Cheating the Hangman

by Judith Cutler

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  By common but not enthusiastic consent, we returned to Orebury House to report to Hasbury. Mrs Trent found an urgent reason to confer with Mrs Heath – there was no persuading her otherwise – and would have scuttled round to the servants’ entrance on her own. However, before I could insist on accompanying her, Toone stepped forward, proffering his arm in the most courtly of gestures.

  ‘You’ll be like to lose her, if you’re not careful,’ observed Lawton as we watched them walk away together, deep in apparently very agreeable conversation. ‘And good housekeepers are like hens’ teeth.’

  I was careful not to look at Hansard, but, since a reply was clearly called for, I said, ‘So they are. Especially when they are good, brave human beings too. Do not forget I owe my life to her.’

  Hansard had barely rung the front doorbell when Toone returned, wiping a smile from his face: the four of us were a deadly serious quartet as we waited for our pleasure-loving magistrate to quit whatever pastime currently engaged him. Seated in the library, we were happy to accept refreshment: it would provide each man with an excuse not to have to share his private emotions. I looked up to find Edmund regarding me with concern. I hoped he was reassured by my smile.

  It was Lawton who was the most incommoded by the delay, which grew quite unconscionably long.

  ‘Grand folk are always like this, are they?’ The question seemed to burst from him. Then he stared at me. ‘Dr Campion, they say you’re grand too, but I always disbelieved it. But the way you sit there, it’s as if you belong. So I reckon they’re right, after all.’

  ‘My father is a duke,’ I said quietly, deciding against telling him he was staying under this very roof. ‘But I am plain Dr Campion. And I have to tell you, between ourselves, that I do not think that keeping people waiting is the sign of a gentleman.’

  ‘Do we ring that bell again to remind His Lordship?’

  ‘If we did, I suspect that we would find that the butler had lately discovered that His Lordship was not in fact at home today,’ Edmund said sourly. He after all had often enough been referred by top-lofty butlers to the tradesman’s entrance, though these days his reputation was generally sufficient for the front door to be opened for him before he even knocked.

  ‘These men who want to confess,’ Lawton said. ‘Would they come here or what?’

  ‘To be charged, yes, and asked how they pleaded – guilty or not guilty – and then they’d be taken to gaol in Warwick to await a trial and their punishment,’ I said.

  ‘And would they be questioned and all?’

  ‘They might be asked why they should commit such a heinous crime. After all, Squire, they did more than kill a man. They treated his dead body with, let us say, the greatest disrespect.’

  He opened his mouth to say something, but the butler flung open the doors to announce Lord Hasbury. To a man we stood. Bows were exchanged.

  Hasbury sat, but did not invite us to. He crossed his legs, idly regarding a highly polished boot. ‘You are becoming a dead bore in all this, Campion. Inquests, enquiries – good God, man, haven’t you got a church somewhere to go and preach in?’

  My bow was as chilly as ever one of my father’s could be. ‘Sir, we believe that Mr Coates was the man who was found crucified. And we have a man ready to confess to his murder—’

  ‘Three men, begging Your Honour’s pardon,’ Lawton chipped in. ‘Do I bring them here, or do I take them straight to gaol to await the Assizes, seeing as Your Honour is so busy?’ There was nothing about his tone or his expression to indicate irony.

  There was everything about Hasbury’s to indicate insolence. ‘I’m sure one or more of these good gentlemen will write down their statements, assuming as I do that the men are not literate.’

  ‘They can sign their names, Your Honour, even if it is with just a cross.’

  ‘I am impressed. Very well, let me have their statements, with names or with a cross, and I will ensure that they are despatched betimes – I rely on you, gentlemen, to convey them to Warwick. Excellent.’

  I had to clench my fists behind my back lest I hit him for his insolence to us all. ‘Indeed, My Lord, this is not our work. It is not suitable that gentlemen caring for the bodies and the souls of men should be involved in their incarceration,’ I said. ‘In the absence of a regular constable, may I suggest that you make a temporary appointment? Certainly I for one will have no part in this scheme.’

  ‘Dr Campion speaks for us all,’ Toone said promptly. ‘Mr Lawton must know a reliable villager who will act.’

  ‘I do, sir,’ Lawton said bravely, ‘and will send him to you to be sworn in. Then he can take their statements, if it please you, and will arrange for a closed carriage to transport them.’

  ‘Dear God, how tedious this whole business is!’ Without taking his leave, Hasbury swept from the room.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Edmund said, as a footman closed the grand front doors behind us, ‘I can understand the French predilection for tumbrils and guillotines.’

  Mrs Longstaff was almost unrecognisable: from a pale and wispy shadow of a woman, she was as radiant a young mother as one would wish to see, in no small part, I suspect, as a result of Edmund’s insistence on fresh air and gentle exercise. Her daughter, brought down by her nurse for a few minutes to acknowledge our appreciative coos, slept soundly. To my great pleasure, I was invited to church the mother and baptise the child. Edmund and Maria were to be Emma’s godparents, alongside Mrs Trent, who had been such a tower of strength during the birth.

  A bustle in the hallway proclaimed the arrival of more guests, the butler almost immediately announcing Lady Blaenavon. This! Lady Blaenavon! This elegant and genteel-looking lady! I could feel my mother’s hand on my shoulder, her breath in my ear: I told you not to be a prig.

  She was, of course, accompanied by Miss Witheridge, who was a short buxom lady in her thirties, with pretty nut-brown hair; her features were good, her eyes especially being wide and expressive. In no way did she fit the verbal caricature my friends and I had drawn of her as a thuggish, strident cross between a man and a woman, for all she dressed very simply, with none of the laces and flounces that made our hostess’s attire so attractive. Her hair was drawn into a chignon from which stray locks were encouraged artfully to escape.

  Lady Blaenavon too was dressed with quiet elegance. Slighter and taller than her friend, she too wore her hair tied back, taking a seat beside our hostess and asking quiet questions about the infant.

  Their ladylike ways put me in a quandary. At what point – if any – in the evening would it be acceptable to raise the question of the two Sallys? At what point the name of their visitor, Mr Will Snowdon? I fear the anxiety affected my manners: I could hardly hold a coherent conversation.

  In the end, as the footman padded around the table, ladling soup, it was Mrs Longstaff who raised the issue of Clavercote. It seemed that we were not expected to talk to our immediate neighbours only. The Longstaffs favoured informal etiquette.

  ‘Only think! The villagers tried to hang poor Dr Campion! And it was only the quick-wittedness of Mrs Hansard’s fellow godmother that saved his life.’ She gave a short and rather lurid account of my near fate.

  Lady Blaenavon turned a pair of remarkably fine eyes in my direction – eyes that were somehow familiar? Was she in fact related to Mr Snowdon? ‘I understood that a Mr Coates was the rector at Clavercote.’

  ‘I was there because he had quitted the village,’ I said cautiously, ‘and as you may understand, there was work there that only a priest could do.’

  ‘Do? What sort of thing do you do? Wouldn’t it be better to feed the poor starving bodies than stuff their minds with doctrine telling them that it does them good to suffer?’

  Toone nodded enthusiastic agreement.

  The comment would have been well beyond the line of pleasing in most gatherings, and it would have fallen to our host or hostess to turn the conversation. As it was, I said as mildly as I could
, ‘Feeding bodies is not incompatible with feeding souls, My Lady. I like to feel that my visits there involved practical as well as spiritual help, largely thanks to my good friend Mrs Trent – the other of Baby Emma’s god mamas.’

  ‘You can feed the five thousand, can you?’

  I intercepted a silent message passing between Lady Blaenavon and Miss Witheridge, who was clearly trying to silence her friend. But I had been to too many insipid gatherings – and had perhaps drunk a little too much wine – to wish the exchange to end with a platitude about doing one’s best.

  ‘If I could, do you not think I would? Aye, and ten thousand too. But all I could do was start with one family.’

  Here Edmund leant across the table to explain about Sarey and her adoptive baby. ‘Poor Sarey’s own babe had died and it was almost certain that Eliza’s would too. The poor husband stayed for the burial and then walked away to volunteer and meet his death abroad.’

  Lady Blaenavon pressed her napkin to her lips. ‘Dear God, I did not know that the poor woman had died.’

  ‘You had made Eliza’s acquaintance?’

  ‘Yes.’ The monosyllable suggested she might be taking her friend’s unspoken advice.

  I inspected and discarded my more tendentious questions, merely remarking, ‘To lose your daughter and grandchild in such circumstances …’ Suddenly a conventional shake of the head was not good enough. ‘If only they had turned to me! Something could have been done. As it was, I did not even get the chance to bury them. I would have laid them in St Jude’s churchyard.’

  ‘You conducted Eliza’s burial service, I gather?’ She cast an agonised glance at her friend, as if she had given something away. And she had. There was something in the turn of the head, the earnestness, that told me I had met Lady Blaenavon before – on the occasion of a bright and willing young man offering to help at Toone’s post-mortem examination. Suddenly I felt huge relief that such a person could have had no part in an innocent girl’s seduction.

  I dared say nothing about her role as Snowdon. First it would draw everyone’s attention to her; second, it would reveal to her that I had only just recognised her. But I must and would have a private conversation with her later. Meanwhile, I replied truthfully that I had laid the woman to rest. Then I turned the subject, receiving a swift smile of what looked like gratitude.

  Under cover of disconcertingly passionate piano playing from Mrs Longstaff, who had chosen a work by that most emphatic of composers, Herr Beethoven, I managed to murmur to Lady Blaenavon that so long as she wished it, her secret was safe with me.

  ‘A woman – especially if she is a Lady! – is so trammelled and tied by society. To be chaperoned, even at my age – Dr Campion, it is like walking with your legs tied. Consider Mrs Longstaff – a most admirable musician, with three times the talent of her husband – but reduced on most occasions to playing pretty pieces so that others may talk. I suspect that had you not been grateful for the proliferation of notes and chords so that we can converse, you might have considered this sonata less than suitable for a woman.’

  ‘You do me wrong. I think it less than suitable for a social gathering, but am hugely impressed by her skill, her musicianship. As I was, My Lady, by your draughtsmanship, not to mention your amazing sangfroid. I believe your skills have helped us to identify the victim and find his killers.’

  ‘They have arrested Eliza’s husband, no doubt. And who could blame him for taking the law into his own hands? What have I said, Dr Campion? Your face is a study! But I believe we must be silent – this movement is very quiet.’

  ‘May I call on you tomorrow?’ I mouthed.

  She nodded, pressing her finger to her lips.

  My route home coincided with the Hansards’ for a few hundred yards, as did Lady Blaenavon’s and her friend’s. We exchanged polite good evenings, and promises to maintain the acquaintance. No mention, however, was made of my call the following morning.

  Once we had parted and were well out of earshot, Maria said, ‘A charming addition to our circle, will they not make?’ There was no trace of irony.

  ‘Charming indeed,’ Edmund agreed. ‘Tobias, did I notice you in close conversation with Lady Blaenavon – dear me, for all her charm this evening, I cannot think she is better suited to be a woman than a very capable young man.’

  ‘Nor I, to be sure. I think we may have passed one test tonight,’ I said cautiously. ‘I suspect the ultimate one, however, will be whether she ever lets us see her in her mannish garb.’

  ‘And will you flinch, and denounce her from the pulpit?’

  Through the dusk, I could see Maria’s smile. ‘Can you imagine Toby denouncing anyone except those who are cruel to others?’

  The answer, had I had to give it, was that had I not met Her Ladyship, I probably would have done. Thank God it was too dark for them to see my deep blush.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘I have devoted a great deal of time and energy trying to run to earth an artistic young man, Lady Blaenavon,’ I said with a rueful smile, accepting coffee poured with grace by Miss Witheridge. We sat in their morning room, the yellow walls glowing in the sunlight. It was small and not well proportioned but was clearly a room in which to take one’s ease: a sketch pad was open on the window sill and an embroidery frame had to be removed from a chair to a side table.

  ‘You might call me Will Snowdon,’ she corrected me, leaning back and crossing her breeches-clad legs, elegant as any young buck. ‘And I apologise for not being frank with you.’

  ‘I quite understand, and do not need any apology.’

  ‘You might. You might need an apology for my way of life. You are a member of the church, after all.’

  I spread my hands. ‘As a priest I should be shocked to my core: yours is certainly not orthodox behaviour. As a human being, I am disconcerted – you must have seen that as I walked in to see you dressed thus. But I hope and trust that with honesty and kindness and perhaps forgiveness on both sides – three sides, because clearly we must include Miss Witheridge in this – we will come to deal well as friends.’

  ‘You are all kindness, all consideration,’ Miss Witheridge declared, pressing a handkerchief to her lips.

  ‘If I were, this conversation would not be necessary. I was … nonplussed, both yesterday evening and again this morning,’ I admitted. ‘But I have already been rebuked by the archdeacon and, more importantly, by my dear mother, for being a prig. Self-righteousness sits like a weight on my shoulders, I fear.’

  ‘Just as caution sits on my mother’s,’ said Miss Witheridge. ‘When we visit Holmleigh Place, we are allocated and keep to separate bedchambers, out of respect for her wishes and to prevent the servants having evidence on which to base their village scandal-mongering. There are no mannish coats and shirts in Lucintha’s bags either: she is every inch a demure young lady just waiting for the right man to pluck her off the shelf. As for me, I have a delicate ongoing flirtation with a dear second cousin with no inclination whatever to marry anyone.’

  I shifted uneasily. ‘Can you trust your own servants here? Sally, for instance – beg pardon, you have no Sally. Is there a kitchen maid whose behaviour is inconsistent?’ I explained.

  ‘You suspect the two girls actually change places? My God!’ Lady Blaenavon – Mr Snowdon – paced anxiously about the room. ‘But why?’

  ‘I have no proof as yet. And it is truly nothing to do with me – but for the fact that you, Lady Blaenavon, arrived at Langley Park offering your services when the ink was scarce dry on the note that I sent Lord Hasbury asking for help. Apparently the note was wrongly read to the servants, and one, known at Orebury House as Sally, slipped out of the servants’ hall immediately. She was missing for several minutes – no one is sure how long.’

  ‘And our Beth came scampering in, all bright-eyed, with the news that a messenger was going to all the houses in the area requesting assistance. So I became Will Snowdon, and you know the rest.’

  ‘I have to ask,
dear Lady Blaenavon, why you said nothing at all when we worked together.’

  ‘How could I, dressed as I was? You needed me to work without any interruption. One of you might have insisted that I left you immediately, might you not? Dr Campion, tell me on your honour that my relationship with Clara occasions no gossip, no cruel tittle-tattle in the village. You cannot. The change of name and of appearance are a convenient conceit. When Clara and I are alone or when we walk out, I often become Will – for her protection, for my pleasure. Ah, Dr Campion, if you knew what I had to give up when I became a young lady, not a young man! Once I was a capital shot; I could hit a ball better than any boy in the village.’

  ‘A dear friend of mine – one I would like to marry – is, I fear, still irked by such restrictions. But I don’t think that she would ever wear breeches or pantaloons …’ My smile was genuine, though my confession about Julia had surprised me.

  ‘Would you be shocked if Lucintha appeared in them before this interesting young lady?’

  ‘Alas, Miss Witheridge, my friendship with her will have to progress a great deal further before I can bring her on a visit. By then I trust that we will have no secrets from each other. Are others of our acquaintance aware of your … your friendship? I do not want to say or do anything to betray you. The Longstaffs, for instance?’

  The women clasped hands and laughed. ‘Dear me,’ Miss Witheridge said, ‘Mrs Longstaff is one of our oldest friends: it was she who found us this delightfully secluded property. And it was she who said that of all the people of her acquaintance, it was you and Dr and Mrs Hansard who could be trusted. Not just to keep our secret, but not to be shocked to the core.’

  The chiming of a pretty clock reminded me that I had to be elsewhere, and would have to depart more abruptly than was polite. ‘I am afraid that I have to set out for Warwick gaol in a very few minutes. They have arrested some men for the crime that you saw all too clearly, ma’am.’ Or should I have addressed her as ‘sir’? ‘Before I take my leave, however, may I ask why last night you assumed that the murderer of the man whom you so accurately depicted was Eliza’s husband? Why was that?’