by Issy Brooke
“Good day. How may I be of assistance?” she repeated, a little more firmly. It was clear she was not open to making small talk.
Bamfylde said, “We are here to see Mr Hedges. I am Viscount Caxton and this is my father, Theodore Caxton, the Earl of Calaway.”
She was used to titles. She glanced down at a diary and said, “You do not have an appointment. I can arrange one. When would be convenient?”
“Right now,” said Theodore, who had finally gathered his thoughts. It was easiest to simply separate the world into two camps: the women that he knew, who were all clever and capable, and all other women, who were just as society said they were.
“I am afraid that is not possible,” the woman said.
“It should be. This morning is clearly a blank space on that page,” Theodore said.
“Blank does not mean empty,” she said.
“Well, actually, it rather does imply…”
Bamfylde coughed and stopped Theodore from plunging into logic. The young lady closed the diary pointedly and picked up her pencil again. She had remained calm and unflustered. The door behind her opened, and an astonishing man appeared from a rear office.
Theodore imagined all men of the law to be elderly, grey, possibly a little frail and if they weren’t, then they were red-faced and corpulent lovers of dinner and drink.
This man, who turned out to be Mr Hedges, was none of these things.
This man appeared to have wandered into the office straight from a caber-tossing contest at Braemar.
There was a second man behind him, of a much more weaselly countenance, with “clerk” written all over his hunched shoulders, inked fingers, and constant obsequious attention focussed on Mr Hedges.
“I have no appointments today,” Mr Hedges said. “I’m not expecting anyone. Who are these chaps?” In contrast to his broad shoulders and bristling black beard, he had a light and almost melliferous voice.
“Lord Calaway and Lord Caxton,” Theodore said. He puffed himself up as much as possible. “We’re just here to have a quick word with you, sir, off the record, as it were. No appointment needed.”
Mr Hedges was unimpressed. “An appointment is needed. An appointment is always needed. Off the record implies off the bill and I can assure you that I am not a man who works for free. I understand very well the value of my time.”
“It is about Mr Spenning. Walter Spenning.”
“I cannot break any confidences by either word or gesture. I cannot confirm or deny in any way whether I have heard that name or not and in what capacity I might have heard, or not heard, the aforesaid name. Good day, sirs.”
Mr Hedges was light on his feet for a man of such bulk and he sailed past them, the clerk scampering along behind with a bundle of ledgers in his arms. They left, the heavy oak door merely clicking lightly closed. There was no drama about the man in word or movement. He was like a deep, dark, inscrutable lake on a calm day.
“Well,” said Bamfylde, wandering closer to the desk with a louche manner. He leaned against it. Theodore was impressed. If he had tried such casual insouciance, he would have missed his balance and tumbled past the edge of the table, or found himself fixed in such an awkward position that his sciatica would have plagued him for a week afterwards.
“Sirs,” the woman said.
“Well,” Bamfylde said again. “I suppose, reading between the lines, that even making an appointment with the old cove now would be utterly useless, wouldn’t it?”
Maybe it was the way that Bamfylde smiled at her, or the way he held eye contact, or something else, because the woman actually replied. “I suspect so,” she said. “I am sorry.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard of this Spenning, have you?”
“I’m sorry. All I know is that they worked together, years ago.”
“Thank you,” said Bamfylde, standing up straight.
But that got Theodore’s interest. “Hold on one moment. You said they worked together. Was it more, then, than a professional solicitor and client relationship? You would not say that they worked together if it were an everyday sort of thing, would you?”
“I – I cannot say,” she replied, confused. “It was all before I came to work here, and that’s all I really know. That they were … involved, in some way, in business. I…”
The door opened so silently that they would not have known except for the sudden blast of noise from the street, abruptly cut off as the door closed again.
The clerk had returned, slightly out of breath, as if he had been sent back for something that had been forgotten. He glared at all three of them.
“Trying to charm her, are you?” he spat out to Bamfylde.
“Not at all…”
“I bet you succeeded too.” He had a sneer on his face. “Women.” He dropped the pile of ledgers on her desk and said to the woman, “Featherstone’s missing. You have better jump to it. He’s not happy.”
She jumped up and dashed off to a side room. The newly arrived clerk said to Theodore and Bamfylde, “Useless. She’s utterly useless. He thought she’d be pretty to look at. Something nice when you came into the office. Would have done better with a vase of flowers. A bunch of roses wouldn’t make my job harder with all these mistakes.”
“She was rather capable in fending us off,” Bamfylde said defensively.
“I didn’t see much fending happening this moment,” the clerk replied. “What do you expect, though, if you get your staff on impulse because you’ve seen them floating around in the background? Like Spenning got his wife.”
“What do you know of Spenning?”
“Absolutely nothing. Never heard of him.”
“Clearly you have because you just said–” but Theodore didn’t get to finish his sentence. The clerk spoke over him.
“Good day.” The clerk then slowly and deliberately turned his back on them. Theodore’s blood rose at the insult but Bamfylde was already retreating. Neither of them said goodbye, which was an insult of their own, in a way, and the best they could manage short of instigating an actual fight.
Bamfylde seemed excited once they were back on the streets.
“We know so much more already!” he said.
Theodore was inclined to agree. “We must not forget, however, that this Mr Hedges has a strong and indeed unshakable alibi.”
“But connections, father. Let’s think of that. We should have asked if there were any connections between Mr Calcraft and Mr Hedges.”
“We can’t go back in.”
“No. Let’s find Mr Pickworth, then, if we can. He might be in Norwich too; didn’t they say much of his business was conducted here?”
It took them over an hour to track down Mr Pickworth. He clearly wasn’t well known in the widest of circles, and his offices lay in a middling part of town. Much like his grand house in Great Yarmouth, which was fading a little, it seemed that both Mr Pickworth and his company had once seen better days. It was unclear, from the outside, what exactly he did for a living. The plate on the door simply said “Pickworth. Ring for attention.”
They rang.
A bouncy young clerk let them in and led them upstairs. They waited in an anteroom for only a moment before Mr Pickworth appeared, and to their delight he was far more amenable for a chat than Mr Hedges had been, and his warm welcome into his offices cheered them both up. He was taking a light lunch at his desk and snapped his fingers to order more food to be brought in to feed them all. The light-footed clerk scampered away.
He had heard, vaguely, of Theodore and his investigations. “Detecting! Murders! How very chilling.” And he was happy to talk to them though he cautioned, “I must not break confidences, you understand.”
“Of course.”
“But when it comes to justice, I do understand where my priorities lie and I’d be delighted if I can assist in any way. Brandy?”
“Not at this moment. Thank you.”
They were clustered in a messy office, piles of papers everywhe
re, very much a working area that was seeing a great deal of bustle. It wasn’t shabby but nor was it quite at the level of the elegantly polished wealth of Mr Hedges’ office. Mr Pickworth appeared to be a middle-of-the-road businessman, making a reasonable way in the world.
“What is it that you do?” Theodore asked, trying to make sense of the files and paperwork around him.
“Stumble along, if I am honest. I used to have a business that built public buildings but there gets to a point, in a small town, when all the public buildings that can be built have been built. So I expanded from Yarmouth and came here to Norwich, but it was something of a closed shop. I don’t do anything large, nothing grand, these days. Those contracts go to the cronies of the local council. We’re drawing up some plans for a new public house at the moment. I suppose we’re an architectural firm, now; that’s all downstairs. I handle the money. I can’t draw for toffee.”
“I see.”
“But we are doing well enough, if we keep our ambitions small.” Mr Pickworth leaned forward. “So, let us talk about Mr Walter Spenning.” He twisted his mouth in an exaggerated display of distaste. “First of all, no, I don’t know if his death was an accident or not. If it were not accidental, I have no idea who might have killed him.”
“Any slight suspicions at all?”
Mr Pickworth shook his head.
“Sir,” said Theodore, “Might I ask, in what capacity you knew Mr Spenning?”
“Thankfully, I knew him only in the loosest of capacities. He was a businessman of a most tiresome sort. He wished only to accumulate money.” He waved his hand vaguely around his own office as if to make the point that he, himself, was clearly not accumulating much at all.
“And was he successful?”
“Exceedingly so. He was, as far as anyone knew, very well-off indeed. At one point, when I was doing well, I found myself on a board of directors for an emerging import business over in Harwich and he was another director. That’s the only time I’ve worked alongside him. I found that sort of thing was not my strength and came here. And he was not known for working with others.”
“And what was he like to work with?”
Again Mr Pickworth grimaced. “He focused entirely on the acquisition of wealth at the expense of the longevity of the company – it folded, inevitably, but not until he had made a lot of money.”
“Did you ever encounter one another socially?”
“Only a handful of times, through my wife – actually, that’s how he met his own wife, you know.”
“Mr Spenning met Florence through the intervention of Mrs Pickworth?” Theodore said, feeling new connections emerge.
“No,” Mr Pickworth said. “Not entirely in that way. And it’s somewhat vague in my recollection. I don’t take much notice of the domestic sphere. My dear wife is a charitable sort of lady, to her credit. She works ceaselessly for the poor and downtrodden of our parish and she is held in high regard in Yarmouth. She is always busy. I …” He tailed off.
“Do you spend most of your time here in Norwich?” Bamfylde asked.
Theodore was impressed by his son’s sudden insight. “Yes,” said Mr Pickworth. “I do a great deal of business here and it is impractical to travel continually between here and there.”
Bamfylde smiled. “Which leaves your wife, I suppose, to run the household as she would wish.”
“Indeed, and she is happy with the arrangement. I do go home, of course, for high days and holidays, but the place is continually full of all manner of waifs and strays. As for Mrs Spenning, before she was wed, she was at our house in Yarmouth. Finches, it’s called, on White Lane and that was where Mr Spenning saw her and took a fancy to her.”
That matched what the unpleasant clerk had said. It felt like a clue to Theodore but something itched at him. There was another question he ought to be asking but he wasn’t sure what it was.
“We called at Finches,” Theodore said.
“Ah, did Mrs Pickworth feed you well?”
“We were not admitted.”
“Oh. I suppose she was not At Home. She rarely is. As I say, she always has a project, some poor down-and-out that she simply has to save.”
Mr Pickworth munched his way through a sandwich as Theodore tried to think his way through the problem.
Bamfylde said, suddenly, “Has there ever been any scandal attached to Mr Spenning?”
Theodore immediately thought of the great age difference between Mr Spenning and his younger wife. But there were no children from the marriage. Perhaps there had been a marriage before, and perhaps there were children from that? But no one had said anything.
And anyway, it wasn’t the answer that they were expecting.
“Oh yes,” Mr Pickworth said, almost chortling. “Certainly! It was back when he was a magistrate. He didn’t last long! He wasn’t the most sympathetic of men and then he was struck off, quite abruptly, and had to leave Norwich. He never really came back after that. He spent all his time in his backwater town.”
It was quite a swerve from considerations of Mrs Florence Spenning but Theodore immediately began to think about the Calcrafts and poor Emily Johnson.
“What was he struck off for?” he asked, knowing the answer already. Mrs Macauley had told them but it would be good to hear the confirmation of it. Things were adding up.
“He engineered a false arrest. It was some soldier or a soldier’s son or something. It was quite the stir, you know. The poor chap was about to be married – literally that very day, he could not have been closer to wedlock had he been in the marital bed – and then the police turned up with this arrest warrant for the man. Carted him off in front of everyone and threw him in the lock-up. It turned out that he had no cause at all to arrest the fellow!”
“Good heavens. And then what happened?” Theodore said. This matched what he already knew, but with the additional information that Spenning had acted deliberately knowing that it was a false arrest from the start. Until now, Theodore had wondered if the arrest of Archie Calcraft had been merely a mistake or some accidental oversight.
“Well, I imagine that it put a dampener on the wedding night! Spenning was ejected from the bench, quite rightly, and I suppose that the unhappy groom was released to go on his way.”
Bamfylde asked, “Do you know what that way was? What happened afterwards?”
Mr Pickworth frowned. “I have no idea. It was a brief scandal in the area but no one cares what happens afterwards. It wasn’t in Yarmouth, you understand, it was out in some dreadful backwater. And I am mostly here, as I have said. They are probably wed now, with a bevvy of children, and raise a glass in honour of Spenning’s death – oh! Now, there’s a motive for you, right enough!”
Theodore was nodding. “Indeed it is,” he said. “For I can tell you that the wedding never happened and there are two unhappy people as a result of it.”
“Oh, no,” Mr Pickworth said, with genuine sadness. “Then if this is a case of murder, there are your two most obvious suspects.”
Theodore met Bamfylde’s eyes. The younger Calcraft had been soldiering abroad when Spenning had died. One could not have a firmer alibi than that. He could not have killed Spenning.
But Emily Johnson had been very much present.
11
Adelia was pleased to see Theodore and Bamfylde return the next afternoon. They gathered in the library with Anne and Bernard. She was surprised when Theodore requested that Miss Johnson not be involved, and Anne’s face was thunderous at the insinuation that Miss Johnson could somehow be implicated as a suspect in the murder. They sat around the table and Anne glared at her father as he outlined what had happened in Norwich, and how he had met both Mr Hedges and Mr Pickworth.
Gradually her angry expression cleared into one of sadness.
“I agree,” she said at last, as she stood up. “Poor dear Em does have a clear motive to be angry with Mr Spenning. He has, indeed, ruined her whole life. He took her love and one chance of marriage and has
condemned her to a life here as a spinster and old maid. I am becoming afraid that many of her actions since then will only serve to confirm your suspicions. Wait one moment. I wonder if we might find something else…”
She left the room and returned about ten minutes later with a small leather-bound book. Letters and papers spilled from between its pages. She sat down and put it in front of her, reverentially, almost in the same way that Calcraft treated his mysterious long box.
“I keep a diary,” she said. “I have done so since our marriage.” She smiled almost shyly at Bernard, who beamed back.
“I encouraged it,” he said, heartily, happy to take the credit. “I felt it was helpful for her to record the events of each day and lay to rest any worries or troubles before sleep. She also makes lists of good things, don’t you, my sweet? Reflecting on wonderful daily miracles is the surest way to happiness, I am convinced of it.”
She looked embarrassed to admit it. She deflected by opening the diary. Adelia could see that many of the papers were letters and though she could not be too nosey, it was clear that they were from Anne’s sisters.
Adelia found this oddly comforting.
“Here,” said Anne. “I have been over this before, of course, but it bears a second look in case I missed anything.” She pressed her finger on the page. “The day before the death of Spenning seems to have been unremarkable. It had been cold, dry, and Patrick had been learning new words at an astonishing rate. I mention some flowers I had seen in bloom, and – sorry, my dear, there was the matter of your toothache.”
Bernard laughed.
Theodore said, “Is there any mention of Miss Johnson?”
“This is what I am looking for.”
They waited while Anne re-read her diary.
“No,” she said at last, defeated. “None at all. She usually goes to bed earlier than everyone else, and as I have not mentioned her, I suspect she did the same that evening. I would have noted anything out of the ordinary. So she was in bed when Spenning died. The following day’s entry, of course, is full of the alarms and excitements of the events of that day.”
