The Duke's Agent

by Rebecca Jenkins

  Jarrett examined the new witness with interest. Ned Turner proved to be a short, muscular man with the air of a choleric dwarf. Collateral arches of creased flesh about his eyes mounted up a high forehead and one of his deep-set eyes wandered, giving him a slightly averted look. He held his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, his expression resentful at the excited attention he was receiving.

  ‘Are you Ned Turner, carter of this place?’

  ‘I am,’ the witness answered shortly. ‘Folk know me here.’ As he threw a belligerent glance about the chamber, several heads nodded in confirmation of this statement.

  ‘And you claim you saw the deceased, Sally Grundy, in Gainford on Tuesday last with a “gentleman”?’

  The carter nodded. ‘Just Tuesday past.’ He watched the lawyer closely. Jarrett could not decide whether he was weighing the man up or looking for instructions.

  ‘Can you describe the man you saw?’

  ‘A fancy sort of man, not a working man.’

  ‘His colour, his hair, his height.’

  ‘A medium-sized man. Fair.’

  The economy of the witness’s answers was not to the lawyer’s liking.

  ‘What do you mean by medium-sized?’ The energy with which Raistrick asked the question gave it an edge of impatience. Ostentatiously he swept his eyes about the room, coming to rest on the fair-haired gentleman sitting in his chair to the left of the table. ‘Mr Jarrett, might I trouble you to stand a moment?’

  The agent complied, his face a mask of polite detachment.

  ‘See this gentleman here, Turner,’ continued the lawyer. ‘Do you mean medium height as in the stature of this man? I beg your pardon,’ Raistrick bowed elaborately to the agent as if recouping an unintentional insult, ‘medium height as Mr Jarrett’s height might be considered to be of medium height?’

  Turner glanced at Jarrett’s figure. He gave a graceless jerk of his head. ‘About his height.’

  Mr Raistrick was too skilful to betray his eagerness to his public, but as he resumed his seat Jarrett could sense the tension under the mask. The Justice stood with one hand negligently hooked in his waistcoat. One had to look closely to notice that the free hand that hung by his side was clenched tight. When he spoke, his tone was almost casual.

  ‘Mr Turner – do you see any man in this chamber who resembles the man you saw in Gainford?’

  The carter seemed unsurprised by the question. His eyes detailed a careful circle about the crowded room until they reached Jarrett. There they lingered as he looked full into the agent’s face.

  ‘He’s like, I reckon.’

  Raistrick turned to his audience. ‘Mr Jarrett resembles the man you saw talking to the girl in Gainford that day?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘So you testify that Mr Jarrett looks like the man you saw talking to Sally Grundy last Tuesday in Gainford? Did you know, Mr Turner, that Mr Jarrett has told us he never spoke a word to the girl? And yet you saw him talking to the victim in Gainford just this Tuesday past …’

  ‘No.’ Turner’s negative cut into the flow of the lawyer’s speech and bobbed there in the arrested tide a moment. ‘He’s like, but it’s not him. I took that fellow for a play-actor – he had this bill in his hand, like the players hand out on fair days. He was asking after a printer.’

  An honest witness, by God! In his relief Jarrett almost smiled openly. It seemed that Mr Turner was not the lawyer’s man after all. The respite was short-lived. Raistrick’s only discernible reaction to this check was to shift his weight a touch, as if planting his feet more securely for the fight. The sense of barely contained energy that always accompanied his presence grew more palpable.

  ‘How well do you see, Mr Turner – in the general run of things?’ The lawyer’s fingers sketched a little flurry near his face, drawing attention to the cast in the carter’s eye.

  ‘As well as any, so far as I know,’ Turner responded defensively.

  ‘And how close did you stand, when you saw Sally Grundy in Gainford with this fair-haired gentleman, who resembled Mr Jarrett so closely?’

  ‘I was unloading my wagon across the green from the Blue Boar. She was standing before the door talking to him and then they went in together.’

  ‘The man – he was wearing a hat?’

  This gave the carter pause. ‘I reckon,’ he agreed cautiously.

  Raistrick’s nimble fingers drew a broad-brimmed hat in the air about his own head. ‘A hat.’ His tone was patiently scornful. ‘A hat throws a man’s face in shadow, Mr Turner. You were watching from across the green, you say? That’s a fair distance, Mr Turner. How can you be sure? Could this not be the man?’

  ‘Not unless he’s been baked in the oven these last few days,’ snapped the carter. ‘He’s a brown-complexioned man. The other was fair-skinned – I could see that, hat or no. Bright red and complaining of the heat he was.’ Turner cast dispassionate eyes over the seated agent. ‘No, I’ve not seen him before. The other had golden hair, as bright as a guinea of gold.’

  The lawyer darted straight for the weakness. ‘How could you see his hair, Turner, if he was wearing a hat?’

  ‘He took it off,’ returned Turner, unabashed. ‘He took off his hat as he took the chickabiddy into the inn.’

  Thank God for true Englishmen, thought Jarrett. Raistrick had finally misjudged. He had offended his witness and roused his independent spirit. With luck this sturdy citizen was digging in for a fight.

  ‘Playing the real gentleman, he was,’ elaborated Turner, uncharacteristically warming to his theme. ‘What a to-do. I thought to myself: You’re not taken in by that dangler are you, Sally Grundy? By the saints, though, but she was a cockish wench,’ he added in an unexpectedly regretful tone.

  ‘Spare us your fancies, Turner. We seek only facts here.’ Raistrick’s confidence was unshaken. He seemed to have no fear of insulting his witness. ‘Look again – this man’s hair might turn gold where the sun caught it.’

  ‘No, I tell you.’ Ned Turner was beginning to sound querulous. ‘That one was not a proper gentleman – he was like a play-actor or a beau-trap, I tell you.’

  Raistrick surveyed the carter as if he were weighing up some heavy object he had to move from his path. The crowded chamber remained with him. By the occasional exclamation and murmur, the audience indicated it was growing impatient with Mr Turner.

  ‘Mr Turner,’ he began.

  A disturbance erupted by the door. A path opened between the press of onlookers and a pair of newcomers entered. The leader was a compact gentleman with sparse hair receding off a high domed forehead. The reverend parson sprang to his feet, a rosy blush rising up his neck to his forehead.

  ‘Why, Colonel!’ he exclaimed.

  Colonel Ison, Member of Parliament and Chairman of the Bench, had arrived.

  A glance at Colonel Ison when in repose might lead the casual observer to mistake him for just another prosperous gentleman farmer, but when in motion his face and manner exuded an energy combined with the utter confidence of authority that made him remarkable. At that moment he marched into the room the black brows which gave character to a rounded, almost chubby, face were concentrated in a stern line, and under them his hazel eyes were acute.

  ‘I’ve come as fast as I was able. Your servant, Reverend. Mr Raistrick.’ The Colonel bounced a business-like bow at each. ‘I don’t believe you know my companion.’ Turning to the slight young man who followed him, he said, ‘My Lord, may I introduce to you the Reverend Justice Prattman, parson of this parish, and Mr Justice Raistrick. Sirs, Lord Earewith.’

  The Duke of Penrith’s eldest son executed a polite bow to the two magistrates. The fine cloth of his travelling cloak whispered wealth in every elegant fold, while the sharp, complex creases of his cravat and the silver-topped cane he held so negligently in his gloved hand testified to his sense of fashion. The faintly bored expression with which he acknowledged the introduction gave way to one of charming animation as he walked over to th
e agent. Jarrett leapt up with hand outstretched.

  ‘Charles!’

  The hand was grasped and used to pull Jarrett into an uninhibited embrace.

  ‘Raif, dear fellow! I called on the Colonel here to convey my father’s regards as I passed, heard where he was headed and here I am.’ Charles turned his closely cropped head to glance around him. ‘Might I have a chair?’ he asked pleasantly.

  The vestryman so addressed stared in confusion. As the gentleman was clearly used to being obeyed there seemed no answer but to start up and offer his own seat. The Marquess watched patiently as the man deposited the chair. With a gracious nod of dismissal, my lord moved the seat to a spot slightly behind Jarrett and made himself comfortable. Resting a careless hand on his friend’s shoulder, he surveyed the chamber with a lively expression.

  ‘So, Raif – as I appear to have arrived after the first act – tell me the plot so far.’

  *

  The Colonel’s arrival revolutionised the universe. As with the appearance of a large planet in a small galaxy, the relationships in the council chamber switched seamlessly into new orbits. The change in Mr Raistrick was remarkable. One minute the puppet-master, the next he had dampened down all the glowing colours of his presence and retreated – without seeming to retreat – into the role of the lawyer, legal adviser to the bench.

  In a tone that was brisk and a touch impatient the Colonel asked for the record of proceedings. The clerk Pye, with no more expression than a mechanical doll, handed over the large book in which he had noted down the testimony of the witnesses. Perching a pair of half-moon spectacles on his nose, the Colonel rapidly scanned the account. He flicked an acute glance under his black brows at the townsfolk crowding the room.

  ‘Odd business. Don’t hold with these open sessions myself. Unsettles the public. This affair should have been investigated in private, Prattman. Mr Raistrick, you are our legal man, you should have advised against it.’

  He looked over to where Jarrett sat with Lord Earewith. The two men were in conversation, their heads bent close together. The Colonel exchanged a brief nod of acknowledgement with the agent.

  ‘A bad business,’ he declared roundly. ‘Bad business, badly managed, Prattman!’

  ‘You’ve not met the Colonel before, Raif, have you?’ Charles was asking in a low voice. ‘He came to Ravensworth once years back, but you were abroad – on duty in the West Indies, I think. Quite the politician, so I am told.’

  Charles’s pale skin highlighted his dark eyes which were particularly expressive. He threw a humorous look about the chamber.

  ‘Not a week in the district and you are taken up on suspicion of murder. I see you’ve made your mark.’ The hand resting on Jarrett’s shoulder gave it a friendly squeeze. ‘And you are well, Raif?’ Though his manner was light-hearted, the dark eyes watched his friend closely. Jarrett’s smile returned their warmth.

  ‘Well indeed. I have suffered nothing more than a sore leg, a damp night in gaol and bruised pride – which latter no doubt will be to my benefit, for I was careless in this affair.’

  ‘I doubt the foresight of Cassandra could have anticipated this. It is rather splendidly dramatic, though,’ responded Charles, looking about the scene in a manner strongly reminiscent of an enthusiastic theatre-goer.

  ‘I hardly think the dead girl would share your enthusiasm, Charles,’ Jarrett said dryly.

  His companion’s open face was fleetingly contrite. ‘Forgive me. You know I have no nerves or sensibilities. I hear the victim was a girl of great beauty. Such a shame.’ His agile mind leapt on to a new tack. ‘As to that – it seems you have made quite an impression among the ladies of this district, Raif.’

  Jarrett, caught off guard, stiffened. ‘What can you mean? I was not acquainted with this Sally Grundy.’

  ‘No need to flare up at me, my boy. I wasn’t referring to the laundry wench, but to another entirely respectable lady. One to whom you are indebted, it seems, for alerting Lady Catherine to your plight – now there is a formidable character. Extraordinary woman. One could not have dreamt her up in one’s wildest fancies.’

  ‘Charles, your wanderings have lost me.’ Jarrett was finding his friend’s humour a trifle tiresome.

  ‘It was Lady Catherine who fetched the Colonel. The fetching female who fetched her was Miss Lonsdale. I merely happened to call conveniently on the Colonel as he was setting off. When I received your letter, it occurred to me that he might be a useful ally.’

  ‘Miss Lonsdale!’

  ‘Your astonishment is wasted on me, Raif. I would take it as a compliment that a maiden should ride to one’s rescue – but then you can be such a strait-laced fellow where women are concerned.’

  Jarrett ignored the jibe. ‘You have met Miss Lonsdale?’

  ‘But briefly, to my chagrin.’ Charles sat bent forward, resting his chin on his cane and one elegantly clad leg stretched out, as his dark eyes took in the details of the council chamber. ‘At the inn as we arrived. Lady Catherine was assisting her in making arrangements to convey the cook and her dead relative. I am, however, in confident hope of pursuing the interesting acquaintance.’ He slid a teasing side look at his friend. ‘I am invited to tea at Oakdene.’ Charles laughed outright at his friend’s face as he digested the news. ‘And so are you, Raif – just as soon as we are free of this affair. Lady Catherine is all agog to hear details of this business and will not be denied.’

  Over at the Justices’ table the mulberry-coated figure of the lawyer was listening in silence to the Colonel’s low-voiced monologue. The friends caught a glimpse of his speculative glance in their direction.

  ‘I presume that is our wild card?’ Charles turned away to disguise a faint smile. ‘My entrance seems to have floored him.’

  ‘It was a good entrance.’

  ‘Did you like it? I thought perhaps the embrace was a touch overdone – we are after all an undemonstrative tribe, but I thought to reclaim you.’

  ‘I am deeply conscious of your patronage, my lord,’ responded Jarrett. Charles buffeted him on the arm and they laughed like boys.

  The Colonel completed his assessment of the clerk’s record. Assuming a carrying public voice he made for the heart of the matter.

  ‘It would seem that the victim – this Sally Grundy – met her death between half past nine and eleven o’clock on the night of Wednesday last. Is that agreed, gentlemen?’

  His fellow Justices acknowledged it was. The Colonel’s eyes searched the crowd.

  ‘Which one is Turner the carter?’ The sturdy little man stepped forward once more. ‘It seems no one has thought to ask you what time you saw this pair in Gainford last Tuesday, Turner. What time was that?’

  Smiles were alien to Ned Turner’s features, but his expression indicated that he approved of the Colonel. He answered the question with care.

  ‘It was in the afternoon, your honour. I always reach the green at Gainford between half past four and five on a Tuesday afternoon. Mrs Bridey at the Cat and Fiddle, she likes to remark on my punctuality. I was a touch early that day for she remarked to me: You’re prompt today, Mr Turner – it is barely half past four. I got down to unload my wagon and I saw them.’

  ‘Thank you, Turner. Well, gentlemen, the matter seems straightforward enough. Mr Jarrett,’ the Colonel turned his attention to the agent, ‘where were you, sir, at half past four on Tuesday afternoon?’

  ‘I spent the day riding about the Duke’s properties, Colonel. As I recollect, I left Mr Peart over at Spinney Top just before four o’clock that afternoon. Around half past the hour I should have been approaching Woolbridge.’

  ‘And did you pass anyone who might confirm this?’

  ‘I might have nodded to an acquaintance or two, but I do not recollect speaking to anyone.’

  A voice spoke up. ‘I saw him.’ A plump woman with a homely face edged out of the crowd. ‘Mary Tan, your honour.’ She identified herself with a bob curtsey. ‘If you please, Mr Justice, sir, I saw
the agent ride by. And so did Nathan Binks and Jeremy Fairley, for they were talking before Nathan’s shop on the market. You remember, Nathan?’ She addressed the watchmaker. ‘Jem said he hadn’t seen His Grace’s new agent and you said, there he is now. That was Tuesday afternoon but I couldn’t swear to the time.’

  Her uncertainty was soon supplemented by the testimony of the watchmaker. Nathan Binks came forward to declare that it was lacking ten minutes to five o’clock when the agent passed. He was certain of the hour for he was setting a mechanism at the time by the church clock.

  The Colonel spread his blunt-fingered hands in a gesture expressive of the simplicity of it all. ‘There you are, gentlemen. If Mr Jarrett was in Woolbridge just before five o’clock there is no mortal means he could have been seen by Mr Turner at half past four in Gainford. There is clearly some other man who was consorting with the victim.’ The Colonel went on briskly. ‘May I suggest that he is the man to seek. Let us have a description drawn up and posted, offering the usual reward for information.’

  ‘One moment, Colonel.’ The lawyer half-rose to claim the Colonel’s attention. ‘There is still a matter that puzzles me.’ He spoke as if the words he used were not his first choice. ‘These muddy clothes.’ He drew attention to the pile of garments resting on the table. ‘Mr Jarrett agrees they are his, yet he will not explain why he was down by the river that night.’

  ‘Is this true, Mr Jarrett? You do not wish to offer an explanation?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Colonel, but Mr Raistrick’s unmannerly inquisition did not incline me to justify my actions as if I were some criminal. I can offer you no witness but I was fishing, sir.’

  ‘Fishing in the middle of a tempest, Mr Jarrett?’ Raistrick was scornful.

  ‘The river was rising and so were the salmon,’ responded Jarrett coolly.

  It was fortunate perhaps that the Colonel, too, was of the angling fraternity. ‘Did you have good sport?’ he asked with interest.

  ‘It was unusual sport, sir. Exhilarating. I caught a couple of fish of excellent size. I hung them at the back of my cottage, but I suspect they might have been taken.’