‘Yes, if I can.’
‘I’m thankful she has somebody to stand by her. She didn’t do it, ma’am. The policeman from London came here right after it happened, and tried to trip me up and confuse me. But he couldn’t make me change my story. I know she is innocent.’ Mrs Richards set her cup down on the table and folded her arms with an air of defiance. ‘And I will swear before any court in this land that she didn’t go putting poison into her own lemonade. Stuff and nonsense, I told him.’
(What a splendid witness she would make; Blackbeard had met his match at last.)
‘There’s not a bad bone in her body, Mrs Rodd, and it bothers me that people are so quick to condemn her, with pretty much no evidence against her. What’s more, she loved her husband with all her heart. She was not carrying on with Mr Barton. You mention that again, I said to the policeman, and you’ll get the back of my hand.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said, ‘how such a shocking rumour has come to be so widely believed.’
‘You’ve Maggy Woods to thank for that,’ said Mrs Richards. ‘The young widow from the lodge at Binstock. She says she saw them kissing, ma’am. At that blessed Haymaking Supper.’
‘But that can’t be true – she must be mistaken—’
Mrs Richards simply pursed her lips and looked at me, and I had no more strength left to argue. Why was I wasting time in arguing with witnesses, anyway? If I carried on telling people they were ‘mistaken’, we would get nowhere.
‘I will try to talk to Mrs Woods before I leave,’ I said. ‘I’ll admit to you, Mrs Richards, that I saw several signs of an attachment, but only on the part of Mr Barton.’
She gave me a curt nod, as if satisfied. ‘You saw it, and I saw it, plain as day. That young man is in love with Miss Rachel.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘But that’s not her fault, is it?’
‘Certainly not!’ I said warmly.
Mrs Richards nodded again, and seemed to relax a little. ‘Would you care for something to eat, ma’am? I’ve got an apple pie ready to come out.’
‘Yes, please!’ I was very hungry and hours away from my next meal. ‘I remember your famous pies from the good old days. My late husband always maintained that you had a touch of genius.’
‘I couldn’t think what else to do with the apples,’ said Mrs Richards. ‘The orchard was knee-deep this morning. Nobody’s come to pick them and they’re just falling off the trees.’
It was a splendid pie, beautifully garnished with pastry leaves. We ate it hot at the kitchen table, and fell to reminiscing about the happy times in Herefordshire. Mrs Richards produced glasses of sherry, and softened enough to tell a droll story about Rachel’s aunt and her stinginess. We agreed that Rachel’s wedding day, ten years ago, seemed like yesterday.
‘I helped her to dress,’ I said, ‘and I’ll never forget how lovely she looked. They were both so happy!’
‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Richards, gazing thoughtfully into the kitchen fire, glowing through the open door of the range. ‘Miss Rachel was never anything less than a good and loving wife to him. If you’ll pardon me, Mrs Rodd, Mr Somers was too fond of religion. He took it too far and I told him so, when he was going off to Swinford, on the very day he was murdered.’
‘Was he annoyed?’
‘Not a bit of it,’ she said sadly. ‘He burst out laughing. That was the last I saw of him.’
‘And Mrs Somers was at home for the whole afternoon – she did not go out at all?’
‘No she did not,’ said Mrs Richards. ‘She had a headache and went upstairs to lie down.’
‘Did anyone call at the house?’
‘No.’ She was on her guard again, I thought. ‘Mr Arden called to ask for Mr Somers, and the ribbon-man came to the back door. That’s all.’
It was time to change tack. ‘When I was last here, Mr Somers unwittingly made trouble for himself with the business of Tom Goodly’s deathbed confession.’
‘Oh, yes, ma’am.’ Mrs Richards sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Poor man, he should’ve known better! He stirred up a right lot of silly talk.’
‘Did the fuss die down after I had gone back to London?’
‘It got worse.’
‘In what way?’
‘The stories got taller,’ said Mrs Richards. ‘Until everyone thought Mr Somers knew all their dark secrets.’
‘I remember that the night at Goodly’s deathbed made Mr Somers very anxious.’ My heart was beating harder now, though my voice was light and level. ‘But he did say that most of the famous confession seemed to be nonsense.’
‘So did his wife,’ said Mrs Richards. ‘She was listening with all her ears because she thought Goodly had been in a big robbery and hid the gold in the house.’
‘A robbery!’ This was the last thing I had expected. ‘Surely the man was far too old?’
Mrs Richards chuckled. ‘It was thirty years ago, ma’am, and nobody can recall any robbery at that time. She must’ve imagined it all, but still she insists that Goodly brought home a sack of gold sovereigns and hid it away from her.’
‘It does sound rather unlikely; Mr Somers told me they lived in terrible poverty.’
‘She searched every corner of that cottage, ma’am, and whenever she was in liquor – which was often – she used to nag him about it. But there was never any gold, and not a word of it came out in what she heard of Goodly’s confession.’
‘Perhaps I’ll speak to her anyway,’ I said. ‘Where does she live?’
‘In Pig Lane, but you won’t find her there now; her daughter took her off to Abingdon.’
‘Is she very infirm?’
‘She’s as fit as a fiddle, ma’am,’ said Mrs Richards. ‘She had to leave because she went funny and her neighbours threw her out.’
‘That was rather harsh, surely!’
‘They had no choice, Mrs Rodd; first she went ripping up her own thatch, and that was bad enough. But then she was caught ripping up the thatch of the house next door, and accusing them of stealing that fairy gold of hers.’
‘Oh, dear.’ I could not see why this unfortunate old woman would want to kill Arthur. ‘Were you aware of any other rumours going round?’
‘There were quite a few,’ said Mrs Richards, with grim amusement. ‘Some folks wanted to know if Goodly had confessed to being the true father of George Baines up at the mill. And other folks said Baines’s nose did the confessing for him.’
We both smiled at this, and I said, ‘You make me remember the distinctive flavour of village gossip, which I rather missed when we moved to Bloomsbury.’
‘Crimes and scandals stand out more in the country,’ said Mrs Richards decidedly. ‘That’s why I don’t care for the city. You can’t hide anything in a country place.’
‘And yet,’ I said, ‘I have a feeling someone is doing exactly that – trying to hide something that Mr Somers threatened to expose. Do you have any idea what this might be?’
She had nothing more to tell me and I was a little disappointed; I had allowed myself to hope for another suspect, another line of enquiry. I took my leave, with many thanks.
Seventeen
The quaint lodge at Binstock looked very pretty when I drove myself there next morning, sparkling in the early autumn sunshine like an iced cake. Mrs Woods ran out at once to open the great gates. She was a little taken aback that I stopped the carriage and stepped down to speak with her.
‘You are the reason I’m here, Mrs Woods,’ I told her. ‘I wanted to ask you a few questions about the Haymaking Supper.’
She was nervous and I suddenly saw how young she was, scarcely older than my Tishy, though she was already a widow and a mother. I immediately softened my tone, and asked, ‘But where are Molly and Jessy?’
‘They’re at school, ma’am.’ The mention of their names made her smile. ‘Down yonder in the village. All the estate children go to school.’
(Mr Arden’s doing, I was certain, and typical of his
liberality.)
‘This is a very pretty situation, Mrs Woods.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘How long is it now, since your husband died?’
‘Going on for three years, ma’am. Jessy wasn’t weaned yet. If Mr Arden hadn’t took care of us, I don’t know what would’ve become of us. Mr Arden said he felt obliged because Woods was doing a job for him when it happened. He was clearing the ivy off an old wall, and it fell down and crushed him.’
‘What a dreadful tragedy,’ I said warmly. ‘I honour Mr Arden for his decency. I hear the man’s praises sung wherever I go.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I’ll never forget the sight of him dancing with your Molly.’
She giggled. ‘Oh, she was that proud!’
I had brought us to the subject of the dance and knew that I must choose my words with extreme care, so as not to frighten her.
‘Mrs Woods, I think you know why I’m here.’
Her round, childish cheeks reddened. ‘It’s about what I said to the policeman.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And I’d be most grateful if you could repeat it to me.’
‘I swear it’s the truth!’
‘I don’t doubt it, for I can see that you are a truthful person.’
‘I saw Mrs Somers and Mr Barton, on the night of the dance. They had their arms about each other and they was kissing.’
The words, uttered with such guileless conviction, rained down upon me like blows. ‘My dear, could you possibly have been mistaken?’
‘No,’ Mrs Woods said promptly. ‘I saw what I saw.’
‘Of course you did,’ I said hastily. ‘Thank you, Mrs Woods.’ I gave her two sixpences, one for each of her girls, and left her smiling.
My own spirits, however, were very low. If Mrs Woods was called to give evidence in court, poor Rachel’s good name would be damaged beyond repair. Fred was right, I thought; every new twist and turn makes the two of them look even more culpable.
The weather was pleasant and I could not face Mrs Watts-Weston’s soul-stripping gaze while my mind was in turmoil. On an impulse, coming across a signpost, I drove the little carriage towards Shotton Barrow, so that I could pay my last respects to Joshua Welland.
The journey took longer than I had expected; the tracks and lanes I had traversed on foot were too narrow for the carriage. I secured the horse on a verdant patch of ground outside the wall of the churchyard. Someone was there already – a grizzled, threadbare figure, perched on a tombstone, who jumped to his feet when he saw me.
‘Mrs Rodd!’ It was Blackbeard, as startled by the meeting as I was. ‘Bless my soul, what brings you here, ma’am?’
‘Good day, Inspector. I am visiting a grave.’
‘So am I,’ said Blackbeard. ‘But it’s nothing to do with police business – I’m paying respects to my wife’s parents.’ He rested his hand upon a nearby headstone, as if introducing them. ‘My wife rests in Clerkenwell, where I can keep an eye on her, so to speak. But she was born here, and loved this place; she always said she was a country maid at heart.’
I remembered now that Blackbeard had lost his wife around the same time that I lost my husband, and softened in spite of myself. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’
‘Not at all, ma’am.’
‘I came here to satisfy my curiosity about my last case.’
‘Hmm,’ said Blackbeard. ‘Would that be the Welland chap?’
‘Yes – I should have guessed you’d know about it. I have only recently heard of his death.’
‘You’ll find him over by the wall, where the ground is broken.’
‘Thank you.’
Just as Mr Jennings had said, my scholar lay beside his true love Hannah Laurie, to wander no more. I gazed at the mound of earth and said a prayer for the peace of his soul.
Blackbeard’s shadow fell across the grave; he was beside me, his hat in his hands. ‘Rum sort of story, don’t you think?’
‘Very.’
‘It only goes to show what a hard world it can be, for a man without friends or money.’
This was most unexpected, and I dared to ask, ‘Do you speak from experience?’ (I knew almost nothing of his background, beyond this new snippet about his wife.)
‘You could say that, ma’am.’ He eyed me cautiously. ‘But I wasn’t your scholarly sort, not like this fellow. In a better world, he’d be alive and well and working in his college. It’s a shame to see a good brain wasted.’
‘Indeed it is,’ I said.
‘I suppose Mr Collins did the service.’
‘No, it was Joshua’s friend Mr Jennings.’
‘Well, of course,’ said Blackbeard, ‘Collins must be as old as the hills by now. He lives in that queer old place over the road.’ He added, ‘It was a great house once upon a time. But most of it fell down, or was pulled down, and that’s what remains.’
‘Another relic of the Warrenders, I suppose.’
‘Oh, yes, my wife was full of old tales about them Warrenders.’ Blackbeard’s granite face was almost smiling. ‘She knew their history, right back to Noah’s flood. And she swore that the last of them was murdered.’
My interest sharpened – I had been wondering a great deal about the facts behind this legend. ‘Did Mrs Blackbeard have a theory about who murdered him?’
‘None that held water, bless her heart. And they never found a body. There was another story going the rounds, that Sir Christopher Warrender was living in a lodging-house in Plymouth, in somewhat sinful circumstances, ma’am.’ He sighed to himself. ‘But she wouldn’t have it. She made me promise I’d look into it one day. Well, it’s an old case now, if it’s even a case – it must be more than thirty years ago.’
‘Thirty years ago seems quite recent to me these days, Inspector.’
‘Very true, ma’am.’
‘Was there an official search for the man when he vanished?’
‘He had an old aunt, and she searched high and low. But then she died and people lost interest. It didn’t help that everyone knew she’d fallen out with him and was after him for money.’
‘Oh.’ The noble line of Warrenders had died out rather ignobly, it seemed. ‘My hostess, who is distantly related to the family, hinted at rumours of blackmail.’
‘By the by, Mrs Rodd—’ Blackbeard’s hat was back on his head, and he was businesslike again. ‘I believe you have something to tell me in that department.’
‘Oh – yes.’ My spirits sank again, for in the cold light of those hooded slits of eyes, what I had overheard seemed yet more awful. ‘But how did you—’
‘Come along now, ma’am. I can see why you’d want to cover it up, but you’re too late.’
‘I don’t like to discuss such matters in a churchyard,’ I said. ‘Would you be kind enough to join me in the carriage?’
‘Well, if you could give me a ride as far as the Oxford road,’ said Blackbeard, ‘I wouldn’t say no.’
We walked back to the carriage in prickly silence. Once we were moving I told my sordid tale of eavesdropping and blackmail as briefly as possible, but leaving out nothing.
He was not shocked. Blackbeard had a low opinion of human nature and nothing shocked him.
‘Hmm,’ he said, once I had finished my recital. ‘Thank you, Mrs Rodd.’
‘Will this evidence of mine make matters worse for Mr Barton?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘He was angry, Inspector; he simply lost his temper.’
‘Hmm,’ said Blackbeard. ‘You heard him threaten to kill Mr Somers.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Mr Blackbeard – my late husband used to threaten to kill him at least once a week! It really didn’t mean anything.’
‘I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,’ said Blackbeard, ‘let alone a vicar. But I’m sure you heard about the set-to at Banbury Fair.’
‘I heard that Mr Barton was seen in yet another fight.’
‘Well, that was more of the same.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The talk is that he was dealing with the blackmailer.’
‘Again?’ I could not hide my dismay.
‘So it seems, ma’am,’ said Blackbeard, looking (I thought) pleased with himself. ‘You’re out of your depth with this case. Ladies like yourself don’t know the half of what goes on. Where a certain crime is concerned, the law being what it is, respectable men lay themselves open to disgrace. I beg your pardon if I’ve shocked you.’
‘Not at all.’ (I was deeply shocked, but strove to hide it.)
‘It’s like I always say, Mrs Rodd,’ said Blackbeard, with a gleam of inner satisfaction on his face. ‘Love, money, or fear of discovery. And this murder is all about love.’
‘I’m beginning to think it has more to do with someone’s fear of discovery.’
‘No, no, it’s love all right – whether you like it or not. Sometimes it happens that a thing is exactly as it appears to be. And that’s what we have here. You’re just refusing to look facts in the face because the main players are friends of yours.’
He was cutting deep now, and he knew it. While I was still casting about for a reply, we came to a crossroads and Mr Blackbeard asked to be put down.
‘Thank you, Mrs Rodd.’ He jumped into the road and gave me a stiff bow. ‘We’ll meet in London, I daresay. Good day to you, ma’am.’
‘One moment, Inspector; what must I do to convince you of their innocence?’
‘Give me a convincing suspect, ma’am, with an obvious motive; give me good evidence and reliable witnesses.’
‘Thank you.’ I tried to speak lightly though my heart was heavy. ‘I promise not to bother you with any new theory until I can provide every single item on that list.’
Eighteen
Mrs Watts-Weston had planned a dinner party, and would not allow me to miss it.
‘You are the great attraction, Mrs Rodd; you can’t possibly go back to London until I have shown you off. You’re the talk of Oxford, and everybody wants a glimpse of you. I’ve had to put two extra leaves on the dining-room table.’
Laetitia Rodd and the Case of the Wandering Scholar Page 13
