The Echo at Rooke Court

by Harriet Smart

  He added a few more affectionate lines and then sealed the letter, thinking still of the implications of Mark Hurrell’s words. Did he mean to accuse his father of actual harm to his mother in that reference to punishment? Given the barbarities inflicted on the son by the father in the name of discipline described at painful length elsewhere in the book, it was hard not to draw the conclusion that he meant something serious by it. Even the implication that Sir Morten had been violent to his wife was scandalous enough, but Giles wondered if Hurrell was not implying something else about the circumstances of his mother’s death.

  He went to bed, musing on it still, and was somewhat surprised not to be disturbed by any summons from the fever hospital. Carswell arrived back at about six and they had breakfast together. Carswell was too tired to make much conversation and Giles was anxious to be about his own business, so he left him to his sleep.

  He reached Northminster just before nine and went straight to The Black Bull to change and shave. Holt was waiting for him with hot water, coffee and his letters.

  “What is the news in Northminster?” said Giles, sitting down to allow Holt to shave him. “Any disturbances in Jebb Street?”

  He had set Holt in his absence to watch for any unusual activity outside Wytton’s Bank.

  “Not that I saw, sir,” said Holt, “and I kept at it pretty constant as you told me. I was away an hour or two yesterday afternoon – Mr Yates from the Treasurer’s House wanted my assistance and I do not like to refuse him.”

  “No, no, you must not offend Mr Yates,” said Giles with a smile. Yates was Sally and Lambert’s butler, a recent addition to the household. A most superior and scrupulous character, he had been setting the house to rights while his master and mistress were away with their children in the Channel Islands.

  “And that is all in hand?”

  “I have never seen a house in such good order,” said Holt.

  “It is just as well, then, that Tom will only be staying there a few days before he goes on to Edinburgh,” Giles said. Tom, his nephew, was due to start a course of study at the University, before being apprenticed as an engineer.

  “It is,” said Holt. “I don’t think Mr Yates is too fond of young gentlemen.”

  “He is growing up fast. He will be less of a bear soon enough,” said Giles.

  “Afterwards, we looked over Rooke Court together,” Holt went on as he scraped his blade along Giles’ jaw. “He pities me, sir, although he is civil about it. He said something about never taking a place in a rabbit warren.”

  “And do you agree with him?” said Giles.

  “I do and I don’t, sir,” said Holt. “But I’m used to roughing it. It is my Mary-Anne and Mrs Patton, and the mistress, that I worry about. It is the women who feel the wrongs of a place far more than men.”

  “True enough,” said Giles.

  “Having said that,” Holt went on, standing back for a moment to contemplate his work, “there is a pretty room by the kitchen that would make a very comfortable parlour bed-sitting room for Mary-Anne and me, if you and the mistress thought it suitable, that is, sir?”

  “I think I know the room you mean. Yes, that would be convenient for everyone, certainly,” Giles said, getting up and washing the remains of the soap from his face, thinking again of Hurrell’s book. Holt was standing behind him holding his clean shirt. “If there is time today we will look over the house together, if you like? I would be interested to hear what Mr Yates said. I am sure he had some good suggestions.”

  “Yes, he did,” Holt said. “But they were all of the ‘how I might serve dinner for a company of four and twenty’ sort, and I did not care to tell him that – well, you know what I mean, sir.”

  “That we have scarcely enough spoons between us for our own family use?” said Giles. “My apologies, Mr Holt. I have brought you to a sorry pass and if you and your future wife wish to take your leave of us, then we will quite understand.”

  “Should not dream of it, sir,” said Holt, helping Giles into his coat. “Twenty-four sitting down for dinner sounds like a great deal too much work for me, although I suppose Mary-Anne would not baulk at it.”

  “We shall have to try and oblige her with a little grandeur occasionally, but twenty-four – I think not,” said Giles, collecting up the contents of his coat pockets that he had taken out to change his coat. “So she does not forget all she has learnt at Holbroke.” As he did this, his notebook fell open and he noticed the widow Dixon’s address. He decided he would pay her a brief call before he went about the rest of his business.

  “She will not expect that, sir,” said Holt. “She’s happy to be a plain cook from now on. She has scalded herself enough times on the boiling sugar. No, all she wants is a cat. She talks about nothing else!”

  ~

  Mrs Dixon lived in a neat little house in a street near the Minster. He found her sitting with two of her neighbours, drinking tea. All three women were widows, their lush black weeds suggesting an equal adherence to propriety and fashion. There was a rustle of good quality silk as they adjusted their chairs to admit him to their company.

  “Now, what can I do for you, Major Vernon?” said Mrs Dixon, having insisted on making him tea. “I must say, this is somewhat exciting. You are famous, you know.”

  “Yes, we have read all about your exploits in The Bugle, Major Vernon,” said another of the widows, Mrs Geoffrey.

  “I hope you haven’t done something wicked, Anna,” said the third widow, Mrs Keyes. “Is there something you haven’t told us about?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. And if I have, I have forgotten!” said Mrs Dixon. “So, Major Vernon, what do you want to know of me?”

  “It’s to do with your financial affairs. I hope you do not mind.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I understand you have an account at Wytton’s Bank.”

  “Yes, I have a little money lodged there. Not much. I don’t know why I have it there still, for the return on it is not good. Mrs Keyes here was suggesting I move it.”

  “But you have not moved it yet?”

  “No, no, certainly not.”

  She got up and went to the desk and began searching through a drawer.

  “You certainly should,” said Mrs Keyes. “I have heard –”

  “Yes?” said Giles.

  “Mrs Keyes is very sharp on these matters,” said Mrs Geoffrey.

  “My late husband taught me the rudiments,” said Mrs Keyes. “And one would be foolish not to keep one’s eye on fiscal matters, both local and national. When one has only one’s capital to live upon, the interest or lack of it is everything.”

  “So you have heard something that alarms you about Wytton’s Bank?” Giles said.

  “Enough for me to advise that Mrs Dixon move out her money.”

  “But it is only a matter of twenty-five pounds,” said Mrs Dixon.

  “Only?” said Mrs Keyes. “I would move it if it were twenty-five farthings.”

  “What have you heard that makes you so uneasy?” said Giles.

  “I have a little acquaintance with Mrs Pierce –” Mrs Keyes said.

  “As do I,” said Mrs Geoffrey. “And now he is in an insane asylum – Mr Pierce, that is. Had you heard that?”

  “No!” said Mrs Dixon, returning to the tea table. She had in her hands an account book. “No, surely not?”

  “I did hear that,” said Mrs Keyes. “It is dreadful. And yet –”

  “Yes?” Giles said.

  “It did not surprise me. Mrs Pierce told me that he has been working himself into the grave trying to keep the bank afloat. She was being most unguarded, but I don’t suppose she understands his business affairs and she was worried sick, and with good reason. So I have been wary of that establishment.”

  Giles turned to Mrs Dixon.

  “What I wish to confirm is that you definitely have not closed your account at Wytton’s.”

  “No, no I have not. See,” she said, opening
the account book. “This is the page for Wytton’s. If I had closed the account I would have crossed it all out. Mrs Keyes has made me scrupulous, for which I am grateful, for I am sure I am far better off than I was, before she took me in hand! I was such a muddled fool about money!”

  “When did Mrs Pierce say that to you, Mrs Keyes, about keeping the bank afloat?” Giles said.

  “About six months ago. That is when I told you to close the account.”

  “You see my reformation is not quite complete,” said Mrs Dixon, with a smile. “But I shall do it at once, I promise.”

  “Mind you do,” said Mrs Keyes, “you never know what may happen. I was reading in The Times yesterday that there has been a terrible failure in the Swedish railways. I forget the name of the company, but the whole thing has overspent and fallen into utter disarray.”

  “Swedish railways?” said Giles.

  “Yes – oh, what was the name? Oh yes, I have it now, Major Vernon: The Stockholm and Malmo Railway Construction Company. One of the directors committed suicide.”

  “This was in yesterday’s Times?” said Giles, getting up from his seat. Mrs Keyes nodded. “Excuse me ladies, I must go now. You have all been wonderfully helpful!”

  ~

  “Yesterday’s Times?” said Tom O’Brien. “It’s still here, I think, with the other papers.”

  “You don’t have any money in Wytton’s, do you?” Giles said, while he was looking for it.

  “No. Is there a problem?” When Giles did not answer, he said, “Then there is. How bad?”

  “Can you hold it for a day or so?” Giles said, laying the paper on the table and opening it.

  “This week’s Bugle has just gone to bed,” said O’Brien. “You’re in luck.”

  “There is a part of me,” Giles said, “that wants every depositor banging on the door demanding every last farthing from them. But that would hardly be conducive to public order, and I am beginning to fear the money is all long gone and there will be misery for a great many because of it. Ah, here we are – The Stockholm and Malmo Railway Construction Company.”

  “Oh, yes, I saw that. Has Wytton’s put money into it?”

  “I don’t know. Have you heard any rumours? I have picked up a couple about the place. But I do know for sure they have been closing accounts fraudulently, presumably to cover losses.”

  O’Brien whistled. “That’s a risky strategy. So they must be in a bad state.”

  “Hence the attempted arson.”

  “That’s for certain now?”

  Giles nodded, scanning the article.

  The company’s losses are estimated to be at least ten million kroner. The company was heavily promoted throughout the Continent and this correspondent believes that there are several large investors in England and France who will stand to lose considerable amounts.

  “Names no names, though,” said O’Brien.

  “No,” said Giles. “But it’s something. May I take this?”

  “Certainly,” said O’Brien.

  “And is that sharp nephew of yours still staying with you?”

  “Jerome? Yes. He’s just in the print room.”

  “He wanted to know what police work was like. If he’s still interested, I have a job for him. If you can spare him for a day?”

  “Certainly. I’ll get him. He’ll be pleased.”

  “I’m not sure he will be,” Giles said.

  ~

  “All these, sir?” said Jerome, looking at the large pile of bound volumes of The Northminster County Gazette and The Northern Courier heaped on the deal table in the small back room at the Northern Office that had been designated a library. The collection was not yet as extensive as Giles would have liked, but he had been fortunate to pick up the old bound volumes of the newspapers at a recent auction.

  “Yes, all of them. But you can stop at 1833. When you see any reference to unexplained fires, in any context, you will take a note, with the page number and column number, and give me a précis.”

  “A précis, sir?”

  “A summary. Just a few words. For example, unexplained fire in warehouse in Northminster.”

  “I see, sir,” said Jerome.

  “The place of the fire is most important. Don’t omit that.”

  “No, sir, I won’t.”

  “If there is difficulty, go and speak to Inspector Rollins. He will make sure you get some dinner as well. I have to go now.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jerome. “Can I just ask one more thing, sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why?”

  “We are looking for an arsonist at work some fifteen years ago. Someone who caused considerable damage but got away with it.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Jerome. “At least I think I do, sir.”

  “The picture is never clear until the end. To be honest, at the moment there are so many questions unanswered,” said Giles, “if that’s any comfort to you. It will be tedious work, for which I apologise, but if you find what I am after, then you will have helped a great deal.”

  “Then I’d better make a start, sir,” said Jerome, pulling his stool up to the table and opening the volume for 1820.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Mr Braithwaite sat in silence for some minutes after Giles had finished his account of what had happened to his wife. Then he knotted his huge hands together in front of his mouth, and closed his eyes for a moment, apparently praying.

  They had gone into the parlour in the small house attached to the forge, a room that was obviously little used, but all was in scrupulous order, with even a posy of flowers decorating the old oak table.

  “Lucy has been keeping house as well as her mother,” said Braithwaite, breaking the silence, and then, utterly overcome, he leapt from his chair so violently that it was overturned, and left the room.

  Giles put the chair to rights and waited for him to return, wondering if any new information would be forthcoming.

  Having composed himself a little, Braithwaite returned with a bottle of brandy and two small pewter mugs.

  “I’m not a drinker, sir,” he said, “but sometimes needs must. Will you have one, sir?” Giles shook his head. Braithwaite poured a measure and sipped it tentatively as if he thought it poison.

  “So, you think she set that fire in town?” he said, sitting down again.

  “There is no doubt that she did,” Giles said. “The question is why. Now, I know this is painful for you, but can you think of any secret difficulty that might have set her on such a path? I am certain she was forced to act, and if we are to find who was responsible, then her name will partially be cleared.”

  “I wish I could say. But I’ve nothing for you. Forced into something – that doesn’t sound like my Esther. You could not force her to do anything, let alone anything that was wrong. All these years I’ve know her, she’s never –” He gulped. “She’d never been anything but straight. That’s why I married her. I thought a good woman would make me good, and I pray to God that I have been a good man, but this, this is all too...” He took another sip of brandy and grimaced at the taste again. “I hope you are wrong, sir, that I do!”

  “And you can think of no connection between your wife and Miss Margaret Wytton? She never worked at Raythorpe Hall?”

  Braithwaite shook his head.

  “But I know they were put to nurse with her mother, his present Lordship and Miss Margaret, but that was long before I came here. And her mother died when she was ten.” He gave a sigh. “I suppose you could talk to her sister – if you can find her.”

  “Mrs Braithwaite had a sister?”

  “Half-sister. She’d been married afore, had Esther’s mother, or at least all said she was married, to keep it straight. I don’t think there was a husband, to tell you the truth, just a child – and that was Esther’s older sister, Ruth.”

  “Who took her stepfather’s name? Which was Apley?”

  Braithwaite shook her head. “Ruth Hull. She was always called H
ull.”

  “And you don’t know where she is?”

  “She went into service just after I came here. I’m glad she did, for she was – well, handsome like my Esther. Very handsome, in fact, and I was a lad of sixteen and she was the same age. I think I should have found myself in the way of temptation, because she had that way of acting that girls sometimes have, as if they are women already. You know the sort of thing, sir?” Giles nodded. “Mr Apley was glad to be rid of her,” Braithwaite went on. “But apparently it was a good place she was going to. She was full of talk about being a lady’s maid and then she went, and I don’t know if she even wrote to her family. Esther never liked to talk about her.” Braithwaite sat back in his chair as if surprised at himself for remembering all this. “But that’s all I can tell you about her.”

  “You don’t know if they have been in touch at all?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose she might have written and Esther not told me. She did not like to talk about her and so we did not.”

  “Might I look through your wife’s things?” Giles said.

  “I suppose you must. When shall we get her home for burial? I should like her home soon.”

  “I don’t know. I will get an answer for you as soon as I can.”

  Braithwaite left him alone in their bedroom, having pointed out the large carved chest at the foot of the bed as particularly belonging to Esther. The box was full of lavender bags and carefully stored linen, but it also contained a Bible and a prayer book, a few trinkets and ribbons, and another small wooden box. This contained her marriage lines and a tiny gold ring attached to a ribbon. The Bible was inscribed “Esther Apley” in careful copperplate, while the prayer book said “Ruth Hull.” Giles wondered why Ruth had not taken her prayer book away with her when she went into service. He flipped to the end to the blank pages and found another inscription: “To my little Esther, with all my love, Ruth. I know I don’t deserve to be remembered, but I know you will, my sweetheart.” Below it she had drawn a heart broken in two.