by Mike Ripley
The Carders Hall stood on an island site at the head of a gentle incline, a square tower of fifteenth century brick to which had been added a portico supported by Tuscan columns above nine shallow stone steps. The Moot Room was solemn with black panelling; the rostrum still retaining traces of what had been a judicial bench beneath the painted heraldry of the Crown set between boards listing the names of worthies and benefactors. Apart from the twittering schoolgirls the audience was larger than he had expected. The central figure of the latest Nine Days’ Wonder had attracted the interest of over a dozen residents, bringing the total to a respectable fifty.
Mr Campion sidled gently into a rush-bottomed seat near the back and settled to reading the rolls of the eminent departed: Jno. Marchant, Thos. Humble, Saul Fuller, Peter Willow Bt, Ephraim Wickham, Wm Kempster, Jed. Staples … there had been no great changes through the centuries. A creaking chair beside him made him turn his head.
‘Good evening,’ said Mrs Webster. ‘I thought I recognised you from the Woolpack this morning. I hope we’re going to enjoy ourselves, but I doubt it. He’s a horrid young man.’ Her smile was intimate, conveying real pleasure at the encounter.
‘What brings you here?’ enquired Mr Campion. ‘I would have thought you knew all there was to know about the Carders.’
‘Curiosity. It hasn’t killed the cat yet. I want to see if his adventures really have changed him.’
An upsurge of chatter and coughing followed by silence announced the arrival of the lecturer.
He was a tall man, nearing forty, walking with a scholar’s stoop, a folder of notes under his arm. The clerical grey suit hung on a gawky frame which no tailor could have fitted with pride. Spikes of dark hair projected obstinately from the crown of his head despite a recent haircut, and behind steel-rimmed glasses one eye was protected by a black patch. His hands were large and red, suggesting dampness, in contrast to a sallow skin marked with pits of bygone blemishes.
‘He has cleaned himself up,’ observed Mrs Webster. ‘Cut off a very nasty moustache and pressed his clothes for once.’
The speaker reached the baize-covered table on the dais, sat down, opened his notes and rose again without any preliminary introduction.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. The Carders or, more correctly, the Woolcarders of Lindsay Carfax. I propose this evening to tell you something about one of the most ancient associations in the history of English trading. Actually, no, not quite the oldest. That title belongs among the guilds of post-Roman origin, who …’
An indefinable accent marred the authoritative voice, the suspicion of a whine more suited to complaint than praise.
Mrs Webster mimicked him with malicious accuracy: ‘Acktuallie, noew …’
‘He suffers from loose vowels,’ murmured Mr Campion, and was rewarded by a reproving tap on the knee.
The Carders, it emerged, began as a self-appointed body, neither a craft guild nor an association of masters, but containing elements of both. Their object had been the promotion and protection of the local wool trade from the fourteenth century. Whether they served the same purpose today was open to question, since the present holders of the title were anonymous, their predecessors having incurred Oliver Cromwell’s displeasure during the Civil War, and their proceedings since 1649 being held behind closed doors. The Carders School was perhaps the most important of many evidences of their benevolence in times past. As recently as 1820 they had …
The unhappy voice plodded along. Lemuel Walker was not an orator but he possessed the schoolmaster’s gift of making his points clearly if without charm. Much of what he had to say was of true historical interest and he had evidently made a personal research, so that the lecture was not merely a rehash of guide book information. His tone belied his subject matter, implying resentment at past injustices.
Inevitably, there had been nine Carders at the inception in 1334. Three Woolmen or Clothiers, a weaver’s Marchant, a tradesman or chandler, two landowners or lords of the manor, a taverner and the Abbot of Lindsay Carfax Priory which had been razed to the ground by Henry VIII in 1539 for persistent refusal to accept the royal edict. Most of the early records had been destroyed by Cromwell’s men, but fragments of the ritual used at meetings in the fourteenth and fifteenth century survived.
Walker’s accent did not help the archaic phrases.
‘So do I swear, to aid all good men of the gentle craft, be they shepherd or weaver, master or man, Marchant or clothier, having faith in God and being in fear that I shall answer at the dreadful day of judgement … And to contribute to the Common Area …’
In the early days property had not been the only card which admitted to membership; heredity had its place, as did quasi-democratic election when a vacancy occurred which could not otherwise be filled. Whether or not this was still true today was a matter for speculation. The veil of secrecy, established for over four hundred years, remained impenetrable but the village never lacked a benefactor. In 1820 the chancel of St Catherine and St Blaise had been repaired. In 1870 the Carders Hall had been privately modernised despite the fact that it was parish property and at that time a magistrate’s court. The school had been enlarged through an anonymous gift and in 1910 …
The speaker paused, protracting the silence until he had aroused the curiosity of the entire audience.
‘In 1910,’ he repeated, ‘the roof of the church was restored and the present excellent organ was added. Costly gifts, you will agree. The vicar, whose heart was set in other directions, was so overwhelmed by this munificence that he abandoned another and possibly nobler project. I think we may trace or infer the influence of the Carders here. Whether they are still an active body is a question I must leave unresolved. They alone know the truth.’
‘They aloewn noew the trewth,’ whispered Mrs Webster venomously. ‘Miserable little runt.’
Lemuel Walker sat down to applause which was respectful and gratifyingly prolonged. His face had reddened with pleasure, but a nervous tic was apparent as he lifted himself halfway to his feet.
‘If there are any questions …?’
The offer halted the clapping, conjuring silence and embarrassment. Hopefully, the audience exchanged glances, each member unwilling to be the first to court attention. The tension was broken by a country voice, cocksure and deliberately impertinent, from a youth standing by the door.
‘Ahhhr, just a little ’un. Where d’you get your black eye?’
This graceless vulgarity was not well received. It was greeted by a single laugh amid murmurs of disapproval. The lecturer winced as if he had been struck in the face and looked around – not without dignity – for support. The mistress in charge of the schoolgirl contingent came to his rescue, her clear academic voice commanding respect.
‘Mr Walker, you said that the present activities of the Carders – and their identity – are wrapped in mystery. If they are a charitable body and they control funds then they are required by law to be registered. I can assure you that the Act of 1925 is quite specific, since I speak as the treasurer of a well-known charity. My books are always open to inspection. Can you explain that to us?’
The question was not entirely successful as a rescue operation. Walker avoided the woman’s eye, opened his mouth and hesitated.
‘I can only assume … that is. I am guessing …’ Unexpectedly he rounded on her. ‘I do not think you can have considered my closing remarks. There is really no evidence that the present Carders of Lindsay Carfax, if they exist at all, are an active body. I have been trying to talk about history, not about archaic survivals, which are quite pointless in a modern world. That is all I have to add, madam.’
He closed his notes with clumsy fingers, a miserable man who had offered a needless snub to a would-be ally apparently by sheer ineptitude. The incident had ended on a sour note which he seemed incapable of softening. He examined his hands as if their presence surprised him, wiping them on a handkerchief which became limp in the process, and moved slowly towards the fl
ight of steps which led from the dais to the floor. At the foot he paused, shook himself as if to be rid of a nightmare and strode out of the hall, his single eye glaring ahead.
The schoolgirls tittered, voices began to whisper, chairs scraped and somewhere out of sight a door banged. Mrs Webster stood up, gathering her purse and scarf.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘That was quite a performance. Very peculiar really, don’t you think? Did you get the impression that he was a bundle of nerves? He was sweating, you know, when he walked past us. I couldn’t help noticing it.’
‘I think,’ murmured Mr Campion, ‘that he had a very disagreeable experience not long ago and hasn’t quite recovered.’
‘He’s frightened out of his wits right now,’ said Mrs Webster brightly. ‘Come along. If you’re going back to the Woolpack you can be my escort.’
Four
Nightcap
Flattery is the most reliable weapon in any predatory woman’s armoury. With Clarissa Webster the gift was as instinctive as the constant unobtrusive attention she gave to her appearance.
Mr Campion, a willing captive, ensconced opposite her in a high-backed Windsor chair in a corner of the bar considered her technique almost dispassionately. She was sitting with her head on one side, openly appraising him and clearly enjoying the sum total of what she saw and deduced.
‘You know,’ she confided, ‘on closer inspection you’re a surprise to me. A pleasant one or I wouldn’t have dared admit it. I think you’re far more intelligent than you seem at first glance. The truth is that I do a lot of business with men and most of them bore me – even my best clients. I don’t think I’d ever be able to sell you anything you didn’t intend to buy. Between you and me, it makes a delicious change.’
‘You don’t think you’ll sell me a picture?’ said Mr Campion. ‘Most of them seem to be done by my niece. A talented girl but too wholesale for my taste. I saw some of them in your window this afternoon. Do you keep her busy?’
‘She could work twice as hard and I could still handle the lot,’ she sighed. ‘You know, I wish I’d known you five years ago.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that was when I gave up selling really good antiques. If you’d been around then, I could have groomed you into becoming a very good customer once I’d discovered your particular taste. There’s a lot of money in that business, but it’s a full-time job and I like a bit of freedom. Besides, it’s heart-breaking.’
‘Indeed? The disappointments of the lost chase?’
She shook her head reflectively. ‘Oh no, I never did my own buying at sales. It was simply a question over over-possessiveness. I used to fall in love with my best pieces and hated to let them go. It makes for over-charging and bad salesmanship. No good at all. I landed myself with a house crammed with beautiful pieces and hardly room to sit down. The Humble Box was the last straw. That was when I gave up.’
‘Josiah Humble, 1725-1794,’ said Mr Campion. ‘I propose to visit his establishment tomorrow. Just at present I’m in a state of brute ignorance. You’ll have to explain.’
She put on a pretence of being shocked. ‘You shouldn’t say such things aloud in these parts. Josiah Humble is our second-best celebrity attraction. He was an apothecary, a religious crank and a bogus old humbug if you ask me quietly. He invented or made a lot of herbal remedies. Humble’s Universal Elixir, Humble’s Infallible Body Unguent and Humble’s Stomach Bowel and Wind Pills – they were for horses now I come to think of it. All this was tied up with the suggestion that he was in close touch with the Almighty. He also had a line in weather prophecy – long range forecasting you’d call it today. Hence the Humble Box.
‘He was one of the first newspaper advertisers. You know the sort of thing – it sounds quaint today but I’ve got a copy of the Morning Chronicle for seventeen eighty-something which says Mr Josiah Humble having perfected his miraculous device for the foretelling of storms, floods, droughts and every description of weather to be found in the Kingdom will demonstrate the machine to the Nobility and Gentry at his commodious premises …’
She paused for breath and finished her drink. ‘Phew! That was a mouthful. Thank you. Just one more very little one and tell Don to go easy on the soda.’
It was approaching closing time and the bar was crowded with Saturday night drinkers: young farmers and their girls, a group of late diners and a party of guns restoring their strength after much walking in search of partridges. It took Mr Campion some time to fulfil his companion’s request.
‘The Humble Box,’ he enquired as he sat down. Why was it the last straw?’
‘You’d understand if you’d ever seen one. They’re beautiful and quite useless. Like a little spinet in faded mahogany with a bone inlay designed by Hepplewhite. Inside is a collection of dials, like barometers, showing Rainfall, Wind, Temperature, Earthquakes, Pestilences, and God knows what else. You’re supposed to set them at nightfall and in the morning they’ll tell you what’s going to happen in a week’s time. Nothing works, naturally, but it’s a very pretty toy. They’re collectors’ items in these parts because there are very few of them surviving and most of those have been gutted so that only the box on its elegant little legs is left. There’s one in his house, of course, so you simply must go round the Museum to see it, like a good little tourist.’
‘I will,’ he promised. ‘Have you got one yourself?’
She wrinkled her nose, a curiously youthful gesture that brought a glimpse of the girl she had once been. ‘No I haven’t. I did once have a genuine one in the shop and couldn’t bear to part with it because it was so attractive. I kept on putting up the price until the whole thing became ridiculous. I couldn’t sleep at night thinking of the money I was throwing away and the pain I’d suffer if I parted with it. Believe it or not, I made myself quite ill. That was why I gave up that side of the business. Nothing but reproductions for me now, thank you very much.’
‘But you sold it?’
‘Oh yes, in the end. I had an offer from a dealer by post, one morning towards the end of a rather poor quarter. Not as much as I’d been asking but it was firm and I didn’t have to behave like a saleswoman. I let it go and I’ve regretted it ever since. If only I’d known …’
She broke off, finished her drink and placed her glass slowly on the table in front of her as if she was selecting the particular spot for a purpose.
‘Known what?’
‘Who was behind the deal – the actual customer. He’d been in the shop enquiring on his own account and since I didn’t care for him, I asked a crazy price to put him off. I simply couldn’t bear to think of him having it.’
Mr Campion smiled.
‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘I’m chancing my arm as I stick out my neck to make a shot in the dark. Mr Lemuel Walker?’
Surprise flickered for a moment in Mrs Webster’s expressive eyes, quickly chased by amusement.
‘Quite right,’ she said. ‘I suppose my tone of voice gave me away. Now you know why I dislike him so. If someone really has scared him stupid by beating him up I couldn’t care less. I don’t feel the least bit Christian towards him.’
She stood up. ‘I’ve enjoyed this bit of the evening. Come and see The Medley from the inside before you go. You won’t be expected to buy anything – not even one of Eliza Jane’s old masters, unless you insist of course. Good night.’
It was after the official hour for closing the bar, but Don was continuing to oblige the more important of his clients, investing each dram with the mystic quality which is added by mild illegality. Finally he closed his till, wiped his last glass and withdrew. The handful of overnight residents determined to exercise their rights by taking a nightcap moved by twos and threes to the leathery depths of the lounge where the waiter on late turn carried out his duties at a pointedly discouraging pace.
Mr Campion sat where Mrs Webster had left him, spinning out a long whisky and water, listening to snatches of conversation as they drifted through the open door.<
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‘Gus Marchant’s back. I’m shooting with him on Wednesday.’
‘Long Tye Farm?’
‘And my little bit. And, of course, Buckram’s – that’s his now you know. Very useful bit of land. We used to lose a lot of birds down there when it belonged to Wilcox.’
‘The bastard owns everything that’s worth having from here to Saxon Mills. Greedy, like his old man before him. If you can’t beat ’em join ’em. That’s what I say. You ought to get yourself made a member of the club. Tell ’em thirteen is a lucky number and we’ll all chip in.’
The sally produced a roar of laughter. Mr Augustine Marchant, it emerged, although a leading figure in the sporting and commercial life of Lindsay Carfax, was not one who courted popularity by the exercise of social graces.
A muffled scratching, followed by the sound of a key being turned in a lock made the eavesdropper sit up and look sharply round the empty room. The noise, repeated a second and a third time, came from somewhere behind the panelling in the far corner, which hid the entrance to the not so secret passage. In response to a determined thump, the concealed door rattled and quivered but refused to yield for reasons which were not hard to discover. Six sections of linen-fold panelling were held fast by bolts fixed flush with the woodwork at the top and bottom whilst the keyhole itself was covered by a small circular flap of wood which twisted aside on a pin.
Mr Campion rapped sharply on the woodwork by way of reply, but it had taken some seconds to locate the area and his knock was unanswered. The would-be intruder had either withdrawn or was waiting in silence for the next development. The bolts needed considerable persuasion before they could be moved. Stubbornly, grudgingly, they yielded. Mr Campion repeated his knock, but without Don’s key there seemed no way of opening the passage from the bar-room side. As a precaution he closed the door leading to the lounge and moved his chair so that it faced into the corner, settling himself comfortably into its polished contours.
