Shadow of the Past

by Judith Cutler

  Larwood looked ready to kill with his bare hands, but held back lest the vicious kidnapper harmed his daughter.

  Meanwhile, I was trying – vainly, it seemed – to reassure everyone. ‘She is quite safe, Mr Larwood. ’Tis my friend, Mr Yeomans – Pray, cease this noise at once. ’Tis my friend, I tell you. Enough! Jem, bring the child here, if you please.’

  Not knowing what had but recently passed between us, Jem looked bemused, setting down an equally puzzled little lady, who swiftly apprehended everyone’s anxiety and resolved to resume her noise. Mr Larwood darted to her and scooped her up, but she insisted even more loudly that she wanted her mama or her dear Nurse, a weary-eyed woman who now joined us.

  Jem looked from one to the other. ‘Miss Emma took a tumble and cut her hand. See, that is my handkerchief about the wound.’ He addressed himself to the child, with his kindest smile. ‘We had just decided that she would not expire on the spot, had we not, Miss Emma? And I had promised we would go and find Mama.’

  ‘This is my friend, Mr Yeomans,’ I reiterated. ‘He did not wish to join me inside lest he overheard matters best kept within your family. But you may trust him with your life – and with your daughter’s.’

  ‘You said I might ride on your shoulders,’ Miss Emma declared, holding out her arms to him.

  Mr Larwood pressed her close, but the child was squirming so much she was likely to fall. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he set her down, and she ran straight to my friend. Nonetheless, he looked for approval from her parents before scooping her up. ‘Young lady,’ he said, tilting his head up so that she might hear, ‘guide me to your nursery, so we can clean that hand of yours. And maybe Nurse will find you a bandage.’

  Nurse Fowler smiled, however anxiously, and led the way indoors. By now Miss Emma was singing at the top of her voice – as Betty Ewers had declared, she had the sweetest voice and sang in tune, far from the monotonous yells that too often characterised our village children’s music-making. The rest of us followed in stately procession, since our numbers now included the older Mrs Larwood, an indoor man, the servant who had admitted me and a sturdy and truculent-looking man whose rusty ginger hair and painful gait suggested most strongly that he might be Mr Larwood senior.

  We foregathered once again in the room to which I had originally been admitted, but the ladies, both inclined to be tearful, agreed with Mr John Larwood that they should go and see how Miss Emma did. He found brandy of a far superior quality to the wine, and offered it to me and his father, with whom I exchanged a courteous bow.

  ‘Your friend has certainly won the trust of my daughter,’ the younger man conceded.

  ‘He already has the trust and love of all who know him,’ I declared. ‘In fact, I ought to have asked him to speak to you in my place, for his simple eloquence would have convinced you more than my blundering words that we only seek the best for everyone. There is one thing that you should know, however,’ I added. ‘When I was assaulted and robbed, I sent for the Bow Street Runners, who found your address for me. The man on the case is a tenacious individual, by name of Alfred Mullins. I would not be at all surprised if he makes his way here, although I have declared the case closed.’

  ‘Not if he is coming from London, he won’t,’ Mr George Larwood declared. ‘I hear there’s deep snow near Marlborough. Coaches jammed into the drifts, horses with broken legs – all sorts. I hate snow. We don’t get much down here, thank the Lord, and if we do it doesn’t lie, not like up on the moors. Just think of those poor Frenchies,’ he continued, pointing to an old newspaper, ‘coming all that way from Moscow in that Russian weather.’

  ‘Nothing can make me pity them,’ his son declared.

  ‘Nay, in the general run of things, I loathe every last one. But ’tis the wicked leader of theirs, that Devil’s spawn Napoleon, who I hate most. Half a million he takes to Moscow, officers and men, and ’tis said that only twenty thousand have managed to cross the Niemen. Killed not by the Russians, cleanly, in battle, but dying of hunger and cold.’

  ‘Belike if the autumn weather had been more like autumn than winter there’d have been far more of them and all of them looking to invade us next,’ his son said.

  ‘Surely he will not make another attempt,’ I said.

  ‘That there Boney’ll do anything, you mark my words. And all those Frenchies and Americans in that new prison up on Dartmoor, they’ll all rise up and then where will we be?’

  At least I had diverted his anxieties from his family, but it seemed that he was at peril from something far more dangerous than me. Perhaps we all were.

  ‘What I would propose, gentlemen, is this,’ I said, returning to the only matter over which I had control. ‘If you furnish me with pen and ink I could write a deposition to Mr Mullins, explaining that all has been resolved and requiring him to leave you in peace. I might add a guinea under the seal to ease his conscience. But first I would ask you to trust me further. Surely you have access to Miss Southey without resort to Mr Chamberlain in case of an emergency?’

  ‘You can have all the paper and ink you want,’ Mr John Larwood declared. ‘But on the last suit I cannot satisfy you. All I have is his address. I give you my word.’

  ‘And will you trust me with that? I promise you the utmost discretion. And I will add a word to Mr Mullins to the effect that you are threatened with blackmail, and that he must give you all possible assistance should you require it.’

  The men exchanged glances.

  ‘Blackmail is what Mr Chamberlain threatens, is it not? Since you have not broken the law, you must be protected from those who do. Moreover, you are actually assisting the Warwickshire coroner, and entitled to security twice over.’

  I had said something of significance, that was clear.

  ‘Warwickshire?’ Mr George Larwood repeated, but more to his son than to me. ‘Is that not where—?’

  ‘Where Mr Chamberlain lives?’ I prompted. ‘I beg you, let me have his address this instant.’

  ‘We know not where he lives,’ the younger man replied. ‘If we ever had to contact him, we were supposed to send our letter to an inn in Warwick. The Rose and Crown. And we were not to expect a speedy response—’

  ‘Which implies he does not collect his letters with any frequency,’ I concluded. If only I had Dr Hansard beside me.

  ‘That’s what we thought. That belike he lives elsewhere, and only calls in on market day,’ his father said.

  Market day was a reasonable assumption if you were a countryman dependent on such things.

  ‘Is there any reason why you might wish to write to him? Any emergency?’

  Both shook their heads. ‘Only in extremis,’ the younger Mr Larwood declared. ‘So that Miss Southey might attend…’ He swallowed hard.

  ‘To send such a message would be beyond all things cruel,’ I said swiftly. ‘I must confer with the coroner in charge of the case to see how he wishes to approach the problem. Gentlemen, in the circumstances you have been all consideration, all patience. But now I think Mr Yeomans and I must quit Devon with all speed.’

  The old man nodded. ‘Aye, that you should. If you don’t want to be laid up at Bristol for a week with the snow.’ Presumably he had the same ability to predict the weather as our villagers.

  ‘But first your letter to Mr Mullins,’ his son said, reaching a standish from a pretty escritoire, and finding passable paper in a drawer. ‘Will you take some refreshment? You and Mr Yeomans? Cold meat and cheese can be had on the instant. Meanwhile I will have the gig harnessed, and a lad shall ride down to Dawlish to procure your seats on the stage. You have just two hours to pack your bags.’

  ‘Part of it at least is easy,’ Jem said.

  He had flung our clothes into our valises while I paid our shot, and now we were ensconced, if not comfortably, in a coach whose only other passengers thus far were a comfortable-looking woman in her forties and a girl so young and pretty that I was surprised to see her travelling alone without a chaperon or
even a servant. She was too shy to be drawn into conversation with even a clergyman such as I, and perhaps considered herself above the other woman, who spoke at length of her new situation in Cullompton. After feigning sleep the girl now genuinely slept, her rosy mouth falling slightly open. Her bonnet was sadly crushed against the squabs, as we jolted over ruts and through puddles. So far at least, as the older woman pointed out, we could be thankful that there was no snow. At each change of horses she sniffed the air, country-fashion, and declared that the worst we could expect yet was a sharp frost. As the day darkened all too swiftly into night, she was proved right, and she nodded with satisfaction as we helped her out at her destination.

  ‘What part?’ I asked Jem humbly, myself lacking the least idea of how to go forward.

  ‘That inn in Warwick where we are to lure Mr Chamberlain. A good ostler is always required – and I am sure that you can pen a letter that will find them ready to employ me.’

  ‘An ostler? In a public inn? Dear Jem, it is not to be thought of.’

  ‘Nay, Toby, I am not some blushing maiden with a reputation to protect. We need someone to watch the comings and goings that a letter to Mr Chamberlain provokes. It has to be some sort of letter, I collect? Very well, I am the one to keep watch, and if necessary follow him to his home.’ When I said nothing, he added anxiously, ‘I believe that young Willum will tend your stable as well as I.’

  ‘He will tend it well enough – but not as well as you, Jem. But I wonder if he – finding, as I am sure he does, that the village is sadly lacking in excitement – might not wish to join you. In such situations, two sets of eyes are better than one. And his are very sharp eyes indeed.’

  ‘So they are. But—’

  ‘You doubt my ability to run my own stable for a week? There must be half a dozen men who will offer at this time of year. And the experience will stand them in good stead. They will not do it well, but at least you – in heaven’s name, Jem, you cannot be a groom for ever. What would you like to do now?’

  It was too dark to see his face, but I would have vouched for the surprise in his voice being genuine. ‘Do? But I do what I am – a groom.’

  ‘That is what you were born to. But you must know that you have exceptional talents that would take you far in the world. If, God forbid, you were to join the army, your advancement would be swift.’

  ‘As to that, I have often wondered whether it was my duty…But truth to tell, Toby, I like my comforts. Marching hours on end only to bivouac in the cold; camp food; intolerable tedium; and then the inconvenience, if there is a battle, of getting killed or losing a limb here or there – no, I cannot say that I wish to enlist.’

  ‘A commission?’ I knew that my mother could persuade my father to purchase one for him, if not in a cavalry regiment.

  ‘At my age? Rubbing shoulders with all those lads straight from university? No, thank you.’

  I had to agree.

  ‘This life suits me, truth to tell,’ he continued. ‘Especially this jauntering around the countryside, which adds a little spice to life. What else could a man ask?’

  ‘A man might ask for a pretty girl to welcome him home from his jaunterings.’

  ‘Even a clergyman might. But I don’t see either of us having one. That Miss Julia – she might make a man dream. Dream it would be, though – I can’t see a man like Mr Twiss wanting a groom as a son-in-law.’

  ‘Nor a village parson,’ I agreed. ‘But as to dreams, Jem – I have one too. You know that Lady Chase speaks of having a school for all the village children, and requiring all those on her estates to send them there till the age of eleven or twelve?’

  ‘You did mention it.’

  ‘Such children would need a schoolmaster. And I see you as that master.’

  I heard his sharp intake of breath. But there was a long pause before he said, very slowly, ‘Nay, that is a task for a university man.’

  ‘If it were Eton or Harrow, indeed. But do you imagine that the good women running dame schools have such an education? If they can teach their charges their letters and numbers that is all. But you! You are as well read as many of my acquaintances – nay, far better, for all they have degrees. You are patient. And you have other skills to pass on – for Lady Chase wants more than book-learning for the children. The girls are to sew and cook, the boys to grow vegetables and learn animal husbandry. Do you not see yourself—?’

  But there I had to stop. Suddenly we were all thrown hither and yon. For a while if seemed as if the coach must overturn, but at last it was righted, and we continued as before. The jolts were enough to awaken the young lady, however, and she gave a screaming gasp.

  ‘Pray to not be alarmed,’ I said quickly, wondering whether I should take her hands to reassure her, but fearing that might but add to her distress, ‘you are in a stage coach, ma’am. I think you may have been asleep?’

  ‘Of course. Of course. But it is so dark, and – pray, where are we?’

  ‘Near Taunton, ma’am, I think. And we have a long way to go yet. So why do you not try to sleep again?’

  ‘I would be afraid – to have more such dreams,’ she whispered.

  I rather thought she would be afraid to fall asleep knowing that there were only two strange men. So I started a light conversation which passed the time well enough but which prevented any further talk between Jem and me. And at last I think we all slept.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ‘So it is decided, then,’ Mr Vernon declared, sitting back expansively and tucking his thumbs into his waistcoat. Once again we were at – I almost said home. We were, in fact, in the elegant dining room at Langley Park, enjoying the Hansards’ generous hospitality. ‘Excellent. I will pen a missive to this Miss Southey myself, advising her that is would be to her advantage to call into my lawyer’s office with all expedition. With luck she will be intrigued, not apprehensive.’

  ‘As will the egregious Mr Chamberlain,’ Dr Hansard agreed. ‘Imagine, to threaten to remove a child from the only people she knows as parents. Inhuman.’ He rapped down his empty port glass on the table as if defying anyone to contradict him.

  Whatever we might have said to the contrary, this was no place for an argument, and in this case, I believe we all agreed with him.

  The only principal in the affair not to be present was Jem, who insisted, predictably, that his place was below stairs. Certainly Mr Vernon would not have argued with him. He preferred people, especially what he regarded as the lower orders, to know their places and stick to them.

  But Lady Chase and Mrs Hansard, now retiring to the drawing room where we would join them shortly, had been delighted with my suggestion that Jem was the very man to run our village school. Maria, I believe, loved Jem like a son; Lady Chase had been constantly impressed by his gentlemanlike ways in situations where others might have acted like yokels. My one reservation was that such an appointment would still not qualify him to be an equal in gatherings like this; though we all knew of occasions where the schoolmaster or mistress might be invited to large supper parties to make up the numbers at table, it was not to be imagined that they were of such social standing as to be invited to such a select group. However, I knew in my heart that though Jem was more than happy to join us on equal terms where we might be informal, and had no reservations about speaking his mind plainly as my mentor, he himself would never put himself forward. To my mind, that was an indication of his innate goodness and decency; moreover Mrs Tilbury, ever swift to detect a poseur, had treated him with affectionate respect.

  ‘And Jem will seek a position as ostler at the Rose and Crown. Do you think that this young William of yours may be trusted to assist Jem?’ Vernon asked.

  ‘Let Jem first secure a job,’ Hansard said. ‘Then we can talk about Willum. Now, gentlemen, shall we join the ladies?’

  Vernon might have been surprised by the precipitateness of the move from the dining table; I was not. While Dr Hansard appeared to derive enjoyment from most aspects of
his life, and joy from some, he only achieved real happiness when he was in the company of his wife.

  ‘But how will you deal without your groom?’ Vernon demanded, even as we walked into the drawing room.

  I caught Maria’s eye. ‘I will be amazed if Simon Clark, my verger, does not put himself forward as a temporary replacement. The very frequency of my visits to Langley Park would be sufficient inducement, would it not, Mrs Hansard?’

  ‘Indeed it would. And you must admit, dear Tobias, how he has improved in appearance.’ She turned to Mr Vernon with a smiling explanation. ‘He is courting our cook, sir, and I believe they will make a match of it. His clothes no longer hang about him as if he were a perambulating scarecrow; his eyes have life; his hair is cut and he is properly shaved.’

  ‘Does this mean that your cook is derelicting her duties?’

  ‘Indeed not,’ Hansard replied on her behalf. ‘You saw how tonight’s table groaned.’

  ‘More than that, she is expanding her repertoire of dishes,’ Maria added. ‘She cooks him a version first; if he approves, and only then, does she serve it to us.’

  ‘He must have sophisticated tastes.’

  ‘I believe that were she to bake his boots in a pie he would eat them with gusto,’ Hansard replied.

  ‘So he would. Shall I ring for tea, gentlemen?’

  Two long slow weeks passed before the second ostler at the Rose and Crown succumbed to the influenza, and Jem, who had been hanging hopefully round the inn yard chewing idly on inordinate quantities of straw, was able to offer his services. He had not entirely wasted his days.

  He had learnt who were regular visitors and why, and had regularly despatched Willum to tail them and find out where they lived. There was one embarrassing moment, he reported to me over a glass of ale at the King’s Head, another Warwick hostelry, when he had almost walked into Lady Chase’s steward, Furnival. We had of course prepared an explanation for Jem’s continued absence from the village, but the presence of a sick aunt in Derbyshire did not explain why he should be loitering in a Warwick inn-yard. Furnival was deep in thought, however, his hat brim turned down, his collar up against a bitter wind, and Jem was swift to take evasive action. Nonetheless, he was glad at last to be taken on, and to announce that he was quitting my employ to pursue an affair of the heart. He might have sent a letter to every man and woman in the village, so fast did the shocking news travel. At each house I entered on my daily rounds, I was greeted with as much sympathy as if he had died.