Bloodie Bones

by Lucienne Boyce

  “That’s a clever bit of work! Josh found out that Francis and Elena were married four months before Dr Keith was excommunicated, and nearly a year before he went to prison.”

  “Yes. The marriage was valid.”

  “But if the proof was there all the time, why did Mrs Castle consent to be passed off as the mother of a child born on the wrong side of the blanket?”

  “She was a young girl, alone in a foreign country and ignorant of the law. The Oldfields told her the marriage was illegal, and she had no wedding certificate to prove it otherwise. I do not know if she was ever given one, or if Francis Oldfield had it in his possession when he died and his father destroyed it. I would not put it past him – all I have heard of him suggests he was a ruthless man. He did not want the blood of a foreign Papist tainting his family. But it was more than that. Her family refused to take her back when she was widowed, because in their eyes and the eyes of the Catholic church she was an unmarried mother. Dr Keith could have been the Archbishop of Canterbury and it would have made no difference: a Protestant marriage was as good as no marriage to them. Her upbringing convinced her that they were right.”

  “What did Josh do? Did he tell Lord Adam?”

  “I persuaded him to let me consult our family solicitor first, Mr Langhorne of Bath. Unfortunately, Mr Langhorne was not optimistic about our chances of proving the marriage, in spite of the register entry. He said that while it was true many of Dr Keith’s weddings had gone unchallenged, in a case where so much property was at stake he did not doubt that a clever lawyer could easily find reasons to challenge it. These old registers are notorious for falsification and forgery. It would also be difficult to prove that all the legal requirements had been complied with, such as the reading of the banns. What was more, Elena was a minor and she did not have parental consent. And while it was true that the ceremony was carried out before Dr Keith’s excommunication, all this, taken with what was known of his character, could mean that an ecclesiastical court could easily refuse to uphold a marriage performed by a clergyman of such dubious qualifications.”

  Garvey was an extremely clever lawyer. Dan thought Mr Langhorne had been wise to advise caution.

  “What did you do?”

  “I told Josh what Mr Langhorne had said. We quarrelled. I said that since I did not care about such considerations I preferred to drop the whole thing rather than become involved in an undignified and costly dispute. Josh said that Lord Oldfield was as ignorant of the truth of it as we were; like us, he had only believed what his elders told him. Once he knew the truth he would not hesitate to put matters right. I did not share Josh’s faith in His Lordship.”

  “But he spoke to Lord Oldfield?”

  “No. I made him promise to think it over for a few more days before he did anything. That was the last time I saw him. Two days later he was dead.”

  Louisa had trusted Castle’s promise, but Dan did not. He may have spoken to Lord Oldfield in spite of it.

  Aunt Joanna stirred and woke. “What are you young people talking about?”

  “Nothing, Auntie,” Louisa said. “Shall I ring for tea?”

  Mrs Hale gave Dan a roguish look. “Will you stay for a cup, Mister…”

  “Foster, ma’am,” he said. “No, thank you.”

  The aunt had jumped to romantic conclusions, and Dan imagined she was not one to keep her suspicions to herself. He pitied Louisa having to put up with such teasing when she was heartsore, but could think of nothing more sympathetic to say to her than, “Thank you, Miss Ruscombe. You have been most helpful.”

  He was heartsore himself. There may not have been much to like about Lord Oldfield, but Dan had given His Lordship credit for much less snobbery than he had met in men of lesser rank. That was when Dan believed Lord Oldfield’s gamekeeper had been one of his closest friends. Now it was impossible not to conclude that he had murdered that friend.

  If Lord Oldfield had been anyone else, Dan would have confronted him at once, and none too gently, but he could not make accusations against a lord until he was sure of the facts. He needed proof.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Reverend Poole had been busy, and Lord Oldfield’s notice of enclosure was already pinned to the church door. Drake stood in the porch reading it aloud to the men clustered about him, among them Sukie Tolley’s father, grimacing stupidly, and three or four smocked labourers Dan recognised from the Fox and Badger. They listened with bent heads, holding their hats in their hands out of respect for the place.

  Men can quickly lose respect for the most hallowed ground if provoked enough, and if they caught sight of Dan it might be sufficient. He decided to retrace his steps before they saw him and go a long way round to Oldfield Hall. Before he moved, however, Drake finished reading and, turning away from the door, caught sight of him. The others followed the field officer’s gaze. Silence fell, broken only by Girtin, who sat on a gravestone rocking back and forth, moaning. Cursing the officious rector, Dan put his hand in his pocket for his flintlock.

  “Stay back, lads,” Drake said, pushing his way through.

  The men muttered, one or two clenched their fists, and someone spat, but they did as Drake said. They were still too stunned to think of doing anything else.

  Drake took Dan’s arm and drew him out of earshot. “Did you know anything about this?”

  “Not until last night. I asked Lord Oldfield to wait until the fuss about the arrests had died down, but he wouldn’t.”

  “No, I don’t suppose he would. It’s clear he’s been planning it for months. That’s why he’s been buying up properties like Cottom’s, not renewing farm tenancies, and clearing the parish of squatters. If the properties are empty, no one’s exercising the common rights that go with them. That makes it easier to do away with them for good when the Parliament men step in.”

  “Is it very bad for Barcombe?”

  “I should say so. First the wood, now this.”

  “He said he was going to make provision for the poor.” Dan did not say how grudging that intention was. He wanted to offer some comfort.

  Drake was no fool. “The workhouse and poor rate? They’re only slow ways to starve a man who’s never had need to go seeking charity before. It’s not just the ones who are poor now, but the new poor it will make: the smallholders who won’t have anywhere to graze their one cow or pig, and the farmers who’ve always relied on being able to pasture their herds on the heath.”

  “But won’t they get a share of the enclosed land?”

  “The parcels they’ll be entitled to will be so small they won’t be worth the expense of fencing them. They’ll sell them to Lord Oldfield and the other big men. It’ll be the best they can do. It’s the end of the Barcombe we were born to.”

  “What about you?”

  “They won’t need a field officer.”

  Dan could think of nothing to say to this.

  “His Lordship is storing up a deal of trouble,” Drake said after a moment. “You know that, don’t you? They’re angry enough as it is. Bloodie Bones will walk.”

  “There must be no more Bloodie Bones. You must tell them, Drake.”

  “I don’t know if they’ll listen to me. And I don’t think I’d blame them.”

  “If they break the law, they’ll suffer for it.”

  “Aren’t they going to suffer anyway on account of that law? And whose law is it? The old laws, the field laws, are done for. You can keep your law.”

  “It’s not my law. I have nothing to do with fields and woods. I came to Barcombe to catch a killer and I have to do it, without fear or favour. The same goes for them. If they make trouble while I’m here, I can’t let it go. You have to stop them.”

  “And what could I do to stop trouble, if it comes? No, I tell you what. It’s already here.”

  Drake turned on his heels and went back to the church.
The others closed around him, asking questions, trying to understand the blow that smote them, bewildered, anguished. Seeing their pain, Dan understood that it was not just about their livelihoods, though that was vital enough. It was love of the land they had roamed for generations. Of the old trees whose shade they had grown up in, shortly to be cut down. Of the native copses to be cleared and replaced with straight-rowed plantations of foreign species. Of ancient paths unknown to outsiders, their course dictated by ditch and stream, to be closed, and the people driven along straight roads that had no sympathy with the land.

  Dan did not like it. He liked even less the feeling that he had been tricked into helping to bring it about.

  *

  The kitchen was hot and hectic. Everyone was busy, which was good for Dan’s purposes. He slipped into Lord Oldfield’s den, closed the door, took the Bloodie Bones notes out of his pocketbook, and selected the Tirant note he had taken from the scarecrow left near Castle’s body. It was on expensive paper, the kind a lord would use, and he would not buy a sheet at a time either. There had to be more to match it.

  If Lord Oldfield was a cold-blooded killer, he was a careless one. Estate papers lay scattered on the desk, along with a dismantled gun, a bottle of cleaning fluid, and a greasy broken girth. The desk drawers were not locked, but did not contain anything of any interest: magistracy forms, broken and blunted pens and penknives, cartridge cases, seals – all the odd little things he had thrown in anyhow. There were a few sheets of letter paper with the Oldfield coat of arms embossed on them, grimy and crumpled and only fit for lining pie dishes. There was nothing matching the Bloodie Bones note.

  Dan was careful to leave everything as he’d found it: some untidy people have a knack of knowing exactly where they have put things. He went upstairs. The sound of voices and the plink-plink of a harpsichord came from the large drawing room. He had never been in there, but had seen it through the windows. It was a spacious room opening on to the rear lawn, overlooking the lake and temple. It was furnished with groupings of chairs, card tables, musical instruments, and scatterings of books and magazines.

  He went into the small drawing room. He could not imagine His Lordship spending much time at the tiny desk with its thin legs and fancy green leather top. It was a piece designed for a lady to write her notes at, not a man to do business. There were a few sheets of letter paper and an inkstand on top of it, and in the only shallow drawer a few more bits of paper, pens, and sealing wax. He was closing it when Lord Oldfield came in.

  “There you are, Foster! What are you doing?”

  “Looking for a piece of paper, My Lord.”

  “Don’t you fellows carry memorandum books?”

  “I might have one upstairs.”

  “Never mind that now.” He reached into his pocket and handed Dan a silver note case and pencil attached by a slender chain. “Keep it. I’ve plenty more. Come along. My guests want to meet you.”

  “Meet me? Why?”

  “They have never met a Bow Street Runner.”

  “But I do not – ”

  “I said come along, Foster.”

  The afternoon was drawing on, and the drawing room was already brightly lit. The party was gathered around the marble fireplace playing some sort of writing game. They had pencils and paper in their hands, and a large vase stood on a low table between them. Scattered around this were folded sheets on which lines had been scribbled in a number of hands.

  Lady Helen put her hand in front of her mouth and whispered loudly to the long-faced girl sitting next to her, “I wonder what verse we could make of runner – mystery – Newgate – hue-and-cry – magistrate – prisoner.”

  The girl tittered, probably on principle, but when the words had sunk in, she said doubtfully, “But they aren’t very good rhymes.”

  Her voice was so high Dan had to look again to be sure it came from a human throat. Dr Russell, who sat on her other side, gave her an admiring look, though neither her beauty nor her brains warranted it. A doctor has to be polite to build up his practice. Or was he aiming higher – at a good marriage perhaps?

  Garvey murmured, “Perhaps it should end with a couplet: clueless – fruitless.”

  Lady Helen laughed.

  “But that doesn’t rhyme properly either,” the girl screeched.

  Dan let Garvey and Lady Helen have their fun. They had a shock coming to them soon enough. Dan hoped for Lord Oldfield’s sake that his lawyer was as good at criminal as he was at civil law.

  A fat man in a tight silk jacket put a glass to his eye and looked Dan up and down. He was squeezed into a wooden armchair next to his stout wife, who shared a sofa with Garvey. She fluttered a handkerchief in front of her bosom and said, “Are you sure he doesn’t have gaol fever?”

  “I can assure you that he does not, Mrs West,” Dr Russell said. “It is not Mr Foster who has to spend time in prison but the villains he apprehends. Isn’t that true, Foster?”

  “It is,” Dan answered, bowing to the lady.

  Mr West, meanwhile, had finished examining him. “I think I could do him!” he cried. He leapt to his feet, put up his podgy fists, and pranced about on the hearth rug.

  “My husband has been compared to David Garrick for his ability to portray king and commoner with equal veracity,” his wife complaisantly announced, while the rest ‘bravo’d’ and applauded.

  The little man put down his mitts. “You have no doubt heard of me, Mr Foster. Nathaniel West. I always take people from the life, it is my particular method. My Hamlet is still spoken of. I am no longer on the boards,” he added. “Private performance only.”

  The long-faced girl piped, “Oldfield says you have single-handedly captured a desperate gang.”

  “Not single-handed, ma’am. I had the help of a number of officers sent from London for the purpose.”

  She lapsed into disappointed silence and sucked her bottom lip.

  A middle-aged woman with bulging eyes said, “It is interesting that the protesters used a mythical figure to justify their violent campaign. The Bloodie Bones legend is an ancient and potent one. There are many similar figures associated with rebellion and protest: Jack Straw, Robin Hood, the Earl of the Plough. Some of them are based on historical figures like Wat Tyler, and – ”

  Her lecture was interrupted by a young, goggle-eyed man Dan took to be her son. “Protest! Seems more like a case of simple thieving to me.”

  “As it was,” Lady Helen said. “Thieving and vandalism. You can hardly believe what Lord Oldfield has had to endure.”

  “Such depredations are only too inevitable when the ignorant babble about the rights of the poor,” Mr West said. “If they are entitled to anything – though it is unlikely – why do they not take the wise course and go to law?”

  “I should think it very unlikely that they can afford it,” Dr Russell remarked.

  “It is just as well,” said Garvey. “They’d only be wasting their money if they could.”

  “Of course they would. Lord Oldfield has every right to do as he wishes with his property,” Lady Helen declared.

  The lady with the frog-eyes launched into an explanation of manorial rights, which was again interrupted by her son. “Let us play another round. Whose turn is it to provide the rhyme scheme?”

  “I believe Lady Helen has already suggested one,” Garvey said.

  Attentive Dr Russell handed his companion her paper and pencil, Lady Helen gathered up the used sheets on the table and pushed them to one side, and the learned lady assumed a learned pose. Mrs West dithered about for her notebook.

  “Here,” said Lady Helen, thrusting one of the used sheets at her, “the other side is clean.”

  “Oh – yes – of course – I don’t know where mine could have got to.”

  “Shall we begin?” Lady Helen said.

  Mrs West unfolded the sheet and sprea
d it out on her lap. Dan was standing behind the sofa next to Lord Oldfield and saw it clearly. It was cream with a deckled edge – an exact match to the paper used for the Tirant message.

  Before he could think of a way of getting it off Mrs West, the door opened and Ackland walked in at something quicker than his customary stately pace.

  “May I have a word outside, My Lord?” he whispered. “And perhaps Mr Foster might accompany us?”

  Lord Oldfield looked surprised, but only said, “Of course. If you will excuse us.”

  Garvey was already dropping his verse into the vase, and the others were too busy scribbling to notice.

  Drake stood in the hall, mopping his face with a handkerchief. With a perfunctory nod at Lord Oldfield, he said, “There’s a mob building up in the village, and they’ll be heading this way soon. May already be halfway here for all I know.”

  “A mob?” Lord Oldfield repeated. “What do you mean?”

  Drake dismissed the confused Lord with a withering glance and turned to Dan. “I warned you, Foster. There’s no containing them. You had best make plans to defend yourself.”

  “Hell and damnation…How many?” Dan demanded.

  “A score, but there’s more joining every minute, with a few come in from Stonyton to lend support.”

  “Are they armed?”

  “Yes, with sticks, scythes, knives. I didn’t see any guns.”

  “But who are they?” Lord Oldfield again.