The Duke's Agent
Page 14
Mrs Bedford sprang to the absent lawyer’s defence, her small features determined and her broad bosom thrust forward. ‘Indeed he will,’ she declared. ‘Captain Adams, did you not yourself say that Justice Raistrick had evidence and witnesses?’
All of a sudden Henrietta saw Mrs Bedford’s person soften. She simpered and patted her brazen curls. Henrietta followed the line of her eyes to the doorway. Justice Raistrick himself swaggered towards them. He had not bothered to change for the evening, but trod across the rich carpet in riding dress and boots. He brought with him a taproom whiff of tobacco smoke, sweat and sour ale.
‘So you’ve heard the news, eh?’ he asked, without preamble, striding directly up to the group. Picking up his hostess’s proffered hand, he pressed his lips briefly to the white flesh. Henrietta watched the look that passed between them. His cavalier treatment seemed no offence to Amelia Bedford. Her whole face was rapt with devotion.
‘I came to seek conference with you, Reverend, as a fellow Justice.’ Mr Raistrick’s manner made it plain that he intended the two of them should go aside.
Henrietta interrupted this intention. ‘This all seems very strange to us, Mr Raistrick,’ she declared. ‘How could the Duke’s agent possibly be suspected? He has scarcely been in the district a week. Why – he did not even know Sally Grundy by name…’ She trailed off. Justice Raistrick was leaning towards her, his feline face acute.
‘And how might you know that, Miss Lonsdale? Did you speak to Mr Jarrett of Sally Grundy? And when might that have been?’
Miss Lonsdale, an honest woman, might later ask herself why she felt so protective of a bare acquaintance. At this moment she was only conscious of her dislike of Mr Raistrick and his bullying ways. She answered his question in a matter of fact tone.
‘I met Mr Jarrett by chance at the Abbey Bridge tollgate last Monday evening. Sally Grundy came by on her way into Woolbridge. She said good evening or some such – you know her way.’ At this the Captain responded with a short toss of his head and a half-smile. ‘She passed and Mr Jarrett enquired who she might be. I told him her name and that she was a laundry maid and my cook’s niece. There was no mystery about it.’
‘No mystery, Miss Lonsdale, save that Mr Jarrett claimed to me this very afternoon that he had only set eyes on the wench once – in the churchyard last Sunday. And that encounter he only confessed to after a witness had already declared he had seen him there. Why would he lie?’ Here Mr Raistrick broke off and waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘Why would Mr Jarrett not mention,’ he conceded with a smile, ‘this other encounter?’
‘Perhaps because he felt no need,’ responded Henrietta tartly.
Amelia Bedford intervened with a little laugh, belied by the spiteful look on her face. ‘Why, Miss Lonsdale, I believe your aunt told me you yourself remarked on the agent taking an interest in the girl!’
‘That is not what I said.’ Henrietta realised she had expressed her annoyance in her tone and she paused. ‘I thought he noticed her at church, that is all. What man in this place did not notice her? She was quite the most beautiful girl for miles around,’ she ended sadly.
The parson still sat at the instrument. He shook his head helplessly.
‘All this is most peculiar and most distressing.’
‘Maybe so, Mr Prattman,’ Captain Adams pressed him, ‘but Mr Jarrett gives his word as a gentleman that he is not involved. Surely he can be lodged at the inn while this investigation is carried further? The lock-up is no place for the Duke’s agent, for God’s sake! Pardon me, Reverend. Didn’t mean to take the Lord’s name in vain but this is beyond everything.’
‘I must concur in that point, Mr Raistrick.’ The parson endeavoured to address the lawyer in a business-like tone, but his eyes were timid. ‘Mr Jarrett is the Duke’s agent. Surely his word must be respected until he is proven guilty in a court of law?’
Mr Raistrick looked down on the seated man with contempt. Henrietta was struck by the contrast between his physical confidence and the supineness of the parson. The parson’s hands were plump and lily-white. Miss Lonsdale glanced at Raistrick’s. They were strong, blunt and brown.
‘I have my doubts that Mr Jarrett is who he claims. There are enough unanswered questions to warrant holding him. No one in this district knew him by sight before he appeared among us unattended a week ago. Besides, I have a mind to the common people of this town.’ The manner in which Mr Raistrick spoke suggested that while the rest of the company could afford to be above such considerations he was a practical man. ‘Feelings are running high. This is the second murder in the district in a week. Mr Jarrett is safest in the lock-up over night. He is a young man. He’ll come to no harm.’
Amelia Bedford threaded her arm through Mr Raistrick’s, her pale bejewelled skin in sharp relief against the mulberry cloth of his coat.
‘Justice Raistrick, let me fetch you a glass of wine and you must tell me everything about this dreadful tale. But I warn you! I am easily frightened!’ She gave a lilting, girlish laugh and led him off.
Henrietta opened her mouth to protest. Mr Prattman was clearly looking for a pretext to excuse himself. Miss Lonsdale sketched a curtsey to the parson, and taking the Captain’s arm she asked to be taken back to her aunt.
‘Parson’s no match for that rogue,’ murmured Captain Adams as they moved out of earshot.
‘No, indeed,’ agreed Henrietta indignantly. ‘I fear Mr Jarrett needs more justice than the two of them may give him. Captain, if I write a note would you take it to Lady Catherine for me – tonight?’
‘If you wish it, Miss Lonsdale,’ answered the Captain perplexed. ‘I cannot see how that may assist Mr Jarrett, but I will take it.’
*
The screech of protesting iron woke him. Jarrett swung his feet to the floor and opened his eyes to dim dawn light. A ladder was being lowered through the open hatch in the ceiling of his prison.
‘Mr Jarrett, sir!’ a voice called softly. A cough, then more loudly, ‘Mr Jarrett? Captain Adams. I’m coming down.’ A pair of riding boots encasing plump calves appeared at the top of the ladder. The boots descended cautiously followed by the well-fed person of Captain Adams.
He removed his hat. ‘Mr Jarrett.’ He greeted the younger man with a jerky bow. Then, as he seemed at a loss for words, Jarrett stepped forward to shake his hand warmly.
‘Captain Adams, so good of you to visit,’ he said with a grin. The Captain returned the grip eagerly.
‘Ha! Yes! Odd situation, eh? I have come as a member of the vestry, sir, to invite you to come up to the inn. The Reverend’s compliments. He hopes you did not sleep too wretchedly. This is a bad affair. Hope to clear it up directly, eh what?’
‘Indeed I slept well enough, Captain Adams, but I would be grateful for an opportunity to shave and change my shirt.’
‘Of course, absolutely.’ The Captain paused and looked at his feet. ‘One thing before we go.’ He glanced up under stubby lashes. ‘Justice Raistrick insists you should not speak of the matter to anyone,’ he said in a rush. ‘Terms of your going to the inn, as it were. Not to speak to anyone before the investigation.’ He gazed anxiously at the prisoner.
‘To no-one?’ enquired Jarrett. ‘Am I allowed to ask for breakfast?’
‘Breakfast?’ Captain Adams belatedly recognised the joke and laughed. ‘Ha, yes of course! Breakfast, hot water, all that sort of thing, but not the umm…’ He waved a hand about diplomatically to fill the gap. ‘Mr Raistrick has taken measures.’
Jarrett clicked his heels and gave a military bow. ‘Captain Adams, I accept your terms. May we go?’
Returning the bow with a relieved look, the Captain settled his hat firmly on his head and waved Jarrett up the ladder before him.
Constable Thaddaeus was waiting for them in the arcade above and the three men set off across the empty market place, flushed pink in the dawn light. Unconsciously, they fell into step. The noise of three pairs of boots striking on stone rang out in the s
ilence. Jarrett broke in on the evocative sound.
‘So I am to be allowed to be present during the magistrates’ investigation, Captain Adams? This is an unusual courtesy for a suspect.’
‘No, sir, no indeed, sir. You are not suspected! A misunderstanding. You are the Duke’s agent. If Mr Raistrick wishes the investigation to be held in this public way then the Reverend Prattman insists you be present at the questioning of the witnesses and I concur, sir, I concur.’
Two men, strangers to him, were loitering in the street by the Queen’s Head. They had surly, watchful faces. One sketched a half-insolent nod to the constable as the three passed.
The door to the Queen’s Head inn was thrown open and the space filled by Mrs Bedlington. For a fearful moment Jarrett thought she was going to embrace him, but her far flung arms stopped short, encompassing the space before him in a fervent welcome.
‘Come in, come in, Mr Jarrett.’ Emotion clogged her voice. Mistress Polly turned to the consolation of practical matters. ‘I have a fresh shirt and linen laid out above, sir, in your old room,’ she said, speaking as if she were a family retainer. ‘I have a good breakfast waiting for you. You’ll feel better once you’ve food inside you.’
Jasper Bedlington stood behind his wife and by him the slight wiry figure of Nat Broom. Mr Bedlington cast a disgusted look at the sharp-featured man. ‘The Justice’s man,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Nat, here, is come to spy on you, Mr Jarrett – make sure no one speaks to you of this affair of Sal’s death.’ He gave a sour smile as Nat Broom bridled and made as if to speak. ‘Don’t worry yourself, Nat, I’ve said my piece,’ he told him.
Jarrett reassured the innkeeper. ‘Captain Adams has informed me of the terms of my release. I will do my best not to trouble you with unnecessary talk, Mr Broom. Though I would like to say, Mistress Polly, a clean shirt at this moment would be my salvation!’
Mrs Bedlington led him up the stairs followed by her maid bearing hot water in a jug. Mrs Bedlington took the jug and followed Jarrett into the room, only to be stopped by Nat Broom.
‘You leave that door open – I’m to hear anything you say,’ he warned.
Mrs Bedlington’s withering look spoke volumes of her opinion of this officiousness. ‘I’m not stopping,’ she snapped.
In regal silence the innkeeper’s wife walked behind the door and placed the hot water on the stand that stood out of sight there. Feeling slightly sorry for the man, Jarrett gave Nat Broom a rueful smile and got a blank stare for his pains. Mistress Polly, having arranged things to her liking, swept back round the door, displacing the small man with her bulk. She closed the door carefully on her guest, throwing him a meaningful look as she departed, seeming to indicate something behind the door. Jarrett heard her parting shot as she descended the staircase.
‘Why don’t you just set there and guard his door, Nat Broom, since you’ve such a mind to become Mr Justice’s watch dog?’
As he prepared to shave, Jarrett found to his amusement that Mrs Bedlington had left him a message written in the mist on his shaving mirror. It appeared to read: ‘Bee of good hart laddie.’ If there had been more it had vanished as the heat of the steam cooled on the glass. It was not a turn of words he had heard in these parts before. Perhaps Mrs Bedlington had Scottish blood as well as a gift for the dramatic. He wandered to the window as he removed his shirt, enjoying the light after his spell in the shadows. He saw two men in the street below watching him. Mr Raistrick was taking great pains to make sure he spoke to no one. He gave an internal shrug. Either Charles or Tiplady had to arrive soon. At the very least Sir Thomas would return to identify him and put an end to this farce. In truth he was intrigued to see how Lawyer Raistrick was going to handle the investigation. Before long his enemy was bound to let slip some further clue as to his interest in the Duke’s affairs.
Time soon passed and as eleven o’clock approached Jarrett was escorted once more to the tollbooth. A considerable crowd had gathered about the arcade. As he was led up the winding stone staircase to the council chamber he caught a brief glimpse of a familiar yellow dog. So Duffin was not far away. The thought was strangely comforting.
The octagonal chamber was a muddle of people. A long table stood along the far wall. At one end Raistrick’s clerk, Pye, was laying out a familiar bundle of clothes. His escort eased Jarrett through the crowd and Constable Thaddaeus drew him up a chair so that he might sit facing the space where the witnesses would stand. Each of the remaining seven walls was filled with people, standing or sitting on the raked benches that lined the room. Captain Adams left him to join a group of eight or ten men. They looked to be a mixture of the better sort of tradesmen and artisans along with a sprinkling of the lesser sort of gentry. Seeing Jasper Bedlington standing among them, Jarrett surmised that these were the vestrymen.
The two justices walked in together. Mr Prattman made to shake Jarrett’s hand but catching sight of Mr Raistrick’s fierce expression he veered off at the last minute to hurry head-down to the table. The chamber quietened, attentive with anticipation.
‘Pye,’ ordered the lawyer, ‘open proceedings.’
The pale-faced clerk stood and, reading from a paper, announced in a carrying voice, ‘Order! Order in the chamber! In the presence of their honourable Justices, the Reverend Justice Prattman and Mr Justice Raistrick, this investigation is called to examine the circumstances of the death of Sally Grundy, eighteen years, laundrywoman of this parish of St John’s Woolbridge, in the night of Wednesday, the last day of July in the fiftieth year of the reign of His Majesty King George the Third. The corpse being found with neck broken, laid out below the rock they call Lovers’ Leap.’ The clerk called the first witness. ‘Let Mrs Munday come forward.’
A muscular woman with a secretive face detached herself from the front row of the crowd and came to stand before the Justices’ table. Her eyes flicked between the two magistrates. She seemed wary rather than in awe of her situation. Justice Raistrick addressed her from his seat behind the table.
‘Mrs Munday, you own the house in which Sally Grundy lodged. When did you see her last?’
‘I was dipping candles this Wednesday night in my kitchen and I heard her go down the passage. She called out to someone above as she came down the stairs. She lodges with Maggie Walton.’
‘What time was that? Had the rain started?’
‘I was too busy to watch the weather!’ responded Mrs Munday tartly. She considered the question, then relented. ‘It seems to me the rain started after dark. There was still light enough as I heard her, but I recall thinking: I’ll have to be lighting up soon.’
That appeared to be the sum of Mrs Munday’s evidence, yet when Mr Raistrick asked his final question, ‘Have you anything more to tell us?’ Mrs Munday looked undecided. She glanced across at Maggie Walton who stood waiting to be called with wet cheeks and scared eyes. She closed her lips and folded her hands across her stomach decisively. ‘No, your honour. I’ve said my piece.’
Next the clerk summoned Maggie Walton, Sal’s fellow lodger. She came forward with stooped shoulders as if trying to fit herself into the most insignificant compass possible. She was of a similar age to the dead girl. Maggie had protuberant pale blue eyes and a rosy button mouth. Mr Raistrick took some pains to put her at her ease. He favoured her with a friendly smile and asked his questions in an informal, easy way.
‘Sally Grundy was your friend?’
‘Oh, yes, sir!’ Maggie answered fervently, nodding her head. Her friendship with Sal was the sole thing that had made Maggie Walton’s existence in any way remarkable.
‘And you and your friend talked together, shared secrets – as girls do?’
Maggie’s round eyes were eager to please but perplexed. ‘We talked, sir,’ she agreed eventually.
‘And can you tell us where Sal was going on Wednesday night last?’
Maggie looked down at her feet. Her first response was indistinct and the magistrate had to instruct her to speak up.
‘And was it a man she went to meet, do you think?’
Maggie looked quite surprised at the question. Who else would Sal be going to meet if not a man? The lawyer smiled.
‘And at what time did she leave for this meeting? Had the rain started, do you think?’
‘No, sir. I heard thunder, and I said: Sal, you’re not going out? Storm’s coming. And she said: Never you fret. I loves a storm on the moor.’ The wistful expression on Maggie’s face was one of wonder at the exotic mystery of Sal. ‘Then she left.’ The wonder faded to be replaced by a sad, anxious expression.
‘And you never saw her again?’
Maggie glanced nervously towards Mrs Munday. The landlady’s narrowed eyes were fixed on her. When Maggie answered there was a whining note to her reply. ‘No! No, sir!’
‘And was Sal in the habit of going out at such strange hours? It must have been nine or half past nine o’clock at night.’
Maggie appeared to find such comings and goings usual. She merely commented that Sal liked to go out.
Maggie was dismissed to scuttle thankfully back into the anonymity of the crowd. Turning to his fellow Justice, Mr Raistrick’s comment was audible to the chamber.
‘So our mystery is who Sally Grundy was going to meet at Lovers’ Leap.’ He turned the beam of his gaze on to the gentleman seated to the left of the table. ‘And thus we come to you, Mr Jarrett.’ Ignoring his clerk, the lawyer abandoned formalities. He continued as if addressing his fellow Justice and the members of the vestry sitting beyond.
‘Mr Jarrett has told me that he left his cottage – the windows of which look out on to Lovers’ Leap – on Thursday morning to conduct His Grace’s audit in Woolbridge. He left early and did not look down from the bridge before his door and so did not see the victim, but went directly to the Queen’s Head where I and my officers found him. Together we went to inspect the body, which was laid out on its back, with arms folded thus,’ the lawyer folded his arms across his breast to illustrate his words, ‘on a shelf above the line of the flood that swelled the river on Wednesday night. Laid out by human agency. The victim herself never died that way. A few spots of blood, and two bloody imprints – one complete of a man’s boot lying half under the body, and one partial mark in a foothold below – indicate that a man carried the victim, bleeding from a wound in the head, to the shelter of the ledge. Her clothes were damp but not wet through as they would have been had she been out in the heavy rain of last night for any length. This leads to the conclusion that the victim died and was laid on the ledge just before, or soon after, the storm broke. Now Mr Jarrett denies he knew the victim. And yet,’ the lawyer got up and went to the pile of items that lay on the table beside his clerk, ‘while the body was being laid inside to await the arrival of a cart, this was brought to my attention.’