A Sickness in the Soul

by William Savage

  ‘You told your mistress you found the front door wide open?’

  ‘More ajar,’ the butler told Foxe. ‘Definitely not fully open. I thought at the time someone had gone out and left it like that to avoid making any noise when he closed it.’

  After the butler had left, Mrs Danson asked Foxe what he made of what he’d been told. Did it confirm his suspicion that her brother had been involved?

  ‘You must realise that this is all guesswork, Mrs Danson. It could be that the mysterious Mr Wake killed your husband, then left as quietly as he could. I hope for your sake that proves to be the case.’

  ‘Yet you still don’t believe that is what happened, do you?’ she replied.

  ‘It bothers me,’ Foxe admitted. ‘Someone stole a rare book from your husband’s library. It was a book of the type that, in the letter he had written asking for an appointment, Mr Wake claimed was of great interest to him and the people who had sent him. Let’s assume it was Mr Wake. He maybe asks your husband to sell him the book. Your husband naturally refuses. He’s a collector, not a dealer, and this book is especially rare. I saw from his records he’d paid more than three pounds for his copy.’

  Mrs Danson gasped. ‘As much as that? No wonder he needed to make more and more money all the time. What a waste!’

  ‘Not to him, Mrs Danson. He would have seen it as an investment in knowledge. To return to my story. Dr Danson refuses to sell, so Wake decides to take it anyway. He’s young and strong and your husband is an old man. I imagine he thought it would be easy to get his way. First, he threatens your husband. When that doesn’t work, he strikes him, leaving him stunned. He then looks for the book he wants, finds it, thanks to the systematic way your husband shelved his collection, and prepares to leave. Then, to make sure Dr Danson can’t say what has happened, he takes out a dagger he is carrying and kills him.’

  ‘A convincing reconstruction of events, Mr Foxe. Why don’t you believe it?’

  ‘I do believe most of it, Mrs Danson. Up to the point where Mr Wake kills your husband, that is. That part makes little or no sense. Wake almost certainly did strike your husband on the head to stun him. I’m equally sure he then snatched up the book up and left, taking care to do so as quietly as he could. To kill him after that seemed so unnecessary. Dangerous too, since his visit — and his name — was well known. He could have given a false name, I suppose, but to come here determined to kill to have that book argues for premeditation. Your husband was a secretive man. It’s most unlikely he would have allowed details of specific books in his library to become known to others.’

  ‘Most unlikely, I agree,’ Mrs Danson said. ‘He rarely let anybody even go into the library. I cannot believe he would have broadcast abroad the details of any book in there. If we exclude Mr Wake, why do you believe my brother would have returned with the intention to commit murder?’

  ‘Nothing else is possible,’ Foxe replied. ‘As I see it, your brother had come back that day hoping he’d frightened you enough to make you willing to give him more money. He must, by this time, have been desperate to get away. Whatever he’d managed to steal or extort from others, still wasn’t enough. When he got here, I think he saw the front door either open, or at least not properly closed. A person with his record of theft would have seen that as an open opportunity to creep inside and find something of value to steal. You’ve already told me he’d been here before. That may have been enough for him to have worked out where the principal rooms were.’

  ‘I told him where the library was, Mr Foxe. The first time he came here, the day before my husband’s death, he’d become furious with me when I could give him no more than a few shillings. I’d spent much of my pin money earlier that week, buying myself a new hat. I gave him all I had left, but it couldn’t have amounted to more than four or five shillings. He started shouting at me, demanding I sell something so that I could give him more. That made me very frightened, as you can imagine. The last thing I wanted was a confrontation between him and my husband. I begged him to be quiet, in case my husband heard all the noise and came to see what was going on. I even told him my husband was upstairs in his library, which lay directly above this room. Oh, good heavens! I recall now that I told him that was where my husband kept what he treasured most. What I didn’t say was that I meant books.’

  ‘He must have thought you meant valuable items like silver or porcelain, Mrs Danson. If so, he would have headed straight there when he came back the next day — if he did.’

  ‘Wouldn’t my husband have called out if a stranger had come into his room? Especially if it was a rough-looking fellow like my brother.’

  ‘I thought that too, until your butler reminded me your husband had suffered a blow to the head sufficient to knock his wig to the floor. Your husband was probably still insensible at the time your brother went into the room. There’s just one point. Even allowing for your husband’s careful arrangement of his books, Mr Wake wouldn’t have wanted to take the time to search around a library of that size. Not looking for a single book. Is it possible your husband, knowing that this was an especially rare volume, might have taken it from the shelves himself to show it to his visitor? Maybe it was then Mr Wake asked to buy it and your husband refused. Overcome with the desire to possess what he couldn’t buy on a legitimate basis, Wake then struck your husband, snatched up the book and departed on the instant.’

  ‘My husband would certainly have refused to sell anything, Mr Foxe. You said that yourself. He bought books all the time, but I never knew him sell any.’

  ‘Very well. Let’s assume that’s what happened. Later, your brother looked into the room and thought Dr Danson was sleeping. He took a quick look around and reached the conclusion there was nothing there which he could sell, even if he took it. Would you say your brother was a cunning man, Mrs Danson?’

  ‘Cunning, yes. Quick to see anything that he could turn to his advantage, even though in other respects I would have doubted his intelligence. My parents sent us both to the local school. I learned to read and write — to be precise, I learned to read fairly easily and enough writing to be able to sign my name and make simple notes. Proper spelling always eluded me, Mr Foxe. I dare say that if I showed you anything I had written, the way I wrote the words would make you burst out laughing. My brother couldn’t even read, let alone write. Most days, he played truant. When our mother died, and our father soon after, he gave up any attempt at learning. But he was always cunning, even devious.’

  ‘In that case,’ Foxe said, ‘he would have realised that, if your husband was dead, you would be a rich widow, in full control of your wealth …’

  ‘As I am told I will, Mr Foxe. I inherit all my husband owned. I have already spoken to the lawyer who drew up his Will. He left it to me, since he had no other living relatives, just as I have none now. This is indeed a more likely explanation of what happened than the other one. I can only hope that it proves in the end to be untrue. Especially because it makes me the cause of my husband’s death.’

  ‘You mustn’t think that,’ Foxe said quickly. ‘If your brother had behaved towards you the way he should have done, with love and affection, he would have not become involved in your husband’s death in any way. If your husband had not been so greedy for money to fund his book purchases, he too would be living today. Each is to blame for his own death, not you.’

  ‘What a wretched world we live in!’ Mrs Danson replied. She had stopped weeping, but her face clearly revealed the misery and grief Foxe’s news had brought her. He longed even more to take her in his arms and comfort her. Since propriety would admit of no such action on his behalf, he could do no more than murmur indistinctly and hope that his face too spoke eloquently of his own pity and remorse.

  ‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘Gunton said he felt sure my husband was not killed with the dagger he kept on his desk, Mr Foxe. There was no blood on it, he said. Yet the medical examiner at the inquest was sure it was the murder weapon. How did he make such an error?
’

  ‘Your husband was stabbed and there was a dagger found by him. I expect he simply assumed at first that was what had killed him. Later, he became sure your husband was already dead when he was stabbed. The lack of blood would not have bothered him. His finding also explained why your brother could assume Dr Danson was asleep. I doubt he would have guessed the man was dead. He may have stabbed your husband with the dagger from his desk, but I doubt it. A man like George Stubbings would have been carrying his own.’

  ‘I shall leave this house as soon I can,’ Mrs Danson said, ‘and this city as well. There is nothing but sadness for me in this place; that and bitter memories. Will you help me dispose of my husband’s books, Mr Foxe? His obsession with this so-called secret knowledge and these books he believed might reveal it to him are the reason why he came to such a sad end.’

  ‘I will if you wish it,’ Foxe said.

  ‘I do, most ardently. They are of no use to me. I hate the very sight of them. I suppose all the money my husband lent to Mr Craswall will have been lost?’

  ‘Most of it, I imagine.’

  Dr Danson had kept careful records of each sum the apothecary had borrowed, together with signed documents acknowledging the debts. Even so, Foxe knew they would be worthless. The business of a moneylender like Mr Craswall pretty much ensured that must be the case. Men like him lent money in the expectation that little, if any, of the principal would ever be paid back. Their business was to extract interest payments from their victims for years. They hoped to continue doing so until the wretches were drained of every penny and farthing they could scrape together.

  ‘I expect the executors of your husband’s Will to do all they are able to retrieve as much of the money held by Craswall as possible,’ Foxe continued. ‘I shall give them the papers I found to assist them in that task. Even so, I fear they will have little enough success. I doubt very much that Craswall will be able to pay much of what he owes to your husband’s estate.’

  ‘I shall not worry too much about that money, Mr Foxe. The value of this house and its contents will give me ample to live on. My wants are modest. What I desire most now is to be able to live a quiet, respectable life, free from other people’s demands.’

  ‘I wish you well in that, Mrs Danson,’ Foxe said, his voice shaking. ‘You deserve it, if anyone does.’

  With his final visit to Mrs Danson over, the case of the dead man in the library should have been complete. To Foxe’s mind, however, two burning questions yet remained. Who precisely was Mr Wake? Why had he been so desperate to get his hands on that particular book that he was willing to steal it? Otherwise, what faced Foxe now was the task of conveying yet more bad news. This time it would be to Alderman Halloran and the mayor. The money stolen from the city treasury was gone for good.

  Much later — long after Mrs Danson had left Norwich and the painful memories of her were at last fading a little in Foxe’s mind — all he had prophesied came to pass. The executors of Danson’s Will pursued Mr Craswall diligently, demanding the return of the sums owed. He delayed and promised all he could but now found himself ruined. When his secret business as a moneylender became general knowledge, his business as an apothecary collapsed. His house and shop were seized and sold, together with all his stock. He himself was thrown into the debtor’s prison. There he suffered the punishment so many believed he deserved. Since he had sent so many of its inmates there himself, they took their revenge. Within less than a day, he had died a violent and painful death.

  18

  ‘Poor, Foxe!’ Alderman Halloran said to Foxe, towards the end of that same day. The two of them were sitting in the alderman’s library drinking glass after glass of fine claret. ‘You’ve solved two most puzzling mysteries, yet neither accomplishment has brought you any pleasure. Don’t worry about the money from the city treasury. The mayor and I agreed some while ago that it would never be seen again. It wasn’t that large an amount either. Annoying, of course. No one likes to discover they have been employing a thief. Still, nothing that can’t be coped with easily enough.’

  He raised his third glass — or was it the fourth? — to Foxe and drank deeply. Foxe did the same, toasting the alderman.

  ‘Now, let me give you some good news,’ Halloran continued. ‘The man Brunetti, the one you believed was responsible for the death of the vagrant with the gold pendant, has been taken alive. I heard the news scarce two hours ago. Last night, he and some other ruffians got into a brawl and the Italian wielded that damn stiletto knife of his to deadly effect. The dead ruffian’s friends then pursued Brunetti and trapped him in an old shed. They would have killed him in turn, but all the noise attracted the attention of the night-watchman. He wielded his rattle to good effect and thus summoned two of the constables. Together they held back the crowd and overpowered the killer.

  ‘Brunetti spent last night in the lock-up, knowing it would not be long before he faced the hangman. Bullies of that kind are always cowards when it comes to their own hurt or death. By morning, he was desperate to try to save himself. He wants to turn King’s Evidence against a man whose name will be very familiar to you: Sir Samuel Valmar. Brunetti has not only confessed to the murder of your vagrant, that’s the man you say was actually Sir Samuel’s lost eldest son and heir, but he also claims the said baronet spoke to him in person and paid him five pounds to do the deed.’

  ‘Would his evidence be enough to bring the baronet to court, do you think?’ Foxe asked eagerly.

  ‘To my mind, it would not,’ Halloran replied. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Foxe. Having heard your story about George Valmar, I feel as eager to see his father in the dock as you do. This evidence, however, will not suffice. Can you imagine any judge or jury accepting the word of an admitted murderer — a foreigner from the lowest class of society as well — against the testimony of a man of such eminence in the county as Sir Samuel? All the baronet would need to do to escape is to deny everything. Indeed, I cannot imagine such a case even being brought before the court. Can you?’

  Foxe shook his head sadly. ‘I cannot,’ he said. ‘No magistrate would sanction it, nor would it pass a grand jury. Yet to see that arrogant bastard escape justice sticks and burns in my throat. You will tell me it is the way of the world, Halloran, and I will agree with what you say. Yet, as Mrs Danson said to me scarcely an hour ago, does that not prove what a wretched world it is that we live in?’

  ‘Don’t despair, my friend. Something may yet turn up which will tilt the scales in the direction of justice. Now, about this boy you say is George Valmar’s son. Can that be proved, together with his legitimacy?’

  ‘It can. I spoke with the vicar of the parish church myself and he allowed me to see the church records. The marriage of George Valmar, bachelor of the parish, and Charlotte Meyrick, spinster of the same, is duly recorded there. As is the baptism of their child, Henry Meyrick Valmar. The vicar remembered both events and is willing to swear to the accuracy of his entries.’

  ‘And you say the boy is healthy and being looked after well by his grandparents?’

  ‘He is. I have also taken care to ensure that he is beyond Sir Samuel’s reach. That’s in case he learns of his existence and tries to deal with him as he dealt with his father. Young Henry is being watched with great care, both day and night.’ Foxe had given money lavishly to the street children to ensure this was so. Their sharp eyes and quick reactions would, he knew, be of greater use than hiring a dozen men to do the same job.

  ‘Now you have told me of the boy and explained who he is, I will pass on that knowledge to the mayor. I’m sure he will agree with me that nothing can be done directly at this stage. However, should any attempt be made on the boy’s life, the reason for it will be known in the right quarters. Try as he may, Sir Samuel will find himself unable to take action to break the entail and frustrate the proper succession to his lands. Not without the whole sorry business becoming public knowledge. Until then, I will ensure that the mayor, like myself, will stay silen
t on the matter. The boy’s life may not then be in quite such danger as it would be if gossip spreads about his identity. Let us hope it stays that way until he is of age and can claim what is his due.’

  If Foxe thought that the surprises at least for that day were complete, he was soon proved wrong. When he returned to his home, he found a letter waiting for him, summoning him to visit Lady Valmar on the next day at three o’clock in the afternoon. No reason was offered. Needless to say, there was never any doubt that he would go.

  As soon as Foxe’s carriage turned to pass through the splendid wrought-iron gates at the entry to Hutton Hall, the gatekeeper stepped out and brought them to a halt. At the same time, a woman, middle-aged and dressed like a superior servant, left the gatehouse and went up to speak to Foxe’s coachman. After a few moments in conversation with him, she came to where Foxe was waiting. He had already opened the door of the carriage, ready to step out to discover what the matter might be. Instead, the woman signalled to him to step back inside, then climbed into the carriage herself and sat opposite him.

  ‘My mistress is waiting for you, Mr Foxe, but not at the hall. I’m to take you to her. I have already given your coachman the necessary instructions. If you will allow me to do so, I will ride with you there. It’s a longish way and my legs are not as young as they used to be.’

  She offered no further explanation but sat silently as the carriage ran on down the driveway. After perhaps a quarter of a mile, it turned off to the left. After that, it followed a narrow track which led to a small cottage built of flint and brick with a thatched roof. The thatch was rotting, weighed down with moss where the trees overhung. The window and door frames had not seen a touch of paint for many years. There had once been a neat garden around the place. Now it was overgrown: a tangled mass of weeds and brambles. Both house and garden had seen better days.