The changeling

“You can be sure,” I reiterated, “that we shall keep you informed of whatever happens.”

“Thank you.”

I could not help being relieved when he left.

A week had passed. There were paragraphs in the paper. “Where is Mrs Landon?” The headlines stared out at me. I could imagine how the matter was being discussed all over the country.

My grandmother wrote. “This must be distressing for you right in the midst of it.

Would it be possible for you to come to Cornwall for a while?” I shivered at the thought. There were too many memories in Cornwall. I should be constantly reminded of Pedrek ... and there his grandparents would have to be faced. I was glad to be out of London to avoid meeting Morwenna and Justin Cartwright. I believed they blamed me for breaking off the engagement which had sent Pedrek to the other side of the world. I could not bear to think of facing any of them. I could never explain what had happened and to be in Cador would make the bitterness all the more vivid.

Besides, I had to be here. For some strange reason I thought Benedict might need my help.

I could not imagine why I should feel this. He had always been my enemy. I understood the veiled suggestions which were circulating. He was a ruthless and ambitious man, and his wife had disappeared. Why? Had she been an encumbrance? Had he plans which did not include her?

A member of the press had cornered Yvette. They discovered through subtle questioning that the relationship between the husband and wife had not been a happy one. We read in the papers: “He never had any time for her, said her personal maid. She was very upset about it. She was seen crying. She seemed desperate sometimes ...” Yvette was horrified when she read the papers. I guessed that her sometimes imperfect English had led her into saying more than she meant to reveal. “I did not say it ... I did not,” she cried. “He kept on ... he make me say that which I do not mean ...”

Poor Yvette. She had not meant to cast suspicion on her mistress’s husband. But of course this was seized on. There were sly hints. One of the less reputable papers printed a piece about him.

“The member for Manorleigh is unlucky in love ... or should one say marriage. His first wife, Lizzie, from whom he inherited a goldmine which has made him many times a millionaire, killed herself; his second wife died in childbirth, and now his third, Celeste, has disappeared. But perhaps there will be a happy ending to this one. The police are pursuing their inquiries and are hopeful to solve the mystery soon.” A week passed and there was still no news of Celeste. The police were searching for her. Emery came in with the news that they had been digging up Three Acre Field by the paddock because it looked as though the earth had been freshly turned over. That was a terrible time. I was afraid that they would find Celeste buried there.

Nothing was found and there was silence for a few more days. The news of Celeste’s disappearance was replaced by that of the Cabinet reshuffle as worthy of the headlines. I don’t think anyone was surprised that there was no place in it for Benedict.

The news was in the papers that morning.

“No place in Cabinet for M.P. whose wife has mysteriously disappeared. Mr. Benedict Lansdon, the M.P. for whom all seemed set fair for a high post in the Cabinet, has been passed over. Police intimate they may have an answer to the riddle shortly.”

How subtly cruel they were in linking up his being passed over with his wife’s disappearance. We all knew it was the reason why his hopes had been blighted, but to stress it seemed unnecessary. It was almost like pronouncing Benedict guilty of killing his wife, which was of course what they were suggesting.

Benedict had taken the papers to his study. I was very sad at the thought of his reading those cruel words and a sudden impulse came to me. I knocked at his door. “Come in,” he said.

I went in. He was sitting at his desk with the newspapers spread out before him.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He knew what I meant for he replied: “It was inevitable.”

I advanced into the room and slipped into the chair facing him.

“It can’t go on,” I said. “There has to be news soon.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Benedict... do you mind if I call you Benedict? I can’t call you Mr. Lansdon and ...”

He smiled wryly. “It seems a strange matter to worry about at such a time. You can’t bring yourself to call me father or stepfather ... I always understood that. Call me Benedict. Why not? It makes us more friendly. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why you wouldn’t accept me. You couldn’t find a name for me.” He laughed but it was mirthless laughter. I knew he was desperately upset and worried.

“What is going to happen?” I asked.

“That is something I cannot tell. Where can she be, Rebecca? Have you any idea?”

“Where should she go ... just as she was? She has taken nothing ... her handbag ... she is without money.”

“It looks as though something happened to her. The police think she is dead, Rebecca.”