A Cruel Necessity (A John Grey Historical Mystery)

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘Clear off, you poxy horse thief!’

  Finally, I look up and see a pale face peering at me from out of the hayloft.

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask. I draw myself up to my full height and allow him to notice my well-cut coat and breeches, and the white lace at my cuffs and throat. I jingle the coins in my purse. He doesn’t know how much I still owe my tailor, and the music of pennies is as pleasant as that of gold crowns.

  ‘I’m Jem. I look after the horses. Sir.’

  ‘Come down. I have some questions to ask you, Jem.’ I take from my purse a silver coin and hold it up. Though this does not constitute a full contract, Jem has been shown the Heads of Terms. He descends via a ladder that I should have noticed before.

  ‘So, Jem,’ I say, ‘you were sleeping up there?’

  ‘I’m up and dressed now, as I should be.’

  ‘Yes, but I mean, you normally sleep up there?’

  He is immediately cautious, and his manner suggests that he has studied cunning at the same academy as Ben Bowman. Whatever he says next will be a lie.

  ‘Maybe,’ he says.

  ‘You must know where you sleep,’ I say.

  He swallows hard, wondering how to deny this. Most people do, after all, know where they sleep.

  ‘Were you up there the night before last?’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you anything. Master says.’

  ‘Mr Bowman may be your master, but he can’t exempt you from giving evidence concerning a felony. So, Jem, tell me: you wouldn’t recall some men coming into the stables the night before last? You wouldn’t be able to tell me if there was a fight, say?’ The light from the half-open door glints briefly on the half-crown. I get the impression that, for Jem, the coin represents considerable wealth.

  ‘Men coming into the stables? I don’t mind anything like that. Not the night afore last. Sir.’

  ‘What’s that bloodstain doing on the floor over there?’

  ‘A horse knocked himself on the stall and bled. Bled shocking.’

  ‘It’s a lot of blood.’

  ‘There was a big old nail sticking out. Went in a long way.’

  ‘Really? Big old nail? That’s careless in a stable, isn’t it? Other people will come and ask you these questions again, Jem. Wouldn’t you rather tell me about it now? Maybe the version without fictitious nails. If you tell me, I’ll make sure nobody punishes you. But if you try to hide what happened, then you could be hanged with the others.’

  ‘What others?’

  Well, if you’re going to be hanged, it’s helpful to know what company you’ll be in.

  ‘The men who killed Mr Smith,’ I tell him. ‘So, what do you say, Jem?’

  ‘A horse knocked himself on the stall and bled.’

  No nails this time. He’s taken some of my advice to heart then.

  ‘Don’t you trust me, Jem?’

  ‘No.’

  Jem’s looking over my shoulder rather than into my eye as an honest man might. I believe him though.

  ‘If you’d like to talk about anything, I’m at the New House,’ I say.

  Jem’s nod in reply commits him to nothing. He doesn’t do a lot of talking and certainly wouldn’t go as far as the New House to do it.

  ‘A horse knocked himself . . .’ he begins. The phrase has ceased to sound practised and now strikes the ear as the mere repetition of words – a spell or a charm maybe, to ward off evil.

  ‘Thank you, Jem,’ I say. I hand him the coin. This worries him more than the threat of a mere hanging.

  ‘What’s that for? I didn’t tell you nothing.’

  ‘It’s for not telling Ben Bowman I was here this morning. You haven’t seen me here. And I haven’t spoken to you.’

  He nods and adds this proposition to the one about the horse. His lips move silently as he commits it to memory.

  ‘Was it this horse that hurt itself, by the way?’ I ask, pointing to the only one present.

  ‘No,’ he says, as if relieved not to have to lie. ‘It wasn’t that one.’ He starts to climb the ladder again.

  ‘Thanks, Jem,’ I say. ‘It was brave of you to tell me as much as you have.’ That should worry him a bit. Maybe enough to get him to come and tell me the rest.

  I take a glance at the horse as I leave though. It’s a nice grey. In good condition. And it looks a bit familiar. Actually, I’d swear that the last time I saw it, it was carrying a cloaked rider and was limping a bit. I cautiously check his hooves. Three old, rather worn horseshoes and one gleaming new one. Right fore. The horse nuzzles my hand, which might mean he recognises me too, or might mean that he is hoping for a carrot. I short-change him with an affectionate pat and slip out through the door.

  Dickon and Aminta are waiting outside.

  ‘Well, you two weren’t much help,’ I say. ‘It was only Jem, the stableboy.’

  ‘So I gathered,’ says Dickon. ‘I thought we’d keep out of sight in case having all of us there just scared him off.’

  Aminta nods, for once agreeing with Dickon.

  ‘That was quick thinking,’ I say.

  ‘Still, we heard most of what he told you,’ Dickon adds. ‘Sounds as if he saw something then.’

  ‘I’d say so,’ I say. ‘Maybe after he’s thought a bit, he’ll tell me.’

  ‘You reckon?’ says Dickon with a frown.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I reckon. Why shouldn’t he trust me?’

  The sun is now well up and warming our backs, and we can hear noises from inside the inn. Rather than retrace our steps, I suggest that we take the narrow path that leads from here by the leafy ways to the forge. Dickon nods.

  ‘Don’t you need to see Ben about cucumbers?’ asks Aminta.

  ‘Sounds as if Nathan got the order wrong. Looking all ways for Sunday, that boy is.’

  ‘Hadn’t you better find out what Ben did want then?’ she says.

  ‘I suppose,’ sighs Dickon. ‘As if there’s not enough work to do on the farm without this.’

  Aminta takes my arm – the path, it seems, is stony – and we set off. Dickon stays, whistling tunelessly. I suspect it is in fact his mother who does most of the work on the farm. Still, I hope he doesn’t have to wait long for Ben.

  I like Ifnot’s forge. I always have. It’s a magic place where hard iron is made to yield and where broken things are made whole. Earth, water, fire and air all meet here. It’s a place where sparks fly and steam rises and the great, blackened leather bellows create their own gale a thousand times a day. It’s a place of chaos and order. And in the middle of it all, Ifnot’s arm rising and falling, and the music of metal on metal. He can wield the hammer as well in his left hand as his right. He has the two strongest arms in the village.

  Ifnot is already up and coaxing the fire into life. I greet him. I hope he won’t want to clasp my hand. He waves, then strides towards me, his own giant paw outstretched. How can a man with a limp move so fast?

  ‘God be with thee on such a fine morning, John Grey,’ he says. ‘And with thee, Aminta Clifford.’ His voice is deep. Solid. Well wrought. You would have to trust somebody with a voice like that.

  I try not to wince as my fingers are lovingly crushed. Somebody must tell him one day that other people have normal bones and muscle.

  ‘Another busy morning?’ I ask. Perhaps on my way home I will stop and put my hand in the cold stream.

  ‘Not as busy as yesterday,’ he says.

  ‘Did you shoe a grey horse yesterday?’

  ‘I shod horses of almost every colour you can name. Yes, I shod a grey. He’d lost the shoe on his right fore. The other three were a bit worn, but Ben said they were good enough.’

  ‘Did Ben say it was his horse?’ asks Aminta.

  ‘No. Ben said it was Smith’s. Said he was taking care of the horse until somebody claimed it. He could end up giving it free board and lodging for some time, I think.’

  ‘That would be kind of him,’ says Aminta.

  ‘Or maybe he’s planning to
sell it,’ I say.

  ‘Nice animal,’ says Ifnot. ‘It would fetch three pounds even if you couldn’t tell the buyer exactly where you found it. Which Ben might not choose to.’

  I nod. No further questions for the witness, my lord.

  Aminta is clutching her still-empty mushroom basket when we part company under Ben’s damson tree. Sir Felix may go hungry at dinnertime.

  I look for Dickon, but there is no sign of him.

  ‘What do you think your friend was doing at the inn so early in the morning?’ asks Aminta.

  ‘Delivering cucumbers?’ I say.

  ‘Maybe,’ says Aminta. ‘Or maybe something else. Do you think Jem will decide to tell us what he saw?’

  ‘Give him time,’ I say. We’ve plenty of that after all. Jem’s not going anywhere.

  Ben emerges from his front door and starts to open the shutters noisily, though the first customer is unlikely to arrive for another hour or so. It is still too early for many travellers to be abroad. Ben does not look happy. Perhaps he still feels my behaviour last night does not entitle me to more than a sour glance. Or perhaps he has weightier troubles. I ask him politely.

  ‘It’s that dratted boy,’ he says. ‘I went to the stables just now and he’s gone.’

  ‘For a walk?’ I suggest.

  ‘What would a stableboy want with a walk?’ he asks. ‘No, he’s gone. He’s taken his clothes, and in a moment I’m going to check what else he has taken. There’s gratitude for you.’

  ‘Could he have gone home?’

  ‘Home? His father died at the Battle of Worcester, he says. His mother died last year. He has no home apart from this one. I took him in out of charity. Only been here a few weeks – scarcely knows anyone in the village even. What can have possessed the boy? You didn’t see him on the road, did you?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, I didn’t see him on the road.’ The half-crown has sealed a double bargain in this respect.

  Ben gives a sigh and opens the last of the shutters with a crash. He stomps off back inside the inn. He seems not to have even noticed Aminta is there. He has a lot on his mind.

  Another Evening

  The sun is still hovering uncertainly above the horizon. The honeyed air of a summer evening hangs heavy over the cornfields. Though this June day has been long enough for anyone, I have made no further progress. I have retrodden the path behind the inn several times in the hope of discovering something fresh. But the meadow has yielded all it intends to yield. I have also been again to the Big House to tell the Colonel what Aminta and I had discovered. He showed polite interest in my silver button and noted the very small amount of black thread attached to it. He nodded dutifully at my report of the blood in the stables but felt that, on balance, it was possible that a horse really did knock itself on a stall. He thought, moreover, that a stableboy might run off if ill-treated or offered a better position, and that a horseshoe might need replacing. He regretted that estate business had taken up much of his own time today, but a letter would certainly be sent to Mr Secretary Thurloe in the morning. He did not wish to detain me long in a stuffy room when I might be out enjoying the last precious moments of the day.

  Thus I am trudging home, kicking up the dust with the toes of my boots. I do not see Sir Felix in the shade of the willow until I am already at the stream. I think he may have been waiting there some time.

  He rises stiffly from the fallen tree on which he has been sitting, rubbing his back as he does so. It does not look the most comfortable of seats or a place that one would stay without a purpose.

  ‘John!’ he says by way of a greeting. ‘A happy chance indeed that we should meet again so soon.’

  ‘Good evening, Sir Felix,’ I say cautiously, because I feel that I have been waylaid, and I fear that he may be hoping to accompany me to the New House with a view to supper. I am afraid, moreover, that if I arrive with this uninvited guest my mother may not be as annoyed as I would wish her to be.

  ‘You are on your way home,’ he observes.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘A little past the dung heap, and then I am there, as you know.’

  ‘The dung heap . . . It does not inconvenience you at the New House?’

  ‘No,’ I say truly. Then, thinking not to make my mother’s house too attractive a prize for Sir Felix, I add: ‘I mean that I myself do not object to the smell of dung. In the summer the stink of it might offend those of a sensitive nature.’

  ‘It would not trouble me then,’ says Sir Felix. Perhaps it wouldn’t. I am wondering whether there are other lies I might usefully tell to the detriment of the New House, but Sir Felix’s agile mind has already moved on. ‘So, it was up yonder that you discovered the poor fellow . . .’

  ‘Smith,’ I say, for Sir Felix seems to need prompting. ‘Yes, right by the dung heap.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Smith. Of course. Have you discovered aught else about his death?’

  ‘Nothing more than Aminta will have told you this morning,’ I say.

  ‘You have seen Aminta today?’

  We both pause, each realising that we have revealed something we may have been unwise to reveal.

  ‘I saw her when she was collecting mushrooms,’ I say. ‘Did she not mention that?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he says. ‘Though she only said a little of your thinking on the matter . . .’

  He waits for me to say something, but I don’t.

  ‘Has Colonel Payne taken any further steps to apprehend the killers?’ he asks.

  ‘I believe not,’ I say.

  ‘I wonder why?’ He has taken off his hat and is smoothing out the lace band.

  ‘He is a very cautious man,’ I say. ‘I think he is being badly advised. The matter must be reported to the Coroner and to the neighbouring magistrates.’

  ‘Badly advised by Roger Pole?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘But you do not suspect Roger Pole of the murder.’

  ‘The Colonel vouches for him. Though I have one good reason for suspecting him, his plea of alibi is good. He could not have done it.’

  Sir Felix smiles. ‘And you have no plans to report the incident yourself to London or to the magistrates in Saffron Walden?’

  ‘It is a matter for Colonel Payne,’ I say.

  ‘That is a very proper sentiment. But you have no suspicions of your own?’

  He waits for me to say more, but I don’t.

  I expect him to offer to walk home with me, but he replaces his hat on his head and bids me a very polite good evening. I frown as he departs. Aminta has clearly told him nothing of our discoveries this morning. That, surely, is odd. But perhaps I shall not tell my mother that I met Sir Felix and did not invite him home to supper. There is often an innocent explanation for most things.

  Letters

  Letter Number 12

  29 June 1657

  To Sir Edward Hyde, Lord Chancellor, c/o The Abbess, Benedictine Convent, Ghent

  A man named Henderson has arrived in the village, but his throat was cut before we could ascertain his Purpose. I do not need to tell you how inconvenient this is for all of us. P makes no attempt to investigate the matter, which I assume is as you would wish. P is in correspondence with Scotland. I therefore hope to have further news of 444’s intentions shortly, which I shall convey to you.

  For M – If you desire me to stir P into action, then please inform me what sort of action you desire.

  The weather continues fine, and the damsons are ripening nicely.

  Yours to command,

  472

  Letter Number 13

  30 June 1657

  To Sir Edward Hyde, Lord Chancellor, c/o The Abbess, Benedictine Convent, Ghent

  I write in some haste. It seems likely that Henderson’s death was witnessed. I shall, of course, do everything in my power to keep the witness quiet. P continues to do little about this or any other thing. He has been visited by Thomas Clarges, whom you will know by repute. I shall ascertain as soon
as I can what 444’s views are.

  For M – I await instructions.

  Your ever-obedient

  472

  At the New House, and Afterwards

  ‘All I am saying,’ says my mother, ‘is that it would have been better had it been done properly.’

  ‘I thought that was what I was saying,’ I said.

  The difficulty is that our words are the same but our meanings very different. My mother’s meaning is that she resents being denied the pleasure of a perfectly good burial. For her, funerals are now a form of entertainment – entertainment to which, as she points out, even Lord Protector Cromwell cannot possibly object. Moreover, each funeral is to be celebrated as being somebody else’s and not her own. Each funeral is a small personal triumph over mortality. But Smith has been buried quietly, at night, without a passing bell, and now rests under the clay in St Peter’s churchyard. My mother was not invited. That is her meaning.

  My meaning is related more to the absence of any investigation by the Coroner prior to interment. I also fear that a letter may still not have been dispatched from our local magistrate to Mr Secretary Thurloe, setting out the circumstances around Smith’s death. I am increasingly concerned about how little the Colonel has done. And I think I know who to blame.

  ‘Pole is behind it,’ I say.

  ‘Mr Pole?’ my mother asks. At least she does not call him Viscount Pole.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I am sure that it is Pole who is urging the Colonel to do nothing.’

  ‘I doubt that Mr Pole favours idleness. In fact, I have always thought he was a very vigorous young man,’ says my mother.

  She is wrong. Pole is not vigorous. He is an arrant coxcomb, bedecked in lace and ribbons. You cannot have bunches of ribbons to your breeches and be called vigorous.

  ‘Something odd has certainly happened,’ I say, bringing the conversation back to the merely relevant. ‘Why should Jem vanish like that?’

  ‘Ben had no idea where he might have gone?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘It would seem that he has no friends – in this part of the country at least.’