The Duke's Agent

by Rebecca Jenkins

  ‘Ah,’ said Jarrett. ‘You have plans for my future, it seems.’

  ‘Raif, it is time you sold out. It would take but a few months – a year maybe – until this magistrate learns his place once more.’ Charles was determined to persuade with his conviction. ‘Besides, this neighbourhood has many features of interest. You have yourself commented on the splendid subjects there are here for your pen; and my father’s possessions in the district are wide. There are not only the farms, but the mines and some other properties further afield in Hartlepool and Durham – plenty to occupy your mind and talents. You would have full control and none better to take up the charge.’

  Jarrett gave a short laugh. ‘I doubt I am diplomat enough to deal with the likes of Mr Raistrick.’

  ‘Unless there is clear evidence of some crime – what are we to do against Mr Raistrick?’ demanded Charles. ‘Going to law is a costly business, the courts are sinks to both money and justice. Would you have us apply ourselves to enriching lawyers and clerks for the next decade? Be sensible, Raif; the world is as it is.’

  There was a mature awareness in the depths of Charles’s sherry-coloured eyes. The Marquess’s youthful spirit was that of a child born with a wry consciousness of the sinful ways of the world. The difference between the friends was that where Jarrett regretted, Charles merely shrugged and accepted.

  ‘I am a soldier, Charles. I would make a poor steward.’

  ‘I have put Tip up with Bedlington at the Queen’s Head and engaged you your room,’ Charles ventured after a pause. ‘You will stay, will you, Raif?’ he ended on a faintly pleading note.

  Jarrett leant back his head and let out a slow breath. He had been restless for some time, his unease predating the wound that had brought him home. For months since, reflecting alone under the stars in the frozen Portuguese hills, the yearning had grown in him for a different life, a life that amounted to something more than a couple of mentions in despatches. Raif Jarrett had discovered that he lacked the true heart of a soldier. A man on active service rises each day to contend with death. His loves are passionate and brief; his friendships vivid in the knowledge they may soon be cut off. The future, like his fate, is something he pays little mind. At the age of twenty the military life had seemed heroic, romantic, a kind of perfect freedom, but as a man grew older he felt the lack of home and the settled ties of affection that give body to existence. He met Charles’s eyes with a wry smile.

  ‘I hope to stay to see this affair out. And I promise to play the proper gentleman – at least for now.’

  ‘Good, Tansy! Trot on, Bronte!’ Charles registered his satisfaction, having at last managed to coax a smooth action from his pair.

  A straight avenue of sycamores opened before them. Down the vista appeared the neat frontage of Oakdene Hall.

  ‘You say Lady Catherine fetched the Colonel,’ Jarrett asked. ‘How could that be?’

  ‘She has some influence with him, it seems,’ Charles replied. ‘He mentioned that he had known her since he was a boy. When she summoned him, he came at once.’

  ‘But who is she? I knew of the Duke’s friendship with Sir Thomas but I had never heard of her existence.’

  ‘She’s some sort of cousin. A daughter of the second Earl of Shetland. I believe I was told once that her afflictions had her destined for an asylum until Sir Thomas came to her rescue and had her reside with him; that was many years ago now – more than thirty, I should think. But enough of Lady Catherine.’ Charles returned to the matter at hand. ‘We should consult the Colonel about this Tallyman. He has been an active magistrate in this area for many years, he may know of him.’ Charles paused. ‘We shall have to tread lightly as to Mr Raistrick.’ He slid Raif a cautious look. ‘He is after all on the bench and you agree we have no sound evidence to lay against him as yet.’

  Jarrett’s face was impassive. ‘What do we know of the Colonel?’ he asked. ‘How far can he be trusted?’

  ‘As I said, he is a politician.’ Charles let the word hang heavy with a faintly mocking twist of the mouth. ‘I dare say he follows his own interest, and who is to know what that may be in any given set of circumstances? However, I trust the Duke’s influence carries weight with him – more weight than that of a provincial lawyer,’ he ended with a dismissive flourish of his whip as he urged his team about the sweep of the drive at a brisk trot.

  ‘Raistrick is no ordinary rural justice,’ warned Jarrett. ‘He is something more, I’ll wager. Remember, this is a small community.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but the bulk of the Colonel’s interests lie outside the immediate district.’

  ‘Well enough.’

  They drew up at the door. A travelling carriage was being led away to the stables as Charles brought his horses to a stand.

  ‘In any event, you may form your own opinion of the man. The Colonel has arrived before us, I see.’

  *

  Lady Catherine sat near Miss Henrietta Lonsdale at a table set in the full light of a window looking out over the park. Her twisted body overhung a piece of muslin tacked on to stiff paper. She was setting the final stitches into an exquisite central design of fruit and flowers worked in white thread. The motions executed by her withered hands were delicate and precise, reinforcing the impression of an unwieldy body kept in check by willpower and rigorous schooling. Colonel Ison hovered by his hostess with the air of a man who had run out of pretty things to say. He greeted the newcomers thankfully. Jarrett took his first opportunity to address the magistrate.

  ‘I was not able to raise this matter earlier, Colonel, but I am anxious to trace a villain who goes by the name of the Tallyman. Have you perhaps heard of him? I understand he is well known in the town, particularly in the river district.’

  ‘The Tallyman, eh?’ The Colonel gave an abrupt, humourless laugh. He paused briefly, his speculative gaze on the agent. His eyes were as shallow as bits of glass. ‘No. I don’t recall any villain coming before me by that name. Why should you ask?’

  ‘I have information that he may have been responsible for a piece of housebreaking at the manor after Mr Crotter’s death, Colonel – although I have another interest. You were informed of the recent murder up on Stainmoor, sir? The description I was given of this Tallyman struck me as similar to that reported of the suspect in that affair. I may have been misled but the coincidence seems worth pursuing – in the interests of justice, Colonel Ison,’ he added.

  ‘Indeed, Mr Jarrett, indeed. I shall make enquiries.’

  ‘I am at a loss how to frame this, Colonel – but have you perhaps a means of making enquiries without troubling Mr Raistrick?’

  ‘Not trouble Justice Raistrick – what can you mean, Mr Jarrett?’

  Lady Catherine was hunched over her white work. ‘Stuff and nonsense, Zachary, you know full well what he means,’ she said sharply.

  The Colonel looked pop-eyed under his black brows. Fierce intelligence peered out from the old woman’s crippled body and fixed him with a stare of all-seeing derision. Colonel Ison reddened and dropped his gaze.

  ‘I’ll make enquiries, Lady Catherine,’ he repeated, with a dignified bow. ‘Stap me but where’s my head! Mr Jarrett, I must return these to you.’

  The Colonel turned away to pick up a couple of items from a side-table. He handed Jarrett the notebook and sketch that Raistrick had taken from him.

  Jarrett caught a whiff of scented soap and sensed a warm presence at his elbow. Miss Lonsdale looked over his arm at the portrait of Sally Grundy.

  ‘She was a most beautiful girl. You have caught her very well, Mr Jarrett,’ she remarked.

  Charles’s quick ear picked up the flat, non-committal tone in the cool voice. Miss Lonsdale felt the Marquess watching her and her candid gaze held his a moment.

  ‘So you are an artist, Mr Frederick Raif Jarrett?’ His hostess’s thin voice demanded Jarrett’s attention. ‘You can earn your tea by drawing me a design for me corners. Ye see the size of the piece.’ Lady Catherine flicked out the
fichu of fine muslin for him to see. ‘Something for the corners. Those may inspire.’ The old lady waved abruptly to a pair of Sèvres jardinières standing on a gilt table between the tall windows. Jarrett politely examined the porcelain enamelled with garlands of pink and blue flowers curling within elegantly shaped cartouches. Lady Catherine pushed a sheet of stiff paper and a pencil across the table towards him. ‘There!’ she commanded.

  Thus Jarrett found himself fixed by the window at Lady Catherine’s side in company with the Colonel, leaving Charles free to promenade about the length of the room with Miss Lonsdale. Henrietta Lonsdale was looking very well. Her grey eyes sparkled with amusement and there was a pretty colour to her cheeks. Jarrett, preoccupied with his design, could not help overhearing enough to appreciate that the pair were getting on famously. It was quite a spectacle to watch Charles deploying his charm. He put the whole liveliness of his countenance and supple frame into the performance. Miss Lonsdale was clearly well entertained. She followed each graceful gesture of the long-fingered hands, her intelligent features reflecting the animation of his dark eyes.

  ‘Though this may be counted heresy in these sentimental times, ma’am, I must confess I cannot share the current mania for manufactured wildernesses. I appreciate the grandeurs of nature well enough in Italy or Switzerland – I am as admiring as the next man of the stirring depictions of Salvator Rosa – but all this counterfeiting wild wastes in a garden, I cannot like it.’ Charles indicated the serene sweep of Sir Thomas’s park framed in the high windows. ‘A gentleman’s park should be a well-schooled affair with a decent space left about both God’s and man’s best creations, so they may be properly appreciated. To my mind there is nothing more exquisite than a well positioned English oak highlighted in a sunlit park. Would you not agree, Miss Lonsdale?’

  ‘And would the severity of your taste allow a few sheep perhaps, sir? Or maybe a small herd of deer to add a touch of interest?’ enquired Miss Lonsdale.

  My Lord inclined his upper torso in a courtly bow. ‘You have it precisely, ma’am. A small herd of deer, with some fine sets of antlers. A shade more noble than sheep, would you not say? I owe it to my lineage – I come from a long line of huntsmen.’

  His eyes twinkled and they laughed out loud together. Charles caught Jarrett looking in their direction.

  ‘Now I know Raif there will dispute my taste in this, for he is a full-blown admirer of the picturesque. But then he is an artistic fellow, ma’am, while I have little sensibility.’

  ‘It is true, ma’am,’ Jarrett responded, sounding rather less gracious than he intended. ‘That poetic countenance of his has misled many a lady as to the depths of Charles’s sensibility. In truth he is more inclined to a fine dinner than to a fine view.’

  Lady Catherine was watching them like some mischievous imp peeping out from under a rock. Jarrett felt a twinge of impatience. He disliked being treated as a spectacle. Colonel Ison too was irritated. He was unused to having so little attention paid to him. Henrietta took pity on his cross, perplexed look.

  ‘Is it your belief that Sally Grundy was murdered, Colonel?’ she asked.

  ‘I am inclined to wonder whether this is all a good deal of fuss over nothing, Miss Lonsdale,’ he responded abruptly. ‘What was the place called where the piece died – Lovers’ Leap? She may have jumped. Sort of overheated thing serving girls do.’

  ‘If that were the case, how should she come to lie as we found her, Colonel?’ asked Jarrett, a touch impatiently.

  ‘Maybe some other person passing by found the corpse and tidied it.’

  ‘Without reporting the death, sir?’

  ‘There are plenty of itinerants, Mr Jarrett, who do not like to draw attention to themselves. Gypsies, tramping miners seeking work at the pits up the dale – such folk might go so far as to lay out a corpse safely and decently, leaving it for others to find in time. As indeed it was.’

  Jarrett, hawkish after a point of reason, did not seem aware that he was causing the Colonel offence by countering his arguments so briskly. With the age-old diplomacy of womankind Henrietta stepped in to divert the Colonel’s attention.

  ‘Indeed Mrs Grundy, her aunt, is convinced that Sal was distressed over a suitor who slighted her to marry another. And yet the little I knew of the girl would not have inclined me to believe that she would so lose her senses. Sally Grundy was spirited certainly, but she was also shrewd and sensible at heart.’

  ‘Do you know the name of the suitor, Miss Lonsdale?’ asked the Colonel.

  Miss Lonsdale looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Will Roberts is his name, Colonel, but I cannot suspect him of such a crime. He has but recently returned from the militia in Ireland – he volunteered and did his duty with merit. He married his sergeant’s daughter while in service and when released he and his father-in-law pooled their bounty to buy an alehouse here in Woolbridge. I have never heard an ill word spoken of Will Roberts. He is a steady, hard-working man.’

  The Colonel was unconvinced. ‘Begging your pardon, Miss Lonsdale, but you cannot be expected to know these rank and file militiamen as I do. I have considerable experience of the kind, both as officer and magistrate; the most sober of them can behave with utter wretchedness, particularly when the worse for drink or in a passion.’

  ‘I did hear a rumour that Miss Grundy might have sued Roberts for breach of promise,’ ventured Jarrett. He kept to himself the means by which he had picked up this rumour. Eavesdropping in a local tavern, although an excellent way to collect intelligence, might not appear entirely well-bred.

  ‘Breach of promise, eh?’ barked the Colonel. ‘That would put this Roberts on the spot with his new wife and in-laws.’

  Miss Lonsdale was not to be shaken in her opinion. ‘I cannot believe it of Will,’ she said decisively. ‘Colonel, I have known Will Roberts from a boy. He used to help his father, a carpenter who worked on my uncle’s estates. He was always a gentle lad. Such a character as his could not commit cold-blooded murder.’ She cast Jarrett an indignant look. ‘Besides, Mrs Grundy, Sal’s aunt, is my aunt’s cook and speaks to me much of her niece. She never mentioned any such thing as a suit for breach of promise and I feel sure Sal would have confided in her.’

  The Colonel looked down at her indulgently. He was fond of well-favoured young women, and Miss Lonsdale had a speaking countenance.

  ‘Sad to say, Miss Lonsdale, boys grow up and even good lads can go bad. But then it is one of the glories of the female sex to think the best of men,’ he added gallantly. ‘And indeed, Miss Grundy’s aunt would have been a likely confidante of any scheme to go to law. It seems then, gentlemen, we must fall back on this play-actor fellow,’ he ended jovially.

  ‘A play-actor, sir?’ asked Henrietta, intrigued.

  ‘Indeed, Miss Lonsdale,’ explained Charles, dropping his voice in a mock dramatic style. ‘It seems that Miss Grundy had collected a play-actor among her admirers.’

  ‘But how? There are no players in the area at present – none closer than Richmond at the very least. I feel sure we would have heard of them else, would we not, Lady Catherine?’ Henrietta appealed to her hostess.

  Lady Catherine pursed up her wizened face as she sucked a thread to refill her needle. She jerked her head in agreement.

  ‘True enough. Fancy always plagues me to let her go gawk whenever there are play-actors about.’

  ‘Miss Grundy was seen to meet with someone whom the witness took for a play-actor at an inn in Gainford last Tuesday,’ said Jarrett. ‘But surely, Colonel, we cannot lay too much weight on Ned Turner’s assumption as to the profession of the man he saw. As I recall, he described him variously as a fancy sort of man and likened him to a beau-trap.’

  ‘A beau-trap?’ Miss Lonsdale sought elucidation from Lord Earewith who leant towards her as if they were old friends.

  ‘I believe, Miss Lonsdale, that the term refers to a type of rogue who haunts inns dressed as a gentleman in order to trick unwary country folk at cards or dic
e.’

  As if ignoring this by-play, Jarrett continued to address the Colonel and Lady Catherine. ‘In other words, the carter merely thought the man too well dressed to be a working man and yet not quite convincing as a gentleman. True, he also thought he glimpsed a play-bill in the man’s hand and heard him ask after a printer. But as the carter had this beau escorting Miss Grundy into the inn on the green at Gainford in the same breath I dare say we should not put too much reliance on that part of his testimony either.’

  ‘I do not understand what business Sal would have in Gainford, Mr Jarrett.’

  Jarrett was startled by Miss Lonsdale’s tone. He could not think how, but once again he appeared to have caused the lady offence. He put himself out to be conciliatory.

  ‘I believe, according to her aunt’s account, Miss Grundy was employed in some laundry work for a Lady Yardley or some such, a newcomer to Gainford,’ he explained politely.

  ‘Lady Yarbrook, perhaps?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ replied Jarrett surprised. ‘I believe that was the name.’

  ‘Not the fabulous Lady Yarbrook?’ exclaimed Charles.

  ‘You know of her?’ asked Jarrett.

  ‘Only slightly – she is one of those blue-stockings who hold salons for artists and distinguished men, hoping to harvest glory from their fame. She likes to be thought clever. Not my natural circles, you understand,’ he confided to Henrietta. ‘I came across her and her entourage in Rome a year or two back. She is an original – one of those persons too extraordinary to like and yet whom it seems beneath one to dislike.’

  Miss Lonsdale, while acknowledging Lord Earewith’s wit, did not quite like this severe dismissal of a mere acquaintance.

  ‘Well, Lady Yarbrook is also reported to have a passion for theatricals and to have engaged a company of players for the summer!’ Henrietta could not help feeling a little gratified at her success in gaining the attention of the company with this piece of information. What was it Amelia Bedford had said? She recalled the stuffiness, the plump flesh encased in tight black satin pressing close, the sickly smell of the rose petals mixed with sweat. ‘Mrs Bedford spoke of a Lady Yarbrook – the daughter of a Duke?’ She spoke slowly, looking a query to Charles who nodded in encouragement. ‘Who is married to an Irish peer – but does not wish to live in Ireland,’ she continued, gaining confidence.