A Woman Unknown Page 0,21

Derbyshire estate and allowed her nothing. Caroline Windham dazzled, she impressed. It was not just her size, her broad cheeks and her flaxen hair that had earned her the sobriquet the Viking Queen. In spite of her lack of money, she could have married well. But Miss Windham’s downfall was her love for Everett Runcie, and his for her. When she was nineteen, it was said she and Runcie were about to become engaged. At age twenty-one, she had travelled the continent with him, with no sign of a ring. At twenty-five, they shared his London home. When she was twenty-six, he married wealthy Philippa. Now, people spoke of Caroline as having ruined herself. No one would have her now. She and Runcie were unable to keep away from each other. Everyone knew it, including Philippa.

The article set me thinking. Was that ‘stray shot’ truly an accident? It did not surprise me that the culprit had not been shamed in the newspaper, as a bad shot and a worse sport. I wondered who fired, and whether the shot had not been accidental at all, but meant for Runcie? If that shot was intentional, and failed, then the culprit might be the murderer.

Had Marcus not put my back up, I may have immediately set off for the Metropole and taken this newspaper article to him, with my thoughts. But he was pursuing his own lines of enquiry, and had made quite clear the extent of my involvement.

Well then, I would explore these possibilities before presenting him with ideas that may appear outlandish or half-baked. I should in any case visit Philippa. Was it too soon? Was I going to express my condolences, or to steal a march on Marcus?

Both.

The Runcie home, Kirkley Hall, is a twenty minute walk for me. A stroll would allow me to calm down. I could barely imagine how Philippa must feel, having heard that Everett had been murdered.

I walked through the still afternoon towards Kirkley Hall.

Odds on that Philippa Runcie would not want to see me, or anyone. I remembered back to when I received the wartime telegram about Gerald. Had someone called on me in the hours following, I would not have had the wit to hear a knock on the door. But there were a couple of differences. I had not been in the throes of divorce from Gerald. Philippa Runcie knew nothing of answering her own door. Her staff would be well-trained in the practice of sending unwanted visitors packing.

As I walked along the broad wooded approach that led to the house, the trees cast late afternoon shadows. Through the spaces between the trees, I could see Kirkley Hall, in all its grandeur.

One needed only a glimpse of the place to understand why Everett Runcie had to marry an heiress. Everett’s much older bachelor brother held the family title. He transferred the house to his younger brother when Everett married Philippa. A clever move: Congratulations. Please accept this fine house, along with its mortgage and all the repair and restoration bills that come with it.

It is a Georgian building, on land that once belonged to the monks of Kirkstall Abbey. The Runcie family acquired the property a century ago, and made extensive alterations when they were in the money. Little by little, with the ebb and flow of fortunes, they sold off the adjacent farmland. Even so, extensive grounds still surrounded the house. It was said that the magnificent beech trees had been planted to represent the layout of troops at the Battle of Waterloo. Wellington himself held pride of place, in the shape of an oak tree. Over a hundred years on from the planting, the beech tree troops, officers and men, threatened to dwarf the old oak leader, Wellington.

Emerging from the cover of trees, I approached the house. Pillars framed the entrance, and on either side of the pillars stood plinths that held two magnificent Chinese lanterns, looted at the time of the Boxer Rebellion.

I lifted and dropped the heavy knocker. After a moment, the butler appeared. He remembered me from this summer’s garden party, and ushered me into the panelled drawing room, all gold leaf and brocade-covered furniture. I stood by the bay window, looking out onto the garden, waiting to receive a message thanking me for my call and saying that Mrs Runcie was indisposed.

When I first saw Philippa, we were on a visit to the opera. She was enjoying her first season, having been presented at court thanks