The Fat Badger Society (Drusilla Davanish Mysteries Book 2)

by Dawn Harris

  Fortunately, when they moved to France he’d left some funds in an English bank, but their circumstances were now considerably reduced. Although they could afford to buy a small house on the island, my aunt’s strong sense of propriety required her, as she saw it, to remain at Westfleet until I married, so that I would not scandalise the Island by living on my own. A thought that still had me smiling as I left the Manor.

  Heading towards the village I soon came to the row of neat cottages my father had built for the estate workers, and acknowledged a greeting from the landlord of “The Five Bells,” who came out of the door as I passed.

  ‘Good to see you home again, my lady.’

  ‘It’s good to be back, Barlow. How are your wife and children?’

  ‘All in good health, my lady.’

  Walking on I passed the duck pond, smiling at the antics of some ducklings, and waved to the children playing on the village green. Going up the hill on which the church stood, I hurried past the parsonage, unseen by the Uptons thankfully, for escaping from them without being rude was never easy, and then I took the right turn up the very steep hill that led to Breighton House.

  Julia looked no better than she had the previous day, and I prayed her tiresome sickness would go soon. She sat in the garden while I searched the rooms Septimus had used. Finding nothing in his bedchamber I went down to his study and looked through his desk, books and other belongings. But there was no mention anywhere of the society he’d joined, or any names that might be connected. I sat at his desk and put my head in my hands in despair.

  Then it struck me; there was a way of finding out who these Fat Badgers were. A way I should have thought of before.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When I promised Julia I’d try to find out who had murdered Septimus, I knew I had to put my duty to Mr. Pitt first, never imagining that the two matters could be connected. Now it was obvious that discovering who’d killed Septimus would lead me to the other Fat Badgers, and to the identity of Mr. Brown himself.

  Yet, to have any chance of success, I had to make sure no-one could guess what I was doing, and that presented me with certain difficulties. For, as a noblewoman, there were places on the Island I simply could not go without causing the kind of comment that would make it obvious what I was doing. I needed someone to assist me, someone who could go unnoticed where I could not. And the person most suited to that role was my groom, John Mudd.

  Mudd had come to Westfleet at the age of fifteen, when I was three, and there was no servant I trusted more, nor one who was more loyal. He had always been totally devoted to my interests, and nothing had ever changed that, not even his brief marriage some fifteen years ago, or the loss of his wife and son in childbirth, and the dreadful months that followed. I had only been twelve at the time, too young to understand properly. But, conscious of his grief, I’d tried to find him a new wife by pointing out pretty young village girls to him, when we were out riding. He’d shaken his head, saying he’d never marry again. Nor had he.

  After dinner I walked down to the stables and found him leaning on a rail watching my aunt’s horse being put through its paces in the paddock. I stood talking to him about the horses for some time, as I frequently did. Then taking the Fat Badger token from my pocket I showed it to him. 'Have you ever seen anything like this before, John?’

  Taking the token, he studied it carefully before returning it to me. 'No, my lady, I haven’t.’

  ‘Mr Reevers says this may be used by members of a corresponding society as a means of identification.’

  'A corresponding society?’ he repeated in surprise. 'I’ve read about them in the newspapers, my lady.’ My father had taught Mudd to read years ago, and our newspapers were passed on to him after we had finished with them. He’d told me once that he thought it wonderful that he, a simple groom, could read about the most important people in the land. How the King and his family had spent the day, and what Mr Pitt had said in Parliament. Since then, in Windsor, he’d met the King several times, and had told me, in unaccustomed awe, that it had made him very proud.

  He went on, 'Those gentlemen arrested in London — didn’t they belong to corresponding societies?’

  'I believe so.’

  'I thought they just wanted working men to have the vote.’

  'Indeed,’ I murmured dryly.

  'Are they really planning to start a revolution like the Frenchies, my lady?’

  'Mr Pitt has evidence that some societies are arming themselves with pikes and muskets.’ There wasn’t a soul in England who hadn’t heard how the severed heads of the aristocracy were paraded through the streets of Paris on pikes.

  Mudd shuddered. 'I can’t believe that kind of thing will happen here, my lady. The very thought of that guillotine makes me go cold.’

  I looked at him in amusement. 'I’m the one who will have cause to worry about the guillotine if there’s a revolution in England, not you.’

  'No-one wants that kind of thing here, my lady.’

  'I hope you’re right,’ I said feelingly. 'The thing is John, Mr Ford had one of these tokens in his desk.'

  ‘Mrs Tanfield’s brother,’ he exclaimed in a shocked voice. 'A fine young gentleman like Mr. Septimus? Surely he wasn’t a revolutionary?’

  'No, I’m quite certain he wasn’t. But he did want to change the way we elect our members of parliament. He thought that with the right people in parliament, more could be done to prevent poverty and hunger.’

  'That’s a different thing altogether, my lady.’ He spoke with such approval I asked if he wished he had the vote. 'I do, my lady. But it will be a long time before that happens.’

  'Not so long, I fear, John, as it will be before I am allowed to,’ I pointed out dryly.

  He opened his mouth to protest, thought for a moment, then realised I was right. ‘Seems to me, my lady, there’s a lot that needs changing. But in a peaceable manner.’

  ‘There’s nothing very peaceable about a society that murders one of its own members.’

  ‘Murdered?’ he gasped. ‘Mr. Septimus?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ I explained that I was determined to find the culprits and asked if he was willing to help me, pointing out that it was no part of his duties to assist me with anything that was likely to be dangerous. But he brushed that aside as if it was of no importance, promising to help in any way he could. I told him everything, including how terrified Septimus was of heights, about his agitated behaviour before he died, and how he’d put all his affairs in order. For he could not assist me without such knowledge.

  ‘I want the names of the other members of the society he joined. If I knew which inn they met at, the innkeeper should be able to help.’

  He nodded and stood frowning. Then, quite suddenly, his eyes widened, as if he’d remembered something. 'May I see that token again, my lady?’ I handed it to him and he said thoughtfully, 'The Pig and Whistle in Luckton used to be called The Fat Badger. They changed the name about ten years ago.’

  'Are you sure?’

  'Yes, my lady. My father - er, what I mean is, it’s an inn used by smugglers.’ Mudd’s father had been involved with smuggling for years, and despite his increasing years, probably still was. 'I’ve heard him talk of it, my lady. Sometimes he forgets and uses the old name.’

  I could hardly believe my good fortune. If this was the right inn then I would soon have the names of these Fat Badgers. Eagerly I said, ‘We’ll call in there tomorrow, John.’

  He looked at me in alarm. 'But a place like that will be full of smugglers.’

  ‘Not if we go early in the morning, surely?’

  'My lady, I could go----'

  ‘Thank you John, but no. I must do this myself.’

  'His lordship would never have approved, my lady.’

  My father had been dead for a year and a half now, yet Mudd had still not quite got out of the habit of being guided by what he believed my father would have thought.

  'I must speak to the innkeeper,
John. And that is what I mean to do.’ He still hesitated and I did what I could to put his mind at rest. 'Don’t worry, I shan’t go into the inn without you.’

  Mr. Hamerton, who had dined at Norton House with Mr. Reevers and Mr. East, returned later, saying the gentlemen had very kindly offered to show him around our part of the Island the following morning. He was full of praise for the wonderful views he had seen that day from the Downs, and was eager to get started in the morning.

  The two gentlemen duly arrived soon after breakfast, when I had meant to tell Mr. Reevers about Septimus’s Fat Badger token, and that he’d probably been murdered. But I had no opportunity to do so, and seeing no great urgency I decided to wait until after I had visited the inn. In truth, the idea of handing him the names of the members of the Fat Badger Corresponding Society – on a plate, so to speak -- was immensely appealing.

  The three gentlemen were about to leave when Richard Tanfield was ushered into the drawing room. Mr. Hamerton took one look at that blue-eyed, rugged figure, and gasped out loud. For one moment Richard seemed equally dumbstruck, then he put down the book he was carrying and shook Mr. Hamerton’s hand warmly. ‘I don’t understand why you are here, but I’m delighted to see you again.’

  Still bewildered, Mr. Hamerton blurted out, ‘What are you doing on the Isle of Wight?’

  ‘I live here. About a mile away, in fact.’

  Mr. Hamerton’s jaw dropped for a second time. ‘I thought you said you lived in Ireland.’

  ‘Ireland?’ Richard repeated incredulously. ‘I spoke of the Island, not Ireland.’ Like all of us, Richard often referred to the Isle of Wight as “the Island,” and once this was explained both men began to laugh uproariously at the misunderstanding.

  ‘I take it you two know each other,’ I teased in amusement.

  Richard said, ‘Well, in truth, we have only met once. In London a few weeks ago.’ And turning to Mr. Hamerton again, asked him to dine at Breighton House later that day, an invitation that was eagerly accepted. Richard then recollected his reason for calling, picked up the book he’d brought and handed it to my aunt. ‘Julia asked me to return it, ma’am. And to tell you how much she enjoyed it.’

  I smiled to myself aware that, unable to visit herself, she’d sent Richard to find out about our guest from Windsor. Thinking back, I realised I hadn’t mentioned his name. I wondered how they had met, for Richard did not belong to any London clubs and I assumed had only been there for a day or two at most. Chance meetings did occur, yet the kind of rapport they clearly enjoyed rarely came about in five minutes. A fact that left me feeling a little uneasy.

  Once the gentlemen had gone I left the house as if setting out on my usual morning ride, correctly accompanied by Mudd. Heading east we made our way up onto Luckton Down, the village itself being some seven or eight miles distant. As I’d expected the inn was perfectly respectable, indeed I was sure Septimus would not have ventured into a disreputable one.

  After tethering the horses, Mudd pushed open the oak door, and I walked inside to a newly swept floor, and the tang of fresh sea air coming in through wide open windows, which was rapidly removing the smell of stale beer and tobacco. As I had hoped, there were no customers at that time of the day, and when Mudd called for the innkeeper, he appeared almost at once.

  His mouth fell open when he saw me. 'Your ladyship,’ he gasped, for in this part of the Island everyone knew who I was, even if I did not know them. But he soon recovered and confirmed that Mr. Septimus Ford and his friends had indeed met here. I explained Septimus’s sister wished to contact those friends and said with an encouraging smile, 'If you would be good enough to furnish me with their names, she would be most grateful.’

  'I wish I could help you, my lady, but Mr Ford was the only gentleman I spoke to. After his accident I got a message saying there wouldn’t be any more meetings. All I can tell you is, they used my upstairs room, and had a light supper at nine. Mr Ford arranged it, and paid promptly. A proper young gentleman he was.’

  'Yes, indeed,’ I agreed. 'Well – could you describe these other gentlemen?’

  He ran a hand round his chin. 'Like I said, Mr Ford arranged things, and I hardly noticed the others. I’m usually run off my feet at that time of night.’

  'I see,’ I said, trying to keep the despair out of my voice. ‘Can you tell me if they all rode here?’

  He lifted his shoulders a little, his face expressing distress at being unable to assist me. 'I really don’t know, my lady.’

  'You must know which horses were in the stables, surely?’

  'Well – there was Mr Ford’s, of course.’ He scratched his head as if thinking. ‘Now I come to think of it, Jim did mention another horse that was bang up to the mark.’

  ‘Jim?’ I lifted an eyebrow in query.

  ‘My ostler.’ His expression lightened. ‘He’ll remember. If you’d like to wait here, I’ll----'

  ‘No, I’ll come with you. I should like to speak to Jim myself.’

  'Just as you like, my lady.’ He led the way out the back door and round to the stables.

  The inn was a respectable size for a small village, and he told me that most of his regular customers lived in Luckton itself, but he kept a horse and a gig, both of which could be hired out. 'I can take a dozen horses here,’ he said proudly. 'And I’ve two rooms for visitors to the Island, and my upstairs room for customers wanting to meet in private, like poor Mr Ford.’

  I nodded, showing no more than polite interest, as I suspected most customers hiring the private room were smugglers. Those who ran the gangs probably stabled horses here, using the inn to give out orders. Smuggling was a part of Island life and while I did not buy smuggled goods myself, many otherwise respectable people did.

  Mudd and I followed the innkeeper to the stables, where Jim was inspecting a rather worn bridle. On seeing me, he put the bridle down, and touched his forelock. The innkeeper explained I was inquiring about the gentlemen who used to meet in the upstairs room on Tuesday nights.

  'Yes,’ I said, smiling at him. 'If they came every week, you will have known their horses.’

  He nodded eagerly. 'There was Mr Ford’s bay mare. And another gentleman had a lively looking chestnut.'

  I took a deep breath. ‘Can you tell me the name of the second gentleman?’ Jim’s brow furrowed in thought, followed after a long interval by a statement that he disremembered ever being told. Sighing inwardly, I asked, ‘What did this gentleman look like?’

  Jim’s brow furrowed even deeper, and then he shook his head. 'It’s horses I remember, not faces.’

  'Well, was he tall?’

  Jim hesitated. 'I don’t think so, my lady.’

  'All right, Jim,’ I said kindly, for it was useless to expect him to recall what had not been of interest to him. ‘Tell me, were there any other horses on those Tuesday nights?’

  'Yes, but they weren’t up to much. Three or four tired old nags, that’s all.’

  'Would you recognise the horses again?’

  Removing his cap he scratched his bald head. 'The chestnut, I would. But not the others.’

  ‘When did you last see the chestnut? Was it before or after Mr Ford had his accident?’

  ‘Before,’ he said without hesitation.

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Yes, my lady. I remember in particular because Mr Ford and this other gentleman wanted to talk in private, and they gave me a guinea to warn them if anyone came near the stables.’

  I thanked him myself with a guinea, and on going back into the inn, I asked the innkeeper, 'You said the group always had supper?’

  'Yes, my lady.’

  'Who took the food into them?’

  'Betsy Reid, my lady.’

  'She might remember something.’ If she had seen these same men every week, she must know what they looked like, and might even know their names. Eagerly, I said, 'I’d like to speak to her, if you would tell me where----'

  ‘I only wish it was possib
le, my lady. But she died two days ago.’

  ‘Died?’ I repeated, as if such a thing was impossible.

  ‘Yes, my lady. She was as right as rain first thing, but dead by nightfall. In terrible agony, she was. Dr. Redding said he’d seen it before on occasion. Some problem with the stomach.’

  There wasn’t much to be said after that. I paid the innkeeper well for his trouble, and urged, 'If you or Jim remember anything else, I’d like to know at once. Anything at all, even if it seems unimportant.’

  'I’ll do that, my lady, with pleasure,’ he beamed, jingling the coins in his hand.

  What did I have to go on, I thought, as Mudd and I rode off up the narrow street. A gentleman, who owned a lively chestnut horse, had stopped coming to the meetings shortly before Septimus Ford had died.

  ‘What do we do now, my lady?’ Mudd asked, breaking into my thoughts.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ I sighed. There had to be a way of finding out who these people were. There had to be. I had been so sure the innkeeper would know and that I would be able to hand the names to Mr. Reevers that very day. I shook my head at my own foolishness, for I should have known better. When helping father with his book, a few problems had been quite easy to resolve, but many had not, and we had totally failed to get to the bottom of a few. I had not forgotten that, but tended to remember the ones I had solved. And I had the distinct feeling that nothing in this business was going to be easy.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I did not know what to do next, and that preyed on my mind for the rest of the day. That night, after snuffing out my bedside candle, I left the bed curtains pulled back. A shaft of moonlight shone through a small gap where the window curtains did not quite meet, illuminating the portrait of my father on the wall. And I wondered what he would do in this situation. I lay awake going through what little I knew, without finding an answer.

  Going into the workroom in the morning, I sat at my father’s old desk praying for inspiration. I ran my hand over the wood, thinking of him sitting here, and smiling at the memory of how he loved to hide things in the secret drawers, of which there were three.