“Oh, John, let’s!” exclaimed Julia, raising shining eyes to his. “Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“Better make it the day after,” Pickett amended. “I might have to pay a call tomorrow.”
The innkeeper addressed himself to Julia. “I’ll tell my wife to make up a basket for you, if that’s agreeable.”
“That would be lovely,” Julia assured him warmly. “Thank you.”
The man shook his head dismissively. “Never let it be said that Ned Hawkins don’t take care of his patrons—unlike some I could name, who think a flute, a fiddle, and a bottle or two of home-brewed are any substitute for well-aired sheets, good English food, and a—”
“Tell me,” Pickett said, cutting short an incomprehensible diatribe that threatened to run on for some time, “do you know of a man by the name of Hetherington?”
“Aye, it’s an old Cumberland name. You’ll find no shortage of Hetheringtons hereabouts. Do you know his Christian name?”
“Robert. Mr. Robert Hetherington.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Oh aye. It’s Mr. Robert Hetherington what lives up at the big house.” He jerked his thumb in the general direction of east.
“Is there someone here who can take a letter to him?”
“I’ll have my son do it,” the innkeeper promised, and it seemed to Pickett that a note of uncertainty had crept into his voice. “When do you need it delivered?”
“Today, if possible.” Pickett withdrew the letter from the pocket of his coat and handed it over.
“I’ll tell Jem to take it over at once.” He took the letter and headed for the door, then paused at the threshold and turned back to Pickett. “You need anything else, you just ask.”
Pickett promised to do so, and fully expected the innkeeper to return to his post downstairs. He lingered so long in the doorway, however, that Pickett began to wonder if he should offer the man payment in coin. He glanced at Julia for some unspoken message that might advise him, but found her regarding her host with a polite smile no less puzzled than Pickett’s own.
And then, just as the moment was stretched to the point of becoming awkward, the innkeeper tugged his forelock in Julia’s direction and betook himself from the room.
“Well!” exclaimed Julia. “What do you suppose that was all about?”
“I wasn’t supposed to pay him, then?” Pickett asked, relieved at having not—again—done the wrong thing.
“I don’t think so,” Julia said, considering the question. “One can never be quite certain of local customs, but I should have thought any vails would be given to the inn’s servants, not the proprietor himself. Unless, of course, he thought you might give him something to pass along to his son for carrying out your errand.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Pickett said doubtfully. “If he should bring me a reply, I’ll be sure to reward him for his trouble. And yet, I wonder if perhaps I should have agreed to that picnic tomorrow, after all.”
“You think our host might be the one who wrote the letter to Bow Street?”
Pickett shrugged. “At this point, I don’t have sufficient evidence to form an opinion either way, but it could be that he’d thought to send us out on a picnic as a way of arranging a private meeting, away from the crowd in the public room.” He sighed. “If that’s the case, I may have missed my best chance.”
“So what do we do now?” Julia asked, not without sympathy.
“We wait for someone—if not Ned Hawkins, then someone else—to identify himself. Until then, I suppose we act like we’re on our honeymoon.”
She looked coyly up at him from beneath her eyelashes. “We shut ourselves up in our room and only come out for meals?”
He grinned appreciatively at her, but shook his head. “Oh, you’ll get no argument from me, but Mr. Colquhoun might be displeased, to say the least.”
“In that case, may I make a suggestion?”
“Please do.”
“You may depend upon it that word is already spreading in the village that a couple from London is putting up at the Hart and Hound—”
“What, already?” asked Pickett, taken aback.
“Being a native Londoner, you don’t understand the fascination which outsiders hold for country people,” she said. “When one sees the same people day after day, the prospect of seeing new faces—and, perhaps, hearing of goings-on beyond one’s own sphere—is well-nigh irresistible.”
“All right, I’ll concede the point that I’m irresistible,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “So, what is your suggestion?”
“If they want to see us, we should give them an opportunity. I think it’s safe to say that if whoever sent to Bow Street has heard of our arrival from London, he—or she—already has an idea that it might be you—”
“Very likely.”
“So let’s go for a stroll along the High Street before dinner. Then, if anyone wishes to reveal himself to you, at least he’ll know what you look like.”
Pickett could find nothing to dispute in this plan, and so after unpacking their bags—a task that would have been left to Thomas and Betsy, had they been allowed to make the journey—they set out on a walk up and down the main street through the village, gazing into shop windows and admiring the dramatic backdrop of rugged peaks. Although Pickett was conscious of more than one curious gaze leveled in his direction (and still more directed at his beautiful wife), no one made any attempt to approach him. At last they turned back toward the Hart and Hound and the dinner the innkeeper’s wife would have ready for them.
When they reached the inn, they discovered more than roasted chicken and potatoes: Ned Hawkins’s son had returned with a reply from Robert Hetherington, informing Pickett that he might call the next morning at eleven o’clock.
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Julia kissed her husband fondly and closed the door behind him, then began counting under her breath. She could not observe his departure, since the window offered a view of the fells rather than the inn yard, so she waited until she reached one hundred just to be sure he was well and truly gone. Having reached this number, she opened the hinged lid of her portable writing desk and withdrew paper, pen, and ink, then settled herself at the table before the window to craft a letter to Mrs. James Pennington of Greenwillows, Norwood Green, Somersetshire.
The first few lines were dedicated to inquiring after her sister’s health and that of her husband and daughter, and giving assurances as to Julia’s and John’s own health. These niceties having been completed, Julia came to the point of her correspondence:
I am writing to request a Favor, she confessed. You may not be aware—Women rarely are, I find, even though it concerns Us the Most—that should I die in Childbirth, my widow’s Jointure from Fieldhurst would end with my Death. (You are no doubt at this moment mentally composing the Letter you will write me in return, assuring me of the unlikelihood of so Grim an Outcome. Be that as it may, I shall face the coming Event with more Fortitude if my mind is settled on this Point, so pray indulge me by reading to the End before penning your Rebuttal.)
As I was saying, the Termination of my Jointure would mean John would be left with very little Money on which to support a Child. He would, of course, still have the House in Curzon Street, but without sufficient Funds on which to run it, I fear he would soon be put to the Necessity of selling it; thus, Father and Child would be reduced to whatever hired Lodgings might be had for his Wages.
And here we come to the Favor I must beg. If such an Occurrence should come to pass, please promise me that you and Jamie will give my dear John any such Assistance as he might require—or, more to the purpose, that he might be Persuaded to Accept. I would ask Mama and Papa for such a Pledge, but any Assistance they might offer would come in the Form of removing the Child entirely from John’s Care, and this Eventuality must be avoided, whatever the Cost. (Note, if you will, the Ease with which I dispose of Jamie’s Inheritance!) I know I can trust you and Jamie to do Right by your precious Niece or Nephew and its be
loved Sire.
And if you don’t, you may be sure that I shall come back from the Grave and haunt you.
Yr Loving Sister,
Julia Pickett
Post Scriptum: You know, of course, that I am only roasting you about the Haunting, but you must own that it would be no more than you deserve after the shabby trick you played on us all last March.
Having finished this epistle, she fanned the crossed sheet back and forth to dry the ink while she looked about the room for some means of sealing it. The window afforded sufficient sunlight to render the necessity of a candle superfluous, at least until later in the day. If she were to light one in order to melt wax, she could not be at all certain her husband (whose success at Bow Street owed much to his possessing a keen eye for detail) would not notice the burned wick and wonder at it. No, she would fold her letter and put it away to seal it later—perhaps tonight, after he was asleep. He was well accustomed by this time to her getting out of bed during the night to seek recourse to the chamber pot, so he would not wonder at it.
Satisfied with this decision, she tucked the letter into the bottom of her writing desk and settled down to await Pickett’s return.
WHILE HIS WIFE ENGAGED in clandestine correspondence, Pickett followed the innkeeper’s directions to the “big house,” which, true to its name, proved to be a large residence of the same flat gray stone that adorned the ground floor of the inn. Upon presenting his card to the butler who answered his knock, Pickett was shown to a study furnished according to masculine tastes in shades of brown. A pair of nail-studded armchairs upholstered in leather worn to a buttery softness were drawn up before the fire that was necessary even in summer, as the sun’s rays (those that could penetrate the heavy brown velvet curtains) would not reach this western side of the house until well past noon.
Left alone to await his host with no other companionship save the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, Pickett sank into the chair that faced the wide mahogany desk and surveyed this imposing piece of furniture for whatever clues it might reveal of its owner.
This is a social call, not an investigation, he reminded himself, although if truth be told, he would have been more comfortable conducting an investigation than paying a social call. In any case, he could not fail to notice the large Bible that held pride of place in the center of the desk, its leather cover so worn that it sagged in the middle. Even as the thought occurred to Pickett that he had seen this particular book before, the door to the study swung open. Pickett rose from his chair as a man entered the room, a man of about sixty-five who wore an old-fashioned bag-wig.
“I know you!” Pickett blurted out, taking the man’s proffered hand. “That is, I don’t exactly know you—we’ve never been introduced—but I saw you yesterday. At the inn.” Painfully aware that his manners were hardly a credit to Mr. Colquhoun’s patronage, he broke off abruptly, only to recall with some indignation his conversation with the innkeeper only a few minutes later. “I asked Ned Hawkins how I could send you a letter. He might have told me you were in the public room at that very minute!”
“Did he tell you how you could send me a letter?”
“He said he’d send his son with it.”
“And so he did, for young Jem brought it to me that very day. Country people can be very literal-minded, Mr. Pickett.”
Pickett, aggrieved, could not help feeling that he’d been played for a fool. “Do you mean to tell me that if I’d asked where you were, he would have said you were downstairs?”
“Very likely. If you want the right answers, Mr. Pickett, you must ask the right questions.” He gestured for Pickett to be seated, while he himself took the chair behind the desk. “But I’m sorry I didn’t hear your questioning of Ned, or I might have saved you a great deal of trouble. Nor do I recall seeing you, for that matter.”
“The conversation didn’t take place until Mr. Hawkins had shown my wife and me up to our room. As for your seeing me, I believe you were occupied at the time,” Pickett said, glancing at the Bible on the desk. “To tell you the truth, I assumed you must be the vicar.”
Mr. Hetherington chuckled. “No, no, just a humble country squire. But I do look in at the public room two or three times a week, and often take my Bible with me.”
“It seems a rather noisy place to pray.”
“By which you mean I should ‘go into my closet and shut the door,’ as the Good Book says.”
“I—I meant no disrespect, sir—”
“You’re quite right, of course,” Mr. Hetherington assured him, dismissing Pickett’s stammered protests with a wave of his hand. “It is noisy at times, especially when the stage coach arrives from Penrith. Still, I like to set a good example for the locals, you know. Visitors, too, for that matter.”
“Do so many people come here, then?” asked Pickett in some surprise, recalling the shops along the High Street that obviously catered to the tourist trade. “I should have thought it would be too remote for many visitors.”
Mr. Hetherington’s shoulders shook as he laughed. “And you’d hoped to have a bit of privacy with your young bride, is that it? Patrick Colquhoun tells me you’re on your honeymoon.” He patted the left breast of his coat, where Mr. Colquhoun’s letter of introduction no doubt resided in an inside pocket. “Oh, you’ll find it’s much quieter here than in London, but I’ll not deny we have more visitors since those poet fellows started settling here. Never saw the point in that sort of thing, myself. Poetry, I mean. Seems to me that if a fellow can afford to sit in a cottage all day penning dismal meditations on Death while other men are obliged to clerk, or farm, or go down the mines in order to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads, he hasn’t much cause for complaint.”
Pickett, whose own reading tastes ran toward newspapers and the occasional novel, was inclined to agree—although the irony did not escape him that this opinion was being voiced by a man who had very likely never labored a day in his life. Then again, if Robert Hetherington was an old friend of Mr. Colquhoun, who had certainly worked his own way up in the world, he might well have earned his fortune rather than inherited it; thus Pickett himself, who had merely married into money, was in no position to cast stones.
“But enough about these scribbling fellows,” his host continued. “I understand you’re a young friend of Patrick Colquhoun. Tell me, how do you know him?”
Pickett was momentarily at a loss. He wished he’d thought to ask the magistrate exactly what he’d said in his letter. If Mr. Colquhoun had explained Pickett’s connection with Bow Street, Mr. Hetherington would surely have made some mention of it—wouldn’t he? Unless, of course, he had some reason for doubting the man’s discretion, and wished to preserve Pickett’s incognito—in which case, he would be wise to refrain from volunteering the information himself.
“He did me a kindness many years ago,” Pickett said at last, choosing his words with care. “I had recently—lost—my father, and Mr. Colquhoun was good enough to take an interest in me. He still does, for that matter.”
It was vague enough, but it had the advantage of being true, so far as it went. Thankfully, Mr. Hetherington appeared to accept this explanation, such as it was, at face value.
“Well, any friend of Patrick Colquhoun’s is a friend of mine. My wife and I would be delighted to have you and Mrs. Pickett to dinner—shall we say tomorrow night? In the meantime, there are other ways for a young couple to amuse themselves—the beauty of the fells begs to be explored, of course, and Jedidiah Tyson, him that owns the Golden Feather, hosts assemblies on Wednesday nights—you’ll have seen it when you arrived, as it’s just across the street from the Hart and Hound. The company is not exclusive, mind you—we haven’t the luxury of being particular, so remote as we are, and so we’ll admit anyone who’s willing to pay half a guinea for the price of admission—but it’s congenial enough if one cares for an evening of dancing. There’s a subscription book you’ll want to sign—aye, we’re setting ourselves up as a resort for th
e fashionable set, just like Bath or Tunbridge Wells. Mind you, Ned Hawkins, your host, won’t be best pleased to see you crossing the street to the Feather to put your names down in Tyson’s book—great rivals they are, the pair of them.”
Pickett’s heart sank at the prospect of standing against the wall and watching his wife dance. Julia had never uttered a word of reproach, but it seemed cruelly ironic that a lady who loved to dance should fall in love with a man who didn’t know how. Still, he accepted the dinner invitation with alacrity, hoping this would compensate her to some degree for the loss of the society she had turned her back on when she’d married him.
“Excellent! We’ll expect you at, let us say, eight o’clock. My wife likes to keep Town hours, and the sun sets so late this far north that I can promise you’ll be back at the inn well before dark.”
Pickett agreed to this plan, and recalling from something his wife had once let fall that morning calls should not exceed fifteen minutes, took his leave. He had found nothing of particular use so far as the case was concerned (unless an invasion of poets might be considered cause for summoning Bow Street) but he hoped he had established cordial relations with a possibly useful source.
So pleased was he with his morning’s work that when he returned to the inn (where he was warmly greeted by his wife, who was all too aware of the incriminating letter resting in the bottom of her portable writing desk), he told Julia that, if she was still interested in a picnic, he was more than willing to accompany her.
“Oh, let’s!” she exclaimed eagerly. “If you’ll go downstairs and ask Mr. Hawkins to have his wife make up a basket for us, I shall change my shoes for something better suited for walking.”
Pickett readily consented, then, after a moment’s hesitation, confessed, “Mr. Hetherington says the Golden Feather across the street hosts assemblies every Wednesday. If you’d care for dancing, we can sign the subscription book on our way out.”
Peril by Post Page 3
