Laetitia Rodd and the Case of the Wandering Scholar

by Kate Saunders

Dear Mary,

  My investigation appears to be at an end. I have written to Mr Welland, regretfully informing him that though I believe I have delivered the message to his brother, I have not managed to speak to him directly or discover precisely where he lives. Perhaps, if I had more time – but time is running out, and I don’t like to take any more money from a dying man when I don’t feel I can offer him any return.

  I will tell you more when I receive Mr Welland’s reply, but expect to be coming home inside a week. And while I’m looking forward to seeing you, dear Mary, I shall be very sorry to leave my kind hosts and their supremely comfortable house. Never mind – we have funds enough now for one or two small luxuries! You must overcome your horror of spending money and lay in the following items against my return: butter, new milk, half a pound of Orange Pekoe tea, a lemon, a half-pound of loaf sugar and a half-quartern of the better brandy from the tavern.

  I will send the exact day as soon as possible, to give you plenty of warning.

  Your affectionate friend,

  Laetitia Rodd

  ‘I’ve had a delightful time here,’ I told Rachel. ‘But Mr Welland is not paying me to have a holiday. Much as I hate to admit it, I have failed him.’

  ‘You’re being too hard on yourself, Mrs Rodd; I don’t see what more you could have done.’

  ‘I wanted to deliver Joshua in person. I wish I knew why he did not dare to trust me. And I have such a dislike of loose ends.’

  ‘But you won’t be leaving us immediately?’

  ‘I’m awaiting my employer’s further instructions,’ I said. ‘I can only stay until I hear from him.’

  ‘Surely, since you’ve delivered the message, you could stay a little longer? Do stay!’

  ‘My dear Rachel, you and Arthur have made me far too comfortable here; I can’t thank you enough and I only wish I could stay until Christmas.’

  ‘You will be here for the Haymaking Supper tomorrow, anyway,’ said Rachel, smiling. ‘I positively forbid you to miss that!’

  She looked very pretty this evening, I thought, strikingly so; her pale blue silk dress brought out the splendid colour of her hair, that rare shade of dark auburn like my mother’s garnet necklace.

  It was after dinner and we were in the drawing room – myself, Mr Barton, Rachel and Arthur. All the windows stood open, so that we could hear the harvesters shouting to each other across the fields.

  Arthur was in high spirits. ‘You mustn’t even think of missing our rustic bunfight, Mrs Rodd! It’s positively the jewel of our social calendar, when the rude forefathers of the hamlet celebrate the hay-harvest with violent country dancing – and also with drinking and licentiousness. It’s a frightful occasion, which I’ve done my best to avoid in the past. This year – for my sins –’ he shot a teasing glance at Mr Barton ‘– I shall be attending. Your presence will help me through the ordeal.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said, laughing. ‘You used to love country dances! Have you suddenly decided that dancing is sinful?’

  ‘Certainly not – I’m thinking only of my poor feet, trodden black and blue by the local maidens in their hobnailed boots. I expect you to save me by dancing with me as much as possible.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, I haven’t danced for years. I’ve forgotten all the steps.’

  ‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ Arthur declared. ‘You’ll hear the first notes of “Packington’s Pound” and your feet will start dancing before you know what you’re doing – like an elderly circus horse when it hears a trumpet.’

  This piece of impertinence made me laugh, for I knew he was right; I have loved country dances all my life. (My dear father would not have understood these modern churchmen who hold dancing to be improper for a man in holy orders; he was a country parson of the old school, and could dance a lively Gathering Peascods until well into his seventies.)

  The Haymaking Supper was held in an empty threshing barn, the property of the ever-generous Mr Arden, who had also provided beer and the best fiddler in the county. In the mellow summer dusk, crowds of people were trooping in from several miles around, and the whole countryside was alive with noisy merriment.

  The dancing took place on the green outside the barn, so that the sweet music was for once not drowned out by the din of stomping feet. I gave myself up to the pleasure of dancing the dear, familiar measures, and found myself with all kinds of partners, including the taciturn carrier who had taken me to Shotton Barrow (he was surprisingly nimble), and Mr Arden, who danced as gracefully as he did everything else.

  There were paper lanterns hung in the trees around the green, and when the sky darkened the effect was most picturesque.

  ‘This was another of your ideas, I suspect,’ I said to Mr Arden, while we were catching our breath on a wooden bench between dances. ‘You have made us all look wonderfully romantic.’

  ‘How does your investigation go, Mrs Rodd? Have you discovered Joshua’s whereabouts?’

  ‘Not really.’ I could not tell him about Mr Jennings and the business with the charcoal burners; it was not my secret to share. ‘It seems he does not wish to be found.’

  ‘I have a certain amount of sympathy,’ Mr Arden said, his face thoughtful. ‘He’s had so many years of hiding in hedges and ditches that he has turned into a kind of wild creature, and fears returning to the world.’

  ‘You may very well be right, Mr Arden, but I don’t have enough time to try coaxing him from his burrow with a piece of cheese. He must know by now about his brother.’

  ‘If you are able, I hope you will carry my regards to poor Welland.’

  ‘Most happily.’

  ‘Thank you. He will know that I am praying for him.’

  The dance ended, and there was a loud outbreak of applause. I was glad to observe that dear Arthur (possibly mindful of Mr Barton’s rebukes) had embraced this occasion with his whole heart; I had not seen him sparkle like this since he was our curate in Herefordshire. He had danced with grandmothers and little girls with a radiant good nature that delighted his parishioners.

  Catching my eye, Arthur came to sit beside me. He collapsed on the bench with such a comical groan of exhaustion that Mr Arden and I could not help laughing.

  ‘My feet, my poor feet! I have danced like a dervish, and now I couldn’t strip another willow if you paid me!’

  ‘Mr Somers! Mr Somers!’ A small girl came scampering across the grass. ‘’Tis the Barley Mow, Mr Somers – you promised!’

  ‘It’s Molly, from the lodge.’ Mr Arden stood up, and for a moment his face was suffused with a tenderness that made him almost handsome. ‘Leave Mr Somers to rest, Molly; come and dance the Barley Mow with me.’

  Arthur and I smiled at the grave courtesy with which he took the child’s grubby paw and led her out to the lines of dancers.

  ‘Look at her,’ said Arthur. ‘Proud as a little duchess! That man is a constant puzzle to me.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know – he holds himself in reserve, somehow, and shows nothing but his public face. He is never off guard.’

  ‘His manner is cautious, certainly,’ I said. ‘I have always assumed it was because he was mindful of his origins and fearful of making a mistake.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean to criticize the man,’ Arthur said quickly. ‘This entire evening is evidence of his boundless generosity. He has never forgotten what it means to be poor; I must respect him for that.’

  ‘You deserve a rest now,’ I said. ‘You have done your duty splendidly.’

  ‘Haven’t I, though? I only hope Barton saw how bravely I tackled all the most hideous undanceables – he’s the one I’m trying to impress.’

  The Barley Mow began, and my eyes were drawn to two handsome figures in the midst of the crowd – Mr Barton and Rachel.

  If I had not been off my guard that night, what might I have seen?

  *

  My summons came the following morning; the briefest note from Mr Welland, requesting a meeting
at the first opportunity. I took leave of my hosts and set off at once for London.

  ‘I’m very annoyed with myself for not getting any further,’ I told my brother the next day, as we walked together up Christchurch Hill towards Rosemount. ‘The plain fact is that I was in Joshua’s hands the entire time and he led me wherever he pleased, as if he had me at the end of a string.’

  ‘You hate to admit defeat, that’s your trouble,’ Fred said, with an aggravating grin. ‘And you can’t bear a secret that you can’t prise open.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s perfectly true.’ I was too glad to see my brother to let him annoy me. ‘I must tell Mr Welland that I have hit a brick wall, when I’d set my heart on a full reconciliation.’

  ‘Well, you delivered the message, anyway,’ said Fred. ‘You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him forgive his brother – not even you. And I’m jolly glad to have you home in time for the pipkin’s christening. We’ve changed her name, by the way.’

  ‘Again? What on earth was wrong with Agnes Matilda?’

  ‘Fanny can’t get over the novelty of choosing names for a girl; I think she’s been storing them up over the years.’ (Fred’s enormous family mainly ran to boys; this latest child was only their third daughter, after dearest Tishy and sweet, six-year-old May.) ‘Now she’s decided that the little pipsicle must be known as Geraldine Helen.’

  ‘Beautiful!’ I said, laughing at him. ‘But I’ll try not to get used to it – there’s many a slip between here and the font.’

  ‘I should warn you, old thing,’ said Fred. ‘If Fanny thinks you’re at leisure, she’ll do her best to dragoon you into helping with the move to the seaside.’

  They had rented a large villa for the summer at Bonchurch, in the Isle of Wight; it cost a shocking amount of money, but in those days there were still outbreaks of cholera during the hottest months, and everyone who could took their children out of the city.

  ‘Please tell her I’d be happy to help.’ It was so pleasant to be at home and hearing the family news that my bosom was filled with charity for even my sister-in-law. ‘Packing up a family of thirteen plus servants is no small undertaking.’

  ‘Now that you have no case on your hands, you can come with us,’ said Fred coaxingly. ‘It would be a lovely rest for you.’

  ‘A rest? My dear Fred, I’d have more rest with a tribe of savages!’ Though my bosom was still filled with the aforesaid charity, I knew perfectly well that Fanny mainly wanted me as an extra pair of hands. ‘I’ll think about it – but not if you nag me.’

  We had reached the gate of Rosemount. The door was opened by the same fresh young maidservant we had seen on our last visit, and the handsome brigand met us in the hall. I had assumed that we would find Mr Welland closer to death, and was glad to see that his health appeared to be no worse than the last time I had seen him. Though dreadfully weak, he was calm and doing his best to smile.

  ‘I am here to close our account, Mr Welland,’ I told him, once the young manservant had bowed himself out of the conservatory (oh, the heat! The shades had been pulled down over the glass roof to cut out the worst of the glare, but it was a positive inferno). ‘I believe I have come to the end of my usefulness to you, unless there is anything more you wish me to do.’

  As concisely as possible, I outlined everything relating to my search for Joshua, up to his taking Mr Jennings to the charcoal burners.

  ‘By God, it gets more romantic by the minute!’ This was the first Fred had heard of the story and he was enchanted, as I had known he would be. ‘But can it possibly be true? Isn’t it rather operatic for the outskirts of Oxford in the nineteenth century?’

  ‘Perhaps, but I’m sure Mr Jennings was telling the truth.’

  ‘Mrs Rodd,’ whispered Mr Welland, ‘you have delivered my message with admirable speed and efficiency. Thank you.’

  ‘I’m only sorry that I could not do more.’

  Mr Welland smiled (it was painful to see the concertina-folds of his wasted cheeks). After a short spell of silence, he said, ‘You must have done more than you know. Joshua came to me.’

  ‘Here? Your brother came here?’ This was the last thing I had expected; Fred and I exchanged doubtful glances. ‘Are you certain it was him?’

  ‘I promise you, this is not delirium.’ Welland was clearly amused by our startled reaction. ‘Three nights ago Joshua appeared at my bedside.’

  ‘But how did he get into the house without rousing the servants?’

  ‘According to the housekeeper, he forced the window in the scullery and slipped through it like an eel. He did not even disturb my poor Carlos, who sleeps in the chamber next to mine.’

  ‘Good grief,’ said Fred. ‘Are you saying he simply appeared, like a demon in the pantomime?’

  If he had been able, Mr Welland would have laughed at this; I sensed that he was proud of Joshua. ‘We spoke together and prayed together, and he told me that he forgave me with his whole heart.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ I said sincerely. ‘Does this mean he has come out of hiding?’

  ‘No – he said he must disappear again – and that I must not ask why. He said, we are brothers again – and will meet again in heaven.’

  He was coming to the end of his strength, fighting for every wisp of breath, yet I sensed that he was peaceful. The fire had gone out and he had one foot in the next world. Fred and I took respectful leave of him and rang the bell for the servant.

  Carlos appeared, and my thoughts began to collect themselves as soon as we stepped out of the stifling conservatory into the cool hall. Someone was waiting for us; a stout, grey man with a bald crown and tremendous side-whiskers, very elegantly dressed.

  ‘Mrs Rodd – Mr Tyson.’ He bowed to us. ‘I am William Chauncey. My patient instructed me to make myself scarce, but I wanted to be sure that you know – this is likely to be your last meeting.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ I said. ‘I’m not surprised to hear it; how long would you—?’

  ‘A matter of days, ma’am,’ said Dr Chauncey abruptly. ‘Perhaps hours. His wits are wandering.’

  ‘We suspected as much,’ said Fred. ‘Is there any truth in the story of his brother’s clandestine visit?’

  ‘I’d say not; such visions are commonplace when a person is dying.’ The doctor shot a sharp glance at young Carlos. ‘The man couldn’t possibly have broken into my house without disturbing someone. The bare notion is nonsense!’

  For a fraction of a moment, my eyes met the lustrous dark eyes of Carlos, and I was certain there was something he wanted to say to me – but it was impossible to question him when we were being hurried out of the house. And my case was officially closed, so it was none of my business anyway.

  ‘I don’t believe Mr Welland was dreaming,’ I told Fred, when we were back on Christchurch Hill. ‘He struck me as perfectly lucid. I’d love to know why Joshua is hiding; it’s most annoying not to get the rest of the story.’

  ‘Ah, that’s the trouble with reality,’ Fred said, with a comical sigh. ‘It doesn’t come with a third volume, in which all the ends are neatly tied up.’

  ‘But why were Mr Jennings’s rooms ransacked? And how on earth did Joshua manage to get himself to the outskirts of London without being seen – a man without money, dressed in that outlandish medieval costume?’

  ‘My dear old thing, the man’s obviously as mad as a hatter!’ As far as Fred was concerned, the business was closed. ‘Your job is done; nobody’s paying you any extra to fret about it.’

  ‘He believes he is in danger. I think we should take him seriously.’

  ‘Pooh!’ said Fred. ‘I can’t take anything seriously when I’ve just been broiled like a pork chop. For two pins I’d rip off my clothes and jump into the pond. Take a leaf out of my book and stop thinking about crime for a week or two; we all deserve a bit of peace.’

  Oh, how that last word came to haunt me later!

  Twelve

  I must now leap forw
ard to the third week in August, when I was in the Isle of Wight with Fred and his family. It cannot be described as a holiday, for I have never laboured harder in my life. Fanny fell ill with a fever, and then nearly died of terror when some of the children came out in a rash; she was convinced they had scarlet fever, but it turned out to be chickenpox, to which the smaller children had not yet been exposed. They were woefully short-handed for such a crisis, there was no local help to be had at the height of the season, and so Fred summoned me.

  The worst had passed by the time the fateful letter arrived, and I was enjoying a (relatively) quiet afternoon in the garden. The grey stone villa, on the south coast of the island, sat in a gaudy nest of summer flowers. The long lawn stretched down to the beach, where Fred was playing cricket with the bigger boys while the little ones made sand-pies under the eye of the nursemaid. My oldest niece, dear Tishy (short for Laetitia; she is my godchild), sat a little way off, reading a story to the bundle of shawls in a basket chair that was poor May, who had taken longest to recover.

  It was a few years before the wondrous convenience of telegrams; the single sheet of paper that shattered my peace was brought by special messenger (who had to be paid a vast sum of money) and it was from Mrs Watts-Weston.

  The Warden’s House

  Gabriel College

  Oxford

  22nd August 1851

  Dear Mrs Rodd,

  If you have not already heard the dreadful news, you must pardon my bluntness. The whole world will know of it soon enough.

  Arthur Somers is dead, and Mrs Somers and Mr Barton have been arrested for murder.

  Whatever the facts of the matter, I am concerned about Mrs Somers; she has no family, and you appear to be her only close friend. I think you must come here to stand by the poor creature, and you are most welcome to stay with me at the Warden’s House for as long as is necessary. Shall not the merciful obtain mercy?

  Yours sincerely,

  Caroline Watts-Weston

  My heart breaking and my mind whirling, I left for Oxford the following morning. The journey was complicated and uncomfortable – carriage, paddle steamer, two trains – and the cost was colossal. Fred provided the money, partly from kindness, partly from professional interest (seeing my distress, my brother did his best to hide his glee, but he did love a good murder).