by Jack Elwin
CHAPTER 4 ROBBERIES?
ON THAT VERY SAME DAY, not long after Elizabeth had left, a young man of about my own age came into the shop with a lordly air.
‘Are you Mr Judd the apothecary?’ he demanded.
‘I am.’
‘Mr Dashwood wants you to attend upon his wife, Mistress Jessica.’
‘What is the matter with her?’
‘She is —’ he hesitated ‘— much disturbed. There has been a robbery, and she needs something to calm her perturbation.’
His rather formal words made me look at the man curiously. He was soberly dressed in black with a plain white linen collar, and had a thin straight nose and short mouse-coloured hair.
‘And who are you?’ I asked.
‘I am Mr Dashwood’s confidential secretary,’ he said proudly. ‘He has particularly instructed me to say that you are to come at once as he is most concerned about his lady. He thought perhaps a sleeping draught...?’
I did not like his tone or being treated like a servant by Mr Dashwood. But I needed the business, so kept my thoughts to myself.
‘I will bring what I have,’ I said, ‘so if you will wait a moment while I gather my things I will come along with you.’
‘I took a phial with a syrup of poppy, and another with a preparation of mandrake to calm her mind, and one or two other items which I thought might be useful. Then, having put on my hat and cloak and asked Agnes to mind the shop, I set off with the man. On the way I asked him how long Mistress Dashwood had been ill.
‘Since the robbery was discovered, at least that is what I understand,’ he said.
‘And when was that?’
‘I don’t know exactly. It was sometime yesterday I believe, when the soldiers were here. I came back with Mr Dashwood this morning, and we found the household all in disorder and the mistress still in bed.’
‘What has been stolen?’
‘You must ask Mr Dashwood.’
It was obvious that I would not get much information from the secretary. However, we soon reached the house, one of the larger ones in the High Street, and were let in by an old manservant. The secretary led me up the stairs, which were hung about with faded tapestries, to a wide landing, and as we approached a door I could hear the sound of moaning and weeping.
I went into the room, and saw a woman in a rich silk gown lying on her back on a four-poster bed—she was on top of the coverlet—holding her head with both hands and tossing from side to side, while she moaned and cried. An elderly maidservant was standing beside her at the far side of the bed, trying rather ineffectually to lay a hand on her tossing shoulder. Mr Stephen Dashwood was standing at the window with his back to her.
As I entered he turned and said, ‘Thank the Lord you’ve come at last. You’ve taken your time about it.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ I said, ‘I came straight away, as soon as your secretary called for me.’
‘At all events, you’re here. Now, for God’s sake, calm her, stop her making this fuss, put her to sleep.’
‘Before I give her any medicines I need to know a bit more about the cause of her complaint,’ I said. ‘What brought on this fit? and how long has she been ill?’
‘She’s been like this ever since I arrived back here this morning. She greeted me with the news that the house had been broken into—by soldiers she thought—and that her jewels had been stolen. And then she started laughing and crying as if she was having a fit.’ The mention of the jewels seemed to excite her further. Instead of crying she burst out into hysterical laughter and threw herself about more violently.
There was a jug of water on a little table beside the bed. I took hold of it and dashed some water in her face and slapped her smartly on the cheek. The effect was extraordinary. She stopped laughing and throwing herself about, went very red in the face and looked furious.
‘Now, drink this,’ I said, unstopping the mandrake phial and holding it to her lips. Somewhat to my surprise she drank it meekly, though screwing up her face at the taste.
‘That will make you calm,’ I said, ‘and now I will give you something which will help you to sleep, and when you wake you should be well.’
I gave her the sleeping draught, and again she drank it meekly and lay back on the bed.
‘By God, sir!’ Mr Dashwood began, but before he could say more I seized his arm and drew him out of the room. I shut the door, and said,
‘Excuse me interrupting you, sir, but she must be kept quiet and not excited further. She should soon be asleep and, as I told her, when she wakes she should be calmer.
‘By God, sir, your methods are drastic, but so far they seem to have worked. Hysterical women are creatures I cannot stand!’
‘Was she hysterical before you came home?’ I asked.
‘God knows,’ he said. ‘As I said, I came back this morning and found her like that. I couldn’t get any sense out of her, apart from wild talk about robbers and her jewels missing. Her maid showed me a damaged window which she said they had discovered earlier.’
‘When did they find it?’
‘It’s hard to get any sense out of any of them, but as far as I can understand they found it yesterday sometime, and thought someone had tried to break in and failed. But then they discovered my wife’s jewel box was gone and muddy footsteps were on the stairs. They presumed the robbery happened the night before or in the morning while the soldiers were still about. Most of the household were out in the morning, she said, so it might have happened then.
‘But why,’ he continued, as we went down the stairs, ‘when I had told her specifically to hide her valuables and to keep indoors while I was away, did she disobey my instructions? I ought never to have left her here alone, but I did think she had more sense. The damnable woman will drive me mad with her silly ways! And now she’ll expect me to buy her more jewellery to replace what she’s lost no doubt. Well, she’ll have to do without for a time—teach her to look after her things better.’
‘Yet, sir, one cannot know when robbers may come.’
‘But with soldiers about, and pillaging going on, I’m told, surely anyone with a grain of sense would have hidden valuables where they wouldn’t be found!’
‘Where exactly were the jewels?’
‘In a box in the cabinet in her bedroom, so the maid says. What could be more stupid than that? Just waiting for the soldiers to come and get it. She might as well have put it on the front doorstep.’
‘Are you sure it was soldiers who took the jewels?’ I asked, for it seemed rather odd to me.
‘That’s what the maid said, and in between her crying fits I believe that’s what my wife was also trying to say. Many people in the town have been robbed I believe.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but the sort of robbing soldiers usually do is much more open and rough. They wouldn’t creep in through a window at night, or in the morning when the house was empty. They would kick in your door without worrying who might see, and they wouldn’t just break one window—they’d smash the lot. They wouldn’t just take the jewellery either, but kick the furniture about and tear down some of your fine curtains.’
‘By God, I think you’re right,’ he said, ‘so it could have been done by a robber from the town.’
‘Much more likely, I should say.’
‘Mr Judd, you meet people of the lower sort, in the course of your work I mean. If in your travels you hear any rumour about this, any talk of jewellery being offered for sale cheap, or anyone boasting about it in the taverns, could you come and tell me. I would certainly reward you.’
‘I do not frequent the sort of taverns where thieves gather,’ I said firmly, for I resented his patronising tone. ‘However, it’s true that I meet a lot of people of all sorts, so if I do happen to hear of anything to do with this affair I will let you know. If you could describe to me some of the things that have been taken it might help. They could turn up in the market or in one of the jewellers’ shops, and if I knew what to look for I would keep an eye
out for them.’
‘A good idea,’ he said. ‘Come in here a moment and I will try to make you a list.’
He led me into a small room near the front door, a sort of closet with a desk and some shelves of books and ledgers. The secretary was sitting at the desk, but stood up as his employer entered.
‘Now, Henry, I wish to give Mr Judd here a list of what has been stolen,’ said Mr Dashwood, sitting on the chair he had vacated.
I sat on a hard stool while he wrote on a sheet of paper. I watched his face as he did so: it was leaner than his son’s, with deep lines each side of his mouth and thin pale lips. It was a hard, even a cruel, face—the face of a man to whom money and rank are more important than people and affection. His black hair, which came down over his ears, was beginning to turn grey.
He sprinkled some sand to blot his writing and showed it to the secretary.
‘Is there anything else, think you?’ he asked, and when the secretary said he couldn’t remember anything more he handed me the paper.
‘There may have been more taken, for aught I know,’ he said, ‘but these are pieces I am sure my wife had. One or two are easily recognisable, this ring for example.’ He pointed at the list. ‘It’s gold intaglio depicting a unicorn. This chain, too, would be easy to find. It has the links enamelled to show alternately leaves and flowers in green and white.’
‘Very well, sir,’ I said, ‘I will keep my eyes open when I go around. But I wouldn’t hope for too much, if I were you. Thieves usually break up easily recognisable pieces, and melt down gold or silver and sell the stones separately.’
‘At all events, if you do find out anything, and especially if you find out who the thieves are, I shall make it well worth your while.’
‘Could I see the broken window?’ I asked.
‘Come then,’ he said, and led me along a passage to the back of the house and into a square room where there were some benches and a table. Two young maidservants rose as we entered, and stood meekly in the presence of their master, and an old dog in a basket in the corner got up and sniffed my legs.
‘This is the servants’ hall,’ he said, though servants’ closet would have been a better description, ‘and the window is in this back pantry.’
He opened a door and I looked into a little room, hardly more than a cupboard, with shelves all up the wall on one side. There was a window, not very large, but I suppose someone could have wriggled through it. One of the panes of glass near the latch had been broken, so that it would have been easy for a robber to have opened it from outside.
‘This is the window they say they found open,’ said Mr Dashwood.
‘Where are the muddy footprints?’
‘They were all across the floor here, they said, and up the stairs. But the fools had cleaned them up by the time I got home.’
‘Was the dog here or away with you?’ I asked.
‘Here—and why the stupid animal did not tear the robbers to pieces I can’t think. He’s getting old and useless, and I’ve a good mind to get rid of him.’ He led me to the front hall and and said goodbye.
‘My fee,’ I reminded him, ‘or shall I send you the bill?’
‘How much?’ But when I told him he said, ‘a bit steep, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s the usual amount. If you consider that I’ve come to your house, taken up an hour or more of my time, supplied two medicines, and, I trust, cured your lady, I consider it very reasonable.’
He made a scornful-sounding grunt, and counted out the coins one by one into my hand, then instead of opening the door himself called out, ‘Robin, see this man out’, turned his back without another word to me, and went into his study. I waited, and had almost decided to let myself out when the old manservant who had let me in came hobbling up from the basement area and opened the door for me.
As I walked home I thought over what I had seen. Mr Dashwood was unpleasant, proud and rude, but I felt that, in spite of his quibbling about the fee, I had made a good impression on him and that he might call on my services again, which pleased me. But why his wife should have been so very upset and hysterical was puzzling. It had seemed to me that she had almost enjoying making a fuss, perhaps making more noise than she actually needed to. But if her husband was as unkind as he appeared she might have been exaggerating her distress in order to protect herself from his anger, though I suspected that it probably had the opposite effect, as he was made the more impatient by what he saw as her folly.
Then the robbery itself seemed odd. The dog had not barked, and only the jewel box had been taken. The robber seemed to have known exactly what to look for and where to find it. It looked very much as if someone in the household had taken advantage of the soldiers rampaging to do a robbery himself. The window could easily have been broken to make it look as if someone outside had broken in. And as for the footprints inside the servant’s room and on the stairs, they could have been made deliberately to deceive, or even (the thought suddenly struck me) might not have been there at all—in which case the servants, who had said they had seen them and then cleaned them up, might all be in the plot.
Next afternoon I set off to walk to Winterborne Monkton to see Mr Huatt’s brother-in-law as I had promised. The village is about two miles from Dorchester, a little to the west of the straight road to Weymouth, and (as Huatt had remarked) away from main route the soldiers would have taken. It was a lovely August afternoon, and I got rather warm as I walked.
Before I reached the Monkton road I turned aside a short way to Josias Whiteway’s cottage. He is little more than a jobbing labourer, but he is an excellent gardener, and I had an agreement with him for the supply of various plants I needed. I walked round his garden with him seeing what he had and pointing out what I wished to buy—such as beetroot, fennel, garlic, parsley and thyme. He promised to have them ready for me on my return. Meanwhile I went on to Monkton.
Near the village church I saw a woman feeding hens in her yard, and inquired the way to Mr Perrin. I wondered why she laughed in a rather peculiar manner as she directed me.
‘—if he’s there,’ she concluded, ‘but now he’s lost his horse an’ cart he’ll have to clip his wings, I guess.’
‘Whose wings?’ I said, puzzled, for I was watching her hens scratching about.
‘I mean he won’t be able to scote abroad so much,’ she said, by which I understood her to mean that Perrin would not be able to ‘scoot’ or travel about, having lost his horse and cart.
‘Did you have soldiers here yesterday?’ I asked.
‘We did an’ all. That’s when Perrin’s horse an’ cart were ta’en. They did take bed-linen an’ blankets an’ chickens. Thank the good Lord they didn’ take mine. But they took my neighbour’s crock.’
I thanked her and went further along a rutted lane that would be a sea of mud in wet weather, and came to a tumble-down farmstead—a cottage with ragged thatch in need of patching, a barn, and some cowsheds and pigsties with cracks in the walls. I could hear the sound of sawing coming from one of the sheds, so looked in and saw a short slightly built man with a grey beard and shiny bald head bending over a saw-horse and a small pile of logs, and realised that he was indeed the man I had seen talking to Huatt at the market.
‘Are you Jacob Perrin?’ I asked to make sure.
‘Who wants to know?’ he said.
‘I do.’
‘And who are you?’
‘My name is Judd, Micah Judd, apothecary of Dorchester, and I have business with Mr Perrin.’
‘That’s me,’ he admitted, ‘what do you want with me?’
‘I’ve come from your brother-in-law, Mr Huatt.’ I handed him Mr Huatt’s note, and he twisted it around close to his face, screwing up his eyes to examine it. Finally he said, ‘Looks like his fist, what’s he say?’
I took the note from him and read it out: ‘Dear Brother Perrin, I have asked the bearer, Mr Judd, to enquire further about the money and other things I entrusted to you. C
ould you please tell him anything you know which might help recover them. Lawrence Huatt.’
‘What does he want?’ said Perrin crossly. ‘I told him the so’jers had ta’en it.’
‘I think what he’s hoping is to discover which particular soldiers took it. If he knew who their officer was he could make a complaint, and perhaps get some redress, though I know that is very unlikely.’
‘Cocks might lay,’ said Perrin scornfully, ‘and I’ve no idea what so’jers they were. So’jers is so’jers, all turned out by the same devil, an’ I can’t tell one from another—specially when they come breäken in and robben honest folk.’
‘But they didn’t find your money, Mr Huatt said.’
‘No, they didn’t find that, but they took my hoss and my cart, and I won’t get ’em back this side o’ doomsday.’
‘How was it they took Mr Huatt’s treasure and not yours?’
‘I’d put ’em in different pleäces. ’Twere commonsense, though I had put ’em together at first. But when I thought on ’t I shifted his somewhere else, though it turned out to ha’ been a mistake. I would ha’ shared some o’ mine wi’ him, though even after his loss he must be twice as rich as I, but he was so vexed and accusing me o’ taking it for myself, that I didn’ feel like doing aught more for him.’
‘You can understand him being vexed,’ I said, ‘seeing what a big loss he’s had. I’ll enquire round the village about the soldiers. Someone may have heard exactly which regiment or troop they belonged to. Who else was robbed, do you know?’
‘Oh yes indeed, a deal o’ the cottages were given a going over, five or six, I reckon.’ He seemed to cheer up as he described his neighbours misfortunes. ‘Mrs Jenkins lost half her hens, old widow Harris had her bedding ta’en, and up at Manor Farm they lost quite a bit, I’ve heard.’
‘Right,’ I said, ‘I’ll ask folk what (if anything) they know. Could you just show me where Mr Huatt’s treasure was hidden?’
He seemed suddenly more reluctant to help.
‘Why would you want to see that,’ he said, ‘the stuff isn’t there no more.’
‘It might help,’ I said, ‘I can’t tell until I see it.’
He made a sort of grunt, and gestured towards the far corner of the cowshed.
‘In the manger over there,’ he said.
‘You hid it in the manger?’ I asked to make sure. ‘How was it covered?’
‘Wi’ a bit o’ hay. It were hidden fair enough.’
‘Wasn’t it a rather obvious place they might look?’ I said. ‘Where did you hide your stuff?’
‘’Tain’t none o’ your business,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you all I can—an’ you can tell Huatt that I’m sorry his stuff was ta’en (though I’ve told him that already, when he came yesterday). But if he wants me to share some o’ the loss he’d better come an’ ax me hisself.’
He ushered me out of the shed, and made it plain that he wanted me to leave. I spent another hour or so wandering round the village and talking to other people there. I could understand how Lawrence Huatt could have doubted that the soldiers had been there, as there was no damage to be seen. But as soon as I spoke the villagers it was clear that they were still shocked at what had happened. Four or five had been robbed and a number of cattle, several oxen and two horses driven off from Manor Farm. Yet no one was able to say which troop the soldiers were from or who their captain might be.
However, I introduced myself to everyone I met as ‘Mr Judd, the apothecary of Dorchester’, and told them how to find my shop, and two or three said they would call in next market day, so I did not feel my time had been completely wasted. But as I walked back to Josias Whiteway to collect my plants I felt my journey had, from Mr Huatt’s point of view, been largely unproductive, and that he would have to resign himself to the loss of his savings. True, Jacob Perrin had been careless in not finding a more secure hiding place for the treasure, but he could hardly be blamed for the crimes of the soldiers.
All I could do would be to set Huatt’s mind at rest—that soldiers had in fact been ransacking the village as Perrin had said, though of course that did not prove that Perrin had not stolen the money himself. And although Perrin’s offer to share the loss with Huatt made his honesty seem more likely, it was a bit grudging, and might have been made to conceal his wrongdoing. I did not imagine that Huatt would actually ask for compensation for his loss. It was probably true that he was still much richer than his brother-in-law, though appearances might be deceptive, and Perrin might be one of those men who deliberately strive to look poor in order to protect their wealth from thieves or tax-collectors or the envy of their neighbours.
I collected the plants, which Josias had ready for me in a bag or small sack, and paid him well, for those of his growing seem to have special virtue, but did not linger as I had already been away from home longer than I had intended. As I walked up the gentle hill towards South Gate I still puzzled over the problem of whether or not Mr Perrin was honest. One of the things which did not seem quite to fit was what he had said about the hiding place. I seemed to remember that Huatt had told me the treasure had been hidden in the barn, not in a manger in the cowshed, so this was something I must check. If Perrin had lied about it to one or other of us it could be that he was deceiving us further. Perhaps we would need to go together to confront him.
The militiaman on guard at the Gate was a rather surly fellow, who demanded to know where I had been and what I had in the sack. I was feeling hot and a bit cross, and decided to tease him.
‘Take care,’ I said, ‘I’ve an imp from hell here, and if you look too closely he’ll have your nose off.’
‘’Fore God,’ he said, drawing back hastily, ‘I’ll call the captain.’
‘No you old sammy,’ I said, ‘here, have a look.’
Very warily he looked in the sack and poked a beetroot with his finger.
‘Why did you say it was an imp from hell?’ he asked.
‘Why did you believe me?’ I retorted. ‘Cheer up, man, you may yet apprehend the devil!’ I walked on up South Street leaving him grumbling under his breath, and was glad when I reached home and sat down with Agnes to a hearty meal.
Afterwards I had to attend to the plants I had bought. Some of them would keep, but others needed to be pounded or boiled while their virtue was fresh. I was engaged in these tasks when there was a knock on the door: it was Nathan Whittle come to see me again, and he seemed even more depressed.
‘Oh my dear days,’ he said as he came through the door, ‘it is as I feared. Mr Dashwood came to see me this afternoon. I’m still in a tremble over it.’
‘Come in, Mr Whittle. Come and tell me about it.’ I took his arm and led him through to the parlour. He hardly waited to sit down before pouring out his troubles.
‘It’s dreadful, Mr Judd, all my hopes are gone! Mr Dashwood had heard—I don’t know how—all about my being robbed, and he wanted to know if it were true that I couldn’t pay the dowry I had promised for Elizabeth. I had to confess that it was true, though I told him that, given time, I hoped to make good my losses. But, oh dear oh dear, he wasn’t prepared to wait. He said he agreed with his son and that Nicholas too was not willing to go through with the match.’
I knew, of course, that it was Elizabeth herself who had told Nicholas about the loss, but there was no point in Mr Whittle knowing that. In any case he would have had to tell the Dashwoods soon enough, though I suppose he might have tried to raise the dowry money by borrowing.
‘I know you’re disappointed, Mr Whittle,’ I said, ‘but I do think this may all work out for the best. Nicholas Dashwood is not the sort of man I would like to spend my life with, and he would not have been a good husband for Elizabeth.’
‘I don’t agree with you about Nicholas,’ he grumbled. ‘He’s sown some wild oats no doubt, but that’s right and proper for a young man with money. And Elizabeth would have had a nice house, plenty of everything, even maybe a carriage. But there, it’s not to
be.’
‘Oh do cheer up, Nathan,’ I said. ‘There are other young men who would make far better husbands for her. You will yet find the right one.’
‘There are not many of the better sort who will take a wife without a dowry, and it’s hard for a young woman to wait, and maybe die an old maid.’
‘Don’t you believe it, Nathan. I’m sure there are a number of young men who would be delighted to have your daughter as a wife. In fact I met one the other day, an excellent young fellow, just starting out in the world, who would marry her tomorrow if you would agree.’
‘I can’t let her marry just anyone,’ he replied. ‘I had hoped to see her go up in the world, not down. Who is this young man? Do I know him? What’s his name?’
‘The one you mentioned to me yourself, Denis Faire. Yes, I know you’ve forbidden him to see her. Yet to me he seems a lively sort, who will make his way in the world . And he could make Elizabeth happy, I should think.’
‘Him!’ said Whittle going red in the face, ‘yes, I warned him off right enough. I know all about him. He may be a good enough fellow in his way, I daresay, but he’s not good enough for my daughter. He hasn’t even a proper trade, and he’s as poor as a mouse.’
‘He’s not so very poor, I think. He’s got a proper business, even if you don’t call it a trade. He’s found a gap in the market that no one else round here was filling, and he’ll do very well, I believe.’
‘That may be so,’ said Whittle, ‘that’s what he hopes, no doubt. But I can’t let my daughter marry a dealer in second-hand pots and pans and other such rubbish, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to keep her in the fashion she deserves. I think he’s hardly got two pence to rub together.’
‘I’m sure he’s not that poor,’ I repeated, ‘and even if he is, don’t you remember how you started out? You’ve told me many a time how you started off with nothing.’
‘That’s true, I did. But that’s the very reason I want Elizabeth to have a better start, to reach higher than I have done. I’ve worked hard all my life, Micah, and come up in the world. I don’t want Elizabeth to fall back into a lower state of life.’
‘I can understand that,’ I said, ‘but do consider, Mr Whittle: Is it better for her to marry the no-good son of a rich man, who will probably gamble his and your money away, and make her miserable into the bargain? Or would it be better for her to be joined to an up-and-coming man who will make a success of life, and make her happy as well?’
He gave a sort of grunt and was quiet for a moment. Then he said in an abrupt change of tone,
‘What I really came to see you about, Micah, is this: I know you go about quite a lot, and I wondered whether you ever go as far as Weymouth? You see, if someone could trace this Sergeant Barnby who took my money, and told him about Elizabeth and her lost dowry, it might touch his heart and he might even give some of it back. Then the Dashwood’s might change their minds.’
‘What nonsense, Nathan!’ I exclaimed. ‘I don’t think you’ve paid attention to anything I’ve been saying, if you’re still hoping for Nicholas as a wife for Elizabeth. And you can’t seriously believe that a soldier’s heart is going to be softened by a story like that! Anyway, your Sergeant Barnby has probably lost it all by now on gambling and drink, or shared it out with his friends. Soldiers don’t usually keep what they take, it’s easy come, easy go with them. And even if you got the money, do you truly think the Dashwoods would change their minds?—Well, I daresay they might if the dowry were big enough. But after the way they’ve treated you and her, would you really want young Nicholas as a son-in-law?’
‘If not him, some other respectable young man of good family.’
‘Put it out of your mind, Nathan. Be resolved, you’re not going to see your money again, and must accept things as they are. I’m sorry if I sound unkind, but it really is no good hoping for the moon!’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said gloomily, ‘but if there were the slightest chance of getting my money back it would be worth trying. I can’t bear the thought of just doing nothing about it.’
‘Well, all I can say, Nathan, is that while I’m travelling about I’ll certainly keep an eye out for your Sergeant Barnby. The trouble is, I don’t usually go to Weymouth, and I don’t intend to while the Cavalier army is there. But even if I met him I doubt if I could ask him what he had done with your money. He would probably knock my head off. So don’t harbour any false hopes, but do think over what I said about Denis Faire. Don’t reject him out of hand, for I think he will do well.’
But Whittle merely grunted, thanked me for listening to his troubles, and left. Yet my resolve not to travel into danger was soon to be altered, and I will tell you why.
