Lassimer paused to give more effect to his final words. ‘He seemed to see it as his personal duty, to fight the forces of dissent, rational religion and heresy wherever he found them. No discussion is possible with the forces of evil. Acceptance of different viewpoints was the same as surrender to the devil. He would have us believe dissenters, revolutionaries and freethinkers – even Wesleyans and Presbyterians – are pawns of Satan. He has let them loose to overturn the established order, deprive the King of his authority, the church of its power and the rich and noble of their property.’
Adam shook his head in wonder. ‘You have done well, Lassimer. This is a vivid picture indeed. Dr. Ross, it seems, was a man of such extreme views that I marvel none had made an end of him earlier. Could he have somehow discovered that agitators from France were using places in his own neighbourhood to slip into England unobserved? Would he have been foolish enough to seek to confront them alone? Surely, if had such knowledge, he would have gone to the authorities?’
‘But what if he did,’ Lassimer said, ‘and they seemed uninterested? In no way would they have wanted such a one as Dr. Ross to know of their plans. From what I learned, he was far too likely to proclaim them from the pulpit in support of his own crusade. No, Bascom, their most likely course would have been to appear to take no great account of his words. They might even suggest he might be mistaken. For they would hope in that way to turn aside his attention into safer channels.’
‘And if he preferred his own notions?’
‘Why, then he would believe Satan had infiltrated even the government of the land,’ Lassimer said. ‘Armoured in his own invincible sense of self-righteousness, he would go forth to confront the Evil One and prove the authorities wrong.’
For a while, both sat in silence, absorbed in their thoughts.
Mr. Lassimer broke the silence first. It was clear he had decided enough had been said on the topic of the archdeacon’s activities. ‘I trust that you and your mother will take dinner with me when she visits you next. I dine generally at four and will be glad of congenial company. As you must have found, company in this town is necessarily limited – especially if you have no wife and are not a suitable catch for an unmarried daughter. I tend to find myself expected to be content with some stringy spinster whom no one expects ever to think of marriage. Many an evening I spend quite alone, for, after they have cleared away and set all to rights in the kitchen, Mrs. Brigstone and Anne go to their homes. Mrs. B sets me a cold collation on the table for my supper and I busy myself with reading or compiling my notes. Only the stable lad sleeps on the premises. Like you, I imagine, it is not unknown for me to be summoned to some sickbed during the night. Unlike you though, I have also known from time to time a summons to treat a lively widow for the symptoms of loneliness and other forms of deprivation. I deem it my duty to respond to both types of need in an appropriate manner.’
Adam quickly agreed that he and his mother would be most ready to take dinner at the apothecary’s house. He also insisted that Lassimer must dine with them too, as soon as would be convenient. ‘Only, I beg of you, make no mention of any nocturnal visits to widows. It would make my life extremely difficult, should my mother wonder whether my answering a night call might not be a truly medical matter. Mothers, like wives, do not always see a bantering remark as without some foundation in reality.’
* * *
Until now, opportunities to solve the mystery of Gressington churchyard's clerical corpse had been few. Now they crowded upon Adam, so that he scarce had time to ponder each fresh piece of information before more came to his attention.
The day after he had met with Mr. Lassimer found Adam sitting at his desk, absorbed in reading, when the maidservant brought the letters the carrier had delivered to the house.
Amongst the pile, two neatly folded papers drew his attention. On the one, he recognised his mother’s handwriting. The other was also in a woman’s hand, elegant and flowing, but not penned by any whose writing was familiar to him.
He took up his mother’s letter first, surprised she had moved with such uncharacteristic speed to reply to him. She expressed no great surprise at his request for information about Dr. Ross. She wrote simply that she knew his curiosity only too well and had half expected to hear from him on the topic. Even the reports of the inquest in the newspapers had told her that the proceedings had been scanty. Indeed, amongst many in Norwich, she wrote, the inquest had been the major topic of conversation for a week or more. People were surprised that the unexpected death of such an eminent clergyman had passed off with such small interest. Where, they wondered, were the diocesan authorities or the man’s family. Still, the public memory was short and, lacking further stimulus, speculation soon ceased.
Yet if he were to visit her the next Thursday, she had asked several of those who knew the archdeacon best to take tea. He might then ask his own questions and hear the answers first-hand. All she knew of the man herself, she wrote, was his reputation as a strict moralist. Most of that came from his letters in the papers, in which he constantly took issue with the city’s dissenters and nonconformists. ‘Norwich is a pleasant and sociable place,’ her letter went on, ‘in which all rub along in amity. We have no need of puritanical witch-hunts or theological arguments. I would never have allowed such a disagreeable man to call on me. Yet I know some of my acquaintances, more concerned than I to maintain their reputations as good Anglicans, might have felt forced to do so.’
So, Adam thought, I want information, they will provide it, but I must come in person to ask my questions. These ladies will have questions of their own. To get what I want, I will need to pay dearly and in similar coin.
‘When you come,’ his mother continued, ‘I believe you will find my companion here before you. Be nice to her, I pray you. It will take her a little time to become used to our family ways. Giles can, at times, be too much of the rough squire. You, on the other hand, are prone to appear too severe and scholarly. I know both of you have good hearts, yet somehow I failed as a mother to give either of you any social graces. Still, I believe Amelia has taken Giles in hand on that score. Since you refuse to find a wife – or none will have you, which is just as likely – your solitude but strengthens a clumsy manner. My lady guests can take care of themselves, I do not doubt. It is Miss Lasalle I worry about.’
Ah, Adam thought, Miss Lasalle is both a bluestocking and a shrinking violet. How on earth will mother bear it? How will I bear it? Well, I have more important matters to attend to than nervous spinsters. Let her faint and have done with it, I say.
With such thoughts, he opened the second letter. In an instant, he had forgotten Miss Lasalle's feebleness, his mother's strictures and all else, for the message was from Mrs. Ross, the archdeacon’s widow.
In it, she informed Adam that she had returned to her house in Norwich and asked him to wait on her as soon as might be convenient.
Well, he would take her at her word. He would accept his mother’s invitation for Thursday next and ask if he might stay the night in her house afterwards. That would save him from the inevitable complaint from the groom, William, that it was unreasonable to expect Betty to carry him to Norwich and back in a single day. To leave early would be no hardship on a June morning. Thus he could reach Norwich in time to call on Mrs. Ross in mid-morning and return to his mother’s house in good time to be ready when her ladies arrived.
15
Mrs. Ross Again
Thursday, 28 June 1792, Norwich
It seemed to Adam that the parlour to which Mrs. Ross’s maid showed him must always be gloomy. On that day, with the heavy mourning drapes over the windows, it was almost too dark to see his way. The woman who awaited him was near-invisible in the gloom, since she wore the black of deepest mourning. Only when he came close could he see his hostess.
Mrs. Ross was a short, slightly-built woman. Small of stature as she was, she now somehow shrank further within her heavy clothes as he looked at her.
Adam
judged that she might be of a similar age to his mother, though the deep lines around her brow and mouth could have more to do with grief than the ravages of time. Once she would have been remarkably pretty. Now her skin was the colour of chalk and bore the faint sheen that reveals sickness within. As he took her hand and raised it to his lips, she looked at him with eyes ringed with the dark smudges betokening lack of sleep. Yet her voice, when she spoke, was firm enough. She motioned him to a chair opposite.
‘Sit, sir. I am most grateful for your condescension in agreeing to visit me, for I do not think that I could manage the journey to your surgery. It took all my remaining strength for me to travel here from my daughter’s home in Cambridge. She did not wish me to leave, such was her concern that I should not be alone in my grief. Yet I longed most for solitude, and by preventing me from meeting with you earlier, she has unwittingly increased my distress. There are questions I must ask you, Dr. Bascom. Though they may seem no more than the mental wandering of a woman laid low by grief, I assure you that your answers are of the greatest moment.’
Through all this, Adam sat silent. He was eager to know the reason why she had brought him to her house, yet his judgement told him that it would be best to allow her to approach the matter in her own way and in her own time.
‘Your silence reassures me,’ Mrs Ross said. ‘It reveals a man more willing to listen than speak, and listening is what I need.’
‘Forgive me, madam,’ Adam said. ‘I will indeed listen most carefully to whatever you wish to tell me. I will also answer all your questions to the best of my ability. Be assured of that. Yet both my conscience and my duty as a physician compel me to say something before you begin. It is clear to me that you are not well. I would not have you imperil your health further by speaking to me on matters which clearly give you pain. I am most willing to return at a later date when you feel more able to continue.’
‘No, no,’ she cried. ‘I have you here now and I will not be able to rest until you have answered what I must ask you.’
‘Then hear me too on this, madam,’ he said. ‘Our minds and bodies are one. Just as ailments of the body may cause great distempers in the brain, so the reverse is true. You are unwell in body, but it is my judgement that the source of your weakness lies in matters of the mind. Grief and anxiety will ravage the body as badly as any fever. I will not wish to trespass into areas more properly addressed by your own physician. Still, if there is anything that I may offer from my own knowledge and ability that might alleviate your distress, be assured that I will give it willingly.’
‘My physician – say rather the one appointed by my late husband, for he had his way in this as he did in all other aspects of my life – is a doctor of the old school,’ Mrs. Ross said. ‘It is beneath him to listen to his patients. No, he has but two treatments to serve in all circumstances: bleeding or cupping. When news reached him of my husband’s death, he came here at once, his knives and dishes to hand. How I found the strength and courage I do not know, sir, but I ordered him from the house. Such is his pride that he will not return, I assure you, until I am willing to make the most abject apology.’
The faintest of smiles appeared. ‘And that I will never do.’
‘Now to business,’ she continued. ‘When I have asked my questions and heard your answers, I will submit to your professional ministrations. The Lord knows that I need them.’
Once again, Adam sat in silence, while she gathered her strength ahead of what she clearly expected to be a terrible ordeal.
‘I was told,’ Mrs. Ross said, ‘that it was you who found my husband’s body. I was not well enough to attend the coroner’s inquest and, thank God, my presence was not required. But one who did attend told me that you gave evidence that you had found no signs that anyone else was present in the churchyard. Is that correct?’ Adam agreed that it was.
‘No one at all?’ she said.
‘That is not quite the case,’ Adam said. ‘At the time I gave my evidence, what I said was what I believed to be true. Later I learned that Mr. Harmsworthy, the magistrate, had taken your husband to Gressington. It seems that Dr. Ross arrived at Mr. Harmsworthy’s house in some distress. His chaise had suffered a mishap on the road and needed attention that could not be given until next morning. Since he was most eager to reach Gressington that evening. Mr. Harmsworthy took him there, but did not enquire the reason for his visit.’
‘Yes, he would be most eager,’ she said, then was silent again.
‘I cannot believe that the magistrate would take your husband to that lonely place and leave him there alone. Dr. Ross would have had no means to return after his business was completed. If my reasoning holds good, Mr. Harmsworthy must himself have been present for at least some of the time. I was not able to speak to him further on the matter after the inquest. Now he seems to have left the area, giving no date for his return.’
‘I see,’ she said, ‘but you found no sign of a third person? No sign of any struggle?’
‘None,’ Adam said. ‘I looked most carefully. Nor did I find the mass of footprints that I would expect had your late husband been set upon by thieves. I assure you, I found no signs of violence upon him, madam, save for the single blow that seems to have brought about his death.’
‘And how was that blow caused, in your opinion?’ she said.
‘I cannot say for certain. There was no sign of any weapon. He may indeed have fallen and struck his head, for there were several large stones nearby. If he fell, he must done so backwards.’
‘Fell…or was pushed?’
‘Again, I cannot tell. The inquest found that it was an accident.’
‘And you stand content with that?’ she said.
Adam hesitated. He did not wish to cause her further distress, yet he could not bring himself to lie. ‘To be plain with you, madam, I am not content at all. All that I have told you is true. I found no signs of violence. There was no indication that others were present at the time of your husband’s demise. I would have expected the coroner to enquire into all of these matters, just as you have done. In particular, I thought he would want to know what brought your husband to that place. Yet he did not do so. When I tried to raise this question, he ruled it to be out of order.’
‘You suspect the verdict was rigged?’ she said. She might be sick, but her wits were sharp.
‘If it was, madam, I do not comprehend the reason.’
‘I do not either,’ she said. ‘Believe me when I tell you that I do not know why he went to Gressington on that day. I do have dark suspicions, yet they do not concern anything that would be of interest to the authorities. One day, perhaps, I will share them with you. For now, you have my thanks. You have not set my mind at rest completely – nor can you do so with honesty – but you have given me much ease. For the moment, doctor, I am too tired to continue with this subject. Would you be willing to come again, should I request it?’
‘I would do so readily,’ Adam said.
‘Then, as I promised, I will submit to your ministrations. Your diagnosis was correct. I am greatly troubled in my mind, so that I have been unable to sleep and can barely touch any food. Can you also prescribe for ailments of the soul, my good doctor, for I feel that my soul is greatly injured?’
‘That I cannot do,’ Adam said. ‘Indeed, I am not sure that such a thing as a soul exists, since, if it survives death, its substance must lie outside this natural world. No, madam, I leave the cure of souls to others. Mind and body present more than enough mysteries for any man of science.’
‘A sceptic then,’ Mrs Ross said, though her tone was light. ‘No matter. I have had enough of certainties about the supernatural world to last me this lifetime and many others.’
Adam’s detailed examination and questioning only confirmed what he had already suspected. Since the Archdeacon’s death, his wife had eaten little, worried much and slept hardly at all. Yet he suspected that her grief came not from her husband’s death, but from some other matter. Perh
aps she would tell him in time, when she had learned to trust him more. Until then, he contented himself with giving her instruction on how best to regain her strength. ‘You must eat, madam, whether you have appetite or no. Ask your servants to prepare you some good beef tea, adding perhaps a little bread. Then, as soon as you feel able, take some more extensive nourishment. It will be best to have whatever your fancy lights upon. Avoid large meals, for at this stage they will only induce nausea. Let your constant theme be little and often.
‘For drink, I will give you a receipt for a good, strengthening herbal brew. You may vary this with a little ale and wine, but my advice would be to avoid tea or coffee until you feel your strength returning. I have also written here a receipt, which your servant may take to the apothecary. It is for a strong tincture of hops, poppy and valerian to help you sleep. Take two or three drops in a glass of wine when you retire for the night.
‘Finally,’ Adam said, ‘I beg you take particular notice of these words: be kind to yourself. Whatever you feel is wrong, whatever you feel you have done that you now regret, do not punish yourself. Many wrongs may be righted in time, if we only have the strength to do it. Your basic health is sound and you have many years ahead of you. Look to the future and all may yet be resolved.’
So Adam took his leave, looking to the great clock in the hallway to reassure himself that he could be at his mother’s house before her guests arrived. His visit had been more confusing than enlightening. It was clear that the Archdeacon’s widow suspected that she knew the reason for her husband’s visit to Gressington. It was this knowledge which caused her so much grief. Until she was willing to divulge more to him, he could not guess what lay hidden in her thoughts. So he tucked the puzzle away in the back of his mind and readied himself to deal with the challenge ahead.
An Unlamented Death: A Mystery Set in Georgian England (Mysteries of Georgian Norfolk Book 1) Page 10
