The Cornish Lady

by Nicola Pryce

  Once again, we spiralled down the ill-lit stone steps. Today, I was prepared. No more begging. I would inform Mr Trevelyan I had written to Father and would engage Matthew Reith, the best attorney in Truro. It was not exactly true, but it would scare him.

  The door was half open, thin light filtering through the window, but the room smelled fresher, a proper bed and table in Edgar’s cell, a vase of flowers on Henry’s desk. He stood up as we entered but I walked past him, pushing open the heavy grille to Edgar’s cell. He was sitting on his bed, freshly washed and shaved, and looked up when I entered, a haunted plea in his eyes. I ran to him, throwing my arms around him.

  ‘I don’t remember anything – nothing. I just woke up in here and that’s the honest truth.’

  I drew him down to the bed, sitting next to him on the horse-hair mattress. ‘Try to remember – try hard. And don’t pretend. I want the truth.’ Mary and Henry were standing by the grille and I glared up at Henry Trevelyan. ‘Has Jacob Boswell come yet?’

  He shook his head. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, his hair ruffled. ‘I had men out looking for him. He was seen this morning boarding the stagecoach to Truro.’

  I bit back my anger. ‘Your so-called friend has deserted you, Edgar. There’s no one else to speak for you. It’s just you – so I need you to tell me everything. Let’s start with your exact movements on Sunday evening.’

  ‘I don’t remember. Christ Almighty – if I could remember, d’you think I wouldn’t say? I’m in for coach robbery—’

  ‘Right, listen, Edgar – no swearing. No more licentious behaviour. No laudanum of any kind. No drink. No lying. No feeling sorry for yourself. Have you got that?’

  ‘Christ, Angelica—’

  ‘No swearing. Now, tell me, what did you do on Sunday evening–where did you go? Think, Edgar. Which den did you go to? Was it one like the Heron Inn but somewhere in Falmouth?You must remember how you started the evening?’

  His bony fingers trembled against his pale face, his lank hair falling across his forehead. He began shaking, sweating, tears streaming down his face. ‘I don’t know its name. It’s down by the wharf – behind the brewery. There’s a place you get to from the old sewer – it’s no more than a room.’

  Mary brought him a tankard of freshly squeezed lemons. ‘Here, my love – it’s sweetened with honey and will do you the power of good. Well done remembering – that’s got us started. Now what else can you remember? Who was there? Who were you talking to? Can you remember faces, or names, or what you talked about?’

  Edgar threw back his head, laughing through his tears. ‘Mrs Bohenna, we don’t talk – there’s no discussing politics or the state of the war. We just—’ He clasped his hands over his face again, crying piteously. ‘You sound just like Mother. I remember her voice.’

  ‘Well now, she wouldn’t want you crying like that, would she? Think, my love. You were in this den. Now what was going on? Who was there?’

  He went rigid, staring with open eyes, like a statue, frozen, unable to move, and I willed him to breathe. He gasped for breath. ‘There was a woman. I can remember a woman. She was – she was dancing, undoing her bodice…’

  ‘We don’t want to know that, Edgar.’

  ‘No Angelica, I remember now. She was goading us – all of us. She held up a necklace telling us how easy it was – how the coaches were leaving, how the first one who brought her back a necklace could…’

  Henry unlocked a drawer. ‘Was this the necklace, Mr Lilly?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I hardly saw it. Christ, I remember now. I remember searching my bag for money and I found a silver dish. I had no idea it was in my bag.’

  ‘You didn’t steal it from Trenwyn House?’ My voice was like iron.

  ‘No, of course not. Never. I’d never seen it before.’

  ‘You had. You were just too drunk to notice.’

  Mary squeezed between us. ‘Now, now, no quarrelling – we’re family and we help each other. We don’t judge. Go on, my love. What happened with the lady? Think hard, try to remember.’

  He clutched his stomach, wincing in pain. ‘I remember reaching out to her. She was holding up the necklace, laughing, saying it was easy – the coaches always slowed at a certain point and all you had to do was take their money.’ He shook his head at Mary’s proffered tankard, pushing it away.

  ‘No, drink it, my love. It will do you the power of good. Now, what else did this brazen harlot say – or do?’

  Edgar smiled, the boy in him shining through his gaunt cheeks. ‘She said to shout in French – and I remember now – she said she had a pistol for anyone man enough amongst us.’

  Mary clamped her hand across her mouth. I wanted to scream, shake him, howl at him. I wanted to be sick. In the stunned silence, Edgar slipped slowly to the floor, curling up like a small child, his hands over his head. Mary clutched my hand. ‘So you took her challenge?’

  He lay on the cold flagstones, clasping his head tighter. ‘No. No. Believe me, I wasn’t man enough for her. I didn’t take the pistol. I didn’t. I gave someone the silver dish and I…I just bought what I needed.’

  ‘You didn’t need it.’ I sounded angry but fear twisted my gut. What if he was guilty? Dear God, what if he was guilty?

  Henry stood at the grille, his voice firm. ‘He did need it, Miss Lilly. Once in the grip of opium, the body’s cravings take over all rational thought. It’s the only thing that drives them. Edgar’s illness will take time to conquer – these cravings will continue for a long while yet.’

  I slid to the cold stone floor, taking Edgar into my arms. ‘Why, Edgar?’ I could barely speak, my words a whisper. ‘Why when you have so much, when you lack for nothing? When you have—’

  ‘Such a promising future?’ His voice was hard, bitter. ‘A lost, grieving boy sent away at twelve to make a man of him? Ordered to Oxford to make the sort of friends I needed – for what? For some glittering political career…or, let’s get to the crux of the matter, to marry a title to fulfil Mother’s dreams? “Come this way, lords and ladies…line up, line up…we’ll supply the fortune; all you need do is supply the title…here, join the queue. Have your pedigree ready…my desperate father will pay anything you ask.”’

  I held my clenched fist against my mouth. ‘Edgar, stop. Please, stop.’

  ‘Oh, I stopped, all right. Well, they stopped it for me. The truth is, Angelica, I was sent down two months ago – but I’m glad it’s over and done with. I couldn’t take it any more. Everyone sneering at me, detesting me, laughing at my stupidity – but what did I expect? I’m not clever – I should never have gone there. Every day my shortcomings exposed to ridicule, never learning quickly enough, never writing cleverly enough. My place at Oxford was bought, not earned – every day bringing the same terrible panic.’ He looked up, pain deep in those haunted eyes.

  ‘I thought a Sunday-evening exercise would be a stroll along the river. Imagine their laughter when I was handed an off-hand translation from the little-known work of Grotius on the Evidence of Christianity. Christ, Angelica, I could hardly understand it in English, let alone Latin. I started copying work, pleading with Jacob to write my essays. When they found out, I was publicly shamed, given warning after warning, but Father never failed. Oh no, Father never failed. There was always another bursary, or the offer of a new set of dining chairs – or money to refurbish the Dean’s sitting room. Old Smelter Boy’s father trying to buy him some class. We’re from the gutter, Angelica. Our mother was a—’

  ‘No she wasn’t.’ Mary’s voice was firm but calm. ‘You can say what you like about Oxford. I never thought you should have been sent there – nor to Harrow. You can be sent down a hundred times and I wouldn’t give a fig, but don’t ever say that about your dear mother. She was a good honest woman. She may not have been a saint, but you mind your tongue. You should be proud of her, not listen to gossip.’

  Sobs wracked Edgar’s chest, his eyes and nose streaming. ‘That was my dail
y taunt – Hey, Smelter Boy – I hear your mother was the Prince’s favourite.’

  ‘Well, so she was. She was everyone’s favourite.’

  He took my handkerchief, slowly blowing his nose. ‘One evening Jake got us tickets to the opera but my toothache was unbearable. He gave me laudanum and suddenly, miraculously, my fear left me. The music was sublime, lifting me to heights I had no idea existed; the peace was exquisite – like being cradled in velvet arms, carried above the hurtful taunts. They all take laudanum. They take it for pleasure, to enhance the music, but I took it to get back to this heaven on earth. A few drops and I became brave, witty and charming – full of clever retorts and answers that made everyone laugh.’

  Mary wiped her eyes. ‘Well, now. You’ve no need to be anyone but yourself.’

  I fought my anger, the thought of Jacob Boswell, taking the first coach to Truro. ‘I presume Jacob Boswell kept up a ready supply. Did he take any?’

  The haunted look returned. ‘I thought he did. I thought we were taking it together. He led me to believe I was hardly touching the stuff. Then I began needing more and more – quickly, and in larger doses. The penny that first bought happiness turned to shillings and then guineas.’

  ‘And Jacob Boswell always found a plentiful supply!’

  Edgar nodded. ‘Stronger drops and different ways to ingest it – or smoke it. Jake always knew where to find the nearest den. Turkish opium is my favourite, but that’s eight guineas a pound. Do you know they make it into cakes? Cakes like Lady Clarissa served us.’ His laugh was hollow, his bony fingers clasped over his face. ‘My cravings just get worse and worse – my nightmares more and more terrifying: I go to hell and back, yet I can’t stop. I can’t stop and I hate it. I hate it, hate it.’

  His voice dropped. ‘Jake moved into my lodgings and started asking for money. He threatened to tell Father.’ His hands began to shake, his movements increasingly violent. He started crying and I held him tightly, my anger making it hard to breathe. I should have visited him when the accounts doubled. I should have alerted Father.

  Henry Trevelyan coughed. ‘Mr Lilly, may I suggest you and I sit down to this rather delicious rabbit pie? Then may I suggest another sleep, followed by some exercise round the keep? We can go and see to your horse.’

  Our eyes caught. We did not need his false pity, nor was I fooled by his friendly politeness. ‘I’m not ready to leave, Mr Trevelyan. If you don’t mind, I’ve some questions I’d like to ask my brother.’ I turned my back, keeping my voice steady. ‘Edgar, the night you were arrested – was Mr Trevelyan still in your employ? Did he take you to this den and was he waiting for you outside?’

  Edgar stopped crying, wiping his hand across his nose. ‘My coachman turned gentleman gaoler? No, we’d dispensed with his services – we’d no money and Jacob said he was getting on his nerves.’

  ‘Was Jacob with you?’

  ‘Of course he was. He’s my trusted procurer. I don’t know Falmouth but he knows it like the back of his hand. He knew just where to go.’

  ‘This woman had the necklace so she must be the thief – or at least know the thief. Describe her, Edgar.’

  ‘What I saw? You really want to know?’ His laugh was cynical, chilling my heart.

  ‘I want to know her hair colour, her eye colour – and what she was wearing.’

  He laughed again, his voice mocking. ‘It was dark, Angelica. And she was in a state of undress – a man doesn’t look to see the colour of a woman’s eyes when he can feast his own elsewhere.’

  The chill turned to ice. ‘You disgust me, Edgar.’

  ‘I disgust myself.’

  ‘Come now. Angelica, time is getting on and we really must go…Mr Trevelyan’s right: Edgar, you must eat everything you’re given and you must try to sleep all you can. And if Mr Trevelyan’s kind enough to take you out for some fresh air, then so much the better.’ She put her hand under my elbow, helping me to my feet. ‘But put your mind to it – we need a better description of this woman.’

  Henry Trevelyan reached down to his desk, picking up a small, leather-bound notebook. ‘I spent last night in the den, Mrs Bohenna. The woman’s name is Lottie Lorrelli. She hasn’t been noticed there before but she was seen leaving with Edgar. People remember her being of medium height with brown hair. Eye colour unknown.’ He handed me a notebook. ‘I wrote this down in front of the witnesses – here, you can see they’ve signed it, or made their mark.’

  A chill took hold of my heart and I shivered. His evidence would hang Edgar. Those words, on that paper, signed by four people – exactly one scrawl, two signatures and one mark – would be enough to get Edgar hanged. I could hardly breathe, fierce, icy fingers gripping my heart. Henry Trevelyan was watching me, his eyes softening. I glared back. ‘The woman’s name is clearly fabricated and these could be, too. I need full names, occupations and addresses.’

  The pity left his eyes, in its place, stark authority. ‘I have their names and addresses on the next page. Here, Miss Lilly – all clearly listed. And I’ve instigated a search for the woman – the horse, however, is registered to a nearby inn. I have the time, and the name of the person who hired it.’

  ‘Good. That’s something, at least. Who was it?’

  ‘The horse was hired by your brother, Miss Lilly.’ Henry Trevelyan reached for a chair. ‘Please sit down…I understand how distressing this is for you. May I get you something?’

  I clutched Mary’s arm. ‘You’re not sorry at all – why should you be? But that can’t possibly be the case. My brother would have been in no fit state to hire a horse.’

  He turned the page in his notebook. ‘Mr Lilly signed the ledger and I agree he was in no fit state to either hire or ride a horse. His signature is illegible but his name is clearly printed beside it. And before you suggest it wasn’t your brother, I’m afraid the innkeeper gave me a very detailed description.’ He held the page open. ‘Please read it – halfway down the page – the description fits your brother exactly.’

  Black untidy hair, green silk jacket and breeches, embroidered cream waistcoat, silver buckles on his boots, each incriminating word written in Henry Trevelyan’s neat, cramped handwriting.

  Somehow, I managed to make my way across the swaying flagstones and out of the door. The ground was spinning, all breath squeezed from me. The door shut behind us and I doubled over, certain I would be sick. Mary leaned against the damp wall, clutching her hands across her mouth. ‘Dear God, the foolish, foolish boy.’

  We fought to regain our senses as a voice echoed along the dimly lit corridor. A man was giving commands from the other side of the door, the guards sliding back the heavy bolts. The man’s instructions were growing increasingly anxious and as the door swung open, my heart nearly stopped. A familiar figure stood in the glow of the rush light.

  ‘Oh no!’ I whispered. ‘It’s George Godwin.’ I pulled Mary back against the wall. ‘He’s a friend of Lady Clarissa – a cousin of some sorts. He’ll recognize me.’

  Four soldiers were dragging two wooden chests along the flagstones and as George Godwin stopped to wipe his brow, a tall man in uniform took charge. ‘No less than three on the door. Stand to. Once these two are in, there’s another two to follow.’

  ‘That’s Captain Fenshaw,’ Mary whispered. ‘I’ve seen him in town.’

  Panic filled me. ‘If George Godwin sees me, he’ll link me with Edgar. I’ve told them I’m the prisoner’s sister and we look so alike.’

  ‘We’ll say we’re visiting the French prisoners – for Mrs Fox.’ Mary slid her hand along the wall. ‘Better still – here’s an alcove, some sort of recess. Come, squeeze in here…it’s so dark, they may not see us.’

  There were only two doors leading from the dim corridor, the one we had come out of and a similar door ten yards further towards the outer door. George Godwin was making for that door, a set of heavy keys rattling in his hands. The lock scraped open and I caught a glimpse of the inside of the room. It was clearly anothe
r cellar but much brighter and larger, the heavily grilled window admitting long shafts of light. A desk sat under the window, next to it, a bookcase stacked full of heavy ledgers. Brass candlesticks dotted the room, a chair in one corner, the beginnings of a stone fireplace.

  George Godwin’s voice rose in panic. ‘There’s only room for two more in the vault – but there’s another four chests coming and I’ve nowhere to put them. I have to get this lot to London…now…this delay is unacceptable. Your men are very slow, Captain Fenshaw. If they aren’t back by Monday, I’ll have to go above your head and request assistance from Major Basset.’

  ‘My men can only go as fast as the horses, Mr Godwin – four and a half days there, four and a half days back. You’ve already commandeered my best men, and I’ve none left to spare.’ He watched the soldiers drag the heavy chests along the flagstones, the light catching the brass buttons on his uniform, his florid face and bushy moustache, picking out his stiff, painful movements. He was tall, dark-haired, probably late forties. ‘That’s it – keep them coming. That’s the last for the vault. Double the guard outside this door and I want three more men on the outer door.’

  George Godwin ran his hands through his already dishevelled hair. ‘I’ll have to cancel my commitments…I’ll need someone in here with me – at all times. I’ll need food and water. I’ll need a bed. I’ll need to wash. And I’ll need a firearm.’

  Captain Fenshaw winced as he straightened. ‘Very well, Mr Godwin, I’ll see to all that. I, myself, will be part of your guard and I can assure you my men are only days away – a week, no more. We’ll get your prize money safely to London – we always do. Now, if we can just get those papers signed and lock this vault, we’ll secure the other chests behind the grilles with padlocks and chains.’

  The men heaved the chests into the room and the door banged shut, plunging the corridor, once again, in half-light. ‘Quick, Mary – before they come back out.’