‘I hope you’ll tell me if you ever do,’ I said. ‘I haven’t come to do him harm.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Jane, giving me a cautious smile.
‘I have a letter of introduction to a landowner named Daniel Arden.’
‘I was just about to suggest you meet Arden,’ Mr Barton said. ‘He lives at the manor, and is as near as anything our local squire.’
‘He’s a decent, well-intentioned man,’ Arthur said, with a pained expression. ‘Unfortunately, you won’t see him in church.’
‘Is he an ungodly man?’
‘Far from it!’ Mr Barton was, unmistakably, annoyed. ‘He’s a Unitarian, very high-principled, and he does a great deal of good around here.’
‘I don’t dispute the good he does,’ Arthur said mildly. ‘But I’m still praying to win him back; I tell him so to his face.’
‘I’m driving over there tomorrow afternoon,’ said Mr Barton. ‘You should come with me, Mrs Rodd.’
‘I don’t like to without an invitation—’
‘Arden won’t mind, truly; he’s told me more than once how much he likes to meet new people.’
‘In that case, thank you.’ I was interested in this man, and could tell that Mr Barton liked him. ‘I accept most gladly.’
A clock chimed sweetly out in the hall. It was late, and I was light-headed with fatigue. This day had been endless. We returned to the drawing room for tea. I swallowed yawns, listening with half an ear as Mr Barton talked to Arthur about cutting back the bindweed in the churchyard.
I nodded off for a moment, and when I opened my eyes, time had taken a leap forward.
Mr Barton was in the doorway; I had an impression that something had just been said, and was still ringing in the air. Rachel stood close to him, with her back to me. I could see his face clearly, gazing down into hers with a look that told me everything, quite as plainly as if he had said it aloud – the man was in love with her.
But had I really seen that? A moment later I woke up properly, and the two of them were on opposite sides of the room. Rachel held her husband’s arm, and Mr Barton was in the middle of a speech about a new storm drain. I decided that I must have been mistaken, and was ashamed that I had jumped to conclusions. I had grown too accustomed to seeing the skull beneath the skin, I told myself. My investigations had introduced me to the worst elements of human nature, until I saw the gravest sins everywhere I looked; now that I was properly awake, I could almost have laughed at myself.
My every instinct told me that these three were the most respectable people on earth, and only sinners in the ordinary sense.
But something troubled me; weary as I was, when I came to the point of lying down in my soft white bed and blowing out the candle, I could not fall asleep.
With hindsight, I am tempted to elevate my sleepless fretting into a full-blown foreboding of the tragedy to come. In fact it was little more than a mild yet persistent sense of disquiet.
But let us be clear, in case I appear to be veering away from my true subject: none of this is a digression.
Five
The Rectory
Hardinsett
31st May
My dear Mary,
You will be glad to know that I have arrived safely. The house is most comfortable and surrounded by very pretty countryside. As usual there are all sorts of instructions that I forgot to give you in the flurry of my departure.
Firstly, the letter of reference for your granddaughter, dear little Anny, is on the round table in the drawing room. Please assure her mother that the Kings of Mill Hill are a highly respectable family; I have placed several girls in service with them, very successfully. You may not care for this, but I have sent for Anny’s younger sister, to help you at Well Walk during my absence. I know you will protest that you can manage alone, and that I’m throwing money away – well, too late, the deed is done. I can afford it, and it will be a weight off my mind.
Now for the most important matter. I need a reliable daily source of news regarding Mr Welland – if there are any changes to his condition I would need to know as soon as possible, without having to go through any unnecessary delay. You must call at Rosemount every day to enquire on my behalf. That is the official side of the business. Unofficially, it would be useful if you could strike up acquaintances belowstairs. Servants see and hear everything, and the smallest snippet could turn out to be useful. If poor Mr Welland dies, send to me by express – I have left extra money in the Windsor Castle box to pay for this. And here is a task I know you will enjoy. Please pay the bill at Murphy’s, and move our custom to the new butcher’s shop in the high street. If Murphy wants a reason you may feel free to mention that awful piece of mutton.
Your devoted friend,
Laetitia Rodd
PS – One more thing! The drugget on the topmost set of stairs is torn, and you must take special care not to trip over it.
Over breakfast the next morning, Arthur and Rachel were the very model of a happy couple. I had once been one half of a happy couple and recognized the language of true intimacy; those little codes and jokes and affectionate squabbles.
Arthur left the house immediately after breakfast.
‘He has an engagement over at Swinford,’ said Rachel.
‘So early?’
‘He spends a great deal of time there. He says it makes him feel at one with the sacraments.’
‘Oh.’ I did my best to hide my dismay. The mere word ‘Swinford’ was inflammatory in those days, so many years ago. It was a parish near Oxford, which the vicar had turned into a kind of ‘monastic’ retreat. He had converted the stables into whitewashed ‘cells’, where numerous earnest young men led a medieval life of prayer, fasting and chastity, and several had ended up becoming Roman Catholics. ‘I didn’t know that they allowed the attendance of married men.’
‘They don’t usually, but Father Fogle was Arthur’s tutor at one time and they are very old friends. Arthur relies upon him for spiritual guidance.’ She would not allow me to ask why Arthur thought he required guidance.
She took me on a tour of the home farm, which I greatly enjoyed. Everything was so sparkling clean, and the sights and smells lifted my spirits. Memories of my country childhood came thick and fast, yet at the same time I could see that the cleanliness was just a little too good to be true; the place looked as if they took it indoors at night.
I asked everyone we met about my wandering scholar. They all knew of him, but by the end of the morning I had a list of about twenty places, spread across miles of countryside, where he was ‘definitely’ to be found.
The only piece of mildly interesting information came from one of the young dairymaids, who spoke up when another girl mentioned the gipsies on the common.
‘He’s not with the gipsies, ma’am – the story is that he fell out with them, on account of a gipsy-girl.’
‘Indeed,’ I said, filing this away in my memory, though I didn’t believe it for a moment. All in all, these interviews only left me more confused.
In the early afternoon, Mr Barton arrived in a small open carriage, to drive me to the home of Mr Arden. In the light of what I had seen last night (or thought I had seen), I was interested to observe the curate at close quarters. There was an air of cheerful vigour about him that was very likeable and he was evidently a well-known and popular figure in the neighbourhood; everyone we passed along the way gave him a civil greeting, until his hat was more off his head than on it.
‘What a friendly place,’ I said.
‘Oh, yes – I’ve met some splendid people since I came here. Even amongst the very poorest, there is a genuine desire to do good, and to help one another, as I’m always telling Somers.’ Mr Barton shot me a quick sideways smile. ‘It’s perfectly possible to be a good Christian without spending all day on your knees. Somers frets that a man’s soul is in danger because he hasn’t been to church, and I have to remind him that the same man feeds the hungry and gives generously to the poor �
� which makes his soul positively armour-plated, as far as I’m concerned. And bound for glory just as fast as any of those black-clad ghouls at Swinford.’
‘Mr Barton!’ I couldn’t help laughing at his indignation. ‘I take it you don’t approve of Arthur spending so much time there. Between ourselves, I quite agree. He always was rather impractical.’
‘Impractical!’ He was laughing as well now. ‘That’s putting it mildly – I’ve never met such a man for muddling dates and times and forgetting to answer letters! I hasten to add that he’s also one of the best and holiest men I ever knew – too good to see through certain people, perhaps. But look here, Mrs Somers made me promise not to bore you with church matters.’ (He could mention her without blush or tremor, which I took as a sign of a clear conscience; it flashed upon me that he might not know he loved her.) ‘I should be showing off the beauty of the scenery.’
‘Tell me more about Mr Arden.’
‘Most happily. He’s an excellent man, and with a remarkable history, though he never speaks of it himself. And Binstock is a remarkable old house.’
‘In what way?’
‘When he bought the place, about ten years ago, it was falling into ruins. The family that built it had died out, and some distant cousins fought over it in the Court of Chancery. Arden repaired the house and bought back the land that the family had sold. More importantly, he repaired the cottages and mended the roads.’
‘A good landowner makes a great difference to a place,’ I said. ‘Mr Arden must be well liked in the villages.’
‘Indeed he is; people thought Binstock would never be sold because there was a curse on it.’
‘Oh dear, I wish I knew what makes country people so devoted to curses! My late husband was constantly being asked to lift some curse or other, as if parsons were wizards in their spare time. Ghosts are popular, too.’
‘Binstock had a ghost, according to some,’ Mr Barton said, smiling. ‘The ghost of the last member of the old family, who mysteriously disappeared some thirty years ago.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The legend says he walked out of the house one day and was never seen again. Some people are convinced that he was murdered, while others say he was running away from his debts. Whatever happened to the poor chap, his ghost withered away in the light of Arden’s pure reasoning; very rational chaps, these Unitarians.’
‘Do you know how he came by his wealth?’
‘I believe him to be self-made, but I couldn’t say what line he was in. The story goes that he was born a few miles from here, into a very poor family, and ran off as a boy to seek his fortune.’
‘Like Dick Whittington,’ I said. ‘How touching that Mr Arden chose to return to the place where he spent his childhood. Does he have a family of his own?’
‘He has never married,’ Mr Barton said. ‘Though local gossips are constantly matching him with eligible ladies. He’s bringing up two little orphan boys – cousins, or great-nephews – and they’re the reason he summoned me today. They need a tutor, and I mentioned that I was looking for some teaching work.’
He halted the horse outside a pair of tall iron gates. The lodge was a quaint, castellated cottage that spoke volumes for the prosperity of the estate – sparkling clean, with scarlet geraniums on the sills. A neat, smiling young woman emerged from this gingerbread house to open the gates, with two little girls hanging on her skirts.
‘Good day, Mrs Woods – hello, Molly; hello, Jessy – yes, I can see you, even when you’re hiding your face!’ It was pleasant to see how easy he was with the little girls. Once we were through the gates, he added, ‘That woman at the lodge is a very good example of Arden’s generosity. She was left destitute when her husband died. The man worked on one of his farms and he regarded it as no more than his duty to take care of them.’
‘Most admirable!’
‘Yes, and practical, too; Arden has a strong belief that people must be helped to help themselves.’
I was, by now, intensely curious about this man. He had reportedly made a great fortune, yet he had not spent his money on empty display. Binstock had no grand avenue of trees, and was surrounded by fields and meadows instead of parkland. The house itself was no mansion, but a welcoming, old-fashioned manor attached to a working farm.
Mr Barton halted the carriage before a stone porch with ‘1621’ carved on the lintel. The heavy wooden door already stood open, giving me a glimpse into the deserted hall. Two large black-and-white collie dogs were stretched luxuriously across the steps; one raised his head when he saw us, the other merely yawned.
The horse stamped, and was still. For a long moment I let the hush of the afternoon wash over me and sink into my bones.
A woman in an apron, briskly drying her hands, trotted out to meet us. Mr Barton explained that we had come to call upon Mr Arden. She shouted, ‘Mike!’ – and a boy appeared, seemingly from nowhere, to take care of the horse.
And there was our host at the top of the steps. ‘Ah, Barton, punctual to the minute!’
Six
I admit that I was surprised, though I don’t know what I had expected. Mr Arden’s figure was youthful and upright – all elegance and grace, in fact. His thick hair was iron-grey, but altogether he looked younger than a man of seven-and-forty has any right to look. His face was not handsome, yet somehow vivid and attractive.
‘It is a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs Rodd. I know why you’re here, and I think I may be able to help you.’
‘I always forget how fast news travels in the countryside,’ I said, amused by his breezy directness. ‘I’ll be most grateful for anything you can tell me.’
‘And Barton, I’ve got the boys chained up in my study; please come and inspect them before they escape.’
He led us through the panelled hall into a comfortable room that was partly a drawing room, partly a library. It was the room of a gentleman, and a scholarly gentleman at that; there were piles of books in many languages, and a desk heaped with papers.
‘Come out, boys! Jack – Ferdy!’
For a moment, he appeared to be talking to nobody – and then two little boys crawled out from under the desk. They were very alike, with hair so blond as to be almost white, and bright blue eyes, and were shy as two leverets.
‘Here are your pupils, Barton.’ Mr Arden put his arms around the boys and drew them to his side, smiling in a way that made his lean features positively handsome. ‘My twin rascals, John and Ferdinand, eight years old last week. Boys, shake hands with your new tutor.’
The little boys did not move; they stared at Mr Barton with their shining blue eyes.
‘Well, here’s a fine start,’ Mr Arden said, laughing. ‘He won’t bite!’
‘Certainly not,’ said Mr Barton. ‘I haven’t bitten anybody for years. Let me introduce myself properly. I’ll be giving you lessons in Latin and arithmetic, and all that sort of thing. I’m also extremely good at cricket and pulling hideous faces. Like this.’ He made a silly face, and the boys giggled. ‘Did you get any presents for your birthday?’
They nodded eagerly and one of them whispered, ‘Ponies!’
‘Splendid! I like ponies.’ Mr Barton straightened up. ‘I think I should meet them as soon as possible.’
A few minutes later he was striding across the lawn, with the boys and the two dogs cavorting around him as if they had known him for years.
‘I can’t imagine what spell he’s cast over them,’ Mr Arden said, watching the happy group through the window. ‘But I seem to have made a good choice.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I said. ‘Mr Barton strikes me as an excellent young man. And your nephews are charming.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Rodd; they’re the best little chaps in the world, but I’m afraid I have let them run wild for too long.’ He turned away from the window and I felt his attention fastening upon me. ‘They’re not my nephews, by the way.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘I adopted them as babies, w
hen their mother died.’ Mr Arden’s manner was easy and friendly, but his dark eyes were bright and sharp, and I was aware that I was being assessed. ‘I have no other children; the twins will inherit everything I have.’
‘I see.’ (This was interesting; he was easily young enough, and hearty enough, to marry and have children of his own, yet he spoke as if he had ruled this out.)
‘I have recently been formalizing my affairs, so that if I drop dead, the estate will be handed on in proper fashion. I’ve seen what happens to a place, when there is nobody in the immediate family to inherit.’
‘Quite so.’
Arden regarded me gravely for a moment, then suddenly smiled. ‘The local gossips are convinced that they’re my “natural” sons – perhaps that’s what you’re thinking, Mrs Rodd.’
‘No, indeed!’ (I tried to make this sound sincere, though it was precisely what I had been thinking.)
‘In fact, we’re not related at all. My blood relatives are long gone. I should be a lonely man without my boys.’
‘The Lord sets the solitary in families,’ I said.
‘Thank you.’ He was touched. ‘I see that you understand. Heaven has granted me this joy – and this great responsibility. They must grow up as gentlemen and have a gentleman’s education at one of the great schools; this is why I have need of a man like Barton.’ He rang the bell and sat down in the armchair opposite to mine. ‘I know nothing of such places.’
‘Oh dear, it does seem brutal to think of it now, when they’re such mites!’ (I remembered my anguish at Fred’s departure for Harrow when he was only ten years old; I was brave for his sake, but broke down in sobs as soon as the stagecoach turned the corner; our separation was the end of our childhood and my first great sorrow.)
‘I’ve heard tales of the brutality of some public schools,’ Mr Arden said. ‘Barton assures me, however, that he liked his school. He was at Rugby, in the time of the great Dr Arnold. Thanks to Arnold’s influence, many more of those schools are now turning out Christians instead of bullies. Or so Barton maintains.’
Laetitia Rodd and the Case of the Wandering Scholar Page 4
