My father raised his hand. “We have had too many thanks already for what—-on our part—was a very trivial service.”
“We shall never forget it,” said Mr. Barrington solemnly.
“Oh, here is my daughter Irene,” said Mrs. Barrington. “Irene, come and meet the kind people who brought your father home yesterday.”
Irene was a fresh-faced young woman of about twenty. She shook our hands warmly and said how grateful she was to us.
“And here is Clare. Clare, come and meet Mr. and Mrs. and Miss Frenshaw and join your thanks to ours. Miss Clare Carson is our ward and a remote relation. Clare has lived with us almost for the whole of her life.”
“Since I was seven years old,” said Clare. “Thank you for what you did.”
“I think we might go in for dinner,” said Mrs. Barrington.
The dining room was as elegant as the drawing room. It was rapidly growing dark and candles were lighted.
“This is a most unexpected pleasure,” said my mother. “We did not expect to be invited out in Nottingham.”
“How long do you stay?” asked Edward.
“For a week or so, I believe. We are a little undecided at the moment.”
“It depends I suppose on how long your business lasts.”
“That is so.”
“Business is always uncertain,” said Mrs. Barrington, “as we know to our cost, don’t we, Edward?”
“That is very true,” agreed Edward.
“You are involved in the making of lace,” said my mother. “That must be quite fascinating.”
“My family has been in the business for generations,” explained Mr. Barrington. “Sons have followed sons through generations. Edward is taking over from me. Well, I would say he has taken over, wouldn’t you, Edward? I have little say in matters now.”
“My husband wants to get away from Nottingham,” Mrs. Barrington told us. “He wants a place in the country somewhere, not so far away that he can’t look in on the factory now and then. But his health has not been good. Affairs like that of last night are not good for him.”
“They could happen anywhere,” I said.
“But of course. He has not been very well lately …”
Mr. Barrington said: “I’m quite all right.”
“No you are not. Bear me out, Edward. We’ve been discussing this. You come from Kent, I believe?”
“Oh yes,” said my mother. “Eversleigh has been in our family for generations. It’s Elizabethan … rather rambling … but we all love it. It’s the family home. We’re not far from the sea.”
“It sounds ideal,” said Mr. Barrington.
“Are there any pleasant houses for sale in your neighbourhood?” asked his wife.
“I don’t know of any.”
“Let us know if you do.”
“I will,” promised my mother.
“Kent would be rather a long way from Nottingham,” said Clare.
She was pale, brown-haired with hazel eyes. I thought her rather insignificant.
“Indeed not,” said Mrs. Barrington. “We should want to be a fair distance away otherwise Mr. Barrington would be running to the factory every day. It would be the only way of stopping him if there was a long journey to be made. In any case there are no houses for sale there. I think we shall look in Sussex or Surrey. I have a fancy for those areas.”
“They are beautiful counties,” said my father; and the conversation continued in this strain until Edward said: “The assizes are coming to Nottingham tomorrow. There is a trial coming up. A gypsy murdered a young man. Judge Merrivale will probably try the case.”
“Merrivale,” said my father. “I’ve heard of him. He’s quite a humane fellow, I believe.”
“He isn’t one of our hanging judges.”
I put in rather hotly: “It is wrong that there should be hanging judges. They should all be humane.”
“So should we all,” said Edward, “but, alas, we are not.”
“But when it is a matter of a man’s life …”
“My daughter is right,” said my father. “There should be one standard for all. What chance do you think the gypsy has?”
“He hasn’t a chance. He’ll go to the gibbet. No doubt about that.”
“That will be most unjust!” I cried.
My eyes were blazing and they were looking at me in some surprise.
“Perhaps I had better explain our business here,” said my father. “I have come to do what I can for this gypsy. It appears that he killed a man who was attempting to rape one of the girls on the encampment. Unfortunately the man who was murdered was the nephew of Squire Hassett who is quite a power round here.”
The Barringtons exchanged glances.
“He is not a very popular man,” said Edward. “He drinks to excess, neglects his estate and leads rather a disreputable life.”
“And what of the nephew who was killed?” asked my father.
“A chip off the old block.”
“Dissolute … drinking … a frequenter of brothels?” went on my father.
“That would be an accurate description.”
My father nodded. “You see, the gypsies encamped on my land. I met the fellow who is accused. He seemed a decent sort for a gypsy and his story is that this nephew was trying to rape the girl.”
“It’s very likely,” put in Mr. Barrington.
“Oh! Could I get some information about him? Perhaps from people who have suffered at his hands?”
“I think that might be possible. There was one family up at Martin’s Lane. They were very distressed about one of their girls.”
“Wronged by this charming fellow, I suppose,” said my father.
“No doubt of it. And there were others.”
“Perhaps I could prevail on you to give me the names of these people.”
“We shall be delighted to help.”
I was getting excited. I believed that fate had led us to the Barringtons who were going to prove of inestimable value to us.
It was in a state of euphoria that we said goodnight to the Barringtons and rode back to the inn.
“What a charming family!” said my mother. “I wish they would find a house near us. I should like to see more of them. I thought Mr. and Mrs. Barrington so pleasant, Edward and Irene too. The girl Clare was so quiet. I would say Edward is a very forceful young man.”
“He would have to be if he is running a factory,” said my father.
“Clare was like a poor relation,” I said.
“Poor relations can be a little tiresome because they find it hard to forget it,” added my mother. “Everyone else is prepared to but they seem to get a certain satisfaction in remembering.”
And so we reached the inn, talking of our pleasant evening. Mr. Barrington’s ill fortune on the road had turned out to be very diverting for us.
The next day we all went to the gypsy encampment. I could smell the fires before we reached it, and a savoury smell came from a pot which one of the women was stirring. Other women sat about splitting withy sticks to make into clothes pegs. The caravans were drawn up on a patch of land and the horses tethered to the bushes.
“Is there a Penfold Smith there?” called my father.
A man came out of one of the caravans. He was middle-aged and swarthy; he walked towards us with the panther grace of the gypsy.
“I am Penfold Smith,” he said.
“You know me,” replied my father. “You camped on my land. I have heard that a friend of yours is in trouble and I have come to help.”
“He was betrayed … near your land.”
“No, no!” I cried. “He was not betrayed. I did not know …”
“My daughter wanted to help him. It was not her fault that she was followed. I am here to do what I can for this man. If you will help me we may get somewhere.”
“What could we do … against the squire and his sort? He owns the land here. He’s a powerful man and we are only gypsies.”
&nb
sp; “I have some evidence which may prove useful. I can prove that the victim was a man of disreputable character. It is your daughter, is it not, who was attacked by him?”
“It was.”
“May I see her?”
Penfold Smith hesitated. “She has been very upset.”
“She wants to save Romany Jake, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, indeed, she does.”
“Then she must help us.”
“Wicked things are said against her.”
“That is why we must do all we can to prove them false.”
“Who would listen to her?”
“It is possible to make people listen to her.”
“How?”
“May I see her?”
Penfold Smith hesitated a moment longer, then he called: “Leah. Come here, Leah.”
She came out of the caravan. She was very beautiful—a young girl a year or so older than myself, very slim with black hair and dark eyes. I was not surprised that such a creature caught the fancy of the lecherous young man.
My father turned to my mother. “You speak to her. Tell her that we believe her. Tell her we want to do everything to help. Explain to her.”
My mother knew what was expected of her. She laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Leah,” she said, “believe me when I say we have come to help. We have already evidence of the nature of the man who would have attacked you.”
She said gently: “Jake saved me. But for him …” She shivered.
“Yes,” said my mother, “and now we must save Jake. We will do anything to save him. Will you?”
“Yes,” she answered. “I will do anything.”
“What we must do is prove that you are an innocent girl. Will you do that?”
“How? They won’t believe me.”
“There are tests. Not very pleasant but necessary. I mean … they would have to believe you if the evidence was there.”
“Tests?” she asked.
“If the court is told that you are a virgin then all the stories which had been circulating about you would be proved false. We know that the man who died was a rake… a seducer, a rapist. If we could tell the court that you, on the other hand, are a virgin … Do you see?”
She nodded.
“Would you agree to this?” asked my father of Penfold Smith.
“Is it necessary?”
“I think it might be vital to our cause.”
“I would do anything to save him,” said Leah.
We went into the caravan and talked for a while. Leah told us that she had been aware of Ralph Hassett before the attack. He had tried to talk to her and she had run away. Then he had waylaid her and the attempted assault had taken place.
“I think,” said my father, “that we are getting somewhere.”
Penfold Smith, who had at first been suspicious, now accepted the fact that we wanted to help. I think that was due to my mother.
We went back to the inn and we talked continuously about the possibility of saving Romany Jake.
Fortune seemed to go our way. A panel of respectable matrons agreed to make the examination and to our great joy declared Leah to be virgo intacta.
Edward Barrington came to the inn and told us that if he could be of any use he would be delighted. He knew that influential people in Nottingham would be eager to see justice done, and they would see that the evidence in Romany Jake’s favour was brought forward and, what was more important, heard.
“All is going well,” said my father.
I wished I could have seen Romany Jake. I wanted to assure him that it was through no fault of mine that he had been caught. I wanted him to know that I had come to Grasslands to warn him, and that I had no idea that I had been seen.
Then came the day of the trial.
My father attended. My mother and I stayed in the inn. My father was going to say a word in the accused’s favour if possible. He was going to tell the court that he knew the gypsy because he had camped on his land and he was certain that he was not the young man to engage in a brawl without good reason for doing so.
He declared he would make them listen to what he had to say, and of course they could not fail to listen to my father. He was certain that when the evidence of Ralph Hassett’s dissolute behaviour was brought to light and with it the proof of Leah’s virginity, this could not be a hanging case.
My mother and I waited in the inn for my father’s return. The tension was almost unbearable. If in spite of everything they condemned him to death … I could not bear to contemplate that.
We sat at the window of my parents’ bedroom watching for his return.
Edward Barrington was with him. He had also been in court, and I warmed towards him for making our cause his.
As we saw them approaching I tried to judge from their expressions which way the verdict had gone, but I could not do so.
I sprang to the door. My mother was beside me. “Wait here,” she said. “It won’t be long now.”
They came into the room. I stared at my father. He was looking solemn and did not speak for a few seconds. I feared the worst and I cried out: “What? What?”
“They’ve sentenced him.”
“Oh no … no. It’s unfair. It was my fault that he was caught.”
My father took me by the shoulders. He said: “It could have been worse. A man was killed. That cannot be forgotten. He won’t hang. We’ve stopped that. They’ve sentenced him to transportation … for seven years.”
We were to leave Nottingham the following day. I felt deflated. I kept telling myself that at least they had not killed him. But to send him away for seven years … right to the other side of the world. Seven years … it was an eternity. I said to myself: I shall never see him again …
He had made a deep impression on me and I should never forget him.
The Barringtons persuaded us to dine with them on our last night. We did so—and the talk was all about the case.
“He was lucky,” said Edward Barrington. “It’s a fairly light sentence for killing a man.”
“In such circumstances …” I began hotly.
“He did kill the man and it would be considered a light sentence. The girl made a good impression. She was so young and innocent… and quite beautiful.”
“The fact that she was a virgin and we’d been smart enough to prove it knocked the wind out of their sails,” said my father with a chuckle.
“The prosecution was out to prove that she was a loose woman. That was proved false and the evil reputation of Ralph Hassett could not be denied.”
“Thanks for your help,” said my father.
“You have been wonderful,” added my mother.
“It is the least we could do,” said Mrs. Barrington.
“Moreover,” put in her husband, “it is good to see justice done.”
“He’ll be all right… that young man,” said my father. “He’s one of the survivors. That I saw right from the beginning.”
“But to leave one’s country … to be banished …” I said. “When he should not have been banished at all, but applauded.”
“The old squire was in a passion,” said Mr. Barrington. “He wanted a hanging.”
“Wicked old thing,” said Mrs. Barrington.
“Well, I think they should set him free,” I said.
“My dear girl, people cannot go about killing for whatever reason,” said my father.
My mother smiled at me. “We saved him from the rope. Let us rejoice in that.”
“Do you think he knew?” I asked.
“He saw me in court,” explained my father. “He heard my testimony and he knew I was the one who had produced the evidence of the dead man’s character and had proved the girl’s innocence. And he would say, Why should he do that? He would know it is because I have a daughter who tells me what should and should not be done.” He turned to the company. “She is a tyrant, this daughter of mine and she has made me her slave.”
They were all g
azing at us smiling, all except Clare Carson. In the turmoil of my thoughts there came the idea that she did not like me very much. I dismissed the thought at once. It was pointless and unimportant.
“They are a wild pair,” said my mother, “my husband and my daughter. Jessica takes after her father and the odd thing is that I wouldn’t change either of them even if I could.”
“Remind me to remind you of that sometime,” said my father.
“I think,” put in Mrs. Barrington, “that we should drink to our meeting. It started in an unpleasant way and has turned out quite the reverse. I hope it will be the beginning of our friendship.”
We all drank to that and I caught Edward Barrington’s eyes on me. He was smiling very warmly and I felt rather pleased in spite of my sadness over Romany Jake, until I saw Clare Carson watching me.
I lifted my glass and drank.
The next day we left for home. We came out of the inn early in the morning. The Barringtons had requested that we call in to them on our way. There we were refreshed with wine and little cakes and it was agreed that we must visit each other at some time.
They all came out to wave us off and wish us a pleasant journey home.
My thoughts were melancholy. I had done everything I could to save him and at least he was not dead, but I wondered what it must be like to be banished to the other side of the world for seven years.
Ours had been a strange relationship and I knew that if I never saw him again he would live on in my thoughts.
He’s a survivor, my father had said.
Those words brought me a certain comfort.
I went to Aunt Sophie’s. One of us made a point of going every day. It was a different household since Dolly had gone there. Aunt Sophie was, as ever, at her best with misfortune, and Dolly had always been a special favourite of hers. Now that she was about to have a child and had no husband to help her through the ordeal, Aunt Sophie was in her element.
As I was given to pondering the strangeness of people’s behaviour this gave me cause for consideration. One would have thought it was an unpleasant trait to thrive on the ill fortune of others and yet Aunt Sophie was assiduous in her care for those in trouble. Perhaps, I thought, nothing is wholly good, nothing wholly bad, but when we do good we get great satisfaction for ourselves, and the more benefits we bring to others, the greater our self gratification. It is vanity, self absorption in a way.
Voices in a Haunted Room Page 46
