by Lucy Ashford
‘Oh, no, missy. Those books in there ain’t for the likes of you. They’re—’ he coughed ‘—they’re some serious works of literature. For my private customers only.’
Deb had already glimpsed two of the titles. Serious works of literature? That was a joke. Artistic Treasures of Venus. Classical Collections for Gentlemen of Discernment... She would stake her life that every single one of them was packed with erotic prints and libidinous tales.
‘I’m sure you’ll get a very good price for them,’ she told the bookseller demurely and moved on.
But a little later, when she happened to be passing back that way, she saw the bookseller deep in conversation with someone else, and her heart began hammering against her chest. She’d been only six years old when she last saw him; but Hugh Palfreyman had changed very little, in Deb’s opinion, except that perhaps his beaked nose was more protuberant and his little pursed-up mouth even tighter. As Deb watched, she saw the glint of coins being passed. Saw the bookseller reach furtively into that box at the back for several slim volumes, which he proceeded to wrap in brown paper, then give to Hugh Palfreyman.
Palfreyman hurried away, while Deb stood absorbing the full impact of what she’d just witnessed.
Her mother’s brother—a Justice of the Peace—was a connoisseur of the kind of literature that was described in polite circles as ‘stimulating’. Well, button my boots, as her stepfather, Gerald O’Hara, would say.
* * *
Deb found herself thinking rather a lot of other things about her Uncle Palfreyman as she stood in the confines of his secret library while the rain pounded against the window. Hypocrite was the most polite of them. Still listening hard for the sound of anyone approaching, she tiptoed over to the bookshelves and eased out some volumes to lay on the desk.
Not all the books were English—some were in French and some in Italian, but—oh, my. It didn’t really matter in the slightest what language they were in, because there wasn’t much writing anyway, and the pictures were just—well. Deb’s eyes widened, but at the same time triumph swelled within her heart. For she’d realised that—incredibly enough—each volume had a gilt-edged bookplate just inside the front cover on which was carefully inscribed the owner’s name—Hugh Palfreyman.
What a fool, Deb marvelled. To keep all this so secret, then provide such glaring evidence of possession. What a gift, for her.
She’d hoped never to have to come into contact with her uncle again, since he’d banished her and her mother from his house. But all that had changed; for one Saturday, almost two weeks ago, a sweet old lady had sought Deb out at the inn and told her that Shakespeare was her husband’s passion, but he was too frail to visit any of the Players’ outdoor performances. Would one or two of the actors be kind enough to visit him, she asked, and perhaps read out some of his favourite lines?
Deb and three others had gone to him the very next afternoon and had performed the last, lovely scene of The Tempest. The old gentleman’s faded eyes had lit up with pleasure, and afterwards his grateful wife had tried to press money on the actors, but they’d refused. Apart from knowing anyway that it was illegal for them to perform on a Sunday, they wouldn’t have dreamt of taking the coins, because that sort of performance and the pleasure it brought was beyond price.
But somehow, Hugh Palfreyman had got to hear about it. And he was chairman of the local magistrates.
‘Acting, on the Sabbath Day,’ he’d apparently stormed—Deb had heard talk of his rage all around Oxford. ‘It’s a direct contravention of the law!’ And he’d threatened the Lambeth Players with a crippling fine, or even gaol.
Thank goodness Palfreyman didn’t know that the leader of the Lambeth Players was his own niece. Swiftly Deb selected three small but explicit volumes, then she sat at Palfreyman’s desk and, after pulling a clean sheet of notepaper and a pencil from her inner pocket, she carefully wrote a letter.
To Mr Hugh Palfreyman
This is to inform you that it is very much in your interest to take back the accusations that you recently made against the Lambeth Players. I enclose something to explain why. Please confirm in a letter that the threats you made will be completely withdrawn, and leave the same letter beneath the stone horse trough beside the wall of St Mary’s churchyard, by ten o’clock tomorrow morning at the latest.
Then Deb drew out her pocket knife and leafed through the pages of the books she’d selected. Oh, my goodness—the Italian one was the worst, she decided. It was illustrated by someone called Aretino, and her eyes widened again as she looked at picture after picture. Was that really anatomically possible? Carefully she detached one page—I’m not going to look at it, they’re all just too dreadful—then she folded the sheet inside her letter, sealed it with a wafer she’d brought, and wrote Palfreyman’s name on the outside. The books and the letter fitted—just—into her inside pocket.
After that, climbing back out through the window and down the ivy-clad wall was easy. Running stealthily to the front door—keeping to the wall and ducking below windows—wasn’t so easy, and she heaved a sigh of relief as she pushed her sealed message into the letter box there. Then she ran as fast as she could for the shrubbery, weaving through the tangle of lilacs and rose bushes as the rain poured down, and giving a flash of a smile as she climbed nimbly over the boundary wall.
Job done, she silently congratulated herself.
* * *
As Damian Beaumaris rode steadily along the track through the woods, the rain streamed off his multi-caped greatcoat and down the flanks of his big bay gelding as if someone was hurling buckets of water over both of them.
A lesser man might have been put off—but not Beaumaris, who was known as Beau to his friends. When he’d first written to Palfreyman two weeks ago, to demand an immediate meeting in London, Palfreyman had tried to wriggle out of it by pleading that ill health prevented him from leaving his Oxfordshire mansion. So Beau had promptly ordered his business secretary, the ever-efficient Nathaniel Armitage, to write back and explain that since Palfreyman found himself indisposed, Beau would travel to Oxfordshire.
My employer trusts, wrote Armitage in his careful script, that it will be convenient if he arrives at Hardgate Hall on the thirteenth of June, at four o’clock precisely.
Armitage had pointed out to Beau that the thirteenth of June just happened to be a Friday. Beau had swiftly responded that as his long-standing secretary, Armitage ought to know that superstition played no part whatsoever in his meticulously ordered life. Though after Armitage had gone, Beau reflected that the day and date certainly boded ill for Hugh Palfreyman, who Beau had concluded was as cowardly and conniving a wretch as he had ever come across.
On the morning of the twelfth of June, Beau had set off on the journey to Oxfordshire in his brand-new and speedy travelling carriage, driven with great pride by his faithful coachman, William Barry. After spending the first night at the Greyhound Hotel in Reading, Beau and William departed early with fresh horses, Beau’s plan being to lunch at noon in Oxford, then proceed to Hardgate Hall. But as the spires of Oxford came within sight, the rear axle of the coach began to make ominous grinding noises.
William Barry took any such event as an insult to his own skill and, after pulling the horses to a halt, jumped down to investigate. Beau quickly followed.
‘It’s not good,’ William pronounced, shaking his head. ‘Not good at all.’
He proceeded to nurse the vehicle as far as a blacksmith’s on the outskirts of Oxford, where the proprietor, Joe Hucksby, also examined the curricle with a deepening frown.
‘I’d say this axle needs a new cross-pinion, sir,’ he said to Beau, after scrambling up from beneath the vehicle. ‘And three hours is about the fastest time that my lads can do it. You see, with a top-notch vehicle such as this, everything has to be right and tight as can be, so maybe, sir, you’d like to go on into town and
take a nice meal at one of the inns there? Especially since it’s starting to rain.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t wait. I have an appointment at Hardgate Hall this afternoon.’
‘You’re visiting Mr Palfreyman?’ Joe Hucksby looked surprised. ‘Well, if that isn’t the oddest thing! We just happen to have a fine riding horse of his stabled here. Mr Palfreyman left it yesterday to have it shoed, and—’
‘You’ve got Palfreyman’s horse here? Is it fit to ride?’
‘Why, yes, sir! In fact, Mr Palfreyman asked me to send one of my lads over to the Hall with it this very afternoon, as it happens.’
‘Then there’s no need to send one of your lads. I’ll ride his horse to Hardgate Hall myself.’
Joe Hucksby looked startled. ‘It’s a spirited beast, sir. Took two of my lads to hold it while I did the shoeing—’
‘I’ll take it,’ Beau repeated decisively. He was clad anyway in buckskins and riding boots and was impatient to get on with his journey. But he could see that William was fretting.
‘Should I see if there’s another horse, so I can come with you—sir?’ his coachman suggested quietly.
Beau shook his head. ‘Better if you stay around here, William, and check that the job’s being done properly. Oh, and you could take the opportunity to find a decent inn nearby. Book us two rooms for the night and get yourself a meal while you’re at it.’
‘But you, sir? You haven’t eaten since breakfast!’
‘Hugh Palfreyman’s bound to offer me refreshment of one kind or another. And, William—don’t tell them any more than you have to about me or my business at Hardgate Hall, you understand?’ He’d already instructed William to address him by nothing but sir for the whole of this journey.
As William nodded, Beau turned back to the blacksmith. ‘I’ll return for my coach later this evening, Hucksby. Here’s some payment in advance.’ He’d thrust his hand in his coat pocket and drew out some coins to put in the man’s big fist.
‘Well, that’s mighty obliging of you, Mr...’
‘My name’s Beaumaris.’
The blacksmith nodded, clearly disappointed that he wasn’t a lord at the very least. ‘Thank you kindly, Mr Beaumaris, sir. And I’ve no doubt that Mr Palfreyman would himself suggest that you take his horse if he were here, yes, indeed.’
Beau privately doubted it very much. But within ten minutes, the horse in question—a handsome bay gelding with a white blaze down its forehead—was saddled up and ready, though just as Beau was about to mount, the blacksmith darted away and returned with a sturdy whip.
‘You might be needing this, sir,’ Joe Hucksby pronounced. ‘Mr Palfreyman warned us this bay can be a stubborn brute and don’t like being told what to do.’
Already realising that the horse was trying to back away in pure terror at the sight of the whip—and that the blacksmith’s lads had gathered to watch the entertainment—Beau pushed the implement back into Joe Hucksby’s hands. ‘A man who needs to use a whip like that,’ he said flatly, ‘doesn’t deserve to be entrusted with any animal.’
William nodded his approval and Beau mounted, aware that the horse, on feeling his weight in the saddle, was already sidling and snorting with fear. Beau soothed the beast and thought, Damn. What has Palfreyman done to this animal?
He had a pretty good idea, for if he looked back at the horse’s flanks, he could see the marks where the whip had been used to lash the beast only recently. Palfreyman, he thought grimly, if my opinion of you wasn’t already at rock bottom, it certainly would be by now. He tensed his muscular thighs to let the gelding know that he was in control, while at the same time he stroked its neck. ‘There. There,’ he murmured. ‘Easy does it, now.’
The horse at last moved forward, showing obedience, even willingness. Beau was rather pleased to see the blacksmith and his boys gazing after him, open-mouthed. ‘Which is the best way to reach Hardgate Hall?’ Beau called to them over his shoulder.
‘The track through the Ashendale Forest is quickest, sir,’ one of the lads piped up. ‘You’d best take the road for Reading—you’ll see it just past the church. At the first crossroads you turn left, and then you want to head over the bridge and follow the path into the woods—’
At that point the blacksmith interrupted him. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t advise that way at all, Mr Beaumaris, I really wouldn’t. It’s easy to get lost and there are sometimes footpads.’
‘Is this track through the forest quicker than the turnpike road?’
‘Much quicker, sir.’ The lad was still eager. ‘It takes—oh, at least a mile off your journey!’
Then that’s the path I’ll take. And Beau was on his way.
* * *
The lad’s instructions were easy to follow and Beau was pleased to discover that the big bay, once he had its trust, was an energetic and speedy mount. He was even more pleased when he looped the reins over one hand and with the other delved for his pocket watch, to find that it was not yet half past three—there was still time to arrive punctually at Hardgate Hall. The one factor he hadn’t bargained on was the rain, which drove straight into his face and was becoming heavier by the minute, slowing his pace; but he never once thought of turning round, because this meeting with Palfreyman was long overdue. Palfreyman had questions to answer and consequences to face.
Beau’s frown deepened as he remembered the day of Simon’s funeral just two months ago, when the rain had fallen as relentlessly as it did today on the cortège of black funeral carriages and his brother’s oak coffin.
Enough of that wretch Palfreyman’s feeble excuses. It’s time to meet the coward face to face. Beau urged the bay gelding on through ancient oaks, aware that the trees were growing thicker all around him; but the path was clear enough and so he was taking little heed of the dank undergrowth on either side, which was foolish of him.
Because in his haste he had completely failed to see the two shadowy figures who had watched him earlier from behind a thicket of birch when he’d stopped to check the time. Failed now to see the twine tautly stretched between two saplings on either side of the path ahead of him—until it was too late.
One moment he was making good speed along the forest track. The next—disaster. The big bay stumbled badly and, though Beau wrestled to keep the beast upright, within moments he’d gone crashing to the ground.
Chapter Two
Loping steadily through the woods, Deb paused to brush down her kersey jacket and corduroy breeches, which had picked up a fine coating of pine needles when she’d landed on the other side of Palfreyman’s boundary wall just now.
On the safe side of Palfreyman’s boundary wall. She crammed her cap more securely over her curls and set off again towards the clearing where their horses were, weaving her way between the oak trees and the birch saplings, and even allowing herself a quick smile as she imagined Hugh Palfreyman’s face when he read that letter. When he saw the page she’d cut out.
She grinned, but she felt revulsion too. Ever since she’d got clear of that place, she’d been vigorously inhaling the fresh air to rid her lungs of the musty odours that lurked in Palfreyman’s secret room. And she found herself wondering again—why would her mother have even wanted to be reconciled with a brother whose cruelty had driven her from her home in the first place?
It wasn’t as if her mother had been unhappy with her new life. In fact, Deb remembered her as being full of love both for her daughter and for her husband, Gerald O’Hara, actor and manager of the Lambeth Players. Deb too had loved her caring and intelligent stepfather dearly; but two years ago had come a fresh blow, for Gerald had fallen prey to a debilitating lung sickness and had left the responsibility of the Players to her.
‘No. You can’t leave me in charge, Gerald. I’m too young!’ she’d pleaded as she’d crouched by his sickbed, feeling frightened and alone.
Don’t die, she’d murmured under her breath to the man who’d truly been a father to her. Please. Don’t you leave me as well.
‘You can do it, my brave lass.’ Even though Gerald was desperately weak by then, he’d reached to clasp her hand tightly. ‘You’ve been holding the company together ever since my damned sickness started—don’t think I haven’t noticed how everybody comes to ask for your opinion. Ask Miss Deb, they say. She’ll know.’
‘But Francis Calladine—shouldn’t he be in charge? He’s the senior actor, and he used to perform at Drury Lane...’
‘And he never tires of telling everyone so.’ A wry smile lifted Gerald’s wan face. ‘No—Francis is a fine man for tragedy, but what the people want is entertainment, and you have an instinct for providing it. In addition, you can act every bit as well as any of those fancy ladies at Drury Lane.’
‘But to be in charge, Gerald. I couldn’t—’
‘One day,’ Gerald interrupted, ‘you’ll take London by storm, my lass. One day...’ He’d begun coughing again and Deb, distraught, had held a glass of water to his lips.
The Lambeth Players were no more than a humble travelling company. But Deb and Gerald dreamed of establishing themselves in London and a rich backer was the answer, Gerald had often told her; a rich and generous backer who would buy them a lease for one of the numerous small theatres on the edge of the city. ‘It needn’t be a fancy affair,’ Gerald said. ‘But think, Deb, of the plays we could put on, in our very own place!’
The rest of the actors were content with touring the usual theatrical circuits every year, setting up their stage at fairs and race meetings to entertain the crowds with their varied miscellany of comedies, songs and drama. Shakespeare was always a favourite of Gerald’s, but an ancient statute forbade minor theatrical companies like theirs to perform any Shakespeare play in full, so Gerald O’Hara had taught his players to pick out prime scenes only: Macbeth and the three witches, Henry V’s speech before the battle of Agincourt, and the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. By starting their shows with brief acts of comedy and acrobatics, Gerald was able to describe their performances as ‘entertainments’ and the crowds came in droves.
