Death at Dawn by Caro Peacock

a huge joke to my father’s circle, those lost Members of Parliament. They were mostly country squires and their friends who thought they had somethinglike hereditary rights to seats in the House of Commons. For centuries they’d owned pocket boroughs, consisting of a mere half-dozen easily bribed or bullied electors. The Reform Act of five years before had swept them away, and not before time. I was laughing at the thought of it, but the man in black didn’t smile.
    ‘Great Reform, you call it. I should have thought it a singularly small reform. Did it give a vote to every working man?’
    ‘No, but –’
    ‘Did it do anything to help the tens of thousands toiling in the workshops and factories of our great cities?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Did it take away a single shilling from the rich to give to children hungry for bread?’
    ‘Sadly, no.’
    His eyes were glittering, his thin body swaying to the rhythm of his words. So, I thought, the man is an orator. That explained his sparing way with words, like an opera singer guarding his voice. Perhaps he realised the effect he was having, because he smiled a thin smile.
    ‘I am sorry to become warm, Miss Lane. You suppose, correctly, that Sir Herbert lost his seat because of the Reform Act. Until then, there had been Mandevilles in the House of Commons for four hundred years. But you would be mistaken to see him as simply a buffoon from the shires. He is a man of ability and ambition. In fact, he has held ministerial office under both Whig and Tory governments.’
    ‘A turncoat, then.’
    ‘Certainly a man of hasty and arrogant temperament.’
    ‘Since he’s rich, couldn’t he simply buy himself another constituency?’
    ‘For the present he prefers sulking in his tent, so to speak. Sir Herbert has become something of a focus for other men who think the country is going to the dogs.’
    ‘But what does that have to do with how my father died? This baronet can hardly go round shooting everybody who favoured the Reform Bill. Even old King William had to support it in the end. Besides, how did they know each other? My father did not cultivate the friendship of rich Tories.’
    ‘I doubt if your father and Sir Herbert Mandeville ever met. There is no reason to think so.’
    ‘I repeat the question: what does he have to do with how my father died?’
    ‘Quite probably nothing personally. Your father, unfortunately, blundered into something mortally serious that touches many people.’
    ‘You keep criticising him and not telling me why.’
    He said nothing. I could feel him willing me into doing what he wanted and tried to play for time.
    ‘They are very rich, then, these Mandevilles?’
    ‘They own substantial estates in the West Indies. The seventh baronet had profitable dealings in slaves.’
    ‘I shall hate them.’
    ‘Governesses can’t afford hate.’
    ‘Nor spies?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Do they live in London?’
    ‘They have a house there, but their main estate is at Ascot in Berkshire, not far from Windsor. If successful in your application, you would probably spend most of your time there.’
    Ascot. A picture came to my mind of heathland, horses galloping across it. An idea began to form.
    ‘I may not be successful. If they are opponents, you can hardly recommend me.’
    ‘That will be attended to. They are advertising for a governess, so an application would not be unexpected.’
    The sun was down, the room almost dark. I stood up to light the candle on the wash-stand. My legs had stopped trembling and the idea was growing.
    ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I shall apply for the post …’
    ‘I am glad of that, Miss Lane.’
    ‘But on two conditions. One, you must tell me what I am looking for. I can’t be expected to guess. Is it this woman again?’
    ‘No. Put the woman out of your mind. The main thing required of you will be to communicate to me news of any guests or new arrivals at Mandeville Hall. In particular, I have reason to believe that they will