by Jane Jakeman
The rest you know, my lord, for then you arrived, fetched by some spirits amongst the men who were less bold than their fellows, and I was never so glad to see a person in my entire life.
I feared you might have suspicions of me, for you clearly had doubts about the gypsy’s guilt, and I might have been the next to be suspected of those terrible crimes. I say “terrible,” but I will not be hypocritical, for the death of Edmund, who had never done any harm in his life and was like to do none as long as he lived, was indeed a heinous thing, but I cannot pretend to sorrow for the old man, as I have already said, although I may fall under suspicion of his murder.
I am, after all, an outsider here, a stranger, my history not known, and I had that telltale evidence of blood upon me, where I had bent down and touched the old man. So this evening I was on my way to Malfine to speak to you, to assure you of my innocence, and as I came along the pathway I heard sounds coming from the icehouse. I was fearful of investigating, for I knew that the bodies had been taken there to wait for the inquest, but I recognised your voice: how the door of the icehouse came to be barred on the outside, thus imprisoning you, I know not, for I saw no one else about as I neared the place. I beg you to believe my entire innocence.
CHAPTER 14
There was one final, and enigmatic, sentence before her signature at the bottom of the letter:
I cannot explain in any way what happened this evening.
That moment when she touched my naked flesh beside the stream and I had desired her so desperately? Was that what she meant? Had it been mutual?
I set down the bundle of papers, with their hurriedly written superscription, To Lord Ambrose, at Malfine.
There was a thin thread of alarm in my mind, which would not ease. Something was on the loose at that farmhouse — something that stalked in the daylight.
I made ready for departure. I would probably not return for a few days, for I had business to do. At least some of the information that the gypsy-woman had given me should be taken as a serious matter. In my experience of these Romanies, with whom I have had something to do in my wanderings, they will keep faith if they trust you, and I did not doubt that the woman believed that what she had told me was important, and, furthermore, I must accept its truth. I am quite sure that Sir Anderton Revers would have thrown the woman aside, and if she had told him anything, he would have dismissed it as the babble of a witch. Sir Anderton had learned nothing in his long life.
There were some arrangements to make at Crawshay’s. When I arrived at the farmhouse, Marie Crawshay seemed to be recovering from her shock, and from the effects of the dose of laudanum also, it seemed, for her eyes and manner seemed closer to normality and she was willing to listen to practicalities.
The immediate needs of a working farm had to be attended to, whatever was to happen in the long term. I suggested that a trustworthy manager could be found for the meantime, while the harvest was finished, the beasts looked to, the legalities settled. To install a suitable factor would take a few days of enquiries and discussions.
Marie assented to all these suggestions. Indeed, she was making further plans.
“No doubt Miss. Anstruther has been considering her future,” she said. “I have no need of a governess. I will take sole charge of my son. This is his inheritance, is it not, Lord Ambrose?”
And she waved her hand around in a gesture that took in the house and the land.
Elisabeth Anstruther, I was told, was upstairs in her room. I wanted to speak to her, indeed, to tell the truth I longed to speak to her, but Marie informed me that she was resting and it would have seemed too unusual for me to press the point and demand to talk to her.
As I took my leave, I saw that the huge bloodstained table, where old Crawshay and Edmund had met their deaths, had gone.
“I had the men take it out,” said Marie. She had followed me, and seen the direction of my gaze.
“My compliments, madam, that was a sensible decision. Mistress Crawshay, I will wait upon you tomorrow; may I suggest that in the meantime you get what rest you can. I shall be at Malfine; you may send word to me there if you need anything, and I will ensure that Tom Granby is well instructed to look after you here.”
I bowed, and Marie mopped her eyes with a dabble of lace and nodded obediently.
“I thank your worship most kindly … ”
Her voice trailed away. She gave a little bob of a curtsey and I swung up into the saddle.
I had some preparations to make at Malfine before I could leave it in the sole charge of Belos. I did not wish to subject Zaraband to the miseries of a Channel crossing and provision must be made for her care and exercise. Fortunately, I had acquired an excellent groom, who slept over the stables, though I normally made it my business to care for Zaraband myself. Nevertheless, for a short time, he must be entrusted with her. And then there were arrangements to be made for the transfer of the gypsy, who still reposed in my dungeons, to the castle at Anchester, where he would be tried at the assizes. He would thus be well away from this part of the world, where the whole countryside was roused up against him on behalf of the dead Crawshays, in a fit of morality which consorted ill with their unconcealed dislike of old Crawshay during his lifetime.
A message must be sent to the authorities at Anchester: I penned a few lines and Belos got them sent off; in reply there duly arrived a brace of stout militia men, and the prisoner was escorted by them, in safe custody. I could well imagine they were cursing me at Anchester castle, for allowing disturbances to erupt for the sake of a mere gypsy whose life was worthless anyway. Yet I had the power of my land and my inheritance, and if I chose to apply the law and insist they bring the prisoner safely to trial, they must needs make a show of willingness.
But the villagers seemed to have passed the worst of their passion for lynching the gypsy on the spot. He was led from the gloom of the Malfine dungeon to the cart, where, his hands tied behind his back, he was jolted along the august sweep of my driveway. When the cart passed through the wrought-iron gates at the entrance, a little gaggle of villagers was waiting and the usual unimaginative country curses were yelled in his direction; he stood silent, almost bewildered, as some gobbet of filth was flung at him. Like his woman and the child, he did not flinch as the driver whipped up the horse and flew through the little crowd. I heard that later, as the cart rattled through the streets of Callerton on its way to Anchester, a hostile mob gathered there also, for news of the deaths at Crawshay’s had spread throughout the county now, but the driver had lashed out with his whip at a man who tried to grab the reins, and the cart swept on towards Anchester Castle, there to deposit its prisoner safely.
Granby must also be briefed, for the business which I intended would keep me away for some days, and the thought of the two women, Marie and the governess, alone in the farmhouse, was troubling. There, I thought, was a man I could trust.
“Belos, I need to send for Tom Granby, the fellow over at Crawshay’s.”
“Yes, my lord, I’ll send the groom to fetch him. Another thing — my lord, you were enquiring about a fellow with a limp — there is such a man about, but no one knows who he is. I saw him in the inn yesterday, when I called in. A very thin man, dusty but with the clothes of a gentleman — and the voice of a gentleman too, as he called for some ale to be brought to him. Yet an odd fellow, a dandy turned poacher, I would say, for he was turning a poacher’s snare over in his hands as he waited for his drink to be brought, and thrust it in his pocket as he took the mug. Perhaps he has been living off the land, catching himself small game.”
“Did anyone know who he was, Belos?”
“No, my lord, although he was asking some questions. It seems he asked who was living at Crawshay’s farm — but no one would answer him. You know how they are towards strangers round here, and one of the fellows told him roughly to drink up and be on his way.”
“We need to be wary, Belos. Be on your guard here at Malfine — and I’ll warn Tom.”
I myself put a shotgun in Tom’s hands when he arrived, telling him he would be well rewarded it he would continue in his post of guardian at the farm, and his honest, ruddy face nodded seriously in acceptance of his trust. He was a big man, Tom, and of a contained temperament, I judged, unlikely to be drawn into any village troublemaking by the hotheads such as Seliman Day who had led the attack on the gypsy. “And mind you lock up at nightfall, Tom. Let no one in after darkness falls. There is a stranger round the village, so they say, a man with a limp. Look out for him.”
I did have some idea of the identity of the stranger who had been seen around the village, but not enough evidence to act upon my suspicions. The whispered secret, which the gypsy’s woman had murmured to me as I rode away from the encampment at Callerton, was something which had intrigued me, like the governess herself. Elisabeth Anstruther believed that old Crawshay had been playing games of deceit and hatred at the farmhouse this summer, but if the gypsy-woman had told the truth, he was not the only one spinning a web of veiled and partial truths, of lies and counterplots. For the first time since my return from Greece, my mind was exercised, the murders at Crawshay’s farm were stirring my curiosity — as the governess had stirred me sexually, beyond doubt.
For one thing, I was prepared to travel, to leave Malfine, which I had not done for months. The beast of life had lain up and licked its wounds, and was beginning to stir abroad out of its lair again.
INTERLUDE IN FRANCE
Riding through the Normandy landscape, past orchards bright with enamel-red apples that had ripened early, on that hot summer’s morning in 1830, I might have thought myself unobserved, but I know full well that the countryside is always full of eyes and gossip, though townsfolk may think themselves unnoticed. Boys scaring birds in the fields, an old woman taking her fowls to market — in reality, I am sure my every move was relayed, from the livery stables in Rouen, where I had hired the great white horse, Tonnerre, the best in the stables, to the moment I passed through the Porte des Cordeliers, the medieval gateway that still was the principal point of entry to the small town of Falaise. The town’s chief claim to fame, as the ostler in Rouen had not hesitated to inform me, was the castle in which William the Conqueror of England had been born, and the bristling fortifications with which he and his descendants had embellished it.
That was the usual point of interest for visitors to Falaise, but I did not wish to inspect the local antiquities and had to disappoint the inhabitants with my lack of interest in their history: I enquired my way to the best inn in the town. Before I finished my soup at the Lion d’Or, my purse, clothes and breeding had all no doubt been assessed by shrewd eyes. I apprehended that the scars on my face seemed to cause some alarm at first, lest they indicate a villain intending some harm in the town. But when a couple of pieces of gold coinage changed hands in the Lion d’Or, I was correctly placed, with many smiles from the landlady, as a rich man, a visiting Englishman (“Mais, monsieur speaks French uncommonly well for a barbarian!”) and a personage sufficiently discriminating about his food and drink to earn both respect and a generous hand with the post-prandial Calvados.
Like a civilised creature, I rested after my meal, and before dusk fell, strolled out into the Place Guillaume le Conquerant to take a turn about town.
There was no one in the church but an old woman, waiting outside a confessional to rehearse her heinous sins, and so, I deduced, able to observe me between her lace-gloved fingers as I strolled into the nave of La Trinité. It was amusing to see how at first she, too, averted her eyes from my face, torn by white scars, but soon curiosity got the better of her, and she peered between her interlaced fingers without flinching.
I evidently behaved decently enough, at any rate for an infidel, and made sure to seem intent on admiring the balustrades of the gallery high above my head. When Monsieur le Curé appeared, I greeted him perfectly politely, although a nervous expression came over the priests plump face at the sight of me — almost a blancmange-like cast to the good fathers soft cheeks.
We began to converse, and I saw the old lady hastily cross herself and bow her head, pretending not to listen to our conversation, so that she could have seen nothing but my riding boots of chestnut leather, which she studied most intently.
As a result of my discussion with the cure, I paid a brief visit to the Hôtel Dieu, where the Mairie represented officialdom. There was a sour-faced clerk, whose name I discovered was Argenton. Argenton was an unamiable personage, hoarding his words like a miser, but I had a way of opening this tight-shut oyster. The clerk was probably an honest little sod, on the whole, but a gold écu seemed to slip of its own volition from my hand into his pocket, and he then shuffled off, to return with one of the great leather-bound volumes of the registers that remorselessly recorded the civil activities of the local inhabitants.
And not only the locals. There it was, the record which I sought, the essential piece of evidence that I needed to take the next step towards tracking down a murderer. I scribbled down a hurried note of the entry in the book, written in a sharp, slashing official hand, with the name of a notary beside it.
Immediately after my visit to the Mairie, I returned to the Lion d’Or and called for Tonnerre to be brought from the stable. The horse had a mouth as hard as a washerwoman s hand, and the space between his tufted white ears appeared to be stuffed as full of straw as his belly, but I had to make allowances: I was so accustomed to my delicate and brilliant Zaraband that no other mount could please me.
And so I departed back to Rouen and thence for Dieppe and the Channel crossing, leaving the curious eyes not much the wiser, though I am sure the fame of my riding boots passed into the oral history of Falaise. A great pale moon was in the sky as I rode away towards the coast.
CHAPTER 15
A farm boy arrived at Malfine, and his bare feet made tracks through the grass as he traipsed round to the back of the house. Watching from my bedroom window, I could see something that looked to be a letter clutched in his hand: no doubt he had been told to deliver it at Malfine, but had also been told he must approach by the servants’ entrance at the back and should not dare to climb the steps of the great pillared portico at the front. I waited, idly, knowing the letter would be passed to me in a few minutes.
Sure enough, Belos duly appeared with a document, presenting it with a flourish on a silver tray; it still bore a grubby thumbprint which was doubtless the handiwork of the farm boy.
“My lord, a malodorous urchin has delivered a missive. I suppose we may be grateful for some signs of rural literacy.”
I let this pass without comment.
I had somehow expected another communication from the governess.
But this was a different hand, an artless hand, not greatly accustomed to the habit of writing.
Marie Crawshay’s letter, if not exactly elegant, was to the point.
“Your man, Tomas, has Disapered,” she wrote. “I did not think you had Given him Leave to do so.”
No, indeed, I had not.
“We have not seen him full three Dayes,” her letter continued. “Word comes from the village that he has not been seen by Any Soule there. Would your Ld.ship be pleased to tell us if you have withdrawn your Protection from us.”
I had been back at Malfine for less than twelve hours, and this was the first news I had had from Crawshay’s farm. Belos, when questioned, knew nothing of Tom’s disappearance.
I felt deeply uneasy: had I so seriously misjudged a man as to trust a fellow who would quit his post without a word and leave two defenceless woman unprotected? Or was there a more sinister explanation for Tom’s disappearance?
There was something else which troubled me deeply, and that was the knowledge I had gained about the secret life of one of the inhabitants of the farm — something on which I would keep silent for the time being, lest the guilty should be forewarned of their unmasking.
Cursing, for I had counted on a rest before I resumed my researches into the li
ttle local puzzle that had intrigued my mind and distracted me from melancholy thoughts, I called for the mare to be brought round from the stables and swung up into the saddle, stroking the muscular silken neck of Zaraband. She was dancing and lively, keen for a run, though the groom would have exercised her in my absence.
As I was about to turn the mare’s head away from Malfine, Belos appeared on the steps and hurried down towards me.
“My lord, are you going to Crawshay’s?”
“Yes, Belos, in response to this communication from Mistress Edmund Crawshay.” I waved Marie’s artless note in Belos’s direction. He took it from my outstretched hand and studied it. A curious expression came over his normally impassive countenance.
“My lord, there may be something amiss there. Will you not take a companions? At least take a groom.”
I stared at the usually phlegmatic Belos. What had got into him? “What makes you think there is something wrong, Belos? Is it something you know, or just your unerring instinct for finding out the wickedness of human nature? I am hardly going into the mouth of hell, merely to a neighbouring farmhouse.”
“Sir, I would say it was but the pricking of my thumbs. ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.’”
“Macbeth. again, I believe. Belos, you’re too damned well educated. I can’t have a manservant who quotes Shakespeare — think how it would shame my guests — if ever I had any, of course.”
“You are pleased to be witty, sir. But I do have fears, it is true. Last night the groom was woken by strange sounds — and he roused himself and looked out. There was a man on the edge of the lawn, he swears — a man who made off, hobbled off, rather, for he was limping. Who would come here like a thief in the night?”
“Why, a thief in the night, of course. That is the obvious explanation, and, seeing the household was vigilant, the thief in the night made off. It was some stray robber, and you, with the aid of a short-arsed groom, gallantly foiled his desperate attempt to carry off my family silver.”
