by Alys Clare
‘You’ve not said nothing about the swellings!’ Cory interrupted. ‘He had—’
Kit put up his hand. ‘I was just about to,’ he said crushingly.
‘Swellings?’ Even in the single word, I could hear Theo’s suddenly sharpened interest.
‘Aye, on his face. Big lumps, nasty-looking, on his cheek, his nose, all over.’ He shuddered, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t like the look of those lumps.’
Jarman Hodge bade us goodnight shortly before we reached Theo’s house. I walked on with Theo. ‘It has to be the same man,’ I said, not for the first time.
Theo gave me a withering look. ‘Yes, Gabe, so you insist on telling me.’
‘And it’s pretty certain he got into the house somehow,’ I went on, ‘if we’re to believe Kit and Cory when they said they saw him being chased out, and so we’re left with the original question: did he see something he shouldn’t have seen, or take something the Fairlight women don’t want to admit to having possessed?’
‘The son-in-law might have been there the night our vagrant was chased off,’ Theo said. ‘Would any man, even a thin, girlish one, run away in such a panic if it was only three women after him?’
‘Lady Clemence is rather well-built, as are her daughters,’ I pointed out. ‘And I imagine Denyse can be quite terrifying when she’s really excited.’
Theo grinned. ‘Yes, very well, but I’d wager that the husband, Avery Lond, was the main force behind our man’s abrupt departure.’
‘If he did indeed steal something,’ I said, ‘what happened to it? There was nothing on his body when he was found, not even a coin in his purse.’
‘There was just that scrap of paper,’ Theo said.
I’d forgotten about that. ‘Did you examine it?’
‘No. It’s somewhere on my desk, amid every other piece of paper awaiting my attention. But I’ll look it out in the morning. For now’ – he yawned hugely – ‘I’m off to my bed. Goodnight, Gabe.’
‘Goodnight.’ I mounted Hal and edged him off in the direction of Rosewyke.
Riding home, I decided that, if we were to discover what was behind Lady Clemence’s denial of any intrusion by our dead vagrant, we needed to find out more about the family and their recent past. But it was all very well to come to that startlingly obvious conclusion; deciding how to go about it was another matter.
When I was turning into the track up to my house, I had an idea. Lady Clemence had said that Denyse had seen her father’s body when she was ten years old. It was hard to guess her age now, but I put her at somewhere in the mid-twenties, which suggested her father had died about fifteen years ago. Whether it had been illness or accident – or even, I supposed, murder – I had no idea, but it seemed at least likely that a doctor could have been consulted.
When I had begun my physician’s practice in the area, I’d feared at one time that an aggrieved predecessor was trying to discourage me. I found out his identity – he’d in fact been looking forward eagerly to retirement, and didn’t resent me in the least – and we’d discovered that we liked one another. Since our first acquaintance, I’d ridden over to Buckland several times to see him, and he’d offered to try to help me over the flare-up of symptoms that I still get occasionally from the blow to the side of my head that brought my life at sea to an end.
His name was Josiah Thorn, he lived a short ride away, and he was, I thought, the most likely medical man to have attended the late Sir Thomas Fairlight. I would go over to see him in the morning and find out.
Back in his house at Withybere, Theo was not yet abed. Instead he stood in his office, a lantern illuminating his desk, going through the stacks of papers and documents that covered most of the surface. He was a reasonably orderly man, when he got the chance to be, but too often matters demanding his attention came in so swiftly that there was insufficient time to file away one set of papers before the next arrived. His staff were meant to see to the organization of the paperwork, but Theo knew he stood little chance even of finding items that he had personally put away and none whatsoever when someone else had done so.
He knew roughly where he’d put the torn scrap of parchment that had been tucked away inside the vagrant’s coat, and, after quite a long time of hunting, he found it. He cleared a space on his desk and smoothed it out.
The feel of it beneath his fingertips told him it was heavy, high-quality paper, of the sort used by draughtsmen, calligraphers and artists. It was a soft, very pale golden colour. It was, he realized, a fragment of a larger sheet, for it had a tear going across it in a roughly diagonal line, and whereas the cut edges were sharp, the torn edge was slightly furry.
Theo stared down at it. Originally it had been about three hands’ breadth across and perhaps five or six deep – helpfully, the fragment included three corners – but only the top right-hand third, or maybe nearer half, remained. Peering closer, the warmth of the lantern flame singeing his skin, Theo tried to make out the meaning of the dark marks flowing across the creamy-yellow paper.
There was an outline, roughly oval, and around it, very faintly indicated, a series of smooth lines, all running in the same direction. There were two deep holes each with a line close above it, and—
‘Idiot! Imbecile!’ Theo hissed at himself.
The image had suddenly revealed itself for what it was and, now that he understood, he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t seen it straight away.
It was a sketch of a human face.
And it had been done by a talented artist, for even in those few lines on the part of the page that remained, the mood of the model could be detected. No, Theo corrected himself, more, much more, than detected, for the face expressed such pain and suffering that it almost hurt to look at it.
‘Who are you?’ Theo whispered, running his fingers across the half-face as if by so doing he could assuage the agony.
Then he thought he knew.
And then it seemed like blasphemy, to have an image of Jesus Christ – and such an image – amid the clutter of papers, quills and ink horns on his desk. Picking it up carefully, holding it by the edges between fingers and thumbs, he put the image on a fresh sheet of paper, covered it with a second sheet and, opening a cedar-wood chest that stood against the wall, laid it inside. Then he rummaged around in the pot where he kept his keys for the one to the chest, locked it and removed the key.
Only then did he feel it was safe to abandon the drawing and go, at last, to bed.
FIVE
In the morning, I reorganized my day so that I could ride over to see Josiah Thorn as soon as I’d had breakfast, making a quick call on the way to make sure my patient with the broken leg was obeying my strict instructions not to put any weight on it for at least another week. I would be able to make a detour on my way home to see two more patients, and thus I could tell myself that I wasn’t evading my responsibilities by riding off on a whim to chase after a ghost from the past.
My patient moaned that the flesh beneath the tightly bound and splinted leg was itching enough to drive any man mad, but I told him sternly to send his lad out for a suitably flexible stick and scratch away with that, since there was no possibility of the bandages being removed yet. He called me a name I haven’t heard since my days at sea as I was leaving, but I put his testiness down to pain and frustration and decided to pretend I hadn’t heard.
Josiah Thorn, so I was informed by the woman busy cleaning and tidying his house, was down by the river fishing. She was about to tell me how to find him but I stopped her, for I already knew. He’d taken me to his favourite fishing spot on a couple of occasions, and I was confident of remembering the way. I left Hal tethered in the shade outside Josiah’s house and went on foot, down to the end of the lane and past a spinney of beech trees, then I turned off into a narrow little track overhung with honeysuckle and wild roses that led steeply down to the water.
And there, on a short stretch of pebbly beach overlooking a beautiful spot where ancient willows and alders shade
d a deep pool formed by a bend in the river, sat Josiah. I wasn’t sure he’d even cast a line, for his rod lay on the ground beside him. He had propped himself up against the broad trunk of one of the trees in a hollow that might have been made for him, and he looked supremely comfortable. He had abandoned the close-fitting black cap that he habitually wore over his long silver-streaked hair and now a shapeless old straw hat was pulled down over his eyes to shade them from the bright light off the water. I had an idea he might well be asleep.
I was happy to see him so content. He had lost his granddaughter around the time that my sister had been widowed, and, for all that she’d been a troubled, wayward girl, still I knew he had mourned her sincerely. Life, however, was certainly more peaceful for him without her, and I hoped that this was proving to be a consolation.
I walked carefully over the pebbles, trying not to make too much noise.
‘I’m not asleep,’ said Josiah Thorn. ‘I’m merely closing my eyes.’
‘Ah, the perpetual protest of elderly men caught dozing in the middle of the day,’ I replied.
He pushed back the straw hat and, seeing who had come to disturb him, his face broke into a broad smile. ‘Doctor Gabriel,’ he said warmly. He uncurled his long, thin body and reached out to grasp my hand. He gave me an intent look. ‘The old injury troubling you again?’
When we first met, I had told him about the blow to the side of my head, just behind the right ear, that had laid me out for two days and left me with the legacy of unendurable seasickness; the legacy that had ended my days as a ship’s surgeon. He had been both interested and helpful.
‘No, but thank you for asking,’ I replied. ‘My head aches if I go on working too long at the end of the day, but then so do most people’s.’
He nodded. ‘Take the pain as a warning and obey it,’ he said sternly. Then, in a much brighter tone, he went on, ‘I was just deciding it was high time I fetched that flagon of cider out of the cool shallows and broached it, and fortunately I had the foresight to bring two drinking vessels. Will you join me?’
‘I will. Moreover, since you look so very comfortable there, I’ll fetch the flagon for you.’
The cider was excellent, and the river water had kept it pleasantly cool. When Josiah and I had silently done it justice, he said, ‘Now, then, what can I do for you?’ Before I could protest, he added, ‘It is, as you have just pointed out, the middle of the day, and I know from long experience that you will have a dozen or more calls on your time, so I deduce that you have sought me out because you want my advice.’
I grinned. ‘Quite right. But it may be a matter on which you cannot help me, since it concerns someone who I suspect was formerly a patient of yours.’
‘Indeed? And you have inherited this man or woman?’
‘Man. Well, not exactly, he’s dead.’
‘I see.’ Josiah smiled. ‘Not much you can do for him, then. Let’s begin with his name.’
‘Sir Thomas Fairlight.’
Josiah’s face changed.
‘Ah,’ he breathed.
‘Clearly you recall him?’
Slowly Josiah nodded. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘I believe he died some fifteen years ago?’
‘Fourteen.’ The reply came so swiftly, and was so precise, that I knew there was a tale to tell here.
‘I should very much like to learn about him and his family.’ I paused. ‘It is not mere curiosity,’ I added.
Josiah thought for quite a long time. Then he said, ‘What exactly is the reason for your interest?’ I told him, trying to be succinct yet leaving out nothing of importance. ‘I see. And none of the three women, the widow and the daughters, is your patient?’
‘No, and nor is the son-in-law. A man called Avery Lond, married to Agnes, the elder daughter,’ I supplied, in answer to his questioning look.
‘Ah. The marriage occurred since Sir Thomas’s death, then, for the daughter was unwed then.’
‘She’s in the mid to late thirties, I estimate—’ I began.
But Josiah shook his head. ‘She is but thirty. She was born in 1574, her younger sister six years later.’ He glanced at me, and I realized that his disturbed, angry frown wasn’t because of anything I had said or done.
‘That’s quite a long gap,’ I observed mildly.
‘There were other pregnancies, but none to term,’ Josiah said shortly.
‘Poor Lady Clemence.’
He was shaking his head slowly and repeatedly. ‘Oh, yes, indeed. Despite the harshness of her nature, she deserves your pity,’ he muttered.
I was becoming very intrigued, and hoped he would elaborate. I knew only too well, however, the strictures that bound him. ‘Is there anything you can tell me?’
He was silent for some time. Then he sighed deeply and said, ‘Thomas Fairlight might have been wealthy, influential and, as a justice of the peace, of importance in the county, but he was a hard man, selfish, cruel and self-indulgent. His peers appeared to tolerate and perhaps even like and admire him, but he presented a very different face to those over whom he had power. Ah, I remember how that tubby little priest remonstrated with him … what was his name, now? Predecessor, or predecessor but one, to young Carew …’ Then he shook his head, evidently giving up the search through his memories for the elusive name. ‘Thomas Fairlight’s was not a happy household. The burdens already borne by his wife and elder daughter were exacerbated with the birth of poor little Denyse. I give nothing away here that I should not,’ he said with sudden vehemence, ‘since these things are well known, and you tell me that you have seen Denyse for yourself.’
‘I have,’ I said. ‘You imply, then, that her disturbances began when she was a child?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Josiah agreed. ‘I attended Clemence Fairlight in both her confinements – she was not Lady Clemence then, Thomas not yet having been knighted – and neither of her daughters thrived. Agnes was a pallid, flaccid, yellowish baby, although she grew stronger as the years passed. But poor Denyse was lucky, or perhaps unlucky’ – he shot me a swift glance – ‘to survive.’
‘What was wrong with her?’
‘The bodily deformities which are surely still apparent in her were present from birth, and in addition she suffered from endless infections, rashes and fevers. She refused the breast, even though an experienced and capable wet-nurse was engaged, and only took milk when she was beside herself with hunger and had cried herself into exhaustion. Even from a few weeks, she appeared to fight all those who tried to succour and tend her, and I believe it is no exaggeration to say that her presence in the household was a permanent and devastating trial to all concerned.’
‘Poor child,’ I murmured. ‘And the screaming?’
‘Ah, you’ve experienced that, then,’ Josiah said softly. ‘It began as soon as she could utter a sound. I heard it within moments of her expulsion from her mother’s body.’
I nodded. ‘And what of Sir Thomas? He was surely not an old man when he died?’
‘In the late fifties, if memory serves.’
I was surprised. ‘So quite a few years older than his wife?’
‘Twenty and more, yes.’ He hesitated. ‘Thomas Fairlight wished to marry, and Clemence Sulyard, as she was prior to marriage, was desperate for a husband. Although she was still young, suitors were not rushing to her parents’ door.’ He leaned closer, lowering his voice. ‘You have seen her, Doctor Gabriel. She is a – ah – a large woman, and the length of her chin puts one in mind rather of a horse, does it not? With that coarse hair, and those pale, lashless eyes of hers, one is tempted to add that it is not a good-looking, or even faintly appealing, horse.’
‘A little unkind, Josiah, but I am forced to agree.’
‘Unkind,’ he repeated, almost to himself. ‘Yes, you are right to upbraid me, for the woman cannot help her looks.’ He glanced at me from under his old man’s wild, wiry eyebrows. ‘But then she is not a kind woman, Gabriel. She—’ But then he closed his mouth. Very firmly.
<
br /> Silence fell, and for some time we sat back and listened to the music of the river hurrying past.
‘I admit I am intrigued,’ I said eventually. ‘I sense I have more dealings with the Fairlight household ahead of me, for this matter is far from resolved.’
‘I cannot tell you any more,’ Josiah said. ‘Already perhaps I have said too much.’
I thought back over his comments. ‘You have told me when each of the family was born, which I could have found out for myself from parish records, and you spoke of two baby girls that you delivered. You expressed what I can only take to be purely personal opinions of those children’s father and mother, and those I shall largely keep to myself.’
He was watching me intently. I had the strong impression that there was a great deal more he could say – that he urgently wanted to say – only the lifelong, binding doctor’s oath of confidentiality stopped him.
I had, I decided, put an old man’s peace of mind to the test quite enough for one day. I fetched the cider from the river, topped up our mugs and asked him how the trout were biting.
The next day was very full. I was called out to see no less than five young children who had all abruptly fallen very sick, with vomiting and diarrhoea and the resulting extreme listlessness that occurs when a small body expels almost all its liquids. I was able to reassure the parents that the symptoms were probably due to an unwise indulgence in under-ripe wild strawberries, and advised rest and plenty to drink. And a firm admonition to keep away from the hedgerows where the strawberries grow. There was also another visit to Gregory’s old mother – she’d had a fall – and that took most of a morning, since it seemed poor Jane, the daughter-in-law, had reached the end of her rope and badly needed someone other than her husband on whose shoulder to have a good cry.
I also managed to spend an hour or so at my studies. When I had any spare time, I worked on the paper I was planning to present at the next meeting of the loose association of fellow physicians that we grandly call the Symposium. The three of us met when we were studying in London, at the King’s College of Physicians, and, discovering many areas wherein our interests, our professional concerns and our natures shared common ground, we stayed in contact even when we returned to our own native areas of the land. One of the main views that unites us is our resentment of the tight restrictions which ancient and traditional medical practice still enforce on us. Even when we are all but certain that some long-employed method really doesn’t work, it seems we are still called upon to use it. My own particular speciality is the doctrine of the humours, and I have been working on my rebuttal of it for years. The Symposium was due to meet again some time later in the year, in London, and I was determined to have something really powerful to present.
