The Versatiles

by Alex Duncan

  The old man didn’t look up from his scrap of writing.

  ‘Pray girl, have you any idea what all that commotion upstairs was just now?’

  Rosie cleared her throat and smiled innocently.

  ‘A small disagreement with the housekeeping grandpa, nothing more.’

  The old man clicked his tongue and shook his head.

  ‘I need not remind you of the importance discretion plays in our life. We cannot risk letting our guard down for a moment.’

  ‘Of course grandpa…I mean Mr Homespun, I understand you well enough.’

  ‘Good, then sit up straight, like a well bred lady should, and tell me,’ he stopped writing and looked up at her, ‘what seems to be troubling you? You’re fidgeting like a schoolboy and you haven’t eaten a thing all day. What is it?’

  ‘Oh nothing, I assure you, I’m merely lacking sleep after the journey. I’ll be well in the morning,’ she leaned in a little more to her grandfather, holding her scarf tightly around her throat. ‘Tell me, have you found out anything more about the town and the grand event, from Mr Steadfast perhaps?’

  ‘Alas, Mr Steadfast was not to be spoken with. Once he had escorted me here he excused himself on matters of business and ran off. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but he was so excitable in his manner and I saw him descend the hill at such a speed I was worried he might do himself a mischief; curious fellow.’

  Rosie dug her nails into her palms. That was it. Mr Steadfast. He was the only one to have had even a chance to swipe the necklace and the stone. Not another person had stepped foot inside her room, besides his infuriating son. Why hadn’t she thought of him before?

  She looked out of the window and across the fields leading downwards. The red hue of evening was lining the hills that led down to the town in the valley below and there was a great stillness all around the headland. There was no one to be seen. But Mr Steadfast had to return at some time and then she’d retrieve what was hers.

  ‘Miss Simply…?’

  Rosie turned back to her grandfather. ‘I’m sorry Mr Homespun, truly I am, my mind was elsewhere.’

  ‘I was saying that I’ve finished my letter and shall be getting an early night’s rest; I suggest you do the same. Tomorrow I’ll look about the town and you…’

  ‘Shall go to the town’s popular haunts and listen to the chatter on the street. I’m well aware of the drill Mr Homespun.’

  Rosie got up to leave but the old man caught her wrist and held her back.

  ‘Are you sure nothing’s the matter girl?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ she said, smiling. ‘Quite sure, goodnight.’

  And with that she left him and retired from the room.

  The old man watched her go, finished his quart of brandy and sealed his letter with the wax from the candle at his table.

  ‘I’d like you to make sure this is delivered first thing in the morning,’ he said to the maid who was hiding behind the front desk. The girl was shaking and barely managed to force a smile. ‘Oh and pay no heed to my ward, Miss Simply, she means no harm. It’s the change in the weather, it plays tricks with her temperament.’

  The girl seemed eased by his words and thanked him and left through a back door with his letter. The old man was about to leave but his eye passed over the wall behind the desk and he paused. One or two room keys hung from their hooks and only one letter was propped up inside a wooden slot. He quickly checked that no one was watching before reaching over and pulling it from its place.

  On one side of the letter was the red wax stamp of the royal seal. On the other side was the name, Mr Henry Versatile. It was addressed to him.

  He rushed back to the quiet booth in the corner before breaking the seal. Out of the envelope came a letter, two invitations on fine card and a handful of notes. He smoothed out the letter and read it by the light of the candle. It was the same as the letter he had received the night before. It was the same in every respect, from the words on the paper to the hand they were written in. It was the letter’s twin.

  He let the paper drop and looked out of the window and down to the town, now sinking into the darkness.

  ‘What is this?’ he whispered to himself.

  Upstairs, Rosie leant on the sill of the open window and let the light breeze cool her senses. Lamps and candle-light shone like pale stars in the valley in the distance and the grass in the fields swayed gently in the evening air. She breathed in the heady spring scents and looked out over the headland.

  The peace lasted only for a moment.

  In the distance she caught movement coming up the hill and brought her lamp closer to her face. There was a figure running on the track up the hill towards the tavern. Too far away to make out, she could only tell the figure was no doubt in some distress for arms were flailing about in great distraction.

  Rosie ground down on her teeth. If it was that rogue Steadfast he’d feel the sharp end of her temper, that was for sure.

  The figure was coming closer and she could soon make out torn and ragged clothes. She pulled on her nightgown and, holding the lamp, ran out of her room, down the stairs and straight out of the front door. The man came closer still, not slowing down for a second, tripping in the dirt but pulling himself up and running on straight towards her. As he came into the light thrown out by the rooms of the inn she saw him clearly for the first time and took a step back.

  She had only ever seen a man with black skin in the drawings and paintings of Africa and exotic far-flung lands hung in galleries and manor houses. Never in the flesh and never like this. He was a man in tatters, bleeding, wild eyed and raving. When he finally reached her he collapsed in her arms.

  ‘H-o-w-l-a h-o-w-l-a!’ he choked. ‘How-la-la how-la-la!’

  ‘What? What’s that?’

  ‘H-o-w-l-a h-o-w-l-a!’ he cried again, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. ‘How-la-la how-la-la!’

  ‘I…I don’t understand, what do you mean?’

  But the man had fainted. She looked down at him, all bloody in her arms. He hung limply and one arm fell from her embrace, his hand opening and something falling out onto the grass. Rosie lifted up her lamp and looked down. Lying there on the earth was a silver chain running through a smooth stone circle ring. She picked it up. It was unmistakeable.

  It was her necklace.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Late morning in Hope brought a great hustle and bustle to the town. Corin Street was overflowing with excitement. Merchants, salesmen, landlords and peddlers were crowding every cobble on the street and shoppers jostled, bargained, haggled and shoved there way through the thoroughfare.

  Rosie had never seen anything like it. Had this once been the notorious town of riot and rebellion? She’d yet to walk down the great avenues of London (her grandfather refused to take her there he loathed the place so much), but from what she’d heard, this could bear little difference. There was hardly enough space to move, no matter see the delights of the town and she was forced to elbow, as politely as she could, anyone who refused to let her by.

  Everyone appeared to be wearing their finest dress. The gentlemen were all as smart as she had ever seen and the ladies wore gowns of silks in every colour imaginable. She had chosen a simple cream coloured dress to wear that morning, with a scarf about her neck and bonnet upon her head. Nothing of any particular beauty, as she didn’t want to court any unnecessary attentions. She would rather pass through the town pleasantly regarded and then immediately forgotten.

  Not once had she let go of her necklace, hidden under her scarf, not once since the business of the night before.

  Her grandfather had run out and met her outside, throwing his frock coat over the stranger and carried him into the tavern and up to her room. The man had remained unconscious for much of the night, twitching and trembling, as though a fever had taken a tight hold of him.

  Rosie had sat up and mopped his hot brow with a wet rag, watching him sleep. His eyes had flicked about under their lids an
d more than once he had jolted upright and they had both restrained him as he repeated his terrible cry.

  ‘H-o-w-l-a h-o-w-l-a!’ he had wept, his eyes opening and looking fearfully towards an empty corner of the room. ‘How-la-la how-la-la!’

  The sounds on the street were an empty blur as over and over she heard that cry as she walked past the numerous stalls, thanking each shopkeeper but no, she didn’t want anything today thank you.

  Yawning, she walked headfirst into the back of one of the town’s guardsmen, if that was what he was since she didn’t recognize his smart black and red uniform. She apologised with a grateful curtsy and smiled at the gentleman, telling him it was the fault of the uncommonly warm weather, but was met with nothing but disdain as he cut her off and went quickly on his way.

  Rosie watched, somewhat taken aback by his abruptness, as the guard made his way back down the street through the crowds and past another two guards, standing in an alleyway by a busy butchers shop. They all took notice of each other and gave a small nod. They were all three well armed, with a cutlass and dagger each. One looked up and nodded in the direction of a high window overlooking the street. She followed his gaze and saw a curtain move and clearly made out the red and black of another guard’s livery, and again on the other side of the street and once more, further up on a roof terrace.

  The town was being watched from every possible angle.

  Rosie circled around on the spot, seeing and counting more red and black uniforms when a voice came from behind her, making her start.

  ‘I know what you need me dearie,’ said the voice.

  Rosie turned around and was welcomed by a genial faced man in a crisp white shirt and a small apron covering a brightly coloured pair of breeches. The man beckoned her over and Rosie obliged.

  ‘Tell me then, Mr…?’

  ‘Potts me dearie. Mr Potts is me name.’

  ‘Tell me then, Mr Potts, what is it I need?’

  ‘A good cup of coffee is what you need. I’m a modest man, so me wife says, but I’ll be plain with you. I serve the best cup of coffee in Hope. It’ll liven your spirits and set you up for the rest of the day…’

  ‘I thank you but…’

  ‘I also have one of the smartest establishments in the town. You look like you’re lacking a good rest. It may please you to sit for a while and listen to all the gossip of the ladies and gentleman that pass through here.’

  Rosie paused, and remembered that she was indeed there to work.

  ‘You have twisted my arm Mr Potts. I’ll taste your coffee, sit for a while and…listen to the chatter of the birds,’ she said. It was what her grandfather had asked of her after all.

  Inside the shop, Mr Potts proved himself right on both accounts; a cup of coffee was exactly what she needed, and his shop (The Coffee Pott) was very agreeable. There was a gradual but constant flow of people coming in and taking a rest from the hectic rush outside on the street and many stayed and sat round at the tables and chatted their time away.

  ‘Lor’ how I am mistaken,’ said one. ‘The town is the most delightful feather in the cap of England.’

  ‘‘Tis a wonder indeed,’ said another. ‘I wish the whole country were like this.’

  ‘Without a doubt a miracle has taken place,’ said a third. ‘It was a ruin last time I passed through.’

  A small group of young ladies, of similar age to Rosie, were sat at the table next to hers, huddled tightly together and engaged in what looked to be a most animated discussion. Rosie casually edged her chair closer and leaned in to them, still toying with the stone circle around her neck.

  ‘…a widow at but three and twenty,’ said one of the girls. ‘Poor Kitty! My heart does bleed for the girl.’

  ‘The news is most sudden,’ said a girl to her right, a pale thing with thick, dark eyebrows and thin, lank hair. ‘However I think it’s best we don’t forget that Edward Smith…’ She quickly crossed herself and whispered God-rest-his-soul, ‘…that Edward Smith was not a man without enemies.’

  ‘True,’ said another girl, wearing a golden silk shawl and a bonnet brimming over with a large plume of feathers. ‘But I always hope that folk are never so pagan as to consider…’ she mouthed the word murder, ‘for so trivial a thing as money.’

  ‘Julia, you can only say that because you have so much of it.’

  ‘It’s no lie,’ she replied. ‘My marriage to Mr Belleville has, how shall I put it, stretched my purse strings!’

  Rosie sneered as they laughed at this.

  ‘It was most fortunate the day Mr Belleville and I were introduced. I don’t think I would have dared marry anyone with the name Smith. Imagine looking in a mirror knowing that a Mrs Smith looked back! How dreary!’

  Was this what it meant to be a fashionable young lady, Rosie wondered, to fritter the time away with idle chit-chat and boasting?

  She was about to up and leave but the lady they had called Julia began again.

  ‘I heard, and this is strictly between us my girls, I heard that Edward Smith…’ She also crossed herself and whispered God-rest-his-soul, ‘…that he died of fright.’

  The words settled amongst the group and they were silent for a moment, until the young lady with the thick eyebrows spoke up.

  ‘Well, Kitty isn’t exactly the pinnacle of beauty, I expect the sight of her in a night dress is enough to frighten any man to death.’

  They all burst into laughter once more and Rosie emptied her cup and left the shop, thanking Mr Potts on her way out.

  It seemed that the ladies of the town had only one thing to talk about that morning, for when she was looking in at a display of caps and bonnets in a milliners shop, a similar group of young ladies came in holding boxes and bags and gaily chatting away.

  ‘…oh I know! And so sudden. They say he died of fright.’

  ‘He could have died of the plague as far as I’m concerned, he still owed my Jack thirty pounds.’

  ‘And my Harry twenty pounds.’

  ‘The town’s well rid of him.’

  ‘Never liked the man.’

  What vile creatures they were in this town, Rosie thought as she greeted them as they passed by. They were hardly aware of her they were so engrossed in each other.

  ‘Styx is on his way over there now,’ said one of the ladies.

  ‘Styx?’

  ‘Mr Styx the undertaker. He has to collect the body.’

  That gave Rosie an idea. She hurried out of the shop and back onto the street and stopped the most polite and sober looking gentleman she could find.

  ‘Excuse me sir, I was wondering if you could help me, you see I’m looking for a florist.’

  The man, dressed from top to toe in sombre black, directed her to a small stall that he promised would be able to provide her with a bouquet for any occasion. Rosie thanked him and hurried on, pushing her way through the mass of people.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said to the florist. ‘I’d like to buy a small bouquet of white carnations with some white daisies, if you’d be so kind. They’re for a dear friend of mine who’s had the sad occasion of waking this morning and finding herself a widow.’

  The florist sympathetically gathered together the flowers and handed them to her but as she pulled open her purse to pay him a hand brushed hers and another gentleman joined them. Rosie looked up at a most handsome faced man with striking eyes, a thick head full of golden blonde, tightly curled hair and a wide smile that radiated both kindness and a quiet intelligence.

  ‘Allow me,’ said the man, handing several coins to the florist and picking another flower out from the display.

  ‘A rose for a rose,’ he said, offering her the flower. Rosie was surprised to find herself blushing and took the flower from out of his hand.

  ‘It’s not Rose…or Rosie for that matter sir,’ she stuttered.

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘My name sir, it’s Lizzie, Lizzie Simply, and I’m glad to make your acquaintance.’ She held out her hand, w
hich the gentleman lightly kissed, not once taking his eyes from hers.

  ‘Brash ma’am.’

  ‘Brash? Justice Brash? You’re not quite the man I was expecting. I very much hope to attend your ball tomorrow night.’

  ‘And I very much hope you will save a dance on your card for me.’ He flashed her another dashing grin and she looked down with embarrassment, much to Justice Brash’s delight.

  ‘I hope you like our town Miss Simply, we are all very proud of it,’ he said and she looked up at him.

  ‘I’m finding it more interesting by the minute Justice Brash.’

  ‘Please,’ he said, ‘call me Ambrose, and this is my gentleman-in-waiting Mr Hugh Monk.’ He gestured behind him and Rosie almost choked, for behind the dazzling Ambrose Brash stood a man as ugly as any she had ever seen. He had the complexion of curdled milk, a nose as crooked as a judge and what few strands of limp hair remained on his head he had combed over his forehead like several thin lines of ink. Rosie curtsied and the man nodded.

  ‘You wish to go anywhere in particular in the town Miss Simply? I should be happy to escort you.’

  ‘No, thank you, that won’t be necessary. Only,’ she suddenly remembered she had a great deal more important things to deal with than standing on a pavement and sharing pleasantries with handsome gentlemen, ‘I wish to deliver these flowers in person to Mrs Smith, the widow to the late Mr Smith. She was an old friend of mine but I simply can’t remember her address.’ She made sure she sounded as sweet as she could and smiled her most charming smile at him.

  ‘You will find her on Tartar Street just up the road. At number thirteen I think. Isn’t that right Mr Monk?’

  The man behind him nodded once, very slowly.

  ‘Not a terrible loss, if you’ll allow me to say so. A town cannot thrive when debtors walk the streets. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say, but I must be on my way,’ she said, turning to go.

  ‘I shall look for you at the ball,’ Ambrose Brash called after her and Rosie felt so red faced she wished she had brought a fan.