The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Humph,” said the sheriff with a sniff. “I never investigated such a strange case before, Mistress Plessey, nor want to. I would have declared the whole business a matter of past history and may still do so. But – well – it’s not so easy. There’s someone might decide to be involved and poke his nose in where unwanted, and I’ve no intention of getting on that particular gentleman’s bad opinion. He’s not known as a man to cross.”

  “Gracious. Who?” asked Jemima.

  “Not my place to say,” sniffed the sheriff. “I’m asking the questions here, and you’re doing the answering. So we’ll get on with that and forget this other gentleman, if you don’t mind.” He sniffed again. “So first, I need a list of anyone and everyone who visited your house regularly when you were a child.”

  Jemima stared in amazement. “Ridiculous, sir,” she told him. “I can’t remember. There were too many. I stayed in the nursery when Papa had visitors. I don’t remember names anyway. And do you seriously think that visitors arrived at my home with dead women over their shoulders, asking my father if they might use his attic?”

  Her nurse put a plump hand on her arm. “Time we went home, my dear,” she said. “We are clearly wasting our business here.”

  Jemima looked up. “You’re right, Kat. We’re in nice time to arrive back at your house for supper.”

  She and her nurse walked back slowly, crossing the River Fleet by its narrow bridge and holding their noses at the stench of the refuse and clogged waters. Katherine Plessey was now an elderly woman, but bustled with as much speed as her much younger companion. Beyond the river’s polluted stream, they hurried through the Ludgate, smiled at the gatekeeper who was attempting to stop the passage of a gooseboy and his flock of tar-footed geese. Frightened by a furious group of monks who had hit out at the geese in their way, the birds were now hissing and spitting, terrifying the good citizens of London trying to return home before dark. The Ludgate, perhaps London’s busiest gateway, was a push, a noisy shove, and a troublesome squabble as always.

  It was nearly a week that Jemima had been living in the tiny cottage fronting the Thames and cooled by the shadows of Baynard’s Castle, the home of her childhood nurse. Mistress Plessey had helped during her birth now nineteen years ago, had cared for her mother when she became ill and then died, and had continued to look after the motherless child. Once no longer required as Jemima grew older, Katherine had retired to her own father’s cottage, but still visited and adored the child she had helped bring into the world.

  Now homeless herself, Jemima had been welcomed there. With one chamber up and one down, there was no room for her. It didn’t seem to matter. She shared a bed with her nurse, shared the duties of cooking and cleaning, and shared long conversations until the evening’s shadows called them both to that shared bed once more. Jemima had smuggled as many of her father’s old possessions as possible from her old home, but since there was space for very few of them in the cottage, she had been obliged to sell almost all. But the money coffer she had also smuggled remained hidden beneath her nurse’s bed, and one day, Jemima hoped, this might help her make her own way in life. A dowry perhaps. Or a cottage for herself when she grew older.

  They had spoken little on their return from the sheriff’s chambers. The amazement and shock of the events, seeming barely believable, had left both women silent as they scurried home to warmth and privacy in which to discuss the impossible.

  Jemima and Katherine linked arms, skirted the great pillars and spire of St. Paul’s, and headed for the river. They heard the clatter of horse’s hooves as the cold wind shivered up the Thames from the estuary. Without bothering to turn around, both women pushed to the walls, leaving space in the narrow street for the horseman to pass.

  But the sound of hooves on cobbles stopped abruptly. The voice was soft, almost blown in the wind. “Mistress Jemima Thripp?”

  She turned in a flurry. The solitary rider had dismounted. She could barely see his face beneath the plumed hat and the shadows from the high walls on either side. A short velvet cape swirled as he sprang from saddle and stirrup, polished boots just catching a hint of reflected daylight, the horse skittish on the cobbles.

  She stood very still, staring, and muttered, “I’m not sure.”

  “Not sure who you are, madam? Not sure of your name?” asked the gentleman without raising his voice. “Or not sure if you wish to acknowledge your identity to a stranger?”

  “My ward,” said Katherine without any attempt at a curtsey, “don’t speak to strange men, sir.”

  “Then let me introduce myself,” replied Richard Wolfdon, and took off his hat.

  Chapter Three

  “My name is Richard, madam,” the man told her, bowing slightly. “I am Richard Wolfdon, and I have some interest, albeit as yet not entirely specific, in your recent difficulties. I should like to discuss the situation with you.”

  There had been a good many recent surprises. “Good gracious,” said Jemima, took a deep breath and added, “What I mean is, well, certainly not. I don’t know you. You were not present at the sheriff’s office, nor at the Constable’s. Your own curiosity is of no interest to me whatsoever, sir.”

  “Lord save us,” muttered her nurse.

  “My peculiarities,” said the tall gentleman without any trace of a smile, “are my own business, madam. But the discovery of serious crimes which may well incriminate your late father, are matters which should concern you. My interest is not confined to curiosity and I am quite prepared to explain at depth. But in private. And not, I think, in the street.”

  Only a few steps away through the twisting alleys, the cottage was tucked back, safe against the winds and weather. Richard Wolfdon gazed at the splintered struts and faded plaster, protruding daub and broken doorstep without expression. He tethered his horse to the door handle and followed the two women inside where the faint smell of boiled cabbage escaped as the door was opened. The shadows remained. Katherine Plessey closed the door again with a snap and the last glimpse of daylight disappeared. The single chamber was blessed with two small windows, one at the front and the other at the rear, but both were unglazed and the openings were boarded by loosely nailed shutters. The hearth was empty, and several three legged stools huddled beside the grate. A table was set against the far wall where an exceedingly steep rise of steps led upwards into total darkness. A tallow candle stood in its earthenware pot on the table, and Katherine took the tinderbox and lit it. A reluctant glow slowly paled the shadows.

  The gentleman now regarded this chamber with unconcealed dislike, but he sat, at Katherine’s request, on one of the stools and put his hat on his lap. “You intend living here permanently?” he demanded as Jemima hovered before him.

  She sat hurriedly on another of the stools. The man’s bright boots shone brighter than the old floor boards, and his grand velvet cape rested on the splinters. “That,” she said immediately, “is none of your business, sir.”

  “I might make it my business.” He was unoffended. “Earlier today a friend described the discovery of the three female corpses in your attic. There are certain aspects of this case that interested me. I inquired as to the master of the property in question, and within an hour it became very obvious, madam, that you have been wrongly deprived of your home. Did you not think to argue your case when the news of your father’s death was relayed to you? Do you always accept whatever you are told without bothering to discover a defence?”

  She stared at him. “What should I argue about?” demanded Jemima. “And why should you care? What do you know? Tell me. Is that why you’re here?”

  Katherine put down the candle with a sigh, which almost extinguished the flame.

  “What you have to decide first,” Jemima’s unexpected visitor informed her, “is decide whether or not you wish to trust me.” He paused, but received no answer. He continued without noticeable expression. “If you prefer not to accord trust at this early stage, then I shall leave it at that. My time is to
o precious and I’ve no wish to be bored attempting to earn your trust. If, on the other hand, you assure me that you trust me merely to see what may benefit you as a result, even though you do not actually trust me at all, then I shall immediately see through this disguise, and I will leave as already stated.” Since Jemima sat quietly with every appearance of shock, Richard Wolfdon continued once more. “Genuine trust, of course, can be demonstrated immediately. If you decide to trust me, then a great deal will happen very quickly. This,” he waved a mahogany silk arm, “is an appalling hovel, and I’ve no desire to come here again. You and your chaperone will accompany me within the hour to my own home, where you will stay while I investigate the circumstances of your father’s death, your cousin’s claim on your previous residence, and the three corpses in the attic.”

  He stopped talking and waited. Jemima stared in utter bewilderment. Her nurse whispered in her ear, quickly grabbed her hand, and pulled her to her feet. “Upstairs for a moment, I think, my dear. If Master Wolfdon will forgive us – ?”

  “I cannot believe that mounting your own staircase requires my forgiveness, madam,” he replied, and sat where he was, legs stretched before him, feathered hat on his lap, his arms crossed across a very fine silk coat.

  Katherine Plessey was ruby cheeked again as she bustled Jemima up into the one upstairs bedchamber. Both women sat on the bed with perplexed exhaustion,

  “He’s a madman,” Jemima whispered. “And a rude madman.”

  Her nurse plumped up a pillow. “Lay down a moment, my love. You’ve had a nasty shock. We need to discuss this in the nice quiet comfort up here and without this very surprising gentleman hearing us.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” but Jemima obeyed, sinking back against the one pillow with its feathers sticking out through the linen. She swept up her feet, didn’t bother to straighten her skirts, and stared into the semi-dark. “My dearest Kat,” she said with deliberation. “I think that person down there is quite horrid and I really don’t like him. How dare he tell me where I’ll go and what I’ll do when I’ve never met him in my life before. Yes, it’s been a monster of a day and that Richard Wolfdon creature has made it even worse. I shall stay here. I shall make my own decisions as I always have.” She sat up abruptly, glaring. “My father may be dead, but I’m Edward Thripp’s daughter and I don’t take orders from strangers. Go down and tell that dreadful man to go away.”

  Katherine did not move but sat on the edge of the mattress in momentary silence. Then she said steadily, “Imagine a moment, my love. A nice big house to live in, instead of this little cottage. A hovel, he called it. Well, he’s right. Don’t pretend that you love my home, because neither of us do. I’m very fond of my memories and my life here as a child when my parents were living here, but it’s almost fallen down since then.”

  Jemima blinked, frowning. “You think I should go and live with a rude fool who doesn’t know a thing about me, and who is, without doubt, insane?” She lay back again and shut her eyes with grim determination. “I never want to see him again. How do we know what his house is like? He might be a rapist living in a leper colony. I don’t trust him – not at all. So tell him that and he’ll go away.”

  “But, my love,” said her nurse, patting her shoulder, “I know exactly who this gentleman is, and surely you must have heard of him too.”

  “Dickon the Bastard. Delightful. But we can’t even be sure that’s him. He could be a dangerous imposter.”

  “His clothes,” Katherine pointed out, “cost more than this poor little house is worth. He dresses with reserve, but has paid a fortune to look plain, unbedecked, entirely undecorated and even severe. This is him, I’d swear it – and that means he’s one of the richest and cleverest men in the country.”

  “And nastiest.”

  “He’s not known for his chivalry or sweet temper,” Katherine admitted. “But my dove, just think. To live in a grand house under this gentleman’s protection. Eating rich food we don’t have to pay for, nor even cook. We will be his guests. He can’t charge us rent or make us work for our supper. Sleeping on feather mattresses instead of straw. And there’s no sheriff will dare molest you or suggest wickedness while you live with Dickon the Bastard.”

  “Oh dear.” Jemima once more sat up and gazed reluctantly at her nurse. “What if he’s not even a gentleman?”

  “His grandfather was the Earl of the West Riding,” said Mistress Plessey with some hauteur. “Don’t you know the stories? He fought for the old regime, and was attainted by our late King Henry after his victory at Bosworth. Now this King Henry doesn’t like him, they say – but keeps civil because Richard Wolfdon is a very useful man. His advice is sought by every lawmaker, administrator of justice and lawyer. Even his majesty seeks advice from him, whether he likes him or not.”

  “Why should I care what the king says? I’ve never met the king and I never will. And I don’t want to meet that man downstairs ever again either.”

  “He’s very handsome,” Katherine pointed out. “As tall as the king, I’d say. And quite a glorious looking gentleman, in spite of the nose.”

  “Oh, hush, Kat,” Jemima begged her in a half whisper, “say nothing he might overhear.”

  “He cannot hear a word we say,” her nurse assured her. “There is a very stout door firmly closed and the length of the staircase between us.”

  “And that’s the way I’d like it to stay.”

  “Now, now, my love.” Katherine moved towards the door. “I’ll go down now, shall I, and inform Master Wolfdon that we’ll be ready to move into his grand home tomorrow morning.”

  “Definitely not,” Jemima glared. “I’m not going, Kat, and nor are you. There’s no argument. I have made up my mind.”

  “I shall not be long,” Katherine continued with a dimpled smile. “But while I’m downstairs talking to our charming visitor, perhaps you’d like to start packing, my dear.”

  Katherine Plessey trotted down to the lower chamber alone, but this time leaving the bedchamber door open. She knew Jemima would immediately be standing in the doorway and listening.

  “I think we can honestly thank you, sir,” Katherine said with a small curtsey, “and are truly grateful for your interest in our affairs. We should be honoured to accompany you to your own house, as long as you don’t object to my coming as chaperone, which would only be right and proper, sir. And,” she added, “I do believe we can promise the trust you require, sir.”

  Master Wolfdon was already preparing to leave. He nodded. “Very well, madam,” he said, pushing open the ramshackle front door. He stood a moment in the sudden sunbeams. “I can accept that your trust is genuine, at least within your capability. Your charge is far less trusting, however, but I’m prepared to make concessions.” He put his hat back on, and took up his horse’s reins as the mare kicked impatiently at the cobbles outside. “It is probable,” Richard continued, “that you have more common sense than she does, and therefore can make a faster and more intelligent decision.”

  “We – ,” Katherine blushed, “that is, – I – ”

  “No matter,” he interrupted her. “Nothing else concerns me. I shall send a groom with a litter to collect you both tomorrow afternoon, and will see you sometime later, after your arrival.” He slung his leg over his horse’s flanks and settled high in the saddle, the horse tight reined. “And,” he said, looking down it at her, “I see nothing whatsoever wrong with my nose.”

  Kat stumbled back, shut the door, and turned to see Jemima coming slowly down the stairs. “He’s vile,” she said.

  “He’s rich,” said Kat. “And at the moment we are very, very poor.”

  The litter which collected them was a large padded affair, horse drawn, sheltered by a wire framed awning of oiled scarlet, copiously cushioned, high wheeled, and exceptionally uncomfortable. Two grooms sat on the front bench and drove, as the aged horse plodded with apathetic obedience down each lane, up each busy street, and through the Ludgate heading towards W
estminster. At each bounce of wheels over cobbles, the two women passengers tumbled, suffocated by pillows, elbows cracking against the litter’s wooden sides, and heads banging on the unyielding stretch of the awning.

  They had little to bring with them although Jemima had folded three gowns, three pairs of shoes, two capes, three linen shifts, two headdresses, a pink bedrobe, and a jumble of personal items such as combs, pins and a valuable silvered hand mirror. The large woven bag in which these were stuffed and squashed, was bouncing beside her.

  She expected a grand palace in The Strand, or perhaps a great dark building near the abbey, eight storeys tall at least, with a hundred servants waiting on the threshold. But neither of these materialised and it was twilight when they arrived, sore, exhausted, and puzzled. Once through the Ludgate, they had crossed the Fleet but then, after only a few moments due west, they turned right and trailed up Chancery Lane towards the darkening greenery of private parklands and orchards.

  It was the house of a wealthy and important man but it was not as Jemima had expected. Holborn Palace loomed through the deepening gloom. The sun was descending in a magisterial splendour not normally glimpsed behind London’s rooftops. Cinnabar and copper, polished gold and pure ruby glazed the dipping horizon through the fluttering vastness of huge trees now black in silhouette, leaves like pointing black fingers, the last goodbye of daylight. The final dip was sudden and the silhouettes claimed victory as the sun bled its colours and night tumbled across the land.

  “We’s here,” announced the older groom, and the litter bounced one last bounce, and was still.