Danger at Thatcham Hall

by Frances Evesham

  Chapter Two

  Nelson thundered along the avenue of pleached elms to Thatcham Hall as though escaping a hail of bullets. His shout shattered the calm of the ancient, worn stones and brought servants running from all directions.

  He leaped from the saddle, surrendered his horse to the care of a bewildered coachman, and addressed the most authoritative figure of the bunch, “There’s a dead man out in the woods. Send for a doctor, man—though it’s too late for him to do much good.”

  The tall, lugubrious butler wore the mournful expression of one who’s seen everything and is surprised by nothing. He lowered a dignified head and turned to address the nearest underlings.

  Groups of servants muttered, heads together. A small, wiry woman, neatly dressed in black, stepped forward. “Dead, sir? Whatever has happened?” The keys jangling at her waist marked her as the housekeeper.

  “There’s a body half in the stream over yonder; young fellow, black hair, working clothes. Do you know who he could be?”

  “He’s not from the Hall. There’s no one missing from here, I’m sure. Master John is safe in the nursery, and the boot boy’s hanging around the kitchen as usual, is he not, Mrs. Bramble?”

  The cook’s ample bosom heaved. “All’s well here. It’ll be one of the farm lads.”

  Nelson said. “Is your master at home?”

  The butler, Nelson’s orders suitably delegated, remained calm. “Lord Thatcham is away at present, sir, on business, and Lady Thatcham is taking tea with friends. Both plan to return before dinner. My name is Mayhew, sir. I am at your disposal.”

  The butler’s eyes appraised Nelson discreetly, one slightly raised eyebrow hinting that the stranger’s dishevelled appearance hadn’t escaped his attention. Dark clods of mud clung to the boots Nelson had so carefully polished before his journey. Dirt stained his new riding breeches.

  Mayhew gestured towards the building. “Perhaps you would like to come inside, sir, and sit by the fire while we deal with this unfortunate business.”

  Nelson passed a hand over his face and took a breath, his heart still pounding. The dead man’s sightless, open eyes and twisted body reminded him too clearly of other corpses he’d seen. Boys only just reaching manhood had lain, cold and dead in their own blood, on a foreign battlefield. “No, I’ll go back.” He squinted down the drive. “Here’s the cart arriving from the Manor. Will someone come with us to retrieve the poor fellow? We must see who he is—was—and tell his family.”

  Nelson started at the sight of the slight figure sitting next to the manservant. “Good heavens! You?”

  Miss Martin, the young lady from Fairford Manor, jumped down from the cart. She’d changed her dress, but the sash was coming untied. Copious ringlets had escaped both pins and bonnet. “I want to go with you, Mr. Roberts, to make sure the man is properly returned to his family.” She clamped her lips together. Argument, he saw, would be futile. Nelson bowed.

  “I’ll also come with you, sir,” the housekeeper was equally firm, “in Lady Thatcham’s absence. She would have wished to visit the man’s family herself.”

  Mayhew added his voice, ending the matter. “Thank you, Mrs. Rivers. That would be most suitable.”

  The cart jolted along rough tracks to the stream. Nelson hoped the body would turn out to be a figment of his imagination, but there, under the trees, lay the unknown man, half-in half-out of the stream. Water bubbled past, undisturbed.

  Mrs. Rivers, the housekeeper, broke the tense silence. “It’s Daniel Fisher, poor lad. Married less than a year. Works for Farmer Jones.”

  It wasn’t far to the man’s cottage. Nelson longed to be elsewhere as Daniel’s wife opened the door, alerted by the noise of the cart, her expression switching in moments from interest through suspicion to horror. She seemed to age thirty years as they carried her husband inside. Eyes wide but dry, she wrung red, work-worn hands together, and dropped on to a stool, body sagging. Pulling a worn apron over her head, she moaned, just once. “What will become of me now?” she whispered. Nelson leaned close to hear, but could think of nothing to say.

  Mrs. Rivers busied herself making tea that no one wanted, adding a few sticks to the tiny fire that barely flickered in the grate, and patting the woman’s shoulder. At last, they left. Miss Martin’s lips were white and her cheeks pale as Nelson held out a hand to help her into the cart. She should have remained at the Hall. This was no place for delicate young ladies. “I hope the shock hasn’t been harmful to you.”

  A hint of colour returned to her cheeks. “Mr. Roberts, I am not made of sugar, you know. I just wish I could have helped more.”

  “Accidents to farm hands are common, I’m afraid. It seems the poor fellow fell, cutting himself on the scythe. The doctor will examine him and may be able to tell us more.”

  “He seems so young to be married. He’s hardly old enough to be out of school, never mind working in the fields.” She chewed one finger of her glove, gazing straight ahead. Nelson flicked the reins and the horse trotted faster, shaking the cart. He sought for a topic of conversation, but nothing seemed appropriate at such a time.

  Miss Martin spoke first. “Will you be long in Berkshire?”

  “A short while. Lord Thatcham sent for me on a matter of business.”

  “How interesting.” Her voice was polite. “Are you from hereabouts?”

  “From London. I work as a barrister in the courts.”

  “Indeed.” There was a pause. She seemed to be considering, head on one side. “London. I travelled from there recently. It was a long and tiring journey, by coach. Perhaps you came on the train?”

  “I preferred to ride today, in order to enjoy the spring day, even though the train would take but two hours.”

  She murmured, “Two hours.” Nelson tightened his fingers on the reins, keeping the horse steady. What did her frown mean? She spoke again. “A barrister, you say. I won’t enquire after your business at Thatcham Hall, for it’s not my concern, but I would have thought you far too busy to leave the city. Surely London must be full of poor wretches just waiting for you to dispatch them to prison—or worse—for stealing a crust of bread to keep themselves alive.”

  Nelson turned his head away and grimaced. Called to the bar less than a year ago, he resented attacks on his new profession. This young lady was that worst kind of soft-hearted reformer, ignorant of the true state of the world and ready to believe nonsense about thieving lawyers. She’d surely never known hunger, like the starving 10-year-old boy Nelson had fought to keep out of prison for stealing a purse containing a few pence. “No, I more often defend the poor wretches.” At least the boy ended up in the workhouse; he’d eat every day.

  “So, you help thieves and murderers who deserve to be deported go free?”

  “Miss Martin, I can tell you have little time for those who earn our living from the practise of law. Yet, surely you’d call upon a lawyer yourself if you were ever falsely accused.”

  She swivelled to look Nelson full in the face, colour flooding her cheeks at last. “You must forgive me, Mr. Roberts. I’m afraid I’m teasing you. Mama says it’s not a woman’s place to argue with a man.”

  Nelson raised an eyebrow. “It’s certainly unusual. Argument is my trade as well as my pleasure, but it’s not often I meet a young lady willing to engage in debate.”

  “Well then, I will admit I enjoy a dispute and often take an opposing side simply for fun. Papa used to encourage me. Poor Mama could hardly contain her disapproval.”

  Nelson let the horse drop to a walk. Miss Martin’s eyes sparkled with the light of debate, and his horror at Daniel’s sudden death receded. Why rush back to the Hall? “Perhaps you also have a view on the recent abolition of the Corn Laws, Miss Martin?”

  When Lord Thatcham returned, the flurry of activity had died down. He called Nelson into his study. Nelson, aware of the damage the day’s unexpected activity had caused to his attire, wished he’d taken time to change.

  He polished the toe of
his right boot on the back of his left leg, then offered a similar service to his left boot. Years as an army officer had instilled a horror of unpolished footwear. There was little he could do about the state of his trousers.

  A comforting masculine aura pervaded Lord Thatcham’s study. Books: leather spines elegant in sage green and maroon, rested against one another on the only table in the room. This was an old oak affair, battered and scratched through centuries of use. A black Labrador, curled on a rug, raised its head as Nelson entered, blinked twice and subsided with a world-weary sigh.

  His host was a few years older than Nelson. The crisply pressed, tight-fitting dark frock coat, blue and white vine-patterned waistcoat and neat black trousers spoke of expensive tailoring and careful valeting. Nelson winced at the contrast with his own dishevelled clothes, but Lord Thatcham, manners perfect, gave no sign he’d noticed his guest’s disordered appearance.

  The earl waved to one of a pair of worn, brown leather chesterfields and sank into the other, immaculate boots stretched out across a faded rug. “I want to thank you, Roberts, for your activity this afternoon. It was unfortunate that both my wife and I were away. Lady Thatcham has arrived home, now, and is naturally upset to hear of the accident, but relieved that you and Miss Martin behaved with such presence of mind.”

  He cleared his throat. “It makes me even more certain that I am right to ask you to help out in this awkward matter I mentioned in my letter. Tanqueray, your Head of Chambers, tells me you’ve already had a triumph in court.”

  Nelson coughed, hiding ridiculous delight at the thought of Sir Thomas Tanqueray QC talking of his newest barrister’s biggest case so far. It had taken all Nelson’s ingenuity to overturn a false accusation of embezzlement thrown at a wealthy merchant by an unscrupulous rival. “A small success, my lord. It was a simple enough case, in all honesty—a lazy prosecution that should never have come to court.”

  “Nevertheless, a good start. Tanqueray speaks highly of you.”

  Nelson kept his expression neutral. His host offered a cigar, but he shook his head. Lord Thatcham took one, rolled it in his fingers, cut the end, struck a light and breathed out a cloud of cigar smoke, watching it drift upwards to the ceiling before he continued. “The truth is, we have some mischief afoot here at Thatcham Hall. I need someone with the wit to untangle the mess before more damage is done.”

  He flicked a speck of ash from his elegant waistcoat. “I don’t like what’s happening, my boy, and that’s a fact. There are always arguments and rivalries on an estate like this. People gossip and squabble. Most of the time it’s naught but nonsense, but this is out of the ordinary. I need someone from outside the Hall to get to the bottom of it: someone who can solve problems and keep his counsel. The world has already taken too great an interest in my concerns.”

  Three years ago, Lord Thatcham’s unconventional marriage had been the talk of England. The Penny Satirist and a host of other newspapers had put forward a range of largely fictional insights into the strange affair involving Lord Thatcham and the penniless waif who became his wife.

  Nelson focused on the present. “Has a crime been committed, my lord?”

  “Hmm. A bad business.” Nelson waited. “I took this latest problem of mine to Tanqueray, and he advised me to enlist your help.” Lord Thatcham paused. When he spoke next, his imitation of the famous QC was perfect. “‘One of my brightest pupils.’ Those were the exact words, my boy. ‘Mind like a gimlet. And discreet. Never tells the left hand what the right hand’s doing.’”

  “If you need discretion, my lord, I’m your man. Maybe I should know a few details?”

  Lord Thatcham blew a ring of smoke that hovered in the air. “It sounds trivial, but you’ll understand it can have serious consequences. The fact is, there’s been a sudden spate of cattle maiming in the area, and all the evidence points to one of the servants here. The footman, James, has been with us a few years now. Not bright, but loyal. Something of a favourite with my wife. The man’s been arrested and held in custody until his case comes up in two weeks, so the servants are distraught.”

  “That’s a hanging affair, sir.” Nelson thought fast. He doubted such a sentence would be carried out, but the footman would probably be deported. Once on the other side of the world, he was unlikely ever to be able to afford to return to England, even if he survived the hardships of the long sea journey and a life of hard labour in the harsh antipodean climate.

  It was something of an anti-climax. Nelson had hoped for a jewel theft, perhaps, or a kidnapping, something dramatic to make his name. This affair, to be kept within the confines of the Thatcham Hall estate, offered little promise of fame or glory.

  On the other hand, if he impressed Lord Thatcham, who knew what future engagements might come his way? The patronage of a peer of the realm with a seat in Parliament and connections to the highest in the land could lead to great things. It could be a giant stride up the ladder towards wealth and success. “I’ll do my best.”

  Lord Thatcham held up a hand. “I’d value your opinion on this business of the farm hand—”

  Running footsteps thundered outside the room, accompanied by a flurry of giggling. The door swung open, and a young lady burst into the room. “Hugh, you must settle this argument for us at once—oh!” She stopped dead, one hand at her mouth.

  Lord Thatcham and Nelson rose from their seats. The earl disposed of his cigar.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, brother. I didn’t know you had company.”

  Chapter Three

  The new arrival’s blonde ringlets cascaded over her shoulders. A pair of bright blue eyes twinkled with mischief. No more than medium height, her figure was trim and neat. This vision of loveliness must be the famous Miss Selena Dainty, Lord Thatcham’s only sister, still unmarried despite both an unassailable position as the most popular debutante in her first London Season and the continuing possession of a string of admirers. Three years of Society later, she remained resolutely single. It was almost unheard-of.

  The door opened again to admit Miss Martin. She curtsied to Lord Thatcham, hair blazing in the light. A sunbeam, reflected off its surface, gleamed with gold. Meanwhile, the lovely Miss Dainty smiled at Nelson, blue eyes sparkling. “I do beg your pardon, sir,” she said. “It was only nonsense to do with names for some new puppies.”

  A cloud crossed her face, dimming the twinkle in her eyes. “Miss Martin has been telling me about poor Daniel. We were used to seeing him often in the fields. It is all so very sad for his wife. Lady Thatcham went straight away to see her as soon as she returned home, and I shall go tomorrow with a basket of provisions, for the poor woman will have been relying on Daniel’s wages.”

  Nelson tore his eyes away from Miss Dainty’s face, to find her companion regarding him, eyebrows raised, a half-smile on her lips. He gathered scattered wits. “I hope Miss Martin has recovered from the shock.”

  “Thank you, yes.” She spoke to Lord Thatcham. “My lord, I have just spent a most amusing half-hour with your son, and I believe it would be impossible to remain sad in his presence.”

  Lord Thatcham took her arm. “Walk with me, then, and tell me of his latest mischief. I am sure he will already have introduced you to his collection of spiders.”

  “Oh yes. He invited me to choose one of my own and explained that they do not very often escape.”

  Miss Dainty laid delicate fingers on Nelson’s arm as they followed her brother from the room. “Hugh tells me you’ll set everything straight and ensure poor James is found innocent of this dreadful crime. Of course, it’s quite ridiculous that anyone should think him capable of doing such a thing. I don’t know what the constable can be thinking of. He really is the most foolish creature. I’m sure you’ll soon put things right for James.”

  The news of Daniel’s death cast a pall over the inhabitants of Thatcham Hall. Daniel worked for Farmer Jones, one of Lord Thatcham’s tenants. Lord Thatcham asked Nelson to accompany him as he questioned the farmer. “W
e need to get to the bottom of this sad business, to prevent such a thing happening again. I’d value your opinion, Roberts.”

  It seemed the man had swung his scythe with too much enthusiasm and too little care, cutting his leg so severely he had bled to death. Jones fidgeted from one leg to the other and explained, twisting his cap this way and that, how Daniel had gone out that morning with a hunk of cheese and a loaf in his kerchief, under instruction to spend the day clearing one of the pastures. The man’s job was to check for weeds, whether ferns or nightshade, that could harm the cattle, in preparation for moving them in to take advantage of the new growth of grass.

  “Indeed, my lord,” Jones said. “It was none of my doing. Nothing out of the ordinary about sending young Daniel out for such a purpose, as your Lordship well knows. Always slow in the head, Daniel, you see. I can’t—couldn’t—set him on anything more difficult than chopping weeds and brambles.”

  “All right, Jones. Accidents happen, I suppose.” Lord Thatcham sent the farmer about his business. “We’ll get back to the Hall, Roberts, and I’d be grateful if you’d put your mind to that matter of the cow-maiming.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “Damned distressing for the ladies, all this.”

  Despite the gloom that lay over the Hall’s inhabitants, a buzz of excitement lightened Nelson’s step as he visited the servants’ quarters, confident he’d succeed in proving the footman, James, innocent of cruelty. If he were truly innocent, of course. How difficult could it be?

  So long as the investigations would not prove James guilty. Someone had injured the cattle. If it proved to be James, the footman, it would be hard to find a way to exonerate him without accusing someone else. Nelson would draw the line at putting an innocent man’s head in the noose.

  The butler’s pantry was small but pleasant, furnished with upright chairs and a table. Mr. Mayhew wrote, slowly and with great care, in a leather-bound ledger. Nelson waited in the doorway while the butler frowned at the book and closed it, aligning it with the edge of the table as he rose.