EQMM, March-April 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Today, however, I saw to my unease that a great many were still here. Something must indeed be amiss.

  "There,” cried Dorothea. Her arm tensed in mine, but I did not need her guidance, for I could see the crowd outside Mr. Thomas's bookstore and circulating library for myself. He caters for visitors who, having paid a subscription, may have such books as they choose delivered to their lodgings. Mr. Thomas's shop is always well attended, but today it seemed all Tunbridge Wells wished to advance its knowledge of literature and science. As we pushed our way forward through the throng, Dorothea caught the vital words.

  "The Book of Poets,” she exclaimed.

  Even I had heard of this tradition—and indeed read the Book in the past with much amusement. For well over a hundred years, this weighty tome containing copies of lyrics from would-be poets had been displayed in the bookstore. At first, these verses had been of a saucy nature circulated amongst gentlemen in the Coffee House, but then they had been requested by a wider public. Ladies now read the love poems in the Book of Poets, each imagining herself the fair damsel addressed—fortunately in more tasteful terms than in earlier times. Nevertheless, the quality scarcely rivalled Dryden, nor their content John Milton.

  Seeing Dorothea, who looked most attractive in her printed cotton morning gown, Mr. Edwin Thomas—a fine-looking man of perhaps thirty years—immediately hurried to her side.

  "I'm honoured, Miss Dorothea."

  His wife did not look quite so honoured, but was preoccupied in appeasing the sensibilities of the elderly ladies clustered eagerly around the Book, which lay open on a table of its own. Dorothea was equally eager to view it, and so, with Jacob's mission in mind, was I, as this could be the source of the threat.

  Mr. Thomas cleared our path to the Book, after I had explained my presence. “Let me show you yesterday's verse first, Parson Pennywick,” he said gravely.

  A sheet was laid between two pages, and I read:

  Fairest nymph, fair ——of the Wells

  Whose magic spells

  Are cast upon thy humble slave

  Who but the merest glance doth crave....

  These most unmemorable lines were writ in a cultured hand, but lacked talent, however heartfelt the sentiment that lay behind them. It was the custom that the lady's name should be anonymous, but not that of the author. Thus a bold Foppington,followed by a flourish of which only an English aristocrat would be capable, adorned the end of the poem.

  Even I had heard of this fop, whose name was so well bestowed. Lord Foppington was the grandson of the Duke of Westshire, and prided himself on his reputation as the most fashionable macaroni in London society, clad in exquisite silks and satins.

  "And now,” Mr. Thomas said even more gravely, “see today's verse, in the same hand but hardly of the same nature or intent.” He turned the page, where I read on the next sheet:

  Alas, I am spurned by fairest ——, my love divine

  But no other shall with her form entwine

  No other hand shall win her favour

  From death's cold grasp no man can save her.

  "It is not the thing, sir; indeed it is not,” Mr. Thomas moaned.

  "It is a jest,” Mrs. Thomas quavered. A slender woman of far less height than her husband, she was clearly indignant that the world had singled out her beloved spouse for such tribulation.

  As indeed tribulation it was. I did not like this affair. I perceived that no name was attached to this verse, but it looked to be from the same hand as its predecessor. “How did it come?” I asked. “Did the poet bring it?"

  "It was by our door this morning,” Mr. Thomas told me. “Many of our poets spend their evenings in the Rooms, either dancing or playing cards, according to the evening, and they pen their tributes during the midnight hours, leaving them by our door to find in the morning."

  By the cold light of day, I thought, many must rue their hot-headed declarations. No wonder the fashion for anonymity of the damsels so highly praised by the poets. Did the author of this last verse rue his violent declaration, or was it merely a lovers’ quarrel which time had solved? Somehow I did not think so. “Have you spoken to his lordship today?” I asked.

  "Lord Foppington has not appeared this morning, and no wonder,” Mr. Thomas said in a tone of disgust. “Nor, fortunately, has the fair Miss Olivia Cherrington, whom all know to be the nymph he threatens."

  "He is coming,” squealed Mrs. Thomas, running to the window. “Husband, pray do something. Miss Cherrington accompanies him."

  There was a hush outside as all turned to the approaching couple, who seemed to take such attention as their rightful due. Her maid walked dutifully behind her. Both Lord Foppington and Miss Cherrington were in full dress, despite the early hour, he in beribboned breeches and elegant frock coat, she a delightful shepherdess with ornate polonaise drapery, white stockings peeping below the calf-length skirt, and her hair piled high on her head. They looked as though they indeed graced a stage.

  "Mr. Thomas, Miss Cherrington is impatient to read my latest poem,” Lord Foppington drawled, seemingly unaware of the twittering disapproval around him.

  "I would,” lisped Miss Cherrington. She looked a sweet child for all her affectation, although more a dainty automaton than a young lady with a mind of her own.

  "Pray do not,” Mr. Thomas said anxiously.

  "Why?” she asked indignantly, turning the fateful page to read it. I made no attempt to dissuade her. If this was a true threat against her life, she should know about it.

  "Oh!” A gasp, then Miss Cherrington grew very white and swooned into Mr. Thomas's arms. Mrs. Thomas hastened to bring salts, which, firmly removing the young lady from her husband's arms, she applied to the victim's nostrils with no immediate effect.

  "This is your doing, my Lord,” Mr. Thomas said angrily.

  Lord Foppington smiled. “She swoons for my love."

  I stepped forward. “She fears, my lord. You must assure her it is a jest."

  "Fears? A jest? Who are you, sir?” Lord Foppington eyed me querulously.

  "Parson Pennywick of Cuckoo Leas. Miss Cherrington fears you wish to kill her."

  "Kill her?” Lord Foppington looked blank.

  "Your poem threatens it, sir."

  He cast a look at the verse and looked up, frowning. “This is not my poem. I wrote of love, I wrote of her beauty—not this."

  Miss Cherrington quickly opened her eyes. “It is your hand, my Lord,” she snapped, and swooned again.

  His lordship looked alarmed. “Fairest nymph, let me recite my poem for today. Hark—

  "When fairest ——takes the waters

  Withdraw, all ye other daughters

  So far in beauty—"

  Mr. Thomas had heard enough. “Do you deny you wrote this?” He pointed to the disputed verse.

  "Certainly I do."

  Miss Cherrington, now fully awake, burst into tears. “You are a villain, my Lord."

  Lord Foppington dropped instantly upon one knee. “Fair lady, it is not my hand,” he pleaded. “Depend upon it, this is Percy's doing."

  "Lord Foppington's rival for her hand,” Dorothea whispered to me in excitement. “Mr. Percy Trott, younger son of the Earl of Laninton."

  "Of what am I guilty, pray?” The languid voice belonged to a full-bodied gentleman dressed a la mode, who was surveying the assembled company through an eyeglass without enthusiasm—until he spied Miss Cherrington.

  A dozen voices enlightened him.

  "You insult me, you mushroom,” Mr. Trott accused his lordship indignantly, then turning to Miss Cherrington: “Madam, pay no attention to this clunch, this clown.” And back to Lord Foppington: At dawn tomorrow, my Lord, we shall meet. My seconds shall call upon you."

  Miss Cherrington's recovery was now remarkable, and she beamed at the prospect of a duel. “I shall forgive you both,” she announced. “Whether alive or dead,” she added generously.

  The three left their stage together, apparently all restore
d to good humour. Playacting? Perhaps. But plays only succeed if based on true emotions—and what those might be here, I could not guess. The crowd began to disperse, no doubt reminded that it was long past the hour when they should be seen in dishabille.

  As for myself, Dorothea reminded me that I had apparently clamoured to take the waters, and docilely I agreed. Overhearing this exchange, Mr. Thomas immediately said he would accompany us to the spring, although Mrs. Thomas's displeasure at having to remain in the store was obvious. The spring was at the end of the Upper Walk and it was the custom for visitors to the Wells to pay a subscription on leaving to one or other of the dippers for service during the course of their stay. This hardly applied to poor parsons, but it pleased Dorothea when I produced a halfpenny.

  Most of the dippers were of mature years, with a practised eye for the richest visitors, but Miss Annie Bright was a merry-eyed girl. Annie, so Dorothea explained to me, was the niece of her father's housekeeper, Mrs. Atkins, and so I acquired her services in filling the metal cup for me.

  The pretty little hand closed around my halfpenny and its new owner gave me a merry smile—at which Mr. Thomas too decided to take the waters. Annie spun me a tale of the wondrous properties of the spring and insisted I drank not one but three cups. An even number of cups would bring ill fortune, she told me gravely, but an odd number would give speed to my legs, make my liver rejoice and my spirits rise. I felt neither of the first two effects, only the flat metallic taste of a chalybeate spring, but as for the third, my spirits did indeed rise, as she smiled at me.

  But then I saw Lord Foppington chatting amiably to both Miss Cherrington and Mr. Trott, the threat of the poem forgotten. Except by Caleb Pennywick.

  * * * *

  That evening I was late to my bed, having been persuaded by Dorothea that I wanted nothing more than to attend Mrs. Sarah Baker's theatre on Mount Sion to see a performance of Mr. Sheridan's The Rivals. A most amusing piece. Early the next morning I was awoken by Dorcas. She is my housekeeper, and at home my dearest companion by day and often by night. It is she not I who keeps the difference between us, for she maintains she has no wish to play the part of parson's wife. She chose to come with me on my visit to Jacob, but remains in the housekeeper's rooms, as she is eager, she claims, to learn new receipts for our pantry at Cuckoo Leas. Every morning, therefore, she visits the market on the Walks, and today had been no exception.

  "Caleb, wake up, lovey.” She was gently shaking me.

  I sat bolt upright in my bed. “Are there no more wheatear pies?” I cried, having dined and dreamed happily of them.

  "There's been a murder done."

  "Miss Cherrington?” I was fully awake now.

  "No, Caleb. Young Annie Bright, one of the water dippers."

  The lass who had so eagerly received my halfpenny yesterday. My heart bled for the loss of innocence and joy in this world.

  "Found by the sweeper at the spring this morning,” Dorcas continued. “A paper knife was stuck in her. In a rare taking is Mrs. Atkins. I told her you'd find out who did it."

  My Dorcas looked at me with such trust and confidence that I quailed. As I sat in my nightshirt in a parsonage not my own, it seemed a most unlikely prospect that I could track down this murderer. “We are strangers here, Dorcas,” I pleaded. “In Cuckoo Leas I know my flock."

  "You can do it, Caleb,” she assured me. “You brought your brain with you, didn't you? It's not left behind in that old cocked hat of yours?"

  I was forced to smile. That beloved hat was now so old it was forbidden to travel with me.

  "Has a runner been requested?” If the local magistrate deemed this case beyond the powers of the Wells’ parish constable, he had the power to summon a Bow Street runner.

  "Not yet, Caleb. Annie was a dipper, not a duchess.” There was no bitterness in Dorcas's voice. We both knew the ways of this world.

  The constable would be unpaid and unskilled, and even a country clergyman might do as well. And I could refuse Dorcas nothing.

  I was quickly out that morning. I could not wait for breakfast at ten but would take a coffee in the Coffee House. Dear Jacob, who heard the news with perturbation, offered to accompany me to the Sussex Tavern, where he had been told the coroner was to hold an inquest at two o'clock that afternoon and where the constable might now be found. I refused Jacob's offer, to his relief. I would be better on my own, as I could more easily assume the role of well-intentioned, meddling old parson rather than that of an aspiring Bow Street runner.

  "Oh, I solved it already, Parson,” young Constable Wilson said with some pride, when I found him in a rear room of the Tavern, the grounds of which abut the Lower Walk.

  It was my turn to be relieved. “Who committed this terrible crime?"

  "Jem Smith, Annie's sweetheart. ‘Twas a lovers’ quarrel. Killed her late last night and the body was found early this morning."

  "A lovers’ quarrel?” I said, forgetting my planned role. “And he happened to be carrying a paper knife with him while he was wooing her?"

  The constable gave me a strange look. “Must have been,” he pointed out kindly. “That's what killed her, see? That's the evidence, that is. Proof for the magistrate. Jem will be up in front of Sir John Nicholls after this inquest and then be in the lock-up until the assizes."

  So much for justice. The lad was already condemned, it seemed. I resolved to return here at two o'clock, but in the meantime I would stroll in the Lower Walk. I have not yet explained that the Lower Walk plays just as important a role as the Upper. By unspoken assent, the gentry and aristocracy gather alone on the Upper Walk, and at times dictated by the strict timetables that have been in place for many decades. In the Lower Walk, however, the tradesmen and citizens of Tunbridge Wells flock through for the whole of the day, and it is here on the steps at the far end that the market is held from seven to ten o'clock each day.

  Here, if Jem were innocent, I might learn the truth. I was uneasy about that paper knife; it spoke of planning and preparation not of a lovers’ quarrel, and I was even more uneasy about the coincidence of a death on the Walks so soon after the threat to Miss Cherrington—although, of course, the verse had been anonymous.

  I stopped so suddenly at this thought that I received a sharp blow in my back followed by a curse. A pedlar had been following in my wake and my apology did nothing to assuage the glare I received from this individual. It was to be hoped that his demeanour would change before customers or he would do little trade. It was the tray he carried before him that had jolted my back.

  "My apologies, sir,” I said once more. “My thoughts were with the poor girl who died last night."

  Malevolent eyes greeted me. “Aye. The girl-flirt.” His Kentish vowels were so drawn out it was hard to be sure of what he said.

  "That is a harsh word,” I answered him.

  "I've worse.” He peered at me and so strong a sense of evil seemed to come from him that I almost stepped backwards. “The devil's filly she was."

  "The constable has taken up Jem Smith for her murder,” I remarked.

  He stared at me. “There's plenty had cause."

  Including himself, I wondered? “Was Lord Foppington one of her suitors?” I thought of that anonymous poem.

  A grimy finger touched the side of his nose in a meaningful way. “Could be. And that gentleman friend of his—the one with his nose in the air and his stomach before him.” I identified this as the Honourable Percy Trott. “Then there's Black Micah,” the pedlar added maliciously. “Saw him here last night. Him who sweeps the Walks."

  "And he found the body this morning, I understand.” This was usually an interesting starting point to consider. When Widow Hart was found dead in Cuckoo Leas, her neighbour had found the body—and it was he had done the frightful deed. “Did you see Annie Bright here last night?"

  I saw sudden fear on the pedlar's face and in answer he pushed rudely past me. I glanced at his tray, with the usual ribbons and pins, but pens and knives al
so. Did he sometimes carry paper knives, I wondered? I could see none, but perhaps because one had found a tragic home last night.

  I could see the crossing sweeper, seated on the shallow steps that led to the trees lining the Upper Walk. Black Micah was a solitary figure, bent in gloom, though many people went up to him and spoke a few words. I went to greet him, introducing myself as a parson—much is forgiven of such a calling which in others would be impertinence.

  "A great shock, sir, finding Miss Bright's body."

  He looked up at me; tears were clearing a path through the grime of his face. “My Annie,” was all he could say.

  "Our Lord will judge her from her heart, but I heard she was free with her favours,” I said. “But that is mere tittle-tattle, no doubt."

  "Lies,” Micah roared. His ancient three-cornered hat and beard gave him the look of the Bible prophet after whom he was named. “Their tongue is deceitful in their mouth,” he quoted. “She was my friend, she was, and I saw her there dead, with such a look of surprise on her dear sweet face."

  "Was Lord Foppington a friend also?” I needed to establish this.

  Another roar. “Rich men are full of violence, so the prophet tells us. Always there he was, he and that Mr. Percy Trott. Promised her a pound when the season was over. She just laughed at them, knowing they didn't mean it."

  Had Annie laughed once too often? Had she and not Miss Cherrington been his lordship's Fairest Nymph?

  "You swept the Walks last evening. Did you not see her then? Did you see anyone with her?"

  He stared at me, then said, “I will bear the indignation of the Lord, for I have sinned against him.” He would say no more, but rocked to and fro in his grief.

  I sighed. Was Micah's idea of sin that he loved Annie more than he should, or that he had not protected her—or that he himself had killed her?

  The market was nearly over now, but the day's bustle continued, as groups gathered and spoke urgently amongst themselves. There was an edge to the atmosphere today. The voices were low and none invited me to join him. I was a visitor, and, worse, an enemy when one of their own had died.