Shadow of the Past

by Judith Cutler

  We spoke for a while about the village, and in particular about the curious redness of the soil.

  ‘If you were minded to walk along the shore, you would see an even stranger phenomenon – the cliffs are decidedly rosy as they tumble to the sea,’ declared a familiar voice.

  Our conversation had been interrupted by our acquaintance of the previous evening, Mr Twiss, who swiftly introduced his wife and two daughters, Catherine and Julia, bearing us from the church on a tide of further encomiums about his beloved village. My father would swiftly have depressed the pretensions of such a mushroom, but it occurred to me, Sabbath or no Sabbath, that Mr Twiss might well be a source of information about the Larwoods, whose house we still had to locate. In any case, had I wished to decline their company, I was too late: Jem already had Miss Twiss on his left arm, and Miss Julia Twiss on the other, and was showing very sign of being charmed by the feminine attention as he was led towards the sea.

  One could readily understand why Mr Twiss and his builder colleagues might wish to control the Brook and institute pleasant walks beside it. The beach it concluded in was truly excellent, with firm golden sand on which one might envisage boys kicking a ball or playing at cricket. To the west end of the beach fishing boats lay safely beached. Beyond the outcrop that sheltered them lay another fine cove, with two strange-shaped red rocks off-shore.

  Mr Twiss roared with laughter when I asked about them. ‘They are statues of you and Mr Yeomans.’

  Mrs Twiss, a gentle-faced lady of much quieter disposition than her husband, shook her head in some embarrassment. ‘Nay, Parson Campion. Take no notice of him, I pray you. We do call them the Parson and Clerk, indeed. Mr Twiss refers to a legend that an ambitious man of the cloth was led into the sea by the devil himself and there he sits to this day, his anxious clerk before him.’

  Twiss, called thus to order, blushed and coughed and hoped we had not taken offence – ‘For none was meant, I do assure you.’

  ‘And none taken, my dear sir,’ I assured him heartily.

  The path being too narrow for three, Jem had to surrender Miss Catherine Twiss to my care. She was swathed like her sister and mother in a fur-trimmed velvet pelisse – hers was the deep rich green to which poor Bess might have aspired. With a pang I realised how little thought I had given since arriving in this pleasant place to Bess, still in Shropshire caring for Hugo, or to young Willum, who had insisted on coming to Warwickshire with us, and was presently caring for our horses under the careful eye of the Hansards’ groom. How strange it must be for both of them, to have spent the festive season, no matter how luxuriously compared with their existence hitherto, so far from all that was familiar, if not loved?

  But it would be uncivil not to make pleasant conversation with the pretty damsel beside me, who was mightily forthcoming on the matter of assemblies here, in Teignmouth, Shaldon or even Newton Abbot. Lest I feel she was dwelling too much on the western side of the town, she enumerated the charms of Exeter, Exmouth and far distant Lyme. Clearly she was well travelled in the pursuit of pleasure, and highly discriminating between the dancing of one company of militia and another.

  ‘As for Dawlish,’ she assured me, ‘although we could be considered a little thin of company, it is not often that we stand up with fewer than ten couples when my parents have a card party.’

  I was beginning to regret that neither of us had brought evening clothes, with an agonising realisation that Jem did not possess such garments. But no invitation was forthcoming. Relinquishing her hold on my arm, she darted off up the hillside waving vigorously.

  Her sister followed suit, leaving her parents to apologise to us for their being such sad romps. Secretly I suspect that Mr Twiss was proud to be able to declare that the couple they were racing towards were London friends of the girls.

  Although the Londoners were swathed to the ears, my heart beat strongly. Surely a lock of ginger hair was escaping from the bonnet Miss Julia pushed back as she embraced her friend. For one precious moment it appeared that two groups might merge into one large party, but it was clear that the girls’ hail was also to be their farewell. The young man and woman were pointing up the hill and again at the sky, as if to warn that there was very little daylight left. Waving, their laughter carried in the still air, they retraced their steps up the path they had but two minutes ago descended.

  The sun having sunk suddenly behind the headland, we were plunged into instant dusk, and as the Misses Twiss ran back I was in terror that one might fall and break a well-turned ankle.

  But all was well, and we too wended our way from the shore – but not to the inn. At some point – I knew not how, I knew not when – it had become understood that we should be their guests for dinner.

  ‘Nothing grand,’ Mr Twiss protested. ‘Nothing hot. Just a cold collation, it being the Sabbath. And I would take it mighty fine, Parson, if you would lead us all in a prayer this evening before we read from the Good Book. Indeed, were you to say a few words, it would make a marvellous change from one of Mr Blair’s sermons, though Catherine reads them aloud very pleasingly, I do assure you.’

  I did not doubt it for one moment. Catching Jem’s amused and assenting eye, I was happy to accept on behalf of us both.

  Cold collation it might have been, but there was nothing of the hair shirt about the evening. The food was excellent and the wine well chosen, with no ostentation. In trade Mr Twiss certainly was, but in his elegant new home he behaved and spoke like a gentleman, not changing his attire himself lest we felt out of place in our breeches and boots. I suspected the Misses Twiss might have pouted a little when their mother gave instructions that they were to eschew evening wear too, but their walking dresses were replaced by the most modest and tasteful of gowns, as was Mrs Twiss’s.

  Over an excellent sherry, with ratafia for the girls, I was able – without appearing particular in my enquiries – to ask who the young couple were that we so nearly encountered.

  ‘As I said, they live in London town. He has a position with the East India Company, I think, and is well on his way to making a fortune. Mr Larwood’s parents live here – they farm out Holcombe way. Little Miss is their first grandchild, so you may understand how pleased the Larwoods are when they all make the long journey down here.’

  ‘And Miss Marsh, as was, her parents come from up at Ideford, so they share the pleasure too,’ Mrs Twiss added. ‘They’re second cousins, once removed, though you’d never think it to look at them – almost brother and sister they might be, with their guinea-gold curls.’

  If I thought that that was carrying euphemism too far, I did not say so. Neither could I observe, as I wished, that their daughter must seem like a foundling. I cast round for something to say. ‘I think I may have heard of young Mr Larwood,’ I mused. ‘I believe he is the friend of someone working at the bank my father patronises – Drummond’s. And once I briefly met Mrs Larwood, and Miss Emma.’ It was painful so to mislead such good people.

  ‘You’ll be wanting to call on them then. I will furnish you with their direction before you leave,’ Mr Twiss declared.

  ‘I am scarce on visiting terms,’ I protested truthfully.

  ‘They are such hospitable folk they’d want you to call. Old Mr George Larwood, Mr John’s father, is housebound with the gout much of the time, and loves new faces. With the lanes so dirty at the moment you can scarce drive a gig up them, he doesn’t have as much company as he would like.’

  ‘Is it far?’ I asked, almost despite myself.

  ‘For a young man like you, not above the half hour,’ he declared with finality.

  Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Mrs Twiss interposed. ‘Now, Parson Campion, it is at about this hour I ring for the servants to join our evening prayers. I believe my husband has already asked if you would be kind enough to lead us…’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I did not feel I had time to pursue the usual courtesies of leaving my card before making my call upon the Larwoods, so I presente
d myself the very next day at the house near Holcombe that the Twisses had indicated. Perhaps manners were freer here, for the rosy-cheeked servant had no hesitation in showing me into the morning room. Half of me was full of shame that I had imposed on the friendly family; the other half was pleased that at last I might ask a direct question of the parties I believed to be involved. Jem had insisted on waiting outside – perhaps he thought that the Larwoods might try to run for it, or perhaps he preferred not to lie yet again, even by implication, about his identity.

  Guilt was uppermost when I was offered refreshment by Mrs George Larwood, a kindly old lady, a lace cap perched perilously on hair thick, springy hair still showing traces of the original auburn. I declined it swiftly, explaining apologetically that my business was in fact with the younger Larwoods. I remained on my feet.

  ‘The matter is, alas, confidential,’ I added.

  With a shrewd look, she rang the bell, bidding the young servant, whose mousy hair looked almost abnormal in the household, to fetch Mr John. His wife was not mentioned.

  Mrs Larwood did not quit the room when he appeared, but retired to the window seat and her stitchery.

  Mr John Larwood, whom I judged to be in his late thirties, was a strong man of military bearing and a coat almost certainly cut by Stultz, although I had heard no suggestion that he might be engaged in anything other than commerce. His eyes, as blue as the previous day’s sky, were set under brows, like his hair, almost orange in hue.

  Now wearing my bands, I could be no less than honest, introducing myself under my own name. ‘A few weeks ago I called at your house, Mr Larwood. My enquiry about the whereabouts of Mr Chamberlain caused your wife a great deal of anxiety; indeed, I think it made you flee the city.’

  ‘I had received some bad news,’ he blustered.

  ‘I think that I myself was the bad news. But I came merely to ask a question, not to threaten you in any way. I assure you that you have nothing at all to fear from me.’

  Despite my softly spoken and sincere words, his white skin became if possible even more bloodless. But he did not flinch from asking, ‘Why do you want Mr Chamberlain?’

  ‘I wished to restore some property to him. However, that was but part of a larger mission, Mr Larwood, concerning a death and a missing person.’

  He nodded me to a seat, himself remaining on his feet, the better, I suspected, to control the situation. ‘I deserve an explanation.’

  After a moment, I sat down, thinking to reduce the tension crackling about the room. ‘An explanation you shall have – provided, Mr Larwood, that you reciprocate. I had arranged with your wife to speak to you at four. When I arrived to keep the appointment, I found no one at home. Calling at the back door of your house, in the hope of speaking to one of your servants, I was knocked down by someone emerging from your brew-house and robbed. Was this at your behest? In which case,’ I continued, reading the answer in his face, ‘Would you be kind enough to restore my watch to me? Its value is sentimental only.’

  ‘Yes.’ It was impossible to tell whether he was agreeing with my estimation of its value or acquiescing in my request. He made no effort to summon a servant or to leave the room himself.

  ‘May I ask why you should do such a thing?’

  ‘I wished…to deter you from following us. I hope your injury was not serious.’ He sat heavily on a chair opposite, its legs so spindly that I wondered how they would support him. ‘I repeat, what is Mr Chamberlain to you?’

  ‘I do not know him.’ I raised a placatory hand. ‘Nay, I promise you that I tell the truth. But I think he knows a young lady who disappeared in most mysterious circumstances after a death in my parish. His address and a little property were found in the trunk she abandoned.’

  ‘What was the property?’

  ‘Something else of sentimental value. But not to me. You have a daughter, Mr Larwood, whose dark hair is at very least unusual in your family. May I tell you what I think? I think that you and your wife, denied by the Almighty issue of your own, have adopted her.’

  I might have struck him. ‘What of it?’

  ‘I think you have given her a loving home she might otherwise have lacked, and there is no shame at all in that. Heirs are adopted every day, young women taken into childless households to bear a woman company. So are you trying to protect someone else from the shame of disclosure? The natural mother?’

  He was on his feet in an instant. ‘How did you guess?’ He motioned away his mother as she made to comfort him. She remained standing but, fearing she might faint, I rose and persuaded her to take my seat.

  ‘The item of sentimental value was a lock of a baby’s hair,’ I said. ‘It was not auburn, as yours is. And your daughter’s is not auburn either.’

  ‘It would ruin the woman were identity to be known. It is not my secret to betray.’

  ‘I understand that. And believe me, when I promise you that were it not that a lady – possibly the same one – is being sought by the coroner as a witness, I would not have made this journey. Rather me than a court official or a Bow Street Runner,’ I added. ‘However, now I am here, I would also wish to assure myself of Miss Southey’s good health. If one man is slain, and a young woman disappears, leaving behind her luggage, which is then ransacked, you will admit that there is cause for alarm.’ Would my friend Dr Hansard have introduced the name at this stage? Had I been wise? But the risk might have had a result.

  Without speaking, he rose and poured three glasses of wine, his hand shaking so much that a little slopped on the carpet.

  ‘There is no need for anxiety, sir. I am a man of the cloth. You have my word that I will reveal to the court nothing that is not absolutely germane to the case.’ For manners’ sake, I sipped the wine, which was thin and sour. ‘What I fear is that, knowing I am searching for her, Miss Southey will make the same desperate bid to escape as you and your family did, trying to elude all pursuers.’

  He nodded, as if accepting the justice of that, at least.

  Keeping my voice low, and, I hoped, gentle, I asked, ‘Could it be that Miss Southey is your daughter’s natural mother?’

  ‘You’d best tell him, my son,’ Mrs Larwood said quietly, a handkerchief to her lips. ‘Then perhaps he’ll go and leave us in peace.’

  ‘If anyone finds out, we lose our daughter,’ he declared, as if each word hurt his throat to utter it.

  I took another risk. ‘Because Mr Chamberlain does not want it known?’

  He looked at me sharply. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘But he has no powers to remove her. Not unless she is his natural child,’ I conceded.

  ‘No, he is not. But he is an important man – has influence—’

  Someone else had used almost the same words, had they not? I dredged my memory. At last I had it: old Mrs Powell had told me that Miss Southey had left the Hall in the company of an important man. I was tempted, however, to dismiss it as coincidence – the adjective was hardly unusual, after all.

  ‘Sufficient influence to remove a child from a loving family? Unless he is the father indeed, I think not.’

  ‘He is anxious to – to protect Miss Southey’s good name.’

  ‘In that case,’ I reasoned, hoping that for once Dr Hansard would not have criticised my logic, ‘if he is not the child’s father is he the mother’s?’

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘But you are not here to speak of him, just of Miss Southey—’

  ‘Am I to assume that Southey is an assumed name?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘And is Chamberlain assumed also?’

  ‘I do not know.’ He looked me in the eyes. ‘I give you my word, I do not know the true name of either party.’

  Believing him, I pressed my fingers to my temples, not knowing which questions to ask next. At last I ventured, ‘I think I must speak to Miss Southey herself. Do you know her whereabouts?’

  ‘Not directly. I was told that – should the need ever arise – I must write to her care of a third party.’


  ‘And who would that be?’

  Mrs Larwood rose to her feet. ‘We will have no peace from him, man of the cloth or no, until he has winkled every last secret from us.’ Holding her handkerchief to her eyes, she fled the room.

  ‘Your mother loves the child as much as you do,’ I observed.

  ‘She has brought light into our lives,’ he declared. ‘Mr Campion, I could not love her more dearly were she my own flesh and blood. My wife also. Can you not…must you…? Say I persuaded Miss Southey to write to this coroner of yours explaining what she saw and why she left – would not that suffice?’

  ‘I wish with all my heart that it would. But a man has been murdered, Mr Larwood – a good man, who almost literally gave up his life so that another might live. A poor man, hoping for no reward but the good fortune of his friend. He lies even now in an unnamed grave in my own parish. Does not such a man deserve justice?’

  I think I was about to persuade him, when we heard childish screams coming form outside the house.

  ‘Dear God, that is Emma! What is happening to her?’ And he dashed from the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It was as if the whole household, myself included, was like a flock of sheep set into a panic by the shadow of a bird. I suppose the Larwoods had already been cast into alarm by my reappearance. They must have construed everything in that light, with myself as a stage villain. So when they saw their precious child in a stranger’s arms, they all thought the worst.

  I at least could see that it was no vicious kidnapper who was holding Miss Emma, who was showing every sign of being charmed out of her tears. It was Jem.

  ‘Give her back – for God’s sake, man, have mercy,’ Mrs Larwood implored.