‘Perhaps I do.’
‘If you see him, please assure him that I mean no harm,’ I said.
‘He don’t trust you.’
‘I beg your pardon – why not?’
‘He dares not, that’s why.’
‘If you will give him this letter from his brother, I will stop bothering him. My business with him is simply to inform him that his brother is near death and wishes to see him; won’t you at least do this?’
Those vivid blue eyes of hers regarded me charily for a moment and then she nodded once, took the letter from my hand and ran off into the trees.
I was alone once more; she had gone before I could protest that I was no more ‘dangerous’ than a newborn lamb.
The strangeness of this encounter already felt dreamlike; had I been reckless to trust her with Jacob’s letter? The light was paler now, for the afternoon was wearing on; with sinking spirits I contemplated the long walk ahead of me and sat down upon one of the mossy stones to gather my strength; the inch or two of water left in the bottle was disagreeably warm and did not refresh me. I was dreadfully tired; I had not walked so far in twenty years.
‘Mrs Rodd!’
This new voice startled me; I scrambled to my feet to see Daniel Arden. He had a book tucked under one arm, and was plainly surprised to find me in that secluded place. ‘I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to disturb you – but you’re alone, and I thought I heard talking.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Arden.’ I settled my dusty skirts. ‘I was talking to a young woman from the charcoalers’ camp; I got lost and she kindly set me back on my path.’
‘You were looking for Welland, I suppose.’
‘I stumbled across the camp quite by mistake,’ I said. ‘My purpose today was simply to make sure I had delivered my message.’
‘I’m sure that you have,’ said Mr Arden, smiling at me. ‘You have spread your word far and wide, and no one can hide for ever.’
‘Can’t they?’
‘People don’t just disappear.’
‘My dear Mr Arden, people disappear all the time!’ I said. ‘In some cases because they wish to disappear; in some cases because they have been unlawfully killed and their bodies concealed or destroyed.’
‘Oh—’ He was startled by my bluntness.
‘I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to be so grisly; I’m afraid my aching feet have soured my temper.’
He smiled again. ‘In which case, you must share my provisions; I have a flask of sherry and some biscuits.’
The sherry, poured from his silver flask, was old and fine; it scented the air and filled me with well-being. Mr Arden sat down upon a nearby stone and we drank in a companionable silence.
‘You are a long way from home, ma’am; my horse and gig are at your service, if you will allow me to drive you there.’
‘I’m sure it’s many miles out of your way, Mr Arden, but I accept most gratefully.’ This was heaven-sent; I could almost have wept with relief. ‘I do hope I haven’t upset your plans.’
‘Nothing important,’ Mr Arden said cheerfully. ‘I came here to read for an hour or two, that’s all. It’s one of my favourite spots.’
‘I can see why – it’s lovely, and the ruins look so romantic.’
‘This was an unromantic limekiln when I was a boy, and when I bought the land decay had made it so beautiful that I couldn’t bear to spoil it; I decided to allow myself this one piece of sentimentality. In every other matter I am highly practical.’
Mr Arden’s modest horse and gig were waiting about a hundred yards away from the old kiln; he led me to it as if he knew every untrodden path, every blade of grass. It was a long drive, and very pleasant; Mr Arden wanted to know where I had been that day, and he raised his eyebrows when I told him I had got myself as far as Shotton Barrow.
‘You have covered a lot of ground, Mrs Rodd. What were you hoping to find there?’
‘It was mainly curiosity,’ I said. ‘I wanted to visit the grave of Mr Welland’s wife, and perhaps talk to someone who knew her. The only person I came across, however, was a little girl – and all she could give me was a few facts, which she claimed had been imparted to her by the vicar. But she ran off before I could discover where he lived.’
‘That’s Collins,’ said Mr Arden. ‘He’s very old and on his last legs, poor chap; I doubt he could tell you much about anything.’
‘I admired the tomb of the Warrenders,’ I said. ‘I believe I have met their last representative on earth.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Mrs Watts-Weston, at Gabriel College.’
Mr Arden laughed softly. ‘To be sure – how could I forget? The lady presented herself to me at a charity bazaar, quite unabashed by the fact that we had not been introduced. But how on earth did you come across her?’
‘I was visiting a Gabriel man who knew Joshua Welland, and Mrs Watts-Weston chose to interrupt us.’
We were both laughing now, and I decided to entertain Mr Arden with a brief account of my meeting with the redoubtable Gorgon. After this we fell into easy conversation about local matters – the impending haymaking, Mr Barton’s lessons with the little boys, and Arthur’s long vigil with the dying man who wished to ‘confess’.
‘Now, there’s a thoroughly good young fellow,’ declared Mr Arden. ‘Some people say he’s too fond of flummery and outward show, but I cannot criticize his manner of worship when I know his faith to be deep and true. I have seen for myself his tenderness towards the sick. I have seen how fervently he prays with them, until you think he won’t leave off until he has delivered them to the very gates of heaven.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ My respect for Mr Arden increased; he was without prejudice, and shrewd enough to see beyond dear Arthur’s ‘flummery’ to the essential sweetness of his soul. ‘This confession business worries me a little – but that is simply personal prejudice, and I have to honour his sincerity. He’s not a man to do things by halves; I truly believe he’d sooner die than break the sanctity of the confessional. When Mr Barton teases him about it, as I’m afraid he is inclined to do, Arthur only smiles with saintly patience – like one of those early Christians who sang hymns while they were being eaten by lions.’
‘Great of faith,’ said Mr Arden, ‘and pure of heart.’
He had to stop the carriage while a farm wagon came out of a gate, and all mysticism was at an end.
Ten
Two days after my long tramp around the countryside, which had worn me out more than I cared to admit (I had spent the intervening day writing letters and resting my feet), I came down to breakfast to find a letter from Mrs Watts-Weston.
Gabriel College
Wednesday
Dear Mrs Rodd,
We have had a drama, in which you may have an interest. I can tell you the particulars if you will be good enough to call between ten o’clock and noon today.
Yours,
Caroline Watts-Weston
PS – The matter is STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL
I did not need to state my business; the porter at the lodge took one look at me and marched me straight to the Gorgon’s lair, otherwise known as the Warden’s House.
‘Good morning, Mrs Rodd; I knew you would be prompt.’ Mrs Watts-Weston came out into the hall to meet me. ‘The long and short of it is that we’ve been robbed.’ She uttered the last word with a certain grim relish.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We believe it happened during dinner last night. And before you ask, nobody saw a single thing – not a thing! – which I find quite extraordinary.’
‘What happened – was anyone hurt?’
‘Nobody was hurt, but considerable damage was done to college property,’ said Mrs Watts-Weston. ‘Mr Jennings returned to his rooms and found a scene of dreadful destruction – his possessions strewn about, his books torn, his papers all over the place—’
‘And what exactly was stolen?’ My mind flew instantly to the papers given to Mr Jennings by
my wandering scholar.
‘Well, that’s the most curious thing – but you must ask him yourself.’ She ushered me into a small sitting room, in which I found a very uncomfortable-looking Mr Jennings. ‘I’ve been keeping him here until you came.’
The young clergyman stood up when he saw me. ‘Mrs Rodd – good morning.’
‘Mr Jennings.’ I shook his hand. ‘I’m glad to see you’re not hurt.’
‘No, not in the least,’ said Mr Jennings. ‘I didn’t see anything except the damage.’ His brown eyes, behind his spectacles, were those of a trapped animal. ‘Mrs Watts-Weston has been most kind.’
‘His rooms were not fit to sleep in,’ said Mrs Watts-Weston. ‘I insisted that he slept here; I would not hear of a refusal.’
We sat down in three chintz-covered armchairs beside the empty fireplace. I saw that this room was Mrs Watts-Weston’s own domain; an elegant oasis of femininity, with a quaint mullioned window that had a splendid view of the gardens (the homely basket of mending on the window-seat told me this was her accustomed watchtower). She handed me a cup of excellent coffee and looked expectantly at Mr Jennings.
‘There’s not an awful lot to tell,’ he said. ‘When I returned to my rooms just after midnight, I found a scene of absolute chaos – smoke everywhere, because the robber had thrown a bundle of my papers on the fire – and spilled a bottle of ink over the desk.’
‘But nothing was missing,’ said Mrs Watts-Weston impatiently. ‘Which leads me to believe the robber was looking for something. And of course I recalled the bundle of papers given to Mr Jennings by Joshua Welland – well, isn’t it obvious? Joshua Welland was our robber!’
It was not obvious to me; I believed I knew my scholar well enough to know that this was not his manner. Joshua could appear and disappear like a mist. He was not destructive. And if he had wanted something from his old friend, he would simply have asked. Mrs Watts-Weston, however, had made up her mind and was not to be budged.
‘Naturally, my husband wants to hush the matter up as far as possible, for the sake of the college. He thinks this robbery is a sign that Welland is a lunatic, who is seeking some kind of revenge against the college because he could not get preferment. My husband does not approve of the difficulties put in the way of the poorest scholars.’
Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys.
My employer Jacob Welland had quoted this line (from Tennyson’s ‘Locksley Hall’) in his letter and I heard its echo now – had poverty and obscurity driven poor Joshua out of his mind? I did not believe it, nor did Mr Jennings, but we could not talk openly in front of Mrs Watts-Weston. Very fortunately, however, while I was wondering how on earth to shake her off, she was called away to some emergency belowstairs.
‘How very annoying! I beg your pardon for leaving you, Mrs Rodd – and for a footling matter in the kitchen! Mr Jennings will show you to his rooms, so that you may see the damage for yourself. I gave strict orders that nothing was to be touched.’
Mr Jennings could not hide his relief at leaving the house; it flooded his rosy face the moment we were out in the garden.
‘You’ve had a hard night of it, Mr Jennings,’ I suggested.
‘Rather – she forced me to stay with them, and the mattress was like a bed of nails. I’d have been far more comfortable in my rooms.’
‘She has decided Joshua is the culprit.’
‘He had nothing to do with it,’ said Mr Jennings emphatically. ‘But she wouldn’t listen to me and it’s impossible to argue with her.’
‘Do you have any idea who the real culprit might be?’ I could not imagine this mildest of young men having any enemies. ‘Could it have been some undergraduate prank that got out of hand?’
‘I’d say absolutely not; most of our undergraduates are reading for the Church, and are far too serious to play any sort of “prank”.’
He led me into one of Gabriel’s quadrangles, and for a moment I was distracted by its beauty; the soft stone cloisters were mellow gold where the sunlight fell upon them, and the square of grass in the middle was as smooth as velvet.
‘Is this the way you came last night?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I know that you were not in college; where were you coming from?’
‘I spent the evening with an old friend.’ His gaze did not waver, but his blush deepened. ‘A couple of miles outside the city.’
‘When you got back, did you see anything out of the ordinary?’
‘No – that is, I wasn’t really looking,’ said Mr Jennings. ‘Not a soul was about, as far as I could see. It was just after midnight – I know because I heard the clamour of the bells while I was on my way. This is my stair.’
He gestured towards a dim entry at the foot of a stone staircase. A wooden board on the wall listed the occupants, including ‘No. 3, The Revd Mr S. Jennings’.
‘Mind the steps, Mrs Rodd; they are very uneven here.’ He stopped on the first landing. ‘This is where I was when I noticed a smell of smoke. The door of my room stood wide open and the smoke came from a heap of papers that had fallen out of the fireplace on to the hearthrug. I’d say the fire had been lit in a hurry; it was only smouldering, and easily put out.’
He unlocked his door and pushed it open; I had been prepared for disorder, but the mess was extraordinary, as if the room had been caught in a blizzard of paper. Sheets and sheets of paper – some half-burnt – covered the floor, the desk and the chair, and the bed in the adjoining room. The burglar had stuffed the tiny fireplace to overflowing.
‘Oh dear—’ Poor Mr Jennings was very downcast. ‘It looks worse in daylight. This is going to take untold ages to sort out.’
‘Mr Jennings, are you absolutely certain that nothing was taken? I don’t see how you could tell in so short a time – and in the dark.’
‘Oh, yes—’ He was flustered now, and would not meet my gaze. ‘My few valuables – my father’s gold watch, for instance – were left untouched. It was the first thing I checked.’
‘But you could not have checked all your books and papers.’
‘Well – no. I’m afraid I only said it to get Mrs Watts-Weston out of my rooms.’
‘What makes her so sure that Joshua did all this?’
‘I mentioned that some of the papers belonged to him,’ said Mr Jennings. ‘And that was all she needed.’ He bent down to pick up a grubby, scorched piece of paper from the floor, which he held out to me. ‘This is one of his.’
I had wondered a great deal about the famous bundle of Joshua’s papers, and was intrigued to see his handwriting – small, close and neat, but the lines were barely legible due to the quality of the ink he had used, already in some places fading into nothing. The other side of the paper was part of a printed notice for an auction.
‘He wrote on anything he could find,’ said Mr Jennings. ‘And with a goose-quill, like Shakespeare.’
‘Can you make sense of any of this?’
‘Well, it’s mostly in Greek, with intervals of Latin,’ said Mr Jennings. ‘I don’t believe these papers contain the ravings of a lunatic – though it’s jolly hard work to decipher because he obviously makes his own ink.’
‘I find it strange that he would try to destroy his work, after taking such pains to preserve it.’
‘I know he had nothing whatever to do with this.’ His voice was firm, yet his gaze swerved away from mine, and the colour deepened in his round cheeks. ‘I’m sure of it.’
‘But how can you be sure? Mr Jennings, let’s not waste more time; there is something you have not told me.’
‘Oh – no—’
‘You know it wasn’t Joshua, because you saw him somewhere else!’
This was a bold guess, but Mr Jennings’s scarlet face showed that I had (as my nephews would say) hit the bullseye.
I made my manner as gentle as I could. ‘Where did you see him – was he here?’
‘No. We were both miles away, in Freshley Woods.’
He became easier; telling the story was a relief to him. ‘Joshua sent me a note yesterday afternoon – a scrap of paper shoved under my door – in which he begged me, in the name of heaven, to meet him in a certain cowshed, beside a certain village tavern.’
‘Can you say exactly where?’
‘I gave my solemn oath never to reveal the exact place,’ said Mr Jennings. ‘Though I don’t think I could if I tried. For a start, the so-called “tavern” was simply the front parlour of someone’s cottage, and the green outside it was crowded with the poorest people – men and women – drinking themselves into a state of oblivion.’
‘And it was there that you met Joshua Welland?’
‘Yes.’ He paused; I could see that he was weighing up how much he could tell me without breaking his promise. ‘He dragged me through the woods for what seemed like miles, until we came upon a sort of camp where the charcoal burners had built their fires.’
‘Joshua was taking you to his home!’ I was excited. ‘But why did he want you?’
Mr Jennings blushed brick-red. ‘Because he needed a clergyman. A very discreet clergyman. I can’t say any more, I’m afraid. I gave my word.’
‘Thank you, Mr Jennings.’ I longed to know why the charcoal burners had wanted a clergyman in a hurry, and under conditions of such secrecy, but it had little or no bearing on my case. ‘I’m quite satisfied that Joshua Welland could not possibly have carried out this ransacking of your rooms. But if it wasn’t him, who on earth was it?’
‘Honestly,’ said Mr Jennings, ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
Meek and mild as he appeared to be, I knew he would disclose nothing more. I thanked him again and left the college (taking a more round-about path to avoid Mrs Watts-Weston’s parlour window), dispirited because the most I could claim to my employer was that I had delivered his message, when I had set my heart on seeing the brothers reunited. Whether or not I was personally satisfied by the outcome, however, I saw now that my work for Jacob Welland was done.
Eleven
Hardinsett
17th June
Laetitia Rodd and the Case of the Wandering Scholar Page 8
