by Roz Southey
“It was his idea!” I said indignantly.
He bared his teeth at me. “And you didn’t try and talk him out of it?”
“How the devil could I do that?”
He brooded in silence. “You might at least have brought back his sword.”
“His sword?” I echoed, startled. “Damn! I never gave it a moment’s thought.”
“It’ll be halfway to London by now,” Fowler said. “It’s Spanish – worth a fortune.”
I saw again the attacker, a greatcoat buttoned over his clothes, a cloth about his face, a hat rammed down over his hair. Sword lifted, ready to run Heron through with his own weapon. (I was not going to tell Fowler that!) And the moment our eyes met, it was as if he had said, Not this time. Not now. But later?
And the sword had gone arcing into the undergrowth.
Was all this – a challenge? A contest to see which of us would be the victor?
“Well?” Fowler said sourly. “You going to look for it, then?”
The man really was obnoxious. His familiarity grated, his insolence irritated me beyond measure. The only thing I couldn’t object to was his loyalty to Heron. “Did you find out anything in the village.”
“And that’s another thing,” he said. “Sending me off when Heron needed me.” He bit down hard on his anger; his lean face looked harsh. “I asked. But you’ll not like the answer.”
“No strangers?”
“Not for months. Not for years. Not in the village or round about it.” Some of the tension went out of him. “This place would drive me crazy. Most excitement they’ve had this year is when Mrs A snapped at the schoolteacher on Sunday. Swore like a man, they said. Oh, and the London coachman and all the footmen are light-fingered. Which wouldn’t surprise me in the least. Now get out of here and get me that sword!”
“Please would be welcome,” I said.
“That’s supposing I wanted to be polite,” he said. “And I don’t. I’ve known nothing but trouble ever since I met you.”
“Funny,” I said. “I was thinking the same of you.”
He grinned though there was sourness in the twist of his mouth. He was venting his fury and helplessness on me – and why not, if it made him feel better?
“Look after Heron,” I said.
“What the devil do you think I’m going to do?”
As I went downstairs to retrieve the sword, I knew I was missing something. The look the attacker had given me... It had been so oddly intimate. As if the fellow knew me. Indeed, why should he challenge me otherwise? But did that suggest it was someone I’d offended? Or who had a grudge against me? Had Nell and the chapman had been killed as a part of that challenge? Surely not. Nell’s death had been the catalyst for this affair; any ‘duel’ with me was the result of her death, not a cause of it.
Conversation drifted out of the breakfast room. William Ridley was again expounding on the woodland dispute, his grumbles this time aimed at the iniquities of the English legal system which demanded facts, facts and more facts “when everyone knows what happened!” Fischer was doing his best to divert Ridley with tales of Philadelphia, but failing. I heard another man mutter; Philip Ord said sharply, “My wife, sir, is a very sensible woman.” High praise, I thought.
I went into the dining room, intending to make my way out into the gardens. I expected to see the room still in uproar after the revelries of the previous night but the glasses and the cards and the used chamberpots had been removed, and vast quantities of fresh flowers brought in, probably to disguise the smell of piss and drink. One maid still lingered, on her hands and knees, rubbing furiously at the Turkish rug. A line of muddy footprints.
She looked me up and down and snapped, “Mind out the way.” She brushed damp hair out of her eyes. “I don’t want you messing up what I’ve already done.” She went back to her work, the hair falling across her face again.
I studied the muddy footprints. From their outline – clearer in some places than in others – I could see they started at the window and came across to the door where I stood.
I was the one who’d made those footprints. Sodden and dishevelled, I’d traipsed in all the mud and water from the canal. There were fainter traces of other prints, perhaps made by Hugh or Heron.
“Well,” the maid said. “Are you coming through or not?”
“I’ll go round the other side of the chairs,” I said. “To keep out of your way.”
“Yes. Well,” she said, sitting back again. “If you find the gent that did this, you can tell him from me, I don’t take kindly to him. They don’t pay me enough to do this sort of thing.”
The table had been pushed back to give her better access to the rug. I edged round it – and came to a sudden halt, just as I was about to push between two close-set chairs.
There were more footprints, fragmentary – just an outline here and there but still unmistakable. A lump of mud had been deposited by an occasional table, with a fragment of dark moist leaf still attached.
“There are more footprints round here,” I said.
The maid shrieked and leapt up. And while she was swearing and complaining and condemning all gentlemen to their own cleaning up, I was staring at the prints and pondering on their significance with equal intensity.
Hugh and I had gone straight from the window to the door. We’d not come anywhere near this side of the room. These prints had been made by someone else entirely. Someone who’d also been out in the gardens last night.
The murderer?
31
And then of course the ostler took my sixpence and never brought me the journal I requested. Never trust a servant!
[Letter from Retif de Vincennes, to his brother, Georges, 10 August 1736]
I looked down from the bridge into the canal; the water was a muddy brown, as if my fall had stirred up all the silt at the bottom. I shivered. It was one of those days when clouds chase each other across the sky and warm sunshine is followed by chill shade.
There were a few patches of dried mud on the bridge, bearing fragments of footprints, too slight to be informative. Two darker spots were almost certainly Heron’s blood. The path beyond the bridge, leading into the wood, had patches of obdurate mud on it, suggesting that in wet weather it was a mire. I remembered Heron jumping over one of those patches –the murderer must have trodden in one and trailed the mud back into the house.
I sat down on a fallen tree at the edge of the wood, with a magnificent view of the old house, looking across the rather too formal gardens to the odd corner turrets and the small windows. Efforts to modernise the house had left it lopsided. Those big doors on to the terrace in the drawing and dining rooms certainly made the rooms lighter but were entirely out of character. It was an amazingly old-fashioned place and I couldn’t blame Alyson for wanting to pull it down and start again.
The murderer had been out in the mud and trailed it back in. But that meant he’d boldly walked into a room full of gentlemen, any one of whom could have noticed him. But of course, if he was a servant, not one of them would have seen him. Even if he was not, the gentlemen had probably all been so drunk they would not have noticed a bull trampling through the room. Except possibly Alyson. But it was still a huge risk to take.
Had he sneaked in later, after all the gentlemen had gone to bed? Surely the window would have been locked? It had still been open well after midnight when Hugh and I dragged Heron back in but Alyson had called Crompton, and the butler might well have seized the opportunity to lock up. After all, one of the guests had just been attacked in the grounds – it would be logical to secure the house against any marauders still wandering about.
I needed to talk to Crompton. Fowler was patently procrastinating on the matter.
I realised I’d been watching, without really seeing, a figure make its sedate way through the gardens, dropping out of sight for a moment behind the fountain then coming into view again. The slim figure of a woman in a gown of pale green billowing slightly in the bree
ze. Fair hair was piled up on her head except for two or three small ringlets; the lappets of that appalling cap danced about her neck. She was glancing from side to side as if sight-seeing, but I knew that purposeful walk all too well.
Esther was coming to talk with me.
Her gown – her expensive, hand-embroidered, voluminous gown with dozens of yards of expensive material in it – swished against the upright of the narrow bridge; the trailing material caught briefly on a splinter then came free. Esther stood over me, as I stumbled to my feet.
“I’ve come to apologise,” she said.
Startled, I began to protest but she shook her head.
“I was unforgivably rude at breakfast. I was worried. I had been hearing ridiculous speculation about what had happened, and Catherine told me you had instructed her to lock the door and barricade it. And then,” she said with smiling severity, “you had the audacity to be well and uninjured!”
I smiled back, then hesitated. “I remember when you wouldn’t have needed to ask what had happened – you would have been there.”
“And you would have been trying to persuade me to retreat to somewhere safe, and let you take care of the matter.”
I grimaced. “I don’t claim to be consistent!”
She lifted a hand, smoothed the cloth of my coat. Her hand was warm and heavy on my chest. I looked down into her sombre face, raised my own hand to touch hers.
“Charles,” she said patiently, “I am trying to reassure the ladies and gentlemen that marrying you will not cause society to collapse in chaos!” Her tone was playful but when she raised her grey eyes to mine, I saw an obstinate steely determination. “Putting my breeches away and abjuring expeditions like last night’s is a small price to pay.”
“I think it too high a price,” I said on impulse and went recklessly on. “And what must I do? A gentleman does not earn his living. Am I to put aside my music and sit at home all day managing your estates? Because I tell you now, Esther, I cannot do it! I will ruin you and myself at the same time. I have not the least idea of the workings of estates, and to ask me to give up music is like tearing out part of my soul.”
I stopped, breathing heavily. Esther stood, her pale hair touched by sunshine, her face set and hard. “We will marry, Charles,” she said. “Only I can break the betrothal. And I will not.”
I watched her walk away, sedately, calmly, back across the bridge and up the long central walk of the formal gardens. Lizzie Ord, accompanied by a severe-looking middle-aged maid, was peering into the dry fountain; she waved at Esther and the two women met, overshadowed by the statue of the nymph. So different. Esther with hair of light gold, Lizzie with dancing brown ringlets. Esther in green as pale as the nymph herself might have worn, Lizzie in delicate blue with darker blue flounces. Esther calm and grave, Lizzie excited and chattering.
I did not want Esther on the terms she offered. I wanted the woman I’d fallen in love with – the cool, collected woman who didn’t care a fig for what anyone else said, who adopted or rejected the conventions of society according to whether she found them convenient, not according to the dictates of other people. And I thought that no amount of conventional behaviour would reconcile society to our marriage.
But Esther is as obstinate as Heron. It must be something in the upbringing the gentry give their children.
I pushed through the brambles and wild roses at the foot of the trees in an effort to find Heron’s sword. I had visions of him demanding I pay for a replacement if I couldn’t find it. I snagged my clothes on thorns, stained my fingers with red blackberry juice. I kicked over a fallen branch and disturbed a nest of ants. At last I caught a bright glint among the bushes and brushed away a layer of dead leaves and broken twigs. Heron’s sword had been driven almost to the hilt into the soft earth; I pulled it free.
Damp soil and mud dulled the weapon, but it seemed undamaged – no nick in the edge. I lifted the blade to peer along it, in case the light caught a scratch. It was slim and elegant and felt lighter in my hands than Fischer’s had. And yet Alyson had been willing to pay highly for the old thing. Still, I was no judge of the matter.
I was hardly halfway up the formal gardens when I saw Hugh, magnificent in a dark plum coat and pale lilac waistcoat, hurrying down the path towards me.
“Where have you been?” He was out of breath. “No, never mind. There’s the devil to pay. They’ve found the book!”
“Good God,” I said blankly. “Oh, you mean the substitute book. The one the murderer took. Where?”
“Crompton had it! Devil take it, Charles, the butler ambushed you and Heron!”
32
The crucial thing, I find, is never to be frank and honest in speech – it causes so much trouble. The English are not used to it.
[Letter from Retif de Vincennes, to his brother, Georges, 10 August 1736]
Alyson had braved the servants’ quarters. When Hugh and I ran into the passageway that led to the cellar and the butler’s pantry, the servants were standing in doorways – the hall, the kitchen, the scullery – all looking black as thunder. One or two moved back quickly when they saw the sword I held.
We heard Alyson twenty yards away. He was shouting at the top of his voice, cursing, demolishing Crompton’s character, threatening transportation or hanging. The door to the butler’s pantry was wide open; I caught a glimpse of a chair and table, a coat hung on a hook. Crompton was in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, an impressive man, strongly built and towering at least six inches over the slight Alyson. But he looked red-faced and dull-eyed, defeated.
On the table behind him was a brown paper wrapping, opened to show a book.
I strode in. “Alyson, what’s going on?”
He stopped in mid-rant, stared at me. His gaze flickered to the sword. I had the impression he’d been expecting me – he looked resigned.
“Demsey tells me you think Crompton stole a book.”
Alyson gestured towards the table. “Not a book. The book.” His face was flushed and excited. “The one Heron chose as the substitute for last night’s trap! The villain seized it from you, did he not? He ran off with it. And today I find it in Crompton’s pantry!”
I looked Crompton up and down. “He wasn’t one of the two who attacked us last night. Much too tall and heavily built. The two villains were slender and only of medium height – indeed, one was quite short.”
“Then he’s their accomplice!” Alyson began to pace the room, ignoring the pale-faced butler and the other servants at their cautious distance. “There must be a servant helping these villains. Who else could have left the notes for you?”
“That’s true,” Hugh said.
I looked at Crompton. He shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“How did you know the book was here?” I asked Alyson.
“Pure chance!” His face glowed. “I couldn’t help you last night, Pattinson, but I thought there must still be something I could do. It was obvious a servant must be in on the plot.” I heard mutters of resentment at that from outside. “So I thought I’d check their quarters. And by pure good luck, I found it the first place I looked!”
“How fortunate,” I said. “But I repeat – Crompton was not one of our attackers last night. Anyone could have put the book here.”
“The room’s locked every night.”
“But opened every morning?”
Crompton found his voice, said hoarsely, “Yes, sir.”
“It’s gone midday,” I said. “There’s been plenty of time for someone to slip the book in here.”
Alyson was plainly unwilling to give up his theory. “But why should they?”
“Once the attackers discovered the book was not the one they wanted,” I pointed out, “they had to get rid of it. It obviously wouldn’t be long before someone decided to search the house for it. By putting it in someone else’s room, they divert suspicion away from themselves, lead us off on the wrong track altogether.”
Alyson’s eyes were alight wit
h laughter. “My God, Pattinson, you’re well versed in this game of deceit, I see!”
“It’s not a game,” I said. “Two people are dead.”
Alyson tried to look sombre but his mouth still quirked with amusement. “Of course, of course. Are you saying then, Pattinson, that we can draw no conclusion at all from finding the book here?”
“None at all,” I said, then added, “Except that Crompton is therefore probably the least likely person to be our murderer.”
“Could be a double-bluff,” Alyson said wickedly, clearly unaware of the way Crompton’s cheeks paled again.
“I don’t think our attacker is that clever,” I said.
Alyson grinned. “Nonsense, Pattinson.” He swept up the book into his arms. “What do you say to a bet? I’ll wager you fifty pounds that the fellow gets away with it!”
I didn’t have fifty pounds. Fifty pounds was around my average income for the year.
“I don’t like to take your money,” I said.
He crowed with laughter. “Don’t spoil the fun, my dear fellow! Let’s set a date. It’s now August; let’s say that if the fellow’s still not caught by the end of the year, we’ll assume he has escaped for ever and I’ve won. No, no – ” He lifted a hand to forestall me. “You can’t back out of a bet, you know, not the done thing at all! Well, I shall go off and give the matter some serious thought. Maybe I can come up with some clue that will lead us to the truth.”
“Even if by so doing you lose your bet?”
He grinned. “Even so. My dear Pattinson, I would not miss this for the world!”
“Patterson.”
He nodded and went off whistling.
“Pompous, ignorant, conceited ass,” Hugh said, after having first made sure Alyson had disappeared through the door into the family part of the house. “Betting on something as serious as this!”
I closed the door; Hugh stood by it to make sure the other servants did not eavesdrop. Crompton sank down into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
