient town, and the great abbeys built by William the Conqueror and Matilda. Why not take a room at the
pension
where I am staying for the night? I am well known there, and they will readily find space for you.’

Julia willingly followed the canon’s advice, and next morning, after they had breakfasted, they boarded an early train for the journey south to Saint-Martin de Fontenay. The little train consisted of a single carriage, and an open truck containing a number of protesting cattle and their keeper. For all of the thirty-mile journey, she and the canon were the only passengers.

‘So you are going to visit the Chevalier de Saint-Louis?’ observed Grandier, as they rattled through the tranquil Norman countryside. ‘I didn’t know that you were acquainted with the De Belleforts.’

‘I am visiting Mademoiselle de Bellefort,’ said Julia. ‘I am not, in fact, acquainted with either of them – the brother and sister, I mean.’

As she spoke, she observed the canon raise his eyebrows in evident surprise, and experienced a sudden stab of doubt. Had she been wise in travelling so precipitately to Normandy without first ensuring that she would be received by Elizabeth de Bellefort? Should she have written first? No, because a polite written request for an interview could so easily have led to an equally polite written refusal.

‘I know, of course, what happened to your fiancé, Miss Maltravers,’ said Canon Grandier, ‘and you have my condolences and my prayers for the repose of his soul. It was a wicked affair, and God, in the fullness of time, will make the whole truth of it known.’

Julia bowed her head, but said nothing. If her action was a hint to her companion to avoid the subject of her murdered fiancé, the canon ignored it.

‘Monsignor Folliott informed me that Maurice Claygate is to be interred at Kensal Green Cemetery this coming Thursday,’ he said. ‘Will you be present at the obsequies?’

‘I will not,’ said Julia.

‘Ah! I understand. Your brusqueness tells me that you are
impatient
of the usual formalities in this kind of affair. So this journey to the Manoir de Saint-Louis, I take it, is part of a personal quest for truth?’

Julia could not help exclaiming in surprise. How could the elderly priest have known that?

‘You look surprised, Miss Maltravers,’ said Canon Grandier, chuckling. ‘But I know enough of human nature to realize that you would want to confront the other woman who once vied with you for Maurice Claygate’s affections. There, you frown. Perhaps I have been too forward in speaking to you in this fashion. But I am right, am I not?’

‘You are, Canon,’ Julia replied. ‘I have heard a lot about Elizabeth de Bellefort, and about her peculiar behaviour at Maurice’s birthday party. I want to see her, and to speak to her. She has hidden herself away in this little patch of the Norman countryside, hoping that she will be forgotten by those of us who are left behind in England to mourn our loss. But I am not that kind of woman. Before I left London, I removed my wedding dress from its lay-figure, folded it, and put it away in a chest. Maurice is dead, no one knows how. But I will not rest until I find out the truth.’

Canon Grandier made no reply, but Julia fancied that he said
‘Bravo!’ under his breath. The train clattered over a little bridge, and then settled itself for a smooth final run of two miles into Saint-Martin de Fontenay.

‘The De Belleforts live in another age,’ said Canon Grandier, ‘an age long gone. True, they are gentlefolk, but their land was
mortgaged
long ago to the bankers of Paris. Monsieur de Bellefort stands on his terrace, and looks at the peasants toiling in the fields of the
manoir
, but those fields are no longer his, and the men he sees as dependants are, in fact, independent farmers, who have purchased their land from his creditors.’

‘I suppose it does no harm to live in the past, if that’s your choice in life,’ said Julia. ‘It would not be mine, I admit.’

‘It’s something more than a mere exercise of choice, Miss Maltravers. To turn one’s back upon reality can be very dangerous. Alain de Bellefort would love to live as his forebears did under the
ancien
régime,
and in order to do so he would not scruple about the means necessary to achieve his dream. He is a strange, aloof man, fiercely Royalist, and dangerously romantic. His sister is entirely under his thumb.’

‘You don’t like the De Belleforts, do you, Canon Grandier?’ said Julia. ‘It’s not like you to be so censorious.’

Canon Grandier had the grace to blush.

‘Well, perhaps you are right, and it’s not for me to judge them. Their father, you know, died in a madhouse consequent upon a sudden cerebral collapse, and Mademoiselle Elizabeth has been confined more than once to the asylum of the Bon Sauveur at Caen. There has always been madness in the family – but see! We have arrived at Saint-Martin de Fontenay. Our ways part here. I wish you God speed for your visit to the Manoir de Saint-Louis, and a safe journey back to England.’

Julia Maltravers looked at the rusted iron gates of the Manoir de Saint-Louis, and wondered, for the second time that morning,
whether she had been wise in embarking on her pilgrimage to Normandy. After all, what could she do? No amount of probing into the motives of this strange brother and sister would bring poor Maurice Claygate back to life.

Beyond the gates, which had fallen permanently open against their tall brick pillars, the grounds of the demesne extended some hundreds of yards towards the manor-house. Grass and weeds rose almost shoulder high, and the ground smelt rank and untended. Above a line of gnarled beech trees Julia saw the steep roof of the house, its tiles of yellow, terracotta, and muted purple caught by the mellow rays of the morning sun.

A path of sorts ran winding from the gates towards the manor and, as Julia surveyed the scene, a man came into sight, walking rapidly away from the house. He was a strong, fair-haired young man, dressed in sombre black, and wearing a wide-brimmed hat. It seemed to Julia almost ludicrously out of place that he was carrying a naked sword in his right hand.

The man stopped on the path when he saw Julia, and doffed his hat, bowing low in the Norman manner. She saw him give her a swift appraisal before he spoke.

‘You are in mourning, I perceive, Mademoiselle,’ he said, in English. ‘I wonder, perhaps, if you are Miss Maltravers, she who was to marry with the old field marshal’s son? How kind of you to visit Elizabeth in all her affliction!’

‘I am indeed Miss Maltravers,’ said Julia. ‘But I’m afraid, sir, that you have the advantage of me—’

‘My apologies,’ said the young man. ‘My name is Etienne Delagardie. I’m a neighbour and friend of the De Belleforts, and it was from Alain that I learned some of the details of the tragic events that occurred in London. I’m sure that Elizabeth will be very pleased to see you. After all, she has no other company than that grumbling crone, Anna.

‘The Chevalier de Bellefort is away this week in Amiens, and after that, he may visit Paris for a few days. Well, I must leave you.
If I can be of any use while you are in Saint-Martin, I am at your service. Ask anyone in the town, and they will direct you to my house. Meanwhile – talk to her, will you? Use her kindly. She has suffered more than I have the right to reveal.’

Etienne Delagardie bowed once more, resumed his hat, and continued his rapid walk towards the gates, occasionally taking a swipe with his sword at an offending nettle lying in his way. Julia walked thoughtfully along the winding path until she came to the front entrance of the Manoir de Saint-Louis.

She could see at once that it had been a fine old mansion, dating perhaps from the seventeenth century, but that it was suffering badly from the depredations of neglect. There may be plenty of pride here, thought Julia, but there’s precious little money.

As she mounted the steps from the path the front door was suddenly opened by an old woman dressed in black, relieved by a delicate lace Breton cap. She gave Julia a forbidding glare, and spoke to her in heavily accented French.

‘Monseigneur
is not here,’ she said. ‘Is it
mademoiselle
that you wish to see?’

‘It is,’ Julia replied in her firm schoolgirl French. ‘You will tell her, please, that an English lady wishes to speak to her.’

The words produced another baleful glare from the servant, who was, Julia assumed, the ‘grumbling crone’, Anna, mentioned by the curious young man with the sword. She motioned to Julia to follow her, and they passed through a number of strikingly attractive rooms, including a fanciful mirrored gallery. What a pity that everything was faded and torn, dying from inattention!

Anna threw open a door in the passage, and they came into a finely-proportioned chamber, with an elaborate plaster ceiling. Portraits of various dignitaries lined the walls, against which stood many choice pieces of Louis XV furniture. Despite its grandeur, thought Julia, the feeling of terminal decay was ever-present.

‘
Mademoiselle
,’ said Anna, ‘here is an English lady who wishes to converse with you.’ She motioned to Julia to enter the room, and returned to the corridor, closing the door behind her.

10

Elizabeth de Bellefort's Story

A
young woman of thirty or so rose up from the chair placed in front of a desk where she had been sitting. Julia was struck first by her beauty: it was obvious at once how Maurice must have been attracted to Elizabeth de Bellefort. Like many Normans and Bretons, she was fair, and blue-eyed, and her
luxuriant
blonde hair was carefully coiffured. Her morning dress of brown silk exhibited all the cunning simplicity of a Paris
modiste.

‘I am Mademoiselle de Bellefort,' she said. ‘You wished to see me?' Her English was perfect, but her delivery was cold and distant.

Julia Maltravers knew that she was being assessed as a former rival to a lover's affections, and had been prepared for a haughty and perhaps even hostile reception. But she had not expected to see the Frenchwoman so obviously racked with grief and remorse. Her eyes were red with weeping, and shone, dark-shadowed, from a face made gaunt by lack of sleep. Elizabeth de Bellefort's
self-control
was admirable. But Julia wondered how long she would be able to sustain it.

‘You will have realized,
mademoiselle
,' said Julia, ‘that I am Julia Maltravers. We both find ourselves in mourning. Just over a month ago, I lost my father, and then, as you know, not so many days ago, I lost my fiancé. So neither of us is a stranger to grief. It is my sincere hope that we can bury any differences that we may have in Maurice Claygate's grave.'

It had been a rehearsed speech, stilted, and perhaps a little insincere, but it had its effect. The Frenchwoman pointed to a chair, and Julia sat down. It had taken her no more than a few minutes to allow any preconceived dislike of Elizabeth de Bellefort to evaporate. Here was a woman tormented by some inner distress. It was surely the duty of another woman to help her?

‘Mademoiselle de Bellefort,' said Julia, ‘I'm shocked to see you in such distress. It goes beyond grief for the loss of Maurice Claygate. What is it? What is the matter?'

In reply, the Frenchwoman burst into a fit of frantic weeping. She wrung her hands together in despair, and her whole frame seemed to shudder with pain. Julia sat very still and watched her. The faded glories of the old manor seemed to wrap them both in their stifling embrace. At last, Elizabeth de Bellefort mastered her emotion, and sat up straight in her chair. She looked at Julia as though she were seeing her for the first time.

‘You are quite different from how I imagined you,' she said. ‘I have seen your sympathy for my plight showing in your face. May I call you Julia? My name, as you know, is Elizabeth. I have decided to tell you everything, including the nightmare that is haunting me. I must tell someone, or I shall go mad. My brother had sworn me to silence, but I can no longer remain true to that oath. Listen, Julia, while I tell you about my agony.

‘When Maurice deserted and betrayed me, my love for him turned to a deadly hatred. I swore to take a terrible revenge upon him, and my brother Alain supported me. Our honour, you see, had been compromised, so that my brother's reputation was equally besmirched by what had happened.

‘When we received the invitation to attend Maurice's twenty-sixth birthday celebration, it seemed as though fate had delivered him into our hands. We determined that I should write a note to him, to be delivered by a footman during the crowded reception. You will understand that my brother and I were well acquainted with the
layout
of Dorset House, and the way its household worked.'

‘A note?'

‘Yes. It was designed to lure him away from his guests and into a place called the garden passage, where I would be waiting with a pistol. I will tell you what I wrote in that note. “Please, dear Maurice, come to take my hand one final time. I am waiting in the garden passage.” I knew it would appeal to his vanity, and that he would come. When he came through the door, I was to shoot him dead—'

‘You were to commit murder?' cried Julia. ‘Was that to be the way of redeeming your honour? We arrange things rather
differently
in England!'

Elizabeth seemed not to hear her. Her whole attention was focused on her harrowing tale.

‘In the event, it did not happen,' she continued. ‘At least, Alain says it did not happen. I was found, so they tell me, trying to prevent an appalling little man from gaining entry to the passage, although I have no clear memory of how I came to be there. Alain said later that my nerve had failed me, and that I was trying to banish the whole affair from my mind. I thought at the time that he was right.'

‘He
was
right, Elizabeth,' said Julia. ‘Whatever happened as a result of that note being delivered, there was nobody in the passage, either living or dead. It was empty. Your “appalling little man” told me that. He is a detective inspector from Scotland Yard.'

Elizabeth looked bewildered. She shuddered again, and cradled her head in her hands.

‘How could I have been so wicked?' she whispered. ‘When Alain told me that I had not been in that passage at all – that my nerve must have failed me, and that I had suffered an hysterical fit that blocked all memory of that part of the evening – I was more relieved than I can put in words. It was as though I'd been born again, free of the sinful desire to murder a fellow human being. And yet—'

‘Maurice was indeed shot, Elizabeth,' said Julia, ‘but it was in a house in Soho, far away from Dorset House. His death is a mystery, but, despite those wicked plans hatched by your brother and you, neither of you could have been in any way concerned in Maurice's death. I beg you not to torment yourself by thinking that you had translated a wicked desire into an actual deed.'

‘Then why do I suffer from this hideous conviction that I did, indeed, shoot Maurice dead?' cried Elizabeth. During their dramatic meeting, she had developed an instinctive trust for the English girl who had been her rival. She felt no need to conceal from her the secrets of her heart.

‘Let me tell you about this dream,' she continued. ‘It sprang into my mind in all its detail while I was still in England, and has haunted me ever since. I imagine that I am standing in the deserted garden passage at Dorset House, waiting for Maurice Claygate to appear in response to my note. I have taken up a position facing the door, and there is a revolver in my hand. It all seems so real! I notice that the door which I am facing – the door that leads from the vestibule to the passage – is in need of a coat of paint. Strange, how, at moments of great distress or tension, one notices little, unimportant things! I can smell the acrid smoke from the fireworks, and hear the laughter of those guests who are still lingering in the garden.'

‘And how do you feel when you see these things?' asked Julia.

‘I feel terrified, and my heart is beating as though it would burst. I know, too, that its frantic pounding is caused by a mixture of fear and exhilaration. Oh, Julia, how wicked I am! I feel the hard metal of the revolver clutched in my right hand. Alain had already turned off the safety catch for me earlier in the evening, and my index finger rests on the trigger.'

As Elizabeth de Bellefort recounted her mysterious dream, Julia Maltravers became more and more entranced. This poor girl was reliving a fantasy that her brother had concocted for her to believe. He must have drilled all these details into her receptive
mind and, when her courage failed her, that mind had reproduced the chimaera as though it were fact. Did she have no existence independent of her appalling brother?

‘The passage was empty,' Elizabeth continued, ‘but I have a horrible suspicion that there were witnesses assembled behind me, hidden by some old cupboards and screens, waiting to see what I would do. And then I sense that there is another, more terrible figure, a demon of wickedness, standing so close behind me that if I were to turn, I would see it. But I dare not look behind me. I dare not! And there I stand, waiting, waiting…. I think to myself, “Will Maurice never come?”'

‘This dream – do you have it often? Does it never vary?' asked Julia.

‘No, it is always the same. I suffer it almost every night, and I cannot wake until it's done. Then I fly to the window and look out over the fields of the demesne, and at the starry sky.'

‘What happens next in your dream?'

‘The door opens, and Maurice Claygate comes into the passage. Somebody quietly closes the door from the other side. Julia! He stands there as though alive again, graceful and handsome, as we both knew him. He is holding the note that I had written to him. He looks at me, and I see that his face holds an expression of hurt surprise. He looks at the revolver in my hand, and darts forward as though to take it from me. There comes a tremendous barrage of fireworks exploding in the garden – and I pull the trigger.'

‘How horrible!' Julia exclaimed. ‘But you must banish this fantasy from your mind, Elizabeth, because
it
did
not
happen
. I tell you, the passage was empty. Maurice was killed elsewhere, and not by you.'

‘I know that I must believe that to be true, Julia, but the dream persists. Let me tell you how it ends. I am all but deafened by the report, and in a split second there comes its shattering echo, reverberating along the garden passage. Maurice's face assumes a terrifyingly neutral expression, as though nothing had happened
to him. Then his eyes seem to glaze over, and he sinks to the floor. I think to myself, How odd, that a man will make no attempt to cushion his fall when he's shot! I see my note flutter from his hand and lie like an accusation on the terracotta tiles of the passage.

‘I fancy that I hear footsteps behind me, and I hear the metallic clatter of the revolver as I throw it down. Somehow, I step over Maurice's body, fling open the passage door, and find myself facing a crowd of witnesses, bent on coming into the passage to see the consequences of my crime. That perky little man in a brown suit is there. He talks, and I reply – I don't hear what I say. The little man tries to push me away from the door – and I wake up, trembling, in the dark. And that, Julia, is the burden that I have to bear as penance for even thinking about a deed that in the end I never carried out.'

When Elizabeth de Bellefort ended her story, the two women sat in silence for a while. The old manor-house creaked and settled as the morning sun rose high in the sky. They could both hear the wind rustling in the long row of stately elms that bordered the demesne.

What was the meaning of this Frenchwoman's torment? Was she unconsciously punishing herself for having listened to the wicked schemes of her brother? No doubt there were differences of temperament between an English country girl from Northumberland, a girl who came from farming stock, and this haughty French gentlewoman, whose family still nurtured dreams of power and influence that would never be brought to fruition. And yet….

‘Elizabeth,' she said, ‘many women experience the humiliation of being rejected by a lover. It's part of the common lot, whatever our nationality. Why did your love for Maurice turn to such deadly hatred? Why did you not shake off his memory, and seek elsewhere for a husband?'

As she spoke, she thought of the young man in the slouch hat, decapitating nettles with his sword. What had he been doing at
the house? Delagardie. That was his name: Monsieur Etienne Delagardie.

Elizabeth de Bellefort had risen slowly from her chair. She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, as though in prayer, looking intently at the English girl.

‘Of course, you do not know,' she said. ‘How could you? If I tell you the secret of that hatred, will you swear to me that you will never reveal it to a living soul? All my wicked loathing has evaporated, now, but I know that you will despise me if I do not tell you why I acted as I did.'

‘I swear,' said Julia. She had no intention of seeking clever reasons not to hear another woman's solemn secret.

‘It is over a year, now,' said Elizabeth, ‘since Maurice Claygate intimated to me that our relationship was to end. I received the news with the quiet dignity expected from women of my rank here in Normandy. Alain and I returned here to the Manoir de
Saint-Louis
, and soon afterwards I discovered that I was
enceinte
– pregnant, you understand—'

‘What?' cried Julia, springing up from her chair. ‘Pregnant? But surely you told him?'

Elizabeth de Bellefort flushed in anger, and stamped her foot.

‘Tell him? Of course not. Do you think that I would demean myself, and
monseigneur
my brother, by revealing such a shame to the man who had caused it? We told him nothing, and Maurice died without knowing the sordid truth.'

‘Oh, my dear,' said Julia, ‘what did you do?' She could no longer restrain the tears that leapt to her eyes.

‘I was conveyed by intimate friends to a remote hospice on the fringes of Brittany, run by the Visitation Sisters. I was one of six desperate girls who were hiding their shame in that place. Eventually, I was delivered of a stillborn child.'