A Cruel Necessity (A John Grey Historical Mystery)

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘Well,’ says Dickon, ‘are you just going to sit there?’

  ‘But who left the paper?’

  ‘I don’t know. We were both out of the room, weren’t we?’

  I leave Pole’s hat unwatched for a moment and look round the parlour. Is it slightly less crowded than before? The Colonel still sits with Pole. Cobley and Warwick have taken a break from their labours, as has Harry Hardy, and the three are in a lively conversation with Nell Bowman. With the light from the window behind her, I notice what a fine profile Nell has. I wonder if she is happy here in this small village with nobody except Ben’s customers for diversion. She keeps her own counsel on that and, I suspect, many other things.

  ‘This is no gentleman’s hand,’ I say, looking again at the paper. ‘The letters are large and ill-formed.’

  ‘Looks good enough to me,’ says Dickon, scrutinising it again. ‘The hand of a plain, honest man, though perhaps not a scholar as you are.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘What if it’s disguised . . . ?’

  ‘When ifs and ands are pots and pans . . .’ says Dickon contemptuously. ‘We do the thing now, or we lose our quarry.’ He grasps the paper in his hand and stands up.

  ‘It was under my tankard,’ I say. ‘Whoever wrote it wants me to do it.’

  ‘One tankard is much like another. The note doesn’t have your name on it. It could have been intended just as well for me.’

  ‘But, in the end, it was under mine.’

  Dickon yields the paper reluctantly, and I walk slowly across the room to where Pole is sitting. I’m not sure why I haven’t let Dickon do this. I’d have enjoyed watching him seize Pole’s hat, and the risk to my own reputation would have been negligible. As it is, my heart is beating hard, and I am having difficulty controlling my breathing.

  ‘Good day, Mr Pole,’ I manage to say.

  He looks up at me and nods.

  ‘I think you should remove your hat,’ I say.

  ‘Have we not already discussed my hat, Mr Grey?’ he asks. ‘It interests me less than it interests you. And I am happy with it where it is.’

  ‘Then I shall have to remove it for you,’ I say.

  He is not expecting me to whisk it off his head and so is mighty surprised to see it in my hand, the plumes bobbing up and down. He is too outraged even to protest. His face is a dangerous shade of scarlet.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘This would appear to be a very expensive hat.’

  He recovers enough to splutter: ‘It most certainly is. Better than any hat you are likely to own, Grey. And I’d be much obliged if you would return it to me, unless you plan further buffoonery to amuse the people of this village. Remember, Grey, that you are a gentleman – almost – and try to behave in a fitting manner.’ He stretches out an over-optimistic hand. As if in imitation of every school bully, I move it just beyond his reach.

  There is a chuckle behind me. Whatever else I may have achieved, I certainly now have everyone’s attention. I wonder what exactly I shall do next.

  ‘Yes,’ I continue, ‘a very expensive hat, though perhaps not as valuable as what you keep in it.’

  For a moment Pole seems to think that I mean his head or something of the sort, because he is almost on the point of agreeing with me. Then he sees that I am examining the inside of the crown.

  ‘Grey – have you gone mad?’ he asks.

  He is slightly, but only slightly, ahead of me in this question. And the answer is probably ‘yes’, for the crown of the hat is empty. No ring is pinned inside. The hatband it is, then, as my worst nightmare becomes reality. My fingers probe the lace inch by inch all the way round the hat. It’s just lace. I look inside the hat again. At this point I notice that most people in the inn are laughing. I don’t think they are laughing at Pole.

  Roger Pole’s contemptuous sneer is good, even by his standards. ‘My hat, if you please, Mister Grey.’

  I pass the hat back to him, trying to come up with some form of words that is both a sincere apology and clever enough to win me back a little of the regard I have just lost. I don’t have long to do it.

  ‘Wait!’ says Dickon behind me. ‘I saw the ring.’

  I have rarely been so pleased to hear his voice. The inn is suddenly silent.

  ‘What ring?’ asks Pole. But it is written on his face that he knows there is only one ring that can be of any interest to us. His eyes too now search the hatband in vain.

  ‘It’s there.’ Dickon reaches out and takes the hat from Pole’s limp grasp. Dickon’s fingers tease away part of one of the feathers and there is the ring – not in the crown of the hat, not in the band, but sitting neatly round the downy base of one of the plumes. It is smaller than I was expecting – big enough only for the smallest finger of a small man’s hand – but it bears the royal crest.

  ‘. . .’ says Pole.

  ‘I suppose you are about to claim that you have never seen the ring in your life,’ I say.

  Pole wisely makes no such claim. He would, however, like to kill me at the first convenient opportunity.

  ‘This is Henderson’s ring,’ I say.

  ‘If you say so,’ Pole snarls. No wonder he is so familiar with the habits of wolves. ‘But you must have put it there yourself. You must have slipped it over the feather when . . .’

  ‘That would be a clever trick indeed,’ says Dickon. ‘In front of all these people. He’s a lawyer – well, almost – not a conjuror, Mr Pole.’

  This is better. I hold up the note for all to see. ‘Thus I was informed of the ring’s whereabouts,’ I say.

  I look round the room, but there is no rush to acknowledge authorship of the document.

  ‘Did anyone notice who left the note beneath my tankard?’ I ask the silent room.

  The Colonel now speaks. As ever, his is the voice of well-considered reasonable doubt. It is the sort of voice that makes you think twice about what you had taken for granted all your life. ‘It is a gold ring certainly. But how do we know that it was the murdered man’s? Is anyone here prepared to say that they saw it close enough to identify it now? Come, who will own to having seen Henderson with it?’

  There is little enthusiasm too for confirming that this is Henderson’s ring, though many must have seen it. Feet shuffle on the wooden floor. The Colonel seems to have won the day. Then a voice from the doorway says: ‘I can identify it. I can most certainly identify it. That is Henderson’s ring. That is my dear friend’s ring.’

  We turn. The vast bulk of Probert’s body is blocking out the light and warmth that has been flooding in through the door. His face is one of pure tragedy. He is a man about to die of grief. Then, having perhaps made his point, his expression relaxes and he smiles at us all.

  I turn to look at the Colonel and see that he is as white as a sheet – whiter probably than those supplied in this inn.

  ‘Well, Colonel Payne,’ says Probert, ‘I am delighted to meet you at last. Salve, domine! I might almost have thought you were avoiding my company. Will you not now arrest your secretary for Henderson’s murder? I have rarely seen more convincing proof of a man’s guilt, at least without resort to thumbscrews and the rack.’

  The Colonel looks at Pole as if seeking advice on Pole’s own arrest.

  ‘You and the Constable must take Pole into custody,’ Probert continues, ‘until he can be lodged more securely at the county gaol. Who is Constable here?’

  ‘Cobley,’ says the Colonel with a sigh.

  ‘Not I,’ says Cobley. He begins an interesting analysis of the election and period of tenure of village officials, touching on the responsibility of magistrates to ensure that successors are appointed timeously and with due regard to their previous service.

  ‘Enough!’ bellows Probert. Cobley is immediately silent. ‘You, Cobley, and you, Payne, take Mr Pole to the village lock-up.’

  ‘You’ll need to get Harry Hardy’s pigs out first if you are planning to use it as a gaol,’ says Cobley.

  ‘It’ll need a
new lock,’ says Hardy. ‘Had to break the last’n to get the pigs in. Damnation nuisance it was.’

  ‘No matter. He can be more securely housed at the manor,’ says the Colonel.

  ‘You mean the Big House?’ says Cobley. ‘Folk round here call it the Big House.’

  ‘I mean the Big House,’ says the Colonel. ‘It is built on the foundations of the old castle. The cellars are deep and very strong. They date back to the time of Henry the Second.’

  ‘Henry the First,’ I say. ‘Your cellars date back to the time of Henry the First. And it wasn’t a castle exactly. It was more of a . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Grey. Their precise date, give or take a Henry, does not affect the strength of my walls – unless you wish to correct me on that too? And Mr Pole will in any case give his word as a gentleman that he will not attempt to escape.’

  ‘Some enemy of mine put the ring there,’ splutters Pole, still very much the wolf at bay. ‘Grey . . . if this is your doing I . . .’ He is close to being speechless with anger, which proves neither innocence nor guilt, though the feeling of the company is tending towards the latter. He’s not from round here of course. For my part, I decide I prefer a speechless Pole to any of the other Poles we might have.

  ‘That is all as it may be,’ says the Colonel. ‘But on my word of honour to these people, Roger, you will be housed securely at the manor until the evidence can be properly assessed and your innocence established. And I further give my word that you will not even try to escape.’

  ‘If you do try to escape,’ says Probert, ‘it may chance that you don’t get very far.’ He chuckles. But the joke is a private one, and he is not inviting any of us to share it with him. Even me.

  *

  ‘I am sure that Roger Pole cannot be the murderer,’ says my mother.

  Long experience of my mother tells me that her view of his innocence is based imprimis on Pole’s being the heir to a nonexistent viscountcy, supplemented by his ability to pay oily compliments to one and all and to my mother in particular. It takes no account, as far as I can tell, of the indignities that I have suffered at his hands. Or of the known facts.

  ‘He had the ring, Mother,’ I say. ‘And the ring has been missing since Henderson died. He must have been involved.’

  ‘But he claims he knew nothing of the ring until you produced it from his hatband. I do like lace on a hat, don’t you?’

  ‘It was not in his hatband,’ I say, skating swiftly over that part of my investigation. ‘It was secured round the shaft of one of his ridiculous plumes.’

  ‘And you were informed by this badly penned and unsigned letter?’

  ‘Unsigned but wholly accurate letter,’ I say.

  ‘No gentleman would form his letters so ill. And no gentleman would denounce another clandestinely. Why did the person who wrote the letter not just accuse Roger himself? Why get you to do it?’

  ‘Because . . .’ I say. But this has worried me too. Somebody has ensured that Pole is accused without having to accuse him. ‘That is true. Condicio dulcis sine pulvere palmae, as Mr Probert would doubtless say.’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ says my mother.

  ‘To win the palm without the dust of racing,’ I say.

  ‘I am very little the wiser,’ says my mother. ‘You should tell a story in decent plain English or not at all. People who pepper their discourse with Latin phrases are merely showing off. Did anyone else accuse Roger?’

  ‘No,’ I say. The crowd has enjoyed the possibility of his guilt, but nobody had felt able to offer evidence against him.

  My mother nods as if proved right. ‘Who is this Mr Probert anyway?’

  ‘Another Royalist spy, like Henderson.’

  ‘Ah yes, I had heard he was called Henderson,’ says my mother.

  In some respects, we are a village without secrets of any kind. Though not in others.

  ‘Jem at least is safe,’ I say.

  ‘Ben’s boy?’

  ‘That’s right. He is in hiding in the woods, but I have persuaded him to tell the Colonel what he knows.’

  ‘I hope that’s wise,’ says my mother.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘Probert will never find him where he is.’

  My mother looks doubtful, but we are interrupted by a visitor. A female visitor. She asks to speak to me alone. She is angry. She is very angry. It may be because I have had Roger Pole arrested. In a few minutes I shall find out.

  Pole’s Promises

  I let Aminta call me various things. It is, I know from long experience, the shortest way. Occasionally, the thought occurs to me that she is rather pretty when she is angry. But most of the time I am ready to dodge when she hits me. It’s something I’ve been practising since Aminta was three years old.

  ‘I had no choice,’ I say when I am allowed to say anything.

  ‘No choice?’ For the storm has not yet blown itself out. ‘No choice? Even if you chose to doubt my word in the matter, could you not have approached Roger privately, somewhere other than the inn, and asked if it was true?’

  ‘You mean that he would give me his undertaking as a gentleman that it was untrue?’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ she hisses. ‘You should have heard of such things, even if you have no personal experience of them.’

  She’s been talking to my mother then.

  Still, ira furor brevis est, or hopefully anyway. I must concede that, with hindsight, my believing an anonymous and badly written note rather than her own assurances might seem disrespectful to her, but in a moment Aminta will have to calm herself. She too has no choice. She hasn’t hit me yet. So, she still needs me reasonably undamaged for some plan of her own.

  ‘In any case,’ I say, ‘what is Roger Pole to you? You may feel his arrest is an injustice, but it strikes neither at you nor at your father.’

  ‘Yesterday,’ she says in very measured tones, ‘Roger Pole asked for my hand in marriage.’

  I remember my mother warning me that I might lose Aminta to Pole. And I remember Pole saying that Aminta was quite pretty. But surely he said that only to annoy me.

  ‘And you, of course, refused him,’ I say. ‘And therefore feel a sense of guilt, which has manifested itself . . .’

  ‘I told him that I would marry him,’ she says.

  ‘Why?’ I say. It seems an odd thing to do. Even for Aminta.

  ‘Let’s see, shall we? I have no money. My father has no money. We live in the cottage that our own steward once occupied. We cannot pay the rent even on that. When my father dies . . . No, I cannot begin to contemplate what my position will be then, without a friend in the world. If I do not marry, what else am I supposed to do? Shall I beg in the street? Shall I take in washing? Should I sell my body on market day in Saffron Walden?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I say. It would be entirely the wrong place to sell her body. Even on market day.

  ‘And if I do not marry Roger Pole, who else am I to marry? I have long given up any hope that you will ask me.’

  ‘But . . .’ I say. ‘You mean . . . ?’

  ‘I’ve always liked you, ever since I was a little girl, even if you did try to hide from me in a tree.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘Of course I knew. I was six. I wasn’t entirely stupid. I saw you the moment I came out into the garden. But you were having such fun up there that I pretended to blunder about as if you were too clever for me. I just wanted you to be happy up there for as long as possible.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘You were so sweet then. So confident of yourself, but at the same time so easy to deceive. Just like a puppy. I’ll wager it took you days to realise that I’d tricked you.’

  ‘About twelve years,’ I say.

  ‘You are still sweet now of course. And still touchingly easy to deceive. I missed you so much when you went away to university. When you came home last Christmas, with your studies at Cambridge almost finished, I hoped you would come and visit us and maybe . . .
Well, in the end we didn’t see you at all. And Roger came to visit us often. That was when I realised that we would just remain friends, you and I. We are still friends, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We are friends.’

  I reflect that just occasionally we realise that we have got something very wrong and it may not be possible to put it right again. Ever. All is not lost of course. Pole may yet be executed for murder. Because I know he is guilty.

  ‘John,’ says Aminta, ‘you know Roger is innocent. You have to help me prove it.’

  She touches me lightly on the arm. Something inside of me melts. Even my resolve to see Pole’s head on a spike on London Bridge fades away like the morning mist when the sun breaks through. I try to recapture the happy image, but it is gone.

  ‘Pole had the ring,’ I point out. ‘In his hat.’ But I don’t find myself at all convincing. Why would anyone hide an incriminating ring round a feather in their own hat? And Pole’s surprise seemed genuine enough.

  ‘An enemy placed the ring there and then left the note for you.’

  Aminta’s theory, you will have observed, is not so different from my mother’s theory. That may or may not be an inexplicable coincidence.

  ‘Pole has nothing to fear in any case,’ I say. ‘The Colonel says he was at the Big House all night and will, I am sure, vouch for him. I saw him leave the inn. So did lots of others.’