A Sickness in the Soul

by William Savage

  ‘How many servants did this man keep?’

  ‘The usual number, I suppose.’ Halloran had a wealthy man’s disinclination to bother himself with domestic matters. It hadn't occurred to him that few retired ministers could afford the number of servants he had himself.

  ‘Where did he live?’

  ‘On Pottergate, I believe. I wrote down exactly where.’ He got up and began to rummage in the mass of papers on his desk.

  Pottergate? Maybe this retired minister came from a wealthy family? Perhaps his new wife was an heiress? Pottergate was where Lady Arabella lived. It was not quite as good an address as Colegate, but both were lined with the dwellings of rich merchants, bankers and the like. Pottergate?

  Halloran found what he was looking for and passed Foxe a scrap of paper. ‘I’ve told you everything I know,’ he said. ‘All I can suggest is that you go and talk to the wife and find out as much as you can. That is if the case interests you. There’s no pressure to take it on, if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Thanks. I might as well have a look at it,’ Foxe said, hoping he sounded grudging. In truth, his curiosity had been well and truly sparked by the butler and the address. ‘I’ve got nothing else particular to do at the present time. Won’t the man’s wife be very upset at this stage? She won’t want to talk to me yet.’

  ‘Again, I have no idea,’ Halloran said. ‘Go and find out. Sometimes these young wives can be extraordinarily callous towards an elderly husband. Most of them are expecting — probably hoping — they’ll be wealthy widows as soon as possible. Then they’re free to look for a younger and more interesting husband. As far as the mayor is concerned, this murder has taken place at a most inconvenient time. He and the rest of us in his inner circle are trying to discover how a substantial amount of money has been embezzled from the city treasury, and by whom. That’s much more important than the death of some old fool who dabbled in matters best left well alone.’

  After he left Halloran’s house, Foxe found he was turning the matter over in his mind. There was something deuced peculiar about the whole business. A retired minister living on Pottergate and keeping a butler and other male servants? Male servants cost serious money. A recluse who went out and found and married a young woman, presumably as a second wife after the first had died? Damn it! He’d forgotten in his astonishment to ask whether the wife was pretty. A plain woman would only be likely to attract men hoping to benefit from her husband’s death. Pretty ones found bedfellows with ease, rich or not. What about this ‘mysterious’ visitor? Reclusive scholars didn’t admit casual visitors, did they? If he was expected, why did the minister’s wife not know who the man was?

  Foxe decided he wouldn’t go and see the wife right away. Better to find out all that he could about her, her background and her behaviour since she married this odd husband. That way he could prepare his questions in advance. It would also give the lady time to compose herself — always assuming she was actually grieving.

  As soon as he reached his house, he turned aside into his bookshop. Under Mrs Crombie’s management, the shop had become a centre for social contacts and one of the main clearing houses for gossip in the city. If anyone could tell him what the world knew about this ill-matched couple, she could.

  Foxe swiftly explained to Mrs Crombie the gist of what the alderman had told him and asked her to add what she knew. She didn’t disappoint him. She admitted her knowledge was superficial in this instance, then proved to be a mine of information.

  For a start, she explained that the retired minister — his full name was Dr Jonathan Danson — had lost his first wife some three or four years past. Around eighteen months ago he had married a new, very young wife. Her background? This had been the subject of gossip for a while, though it was hardly that unusual. The word was that she had worked in a fashionable bordello of the kind which catered exclusively for the well-heeled. After his wife’s death, Danson had gone there several times, probably more for companionship than anything else.

  ‘Dr Danson must be sixty or more, if he’s a day,’ she told Foxe. ‘I’ve never met the man himself, but that’s what people tell me. Not a very well-preserved sixty-something either. His new wife will be almost forty years younger than that. I suppose she married him for his money. Either that or to get away from having to go with any man who could pay.’

  ‘He’s wealthy then?’ Foxe asked.

  ‘Must be. The madam of that bordello wouldn’t have let him enter otherwise. He also lives on Pottergate and keeps servants.’

  ‘So I understand,’ Foxe said. ‘Family money, is it?’

  ‘That’s another odd thing,’ Mrs Crombie said, warming to her subject-matter. ‘Folks say he was as poor as the proverbial church mouse until a few years ago. Just another of the many ministers of some chapel or other. The sort who’ve infested this city in recent years.’ Mrs Crombie was a staunch member of the established church. ‘Don’t ask me which dissenting group had hired him. All I know is people say he was a poor preacher — far too dry and scholastic. He also turned out to be somewhat prone to harbouring strange notions about religion, even for a dissenter. In the end, only a congregation who were desperate would consider him. He rarely stayed long with any of them.’

  ‘An inheritance?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘What about the wife? Is she pretty?’ Foxe asked.

  ‘It’s typical of you to ask a question like that,’ Mrs Crombie said, laughing. ‘I’ve not set eyes on her either, but people say she’s plenty comely enough, though not a beauty. Always cheerful and good-natured though. No one seems to know much more. As I told you, the husband is — was — a recluse. His wife is one of those women who rarely ventures far outside the household. She’s not a reader either. I’ve never seen her in my shop.’

  My shop, Foxe noted, with an inward smile. Well, he had made Mrs Crombie his partner in the bookselling business — or a good part of it — and she’d done him proud. He supposed it really was her shop nowadays, even if he did still own it and everything in it and it was his father’s name over the door.

  Having obtained as much information as he could from Mrs Crombie, Foxe turned to his other main source of information on what went on in the city and amongst the people who lived there. The groups of children who lived on the streets knew much more than the other inhabitants guessed. He had long had an excellent relationship with them. In part that was due to his open-handed generosity. In part, it stemmed from the fact that he was prepared to take what they told him seriously. Most people simply snarled and kicked them out of the way. Foxe knew they lived rough and managed to get by through begging, stealing and, in the case of the girls, casual prostitution. Some of the prettier boys too. It didn’t make them stupid or evil. They did it because there was nothing else they could do. His current apprentice, Charlie Dillon, had once been a street child himself and their unofficial leader. Even now, although he served Foxe and lived in part of the stables behind his house, he exercised considerable authority amongst them.

  Foxe thanked Mrs Crombie for her help and walked through into the workroom, feeling sure he would find Charlie there. From the start, the boy had shown a particular interest in bookbinding and printing. Foxe had the old printing press which his father had used renovated. He also invested in organising for some of his skilled printer and bookbinder contacts to give Charlie lessons in both skills. Both had proved good investments. Charlie also served as Foxe’s link to the various street children who lived and slept wherever they could in the city. Once he had been amongst their number himself, until Mr Foxe had rescued him and taken him into his own household. Despite his new-found respectability, the boy still had considerable standing amongst the street children, a status enhanced by his master’s use of him to hand out pennies. This small investment had usually paid handsome dividends. The children could go anywhere either unobserved or disregarded by everyone. They also had sharp eyes and ears and quick wits, all three honed by the precarious lives they
lived. They were better than any team of Bow Street Runners at discovering whatever Mr Foxe wished to know.

  Foxe found Charlie exactly where he had expected him to be — sitting at the bench working on the repair of a badly-damaged book from the circulating library Mrs Crombie had established. It was the work of a few moments to explain what he wanted and ask Charlie to contact the street children. They would soon find out all he wished to know about Dr Danson and his household.

  ‘I’m particularly interested in the relationship between the retired minister and his wife,’ he told the boy, ‘as well as any rumours there are concerning both their backgrounds. I also need to know whether he had contact with any of the wealthy men from groups like the Quakers, the Presbyterians or the Independents. It’s possible he didn’t. Danson had an interest in unusual — even blasphemous — areas of study.’

  With that, Foxe returned to his home, satisfied he had done all he could for the present. It would soon be time for dinner.

  By next morning, Foxe had decided that he needed to involve himself in investigating the death of Dr Danson, if only to satisfy his own curiosity. It had bothered him on and off all evening and far into the night. If he tried to walk away now, his mind would give him no peace for days to come. He’d suspected this would be the outcome. That was why he’d already done what he could to prepare himself by talking to Mrs Crombie and setting the street children to work. Halloran knew his Foxe. If he’d seemed to give him a choice in the matter, it was little more than a courtesy.

  It would be a little time before he could expect what he’d begun to bear much fruit. In the meantime, he could still go to see Danson’s widow. It wasn’t ideal, but it might help to talk to her and her servants, if possible, while events were fresh in everyone’s minds.

  He therefore set aside his morning ritual of visiting his favourite coffeehouse and turned in the opposite direction. He was heading for Pottergate.

  Alderman Halloran had given him clear directions, so he should be able to find the correct house without asking further. However, once he arrived his confidence in Halloran’s directions suffered a severe blow. He was where he had been told to be, but what now stood before him was a splendid, modern mansion of no less than seven bays fronting onto the street. Everything looked fresh and well cared for. The house was built of fine brickwork, with ashlar facing on the corners and window openings. The windows were large and all filled with glass. The imposing front door before which he stood boasted a gilded brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Was this really the home of Dr Danson, retired dissenting minister?

  It was indeed, as the footman who responded to Foxe’s knock at the house next door soon assured him.

  Foxe retraced his steps and wielded the lion’s head knocker with some care. Even so, his knock seemed to resound through the house like a cannon firing.

  The door was opened by a stately butler wearing full livery. The man’s appearance and demeanour were better fitted to the country mansion of a duke than the city home of a mere Doctor of Divinity. The fellow bowed, took Foxe’s visiting card and asked him to wait in the hall while he went to ascertain whether Mrs Danson was receiving visitors.

  Foxe stared around in awe. The hall was lofty and superbly proportioned. It was also decorated with fine plasterwork. The furnishings were of fine mahogany, made by a superb craftsman. There were mirrors and paintings of undoubted quality, though Foxe noticed in passing that none of them were portraits. Opposite the door, a broad staircase swept up to the first floor in a single elegantly proportioned curve. Even the bannisters were finely shaped, and wasn’t that an Axminster carpet on the treads? Even since it had become known that the new monarch, His Majesty King George III, favoured Axminster carpets, they had become de rigeur amongst the fashion-conscious rich.

  The final touch to all this costly grandeur came in the form of several large Chinese vases, interspersed with marble busts and classical bronzes. Everything had that carefully understated way of proclaiming the wealth of its owner that he would have expected in the house of an aristocrat of the most refined taste; one with forebears amongst the gentry stretching back hundreds of years, not a retired minister of humble origins.

  The butler returned to inform Foxe — this butler surely never simply told anyone anything — Mrs Danson would see him in the withdrawing room. The two of them, with the butler in front and Foxe trailing numbly behind, turned to the left to pass through a richly appointed dining room. Its deep windows to the street stood opposite long mirrors with brass sconces between them, each holding no less than four long candles. The table, glittering with a display of silver, was of darkest mahogany. Foxe wished he could have afforded one like it.

  The withdrawing room was no less imposing. Here, the walls were covered with rich crimson damask and the furnishings were once again of walnut and mahogany, obviously fashioned by a master cabinetmaker.

  In stark contrast to the magnificence around her, the young woman who awaited Foxe was simply dressed. The dark dress she wore was made of fine material, sure enough, Foxe had an eye for such things. Even so, it was simply cut and lacked any decoration beyond a narrow band of lace at the neck and on the cuffs. She might be newly widowed, but she had clearly decided not to assume full mourning clothes. He could not believe she had nothing more suitable, for her dress was of dark blue damask over an underskirt of cream silk, sprigged with tiny flowers. She wore no jewellery beyond a single pearl brooch. Her head was covered by a simple cap of cream linen. She was as elegant as her house.

  Was she beautiful? By no means, though she could have been described as comely enough. Foxe’s initial impression was almost wholly favourable. She displayed a simplicity which was most attractive. Her gaze was calm and direct. Best of all, she responded to his bow with an elegant curtsy, indicating with a graceful gesture that he should take a seat. In turn, she seated herself on the other side of a small table. Foxe was a connoisseur of women. Whatever Mrs Danson’s background, she was a woman of quality. Something innate in her shone through to prove it. Foxe was more and more impressed.

  He waited until his hostess had seated herself, then sat where she had indicated. After that, he opened by introducing himself and offering his condolences on her loss. He had come on behalf of the mayor, he told her, who had requested him to look into her husband’s death. She nodded, her face grave, and they next indulged in the usual polite conversation on such occasions — the weather, the prospects for the harvest and suchlike. Thus, it proceeded until a maidservant brought in a tray set with cups, sugar and a pot of coffee and Foxe and his hostess took refreshment.

  All this time, Foxe had been observing Mrs Danson discreetly. Her manners were excellent and her voice was carefully modulated, with no trace of either a city or a country accent. Her demeanour was suitably grave, given that she had recently been widowed, but, beyond that, she displayed no greater sign of emotion. When Foxe told her that the mayor had suggested he might be of assistance to her in discovering her husband’s murderer, she displayed neither surprise nor pleasure. She merely nodded and told him that she would be grateful for any help he could offer.

  Was she numbed by her loss? Bewildered by being thrust suddenly into the role of widow? Foxe did not think so. He felt sure what he was seeing was an act; a role deliberately assumed to divert unwanted sympathy or attention. He could not at that time have explained what it was, but something about her convinced him there was steel behind this gentle, unassuming facade.

  ‘I am afraid I will need to ask you many questions, madam,’ Foxe said, ‘both of yourself and other members of your household. Some may seem intrusive or even impertinent, but I assure you all will be necessary if I am to help you.’

  Mrs Danson nodded. ‘I will answer if I can, sir, although I have little or no knowledge of my late husband’s affairs. As for the servants, I will instruct them to give you every assistance and answer your questions truthfully.’

  ’Thank you,’ Foxe said. ‘May I start
by asking whether your husband had any known enemies?’

  ‘Let me be frank with you,’ she replied. ‘If I don’t tell you, others soon will. My husband and I were married about a year-and-a-half ago. Before that, I was employed in a bordello. How I came to be there is of little relevance, though I will tell you if it becomes necessary. Dr Danson visited that establishment several times after his first wife died, generally choosing a different companion each time. One day, he chose me. He must have liked me for each time he came after that he asked for me in particular. So much so that the other girls took to calling me “The Minister’s Wife”. One day, he suggested we should marry.’

  ‘You accepted.’

  ‘Not at once. I did not enjoy my life in that place, but I had become used to it. Being no great beauty and unwilling to offer any of the “special services” some men demanded, I often went for hours without any callers displaying the slightest interest in me. Those who did were usually elderly and required little beyond a comforting feminine presence. Still, it was not a good life nor one with much to offer me after the beginning.’

  ‘Why did you stay?’ It was an impertinent question, but Foxe’s curiosity would not allow him to stay silent on the topic.

  ‘You could say I had little choice. That was, however, only part of the truth. At the start, I took whatever the house offered. I learned to speak well, I learned good manners and proper deportment. I learned how to pour tea elegantly and make polite conversation. I even learned how to dress like a lady, even if no real lady would have accepted me as other than I was.’

  ‘Then Dr Danson asked you to marry him. Surely he was much older than you?’

  ‘That didn’t bother me. I spent much of my time with elderly men. In some ways, I preferred them. Young ones expect you to pretend to experience ecstasies from their clumsy fumblings. Old men know their limitations and are grateful for kind words, caresses and tolerance for their lack of vigour. They know you only sleep with them because they pay you. Young men like to assume you let them keep thrusting and gasping away because you enjoy it.’