The Keeper of Secrets

by Judith Cutler

  Poor Hansard’s time was taken up with an outbreak of what we feared was scarlet fever. Mercifully he was soon able to confirm it as a simple measles epidemic. Even that, no more than a nursery ailment in the big houses, claimed lives in the cottages, and I had a steady, sad stream of burials to deal with. Some families dealt with their bereavements phlegmatically; others grieved so painfully I had had to pull more than one woman back from her infant’s coffin. Many belatedly asked me to baptise the surviving children.

  ‘Do you not object,’ Dr Hansard demanded, ‘that they treat christening as some sort of celestial insurance policy? Mind you, it seems to have worked for Farmer Bulmer’s grandson.’

  ‘He still does not thrive,’ I said.

  ‘He is not dead, either. Though,’ he added soberly, ‘I cannot imagine that he can survive beyond infancy.’

  I shook my head sadly. I visited the farmhouse regularly, reading quietly to the young mother, who, thank God, at last showed signs of physical recovery but remained very low in spirits.

  ‘And it also seems to have been remarkably efficacious for the whole of Mrs Jenkins’ brood,’ Hansard said, as if determined not to end the conversation on a sad note. ‘They are all flourishing despite the rigours of the workhouse.’

  ‘Flourishing physically. But that rogue of a workhouse master still thwarts all my plans for regular schooling.’

  ‘Did you truly expect him to endorse them?’

  ‘Can he not understand that regular periods of study are necessary for the boys and girls if they are to profess beyond simple repetition? One or two can put letters together to make a simple word, but for the majority I might be trying to teach them Chinese!’

  ‘He fears they will end up aping their betters,’ Edmund suggested. ‘In other words, better than himself.’

  It occurred to me that since he wanted the children to submit to physical toil, the workhouse master could scarcely object to my finding employment for some of them. Clearing my woodland was still a priority. Not only would it benefit me in the long run, as Ford agreed with some reluctance, it would also assist the families of the men I had taken on. But there were some jobs that workhouse boys could do equally well, such as gathering up twigs and bundling them, like gleaners in a cornfield. I could make sure they were well fed, and hope that the extra pennies I distributed would not find their way into the master’s pockets. Certainly I paid him handsomely enough for the privilege. If he confiscated their cash, I would have to find a way of paying in kind.

  Encouraged by a hearty breakfast, an idea which I owed to Jem, the team started work at first light. At intervals came more food and drink, with a few pence to jingle in their pockets as they swaggered back to the workhouse at the end of the day, for all the world like their adult counterparts. They returned the next day, and the next. Soon I would have woodland to be proud of.

  ‘Pigs,’ Farmer Bulmer declared, spitting copiously as he leant on the fence already supporting Ford and me as we watched the activity.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Pigs. That’s what you need. Pigs. Any undergrowth your lads have left, the pigs’ll finish. And they’ll root around and leave good manure behind, won’t they, Mr Ford? And good bacon, too, though that’ll take a little longer.’

  Ford sucked his teeth, a sure prelude to pessimism.

  ‘Until we have provided ourselves with some,’ I said, before he could actually voice his objections, ‘could not you supply the swine, Mr Bulmer?’

  ‘Why, that I could, with all my heart, Parson.’ With a glance at Ford, he added, ‘And then we would share the profits.’

  Ford brightened; I did not demur.

  ‘And your grandson?’ I asked, as we shook hands on the deal. ‘How is he?’

  He shook his head. ‘Still weakly. Dr Hansard, he says, give him time. And my daughter-in-law too. But I don’t like the look of him, Parson, and that’s a fact. He’s dwindling. Well, you’ve seen him yourself.’

  I nodded, unable to disagree.

  When a frantic knocking disturbed my supper that night, I feared it was Bulmer, sending for me with bad news. But the voice I heard in conversation with Mrs Trent was female, and vaguely familiar.

  ‘A Person is wishful to see you,’ Mrs Trent announced. ‘I have informed her that you are dining, but she insists that she must see you, and that she will not stir until she has.’

  A Person? Whom would Mrs Trent dismiss so cavalierly? Could it be that Lizzie?

  ‘Where is she?’ I demanded, dabbing my lips and preparing to rise.

  ‘In the hallway, sir.’

  ‘Is she respectable?’

  Her slight bow suggested that the woman would not have penetrated beyond the door had she not been.

  ‘Pray show her into my study. I will speak to her immediately.’

  To my amazement – and, I admit, my profound disappointment – my late visitor was none other that Mrs Jenkins. She had been tricked out in some gown far too large for her, and looked more waiflike than a child. Neither was she perfectly clean. No wonder Mrs Trent had been apprehensive.

  ‘Pray take a seat, Mrs Jenkins,’ I said, bowing over her hand.

  To my horror, she fell instead at my feet. ‘Please forgive him! I don’t know what came into his head! William didn’t mean it, your honour, and I can’t bear to think of him hanged!’

  ‘Enough! Enough! Pray, Mrs Jenkins, rise.’

  She clutched at my knees. ‘For God’s sake!’

  ‘Please! I must insist you stop this.’ Extricating myself with some difficulty I rang the bell. ‘Some wine, please,’ I told a startled Susan, ‘for Mrs Jenkins and myself. Now, please, be seated, and tell me what young William has done.’

  She at last understood that I wished her to compose herself, which she did with difficulty. Knowing that Susan would reappear at any moment, I did not press her to embark on what I suspected would be a difficult narrative.

  At last – I noticed that Mrs Trent had sent in the third-best glasses – I persuaded her to take some wine.

  ‘I deduce that William is in some sort of trouble?’

  ‘The worst! The very worst! And only you can save him from the noose!’

  She was too distressed for me to discuss the finer points of the law. ‘I will do everything in my power,’ I said quietly. ‘You have my word. Mrs Jenkins – Maggie! Tell me what troubles you.’

  ‘They’ve taken him – he’ll be up before the Assizes and be hanged!’ she sobbed.

  ‘Whatever he has done, of course I will speak up for him. Dr Hansard will no doubt add his voice to mine. But pray, Mrs Jenkins – what crime has he committed?’

  ‘A watch, sir. He had stolen a watch. The master found it on him tonight, when he came back from working on your land. He searches all the lads, and takes what you have given them.’

  ‘He steals from them! My God, the justices shall hear of this!’ But such indignation was academic as far as Mrs Jenkins was concerned.

  ‘My boy – you know he’s a good lad, sir. And they say there’s blood on the watch, and he must have hurt the owner when he took it from him. Pray, Mr Campion, what am I to do?’

  I knew of only one answer. ‘We must send for Dr Hansard.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  I reeled from the stench, pressing my handkerchief to my mouth. Even Dr Hansard took a step back. To think that any human being should be kept in such conditions, let alone a child!

  We had set out for Warwick at first light to see what could be done for William Jenkins, his mother having perforce returned to the workhouse. To our horror we had found him confined in semi-darkness with adults, many of them hardened criminals, I feared, awaiting their trial.

  The gaoler shook his keys. ‘Was you wishing to speak to the lad or not, gents?’

  ‘Emphatically yes,’ I said. ‘But equally emphatically not here in the common cell! You must have a room where—’

  ‘There’s my office. But—’ The offer hung tantalisingly in the
air.

  Hansard spoke before I could fumble coins into the man’s hands. ‘A justice of the peace does not need to give bribes, man. We will adjourn to your office. Now, man.’

  Within seconds, William was plucked from the unspeakable mire, which still clung to his clothes and bare feet, and dragged into the comparative comfort of the gaoler’s office. At least there was a fire burning sluggishly in a once handsome fireplace, but that merely served to accentuate the odour he brought with him. He would need another session under a pump to return him to a civilised state.

  He fell at my feet, much as his mother had done, his tearstreaked face upraised to mine. It was hard to make out exactly what he said, his voice hoarse with tears and his thin body racked with sobs. ‘I didn’t mean, I didn’t – I – I—!’

  I bent to pull him to his feet. ‘I’m sure you didn’t, William.’ Over my shoulder I said, ‘Gaoler, some bread and milk if you please. Well, man, what are you waiting for?’

  ‘Can’t leave the prisoner,’ he said stolidly.

  ‘And are you imagining a justice of the peace and a man of the cloth will spirit him away?’ Hansard demanded. ‘Go – before I report you! Now, William,’ he asked in his kindest tone, ‘what do you want to say? Slowly!’

  This time William took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. ‘I didn’t do it!’

  ‘What didn’t you do?’ I asked.

  ‘Steal a watch.’

  Hansard’s eyes met mine over the boy’s head. How on earth could we save him from the gallows if the jury thought otherwise?

  ‘I found it. I found it in your woods, Parson. Only Old Bully Bulstrode, he searched me for the pennies you pay us and found it in my pocket. The watch. I would have given it over, Parson, honest!’

  To my shame, I suspended judgement on that assertion.

  William sensed the need for some corroboration. ‘I’d have shown it to you when you taught us our letters!’

  ‘Why did you not show it to Mr Ford, the steward? He can read and would have understood the importance of the find.’ I said.

  The child shifted from foot to foot. What was he trying to hide, when for a moment he had been winning me round?

  ‘And where is the watch now?’ Hansard asked.

  ‘Locked up as evidence,’ said the gaoler, returning with a chipped mug and hunk of bread, which he deposited on a corner of his filthy desk.

  ‘May I see it?’ Hansard asked. It was a question expecting a positive response. ‘Do I have to ask again?’ he thundered.

  William, clearly desperate to reach for the sustenance, quailed under the anger, despite the fact that it was not directed at him, and withdrew his hand. The gaoler moved with what he no doubt regarded as fitting and injured dignity. Taking from his pocket a heavy bunch of keys on a chain attached to his leather belt, he ponderously made his way to a floor-to-ceiling cupboard. I had seen the Kemble brothers on the London stage, and neither had a better sense of timing than this brute of a man. In a terror of suspense, we all watched as he fitted a key to the lock, discarding it as the wrong one.

  At last realising that to protract his moment of glory might result in trouble, he selected another key and opened the door, ferreting within for a strong box.

  Forestalling another histrionic display, I said, in my father’s voice and tone, ‘I do not intend to wait all day, my man.’ Three pairs of eyes shot to my face. Was it shame or even – disgraceful in the circumstances – amusement that I felt at the impersonation?

  At last the watch was placed ceremoniously on Hansard’s outstretched palm. It was gold, shining unabated in the dimness of the vile room, despite the mud still adhering to it.

  ‘Is there an inscription inside?’ I asked, a resumption of my bored drawl masking my excitement.

  ‘I told you, there’s letters what you taught us!’ William put in eagerly. ‘But the writing’s all fancy.’

  ‘And in Latin,’ Hansard added, looking at me over his spectacles.

  ‘And what might it say? In the King’s English, if you don’t mind!’ said the gaoler.

  ‘I do mind,’ I snapped. ‘Dr Hansard, a translation might embarrass me and would make our friend none the wiser. The gist is,’ I added more graciously, ‘that my grandfather presented the watch to me, on the occasion of my twenty-first birthday.’ I gave the date.

  Hansard opened it, carefully removing a scrap of leaf-mould. At last he nodded, amusement chasing interest around his craggy features. ‘The very same.’ He pointed it out for the gaoler’s benefit.

  The gaoler responded by clipping William’s ear. ‘Steal from a man of the cloth, would you, you varmint! Well, I hope they hangs you good and high, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ I said, drawing William closer to me, whence he could reach for the bread, which, notwithstanding his filthy hands, he tore and crammed into his mouth. Mastication was inhibited by gaps where his milk teeth had not yet been replaced by an adult set. ‘In fact, far from being punished, William shall receive a reward. A footpad stole the watch from me some weeks ago. Clearly he realised that the inscription made it a liability rather than an asset, and threw it into what was then impenetrable undergrowth on my glebe land. William was one of a party from the workhouse clearing scrub. He tells the simple truth when he said he found it.’

  ‘So why didn’t he hand it over to the workhouse master of his own free will?’

  ‘Clearly you did not hear him telling you that he wanted to show it to me so that I could decipher the inscription. Very well, I think we have completed our business here.’ William grasped my hand in terror. ‘Dr Hansard, you will know the procedure for securing William’s instant release. Gaoler, pray return the lad’s belongings.’

  ‘Belongings! Him! Came in just like this, didn’t he?’

  ‘He was wearing boots last time I saw him,’ I said. Then I thought better of arguing. The lad would have grown since he had first been equipped. ‘Find him some pattens, if you please. William, part of your reward will be a new pair of boots.’

  Jem, who had been walking my gig’s horses during our visit to the gaol, greeted William as an old friend, rolling him up in a horse blanket and hauling him up to sit beside him. ‘Pshaw, lad, you stink,’ he said.

  The child shivered violently, either reacting to the ordeal he had undergone or fearing cold water.

  Jem rubbed his filthy head affectionately. ‘We’ll have to see if Mrs Trent or Mrs Beckles can’t find something warmer than pump water to wash you with. And then, with luck, more breeches from Lady Elham’s clothes basket for you.’

  Dr Hansard caught my eye. ‘Perhaps not a bad suggestion,’ he said very casually. ‘Mrs Beckles has a way with children, no doubt about that.’

  ‘And she will have some nourishing broth at hand,’ I agreed, with a serene smile, as if Mrs Trent had never produced such a comestible. ‘But first, I see a bootmaker’s over there…’

  ‘Not returning, Mr Campion! Not until the spring at the earliest!’ Mrs Beckles declared, busying herself with clothing from the poor basket that might fit William. We were all in the Priory scullery, where Jem was sluicing William with water heated in the washing boiler.

  I stared at her, unable to believe my ears. ‘Such a long absence,’ I managed.

  She nodded as if she herself did not believe what she was saying. ‘Only two days ago Lady Elham notified me that she had changed her mind and that she would after all spend the festive season here! The carol-singers, the mummers – thanks to you, all are prepared!’ she continued. ‘The chef, the kitchen staff – everyone is at sixes and sevens. First there was to be nothing to do, then we were to hold the usual feast. Now we are to put Holland covers over all the furniture and mothball the hangings.’ She spoke with a mixture of exasperation and disappointment. ‘So goodness knows when we shall see her or Lizzie again.’

  ‘Indeed!’ I managed to say.

  Hansard declared, ‘I am sure that young William is clean enough now, Jem. Ca
n you help him into his new clothes?’

  Jem obliged.

  A silence deepened around us. Hansard, his voice over-bright, said, ‘Good fellow. Now let us go forthwith. His mother must be in agonies waiting for our return.’

  She must be indeed. So why had three grown men neglected to give the poor woman a thought until now?

  We had a curious, three-cornered conversation on the way home. William was wise enough to remain silent, and was in any case too occupied with the cold pie Mrs Beckles had pressed on him as a parting gift. But it was only right to involve Jem, who might have ideas of his own about the best form of reward for the boy.

  ‘You mustn’t spoil the lad, or raise false expectations,’ he said. I wondered if he spoke from bitter experience. ‘What I would do is this…’

  ‘A place of my own!’ I believe that had not Dr Hansard been at hand, Mrs Jenkins must have not only staggered but actually fallen. He guided her carefully to one of the few chairs in the workhouse master’s office, and wafted a vinaigrette under her nose.

  I nodded. Jem had reminded us of a tiny cottage which my predecessor had once used as a byre. ‘It is not a fine palace, Mrs Jenkins, and I fear it will need a great deal of work before you and your family can move in,’ I told her. ‘I will waive the rent for a year and a day, after which, should you have the means, I shall expect a regular, if small, sum. There is enough land for an industrious family to grow sufficient food for themselves, and I will provide seeds and some hens.’ That was what Jem had suggested, in lieu of a financial reward, which, he averred, Mrs Jenkins would have no idea of managing. He had some doubts about her ability to run her tiny smallholding, but agreed that some of the men my steward employed on my behalf might be expected to do the heavier digging until William were able.

  ‘For the slops they’ve had to live on, it’s surprising young William can lift his hand to pick his nose,’ he had observed.