The Fortune-Hunter

by Julia Herbert

  “No, my dear, the man was stabbed in the back.”

  “George!” Mrs. Tyrrell’s eyes went wide. “You mean he was murdered?” After a moment she added, “The Pegmen, I suppose.”

  “That may be,” her husband said. “Let us not discuss it, Mrs. Tyrrell. I should be glad of some coffee and food.”

  “Of course, my dear, of course! Ring the bell, Amy. What an extraordinary occurrence! One isn’t safe in one’s home! Do you recall that earlier this year they set upon a poor landowner in Hampshire who wouldn’t allow them to store their goods in his stable? They threw him down a well, poor soul. Well, well, God protect us, I say.” She went out to supervise the making of the snack.

  The next twenty-four hours were dismal and full of suspense. Mr. Tyrrell retired to his library, refusing to be with his family except at mealtimes. Mrs. Tyrrell complained bitterly to Amy about it. “Most inconsiderate! At such a time, when a neighbour has met his end! Surely he can see I need his comfort and reassurance?”

  “I pray, Mama, don’t insist on his company for the moment. He is very upset.”

  “And so am I! You know, Beau Gramont and I were the greatest of friends! He used to say such things to me—! But I always told him that my heart belonged to Mr. Tyrrell, of course.”

  “Oh, Mama, Beau Gramont flirted with everyone! It meant nothing.”

  “So you say, my love,” Mrs. Tyrrell said, a little put out, “but you are too young to understand that a man can flirt with all and have special feelings for one.”

  Seeing that her mother was determined to build up a legend that Beau Gramont had been secretly in love with her, Amy dropped the subject.

  The inquest was held on the Thursday at the Garland Inn in Markledon. The coroner was Mr. Pierce, her father’s lawyer and friend, a visitor, too, that fatal evening.

  Evidence was given by the housemaid of finding the body when she came downstairs to light the kitchen fire. The surgeon stated the cause of death, a blow from a dagger which formed part of a display of Italian weapons on the wainscot of the hall.

  Next came Bernard, whom Amy had not once set eyes on since the evening before his father’s death.

  Yes, he had been the last member of the household to see Mr. Gramont alive. They had had a glass of wine together after returning from Mr. Tyrrell’s house. Then he, Bernard, had gone to bed.

  “Did you hear or see anything unusual?”

  “No, Mr. Pierce.”

  The next witness, to Amy’s surprise, was Stephen Boles. “Now,” said Mr. Pierce rather severely when the oath had been administered, “I understand you came forward with some information of your own accord. Please tell the court what you told the constable.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Boles, wiping sweat from his chin with his neckcloth. “Well, I was at Parall, Mr. Gramont’s house, on that night.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “Well, sir, you must know Mr. Tyrrell had turned me out in one of his fits of temper, and I’d nowhere to go.”

  There was a rustle from the public assembled in the large taproom of the Garland.

  “Keep to the point, Stephen Boles,” said Mr. Pierce, straightening his fusty old wig. “I asked you why you were at Parall?”

  “Well, me and Canoway, Mr. Gramont’s butler, are acquainted. I thought he’d probably let me have a bed for the night. Which he did.”

  “And?”

  “We sat up, your worship, pretty late, playing cards. And about half past twelve I went out to cross to the stables—Canoway had had a pallet put there for me.”

  “Well, go on.”

  “As I passed Mr. Gramont’s study, I saw a light in the window, so I looked in, ’cos the shutters weren’t closed on account of the hot weather. And I saw Mr. Tyrrell there with him.”

  “Mr. Tyrrell? At midnight?”

  “I saw him, sir.”

  “Yes? Well?”

  “They was having a row, sir. Going at it hammer and tongs. At least, Mr. Tyrrell was. Mr. Gramont, he was leaning back laughing.”

  Through Amy’s mind passed the picture of her father walking angrily across the moonlit garden. What Stephen Boles was saying was true. Her father had been at Parall that night.

  “Did you hear what was said?” Mr. Pierce asked Boles. “Oh no, sir. I should have had to go right up to the casement and listen, and I couldn’t do that, sir,” Boles said virtuously.

  “Quite right, quite right,” Mr. Pierce agreed, blowing out a breath. His little red face was growing more and more perturbed. “Did you go to bed then?”

  “Well, I went back to the kitchen to tell Canoway what I’d seen, sir. He’ll tell you I did, if you ask him. And then I went to bed.”

  Canoway was called and agreed that Boles had stayed overnight at Parall—had, moreover, come back to the butler’s pantry after starting off for the stables, to report that a quarrel was going on between Squire Tyrrell and Mr. Gramont.

  “But you yourself didn’t see it?”

  “No, sir, not my business.”

  George Tyrrell then took the stand.

  “Now, Mr. Tyrrell,” said the lawyer with reluctance, “this is—I’m sure you understand—very difficult. Please tell us, in your own words, what happened at this interview with Mr. Gramont.”

  “There was no interview,” Mr. Tyrrell said coolly.

  “Have you nothing to say in answer to the allegation that you and Mr. Gramont had a quarrel?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But Mr. Tyrrell, Stephen Boles saw you.”

  “The man has a grudge against me because I dismissed him.”

  “But, come now, George,” begged Mr. Pierce, “be reasonable! Canoway also says—”

  “Canoway says he saw no quarrel. He only heard of it from Boles. And Boles is not to be trusted. You would not take his word against mine, Edward?”

  Mr. Pierce fidgeted under the gaze of his old friend but could think of nothing further to say that would help. He sent the coroner’s jury away to consider their verdict; they trooped out into the Garland’s cellar and then came back fifteen minutes later.

  “Well, gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

  “We have, Mr. Pierce, sir.”

  The foreman looked at the others. They nodded. “We find that Mr. Gramont was murdered...”

  “Murdered,” quoted Mr. Pierce, writing.

  “...By Mr. Tyrrell.”

  Mr. Pierce’s quill was arrested as it began to trace the “M” of Mr.

  “What’s that you say, Tim Benworth?”

  Benworth rubbed the back of his neck with the palm of his hand. “Why, sir,” he said, “we’re of the opinion that it’s plain as the nose on your face that Mr. Tyrrell did it in one of his rages. So we say he should be taken into custody for trial before the Assizes. And that’s our Verdict.”

  “No,” gasped Amy, starting to her feet.

  “Quiet, Miss Tyrrell,” admonished Constable Day.

  Mr. Pierce argued and objected, but the jury were adamant. Staring at them, Amy saw that they were not the friendly villagers she had always thought them but—today—men of power who were enjoying the idea of bringing her father low. Many of them had had the rough side of Mr. Tyrrell’s tongue; he had made enemies, it appeared.

  “Very well,” Mr. Pierce said at last, pursing and unpursing his lips so that his plump cheeks quivered. “I must accept it, I suppose.”

  At these words, Amy felt herself go faint with incredulous horror. Around her people were making sounds of approval; some even went so far as to applaud. Her mother seized her arm. “Daughter, what does it mean?” she cried.

  “Hush, Mama—”

  “But they cannot arrest your father?”

  The constable, John Day, made his way across the taproom until he came face to face with Mr. Tyrrell. “Sir, I must ask you to accompany me—”

  “No!” cried Amy. “It’s all a stupid mistake!”

  Day looked round uneasily. “I know, miss,” he
said. “But what else can I do? Mr. Tyrrell, I’m sure you won’t make no trouble, sir.”

  Amy’s father stood up and pulled straight the fronts his waistcoat. “I shall make no trouble, John. But I should like some dinner before I go to gaol—and I should like a word with my wife, if you’ve no objection.”

  “None at all, sir,” said Day, shuffling his feet.

  Mrs. Tyrrell was clinging to Amy’s arm. Gently Amy detached herself. “I will go outside and wait, Papa,” she said in a voice she kept tolerably steady. “Pray send for me when you have spoken with my mother.”

  She walked away, anxious to be out of sight before the tears spilled over on to her cheeks. She reached the door of the room, then paused, wondering where to go. People were milling around her; some jostled her without apology, others drew away from her. She reached the door of the inn and saw Lady Frier’s carriage waiting some way up the main street. Ah, she thought. I’ll ask her ladyship to let me sit in the carriage for a few minutes.

  She walked up the uneven pavement. The coachman was on the box as if ready to start, so she hastened her step. “Pray, your ladyship—” she began, looking in at the carriage window.

  “Excuse me, Miss Tyrrell,” interrupted the lady, “I’m in rather a hurry. Drive on, Jack!”

  The coachman flicked his whip, the two horses strained forward, the carriage rolled away. Lady Frier didn’t even trouble herself to lean forward and wave a farewell.

  It was so like an actual slap on the face that Amy felt her cheeks burn. She swung on her heel and hurried down the nearest alley, heedless of where she was going, almost running in her need to expunge the insult by physical activity.

  When she got back to the Garland there was a crowd still waiting by the entrance. They parted to allow her to go through. In the small saloon to the left of the hall she found her father sitting before a table on which, untasted, lay bread, cold meat, and Madeira. Her mother was sitting by his side, her handkerchief over her face.

  “Dearest child,” Mr. Tyrrell said, rising, “this will be a bad time for all of us, but most of all for your mother. She is unaccustomed to the difficulties of everyday life. Promise me you will care for her, shield her?”

  “I promise. Papa.”

  “You are my jewel,” he said with deepest affection, taking her hand in both of his. “Forgive me, Amy...”

  “For what, sir?” she asked, astounded.

  “For wrecking your chance of happiness with Bernard.”

  “Papa!” For a moment she thought he meant that he had in actual fact killed Bernard’s father. Then better sense took over. “You mean by somehow becoming involved in this foolish muddle? It isn’t your fault, sir. And I warrant you it will soon all be cleared up.”

  The constable, who had stood silent inside the door, moved warningly. “The coach is ready to take you to Winchester, sir,” he muttered. “I can see it coming up the street.”

  “No, no!” wept Mrs. Tyrrell. “No, a moment more, constable—”

  “I daren’t, ma’am. There’s those that want your husband safe away from here before the crowd takes the law into its own hands. Beau Gramont had many friends in this town.”

  “You are right,” Amy’s father said with quick acceptance. “And the sooner our farewells are over, the better. Come, Eliza, be brave. Dry your tears. You’re making your eyes red—you don’t want to go out in public looking a fright, do you?”

  “I don’t care!” sobbed Mrs. Tyrrell. Her lack of care of her appearance was the measure of her grief. “George, George, your temper was always your worst fault!”

  “Mama,” Amy interposed, “that is no way to talk.”

  “She’s overset,” Mr. Tyrrell said. “She doesn’t mean it.” He patted his wife on the shoulder. “Do you, my love?”

  “Yes, I do, for this is no moment to pretend,” cried his wife. “You’ve always been jealous of Beau Gramont, George! But surely it need not have led to this?”

  Horror-stricken, Amy took her mother from her father’s grasp and held her close while the constable escorted him from the room. She heard the growling of the crowd as he was taken out, heard the door of the closed coach being slammed shut, heard the horses’ hooves clatter on the cobbles and the grinding as the wheels turned.

  She thrust her mother down upon a chair and ran out. The coach was drawing away. “Papa, Papa!” she called.

  He couldn’t look out. The windows were fastened and the blinds drawn down.

  “Papa, I’ll attend to everything! Don’t be afraid, Papa! In a few days it will all be cleared up! Papa! Papa!”

  And she stood in the middle of the road, a small figure in mist-grey silk gown and lace cap, watching the carriage recede as it took her father to prison.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  One of the hardest things for Amy to bear in the days that followed was her mother’s complete acceptance of her father’s guilt. She argued, pleaded and stormed. Her mother nodded but remained unconvinced. To all Amy’s protests that her father was incapable of harming an old friend she would only answer, “You know his temper daughter.”

  And since Amy was working against the memory of that glimpse in the moonlight of that angry figure, she was soon arguing for the sake of convincing herself.

  She and her mother were ostracised; former friends paid no visits, shared newspapers were not sent on, small services were discontinued. Messages of inquiry sent by Amy to Parall, concerning the health of Mrs. Gramont, were ignored. Bernard did not come, did not even trouble to walk a few yards out of his way so that they could have a moment’s conversation or explanation.

  One by one the servants at the Manor House disappeared from the scene. The coachman, the grooms, cook and the kitchen-maids, Mrs. Tyrrell’s personal maid ... The faithful few remained: Palmer the butler, Bryce the undergardener, Amy’s own maid Molly. It was a strange household—quiet, subdued, with an air of suspended animation. Without the forceful and emphatic Squire, the place had lost its life-force.

  The greatest problem of all was finding legal advice. Amy naturally turned to Mr. Pierce, a lifelong friend of her father’s, but received a hard blow.

  “Why now, y’see, m’dear,” he said, pulling at the sides of his dusty wig, “I can’t act for you. In view of the fact that I was the coroner who committed your father for trial.”

  “But you are his lawyer, Uncle Pierce!” she protested.

  “Of course, of course. Had I known how the inquest was going to turn out, I should have refused to act as coroner—and then, d’ye see, I’d be free now to take on his defence. But I can’t.”

  “Of course you can!”

  “Nay, child, I cannot. It’s against the rules of procedure. Your father will have to look elsewhere for his defence lawyer.”

  She sat silent, eyes downcast, trying to come to terms with this shattering disappointment. After a long moment she drew a breath and said, “Then whom do you recommend, sir?”

  Mr. Pierce fidgeted with the inkstand on his desk. “Well, now, Amy, there you have me! I’m at a loss what to say.”

  “Why so?”

  “Because ... well, because, child, I don’t believe you’ll find a man in the whole of Hampshire who’ll take on the case.”

  “What?” She stared at him. “You can’t be serious, sir!”

  “Never more so, child. Your father is neatly caught in a trap from which there seems to be no escape. You must have guessed, my dear, that every man on that coroner’s jury was either a smuggler or a supporter of the smuggler’s trade?”

  “You mean that—?”

  “It was what we call ‘a packed jury’—they had seen their chance to rid themselves of a magistrate who was a thorn in their side, and they took it. Stephen Boles, the chief accuser, he’s one of their minions, I’d take my oath. And Tim Benworth, that acted as foreman of the jury—the riding officer of the Customs Department has told me more than once that he suspected Benworth of being a chief participant. David Bartholom
ew, the riding officer—a shrewd fellow, that. He said he was on the watch for evidence to charge Ben worth, but so far had never got it.”

  “But why did you allow Benworth to act as foreman?” Amy cried. “Why did you let such men take part?”

  “How could I prevent it, my dear? Three-quarters of the population is either in league with the Pegmen or in fear of them. It’s impossible to pick a jury without including supporters of the Pegmen. And besides, how could I know Boles was going to produce a tale like that? I’m not in the confidence of such people, Amy, and once they had given the verdict I had to accept it.”

  Amy felt as if she were stifling. “I can’t believe it, sir,” she cried. “Are you saying that my father is as good as dead, for want of a lawyer—”

  “I’m saying, my love, that any man who takes on the case may find himself in like straits—and we all know it.”

  “But what becomes of justice then?”

  “Aye, what indeed?” the old man sighed.

  “Have you no advice for me, Uncle Pierce? No help in my attempts to save my father?”

  He huddled into himself. “Don’t be angry, Amy. I’m like everyone else. I’m afraid too. I don’t want to end up stretched out on the sands waiting for the tide to kill me. I want to die in my bed.”

  Useless to talk it over with her mother; Mrs. Tyrrell had so completely convinced herself that her husband had killed Beau Gramont in a fit of jealous anger that her only thought was to beg him to throw himself on the mercy of the court. There was no one else to whom she could turn except her father himself. She decided to set out for Winchester next day.