A Particular Circumstance

by Shirley Smith

  ‘Hope you don’t mind, old fellow,’ Alfred said. ‘That butler of yours put me in here. Said you wouldn’t be long.’ He waved a hand towards the sherry. ‘Why not join me in a glass of something, coz? Then I can tell you the latest gossip. Everyone’s agog at the way you were getting on so famously with the beautiful Miss Charlotte Grayson at the Castertons’ party.’

  Hugo had no intention of listening to the gossip and was already out of temper with both his disappointment at not seeing Charlotte and distaste at finding his cousin still on the premises so long after the other mourners had departed. He merely frowned at Alfred and said nothing, which didn’t deter his cousin in the slightest.

  ‘Not only that, but my man has it from someone in the know that Matthew King stormed up to the Graysons’ this morning and it ended with the young lady and himself having an almighty row and severing their friendship. What do you think to that, eh?’

  ‘I do not think anything,’ Hugo said coldly. ‘Miss Grayson’s friendships are her own concern and it is not up to me to offer any comment about either her or Matthew King.’

  This was not the response that Alfred had hoped for and he said weakly, ‘I thought you would be interested, coz, especially as I notice that you seem to be the lady’s bosom beau at the moment.’

  Hugo’s tone was now more icy than ever and said pointedly, ‘Oh, you notice that, do you? A pity you have no concerns of your own to notice, Alfred. What of your own life in London and your own social engagements? Will not your friends be missing you?’

  ‘Oh, they don’t signify,’ Alfred said carelessly. He was disappointed that Hugo had failed to react to his spiteful tittle-tattle and as for returning to his own friends, well, he couldn’t care less, because he hadn’t any true friends.

  Hugo tolerated only a few more minutes of Alfred’s nonsense and then he excused himself brusquely and went in search of Bunfield. There was but one inn at Felbrook, aptly named The Brook, and it was there that Bunfield had his lodgings – a single room only, but he was able to make use of the landlady’s little parlour downstairs. There were rarely any residents at The Brook and such regulars as there were always congregated in the tap room. It was in there that he found the Bow Street Runner, knocking out his pipe against the chimney back, with eyes lowered and ears open for any gossip.

  Once Hugo had ascertained that Bunfield had seen him, he went into the inn yard and lounged casually outside the door. Bunfield came out immediately and both men went into the parlour where they could be private.

  ‘I am pleased to see you, sir,’ Bunfield said.

  ‘Yes, I feel that now is the time to investigate things a little further. How about a return visit to Mr Rudkin?’

  ‘Aye, sir. If you feels recovered from your – er – accident, I can be ready any time. The only other thing to report is, I have been keeping feelers out round Felbrook concerning your attacker and my informants state that not only is he local, but he is closely acquainted with your own cousin, sir, Mr Alfred Westbury, that is, and his servant Josiah Bennett.’

  ‘Is he indeed?’

  ‘But I thought we shouldn’t apprehend your assailant just yet, Mr Westbury, but just continue to keep an eye on him for the time being. Give him enough rope, sir, and mayhap he’ll hang ’isself.’

  Yes, and that goes for my cousin Alfred, too, Hugo thought grimly.

  Aloud, he said, ‘When can you be ready then, Bunfield?’

  ‘When you like, sir. Shall we say in an hour?’

  There was no time for Hugo to say anything else, because there was a timid knock on the door. It was the landlady, very red-faced from cooking and wiping floury hands on her apron.

  ‘Beg pardon, Mr Wes’bry, sir, but there’s a young lady as wants to see you.’

  Hugo frowned at this and she whispered, ‘It be Miss Grayson, sir.’

  Hugo cursed softly under his breath. Damn! Of course, Charlotte knew he was in close touch with Bunfield. She must have guessed he’d be here.

  ‘Do you wish to be private with the young lady, sir?’ Bunfield said diffidently.

  ‘No. It is merely that Miss Grayson was present when the body was found and she knows you are putting up here, Bunfield. Furthermore, she feels she has a right to some involvement in the mystery. Show her in, Mrs Lacey, if you please.’

  Bunfield looked closely at Charlotte as she entered the room. She was dressed plainly, in a dove-grey walking dress, whose very plainness served only to emphasize her very vibrant beauty. He noticed that her maid remained firmly outside the door.

  Hugo introduced them and Charlotte gave both men her most brilliant smile. ‘How do you do, Mr Bunfield. I am pleased to renew our acquaintance.’

  She turned to Hugo. ‘Mr Westbury. I had hoped to see you tomorrow, but poor Lucy Baker has a bad sore throat and will not be venturing out to the Sunday school class. I thought … I thought … that I should tell you and Mr Bunfield of some more information that has come my way …. connected to your recent attacker, I mean.’

  Hugo was polite and friendly, but spoke with studied coolness. ‘I understand and appreciate your interest, Miss Grayson, but I must protest that I do not wish you to endanger your own life in any way by getting involved in this dangerous business.’

  But Charlotte was determined not to be put off. She continued as though he hadn’t spoken.

  ‘It concerns a man called Jim Butler. He is from Cromer but has lived round here for a number of years. One of the stable lads has told me that he is often backwards and forwards to Cromer. He is without any apparent work and never puts himself forward for employment on any of the farms near here…. And yet … and yet … he always seems to have money. He has a cottage on the edge of the village, very close to Sir Benjamin’s woods, and Luke the stable lad says that he is sometimes to be seen in the woods, in conversation with Mr Alfred Westbury’s servant. Luke has it that Jim Butler is a man who may be hired to commit violence, by anyone who has the money to pay his fee.’

  While she was speaking, Bunfield had been looking at her with his head on one side, his bright eyes never leaving her face. ‘I call that valuable information, Mr Westbury,’ he said gravely. ‘It confirms what my own informers have said about Jim Butler. Sounds as though he might be worth looking into.’

  Hugo deliberately schooled his features not to reveal his thoughts. ‘I agree, Bunfield,’ he said neutrally. ‘Thank you for your help, Miss Grayson. It is very much appreciated. We are about to visit Cromer again and could follow up your information. Nevertheless, I must repeat, I do not wish you to expose yourself to unnecessary danger by concerning yourself in this.’

  Charlotte felt as though she had been snubbed. She said indignantly, ‘But I already am concerned in it. When the body of your grandfather was discovered, it was before you even took up residence in Westbury Hall.’

  ‘That may be so,’ he said, smiling a little, ‘but if we are to get any further, Mr Bunfield and I must be able to get on with the investigation without having to worry about your own safety, ma’am.’

  Although he spoke gently, she was aware that he would brook no argument. She caught Bunfield looking at her very gravely and subsided, her bottom lip protruding mutinously. Hugo had no right to tell her not to put herself in danger, especially as he was about to endanger himself by accompanying Bunfield to mix with the low-life of Cromer.

  Hugo observed her expressive face as it revealed all her doubts and her unwillingness to do as he’d decided. As he watched the rebellious expression on her beautiful face, he longed suddenly to take her into his arms and kiss the mutinous red mouth into submission.

  But he revealed none of these thoughts as he said smoothly, ‘So that is agreed then. We shall be ready to depart within the hour, Mr Bunfield. I shall take you up a little distance from here, halfway along Brook Lane, in fact. It would be more discreet, I think, and we will assume a much more lowly appearance when we visit Cromer.’

  ‘But you will be careful!’ Charlotte begged hi
m.

  ‘Yes, of course, Miss Grayson,’ he said and gave her his most winning smile. ‘But I am determined to solve the mystery of my grandfather’s death, whatever the cost.’

  ‘It has already cost you a severe blow to the head,’ Charlotte said caustically.

  Exasperated, Hugo forgot his imposed calm and, turning to Bunfield, he said, ‘The presence of a woman always means trouble at a time like this, Bunfield.’

  The Bow Street Runner preserved his own bland expression with admirable self-control, but Charlotte said passionately, ‘And what about you? What sort of trouble are you in when you take off on such a venture? You will not be treated as Mr Hugo Westbury when you are mixing with the low life of Cromer, dressed as a lowly common peasant! How will Sir Benjamin and . . and … your … other friends react when you are murdered by some ruffian!’

  Hugo opened his mouth to give an equally forceful answer to her challenge, but when he looked into those brilliant grey-green eyes, he realized she was mocking him, and yes, flirting with him. He wanted more than ever to accept her challenge and kiss away all her resistance.

  Instead, he said mildly, ‘Steady, Miss Grayson. It would not do to scare poor Bunfield away from his investigations. As for me, you may be sure that I shall do my best to come out of it unscathed, and when I return, I shall hold you to your promise of another outing with Lucy Baker.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  If Hugo had dressed down for his first foray into The Black Lion, his attire had been princely compared to what it was this time. He had obtained rooms for himself and Bunfield and they had effected their disguises in secret, slipping out of The Royal Oak under cover of darkness.

  Both were unrecognizable except in build and stature. Hugo had even rubbed chimney soot on to his well-kept gentlemanly hands and wiped them across his face to heighten the illusion of being a down-at-heel labourer. They entered The Black Lion as unobtrusively as possible and although they were obvious strangers, they were mingling freely in the company of murderers, rogues and vagabonds. Strangers were common in this place, in which felons were up to every criminal ploy known to man in order to earn a dishonest penny, and so no one gave them a second glance.

  Bunfield had found his clothes for him. God alone knew where he’d acquired them, Hugo thought ruefully. They were not just poor, they were the rags of someone utterly destitute, their patches and darns bearing mute testimony to the abject poverty of their former owner. Bunfield was similarly attired and both men wore knotted scarves and had secreted pistols in the capacious poacher’s pockets of their jackets as a precaution against attack. Their boots were the hard tough boots of farm labourers, cracked with age and caked with dried mud.

  Hugo felt that in this disguise, only his drawling upper-class voice would give him away and resolved to let Bunfield do most of the talking. To help him with his rough approximation of an uneducated ruffian’s accent, he imagined the cadences and pronunciation of some of the estate labourers and tried to keep them in his brain while he formulated some questions for Rudkin.

  He let Bunfield order two tankards of ale and looked round quickly to see if he could see Ted Rudkin. There were all sorts and conditions of criminals in The Black Lion. He could see a couple of common prostitutes, standing just inside the doorway and eyeing up the men, but they were both fat, ugly and raggedy girls and as yet none of the patrons of the inn were drunk enough to become their clients. Crouched in one corner was a one-legged beggar, his face eaten away by ulcerated sores, his shoulders slumped in resigned misery. Some of the men, with rough kindness, had thrust a coin his way and the man was waiting patiently to be served with some gin. In spite of the almost frenetic liveliness of The Black Lion’s atmosphere, Hugo felt keenly the despair and misery underlying the falsely convivial atmosphere. Here, he realized, was the flotsam and jetsam of sordid humanity. A most suitable place for Rudkin, he thought.

  At that moment, sure enough, he spied his quarry sitting alone in one of the booths furthest from the door. He seemed just as nervous as last time, his eyes darting all around as he drank and his arms and legs jerking as though he could hardly keep a limb still. When Bunfield returned with the drinks, Hugo indicated Rudkin with his eyes and both men approached him very casually.

  Nothing could be further from the popular idea of a Bow Street Runner at that moment, as Bunfield lapsed into the coarse speech that was expected in a place like The Black Lion. He adopted a faintly threatening manner towards the surly Rudkin as he growled, ‘You and me ’as got a bit o’ business to finish off, Ted Rudkin.’

  Rudkin looked alarmed but tried to stifle it and appear confident. ‘Wot’s your game, cully? I’ve met this ’ere cove who’s wiv you before, and I knows he’s a gent. Wot you two want wi’ me?’

  ‘We need you to talk to us,’ Bunfield said softly, ‘and, if a bird don’t sing, Rudkin, this same gent ’as ways ter persuade ’im.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. I know naught, I tell you.’ Obviously nervous now, Rudkin had begun to babble, an expression of terror flitting across his weasel-like features.

  ‘We’ll soon see about that,’ Bunfield said menacingly. ‘Drink up, Rudkin, and then on your feet; this gent and I will walk you to somewhere quiet, where we can talk. Start resisting and it will be the worse for you.’

  From above the pewter tankard, Rudkin’s bloodshot old eyes darted to right and left in an agony of indecision. It was obvious that he wanted to flee, that he could not stay and fight such opposition as either the tall, muscular Hugo Westbury or the stockier but equally formidable Bunfield. It was equally obvious that he could expect no support or succour from the rogues and vagabonds who frequented The Black Lion. No honour among thieves and no help there. He deliberately made his last swigs of ale as long drawn out as he could until, hand in pocket and holding the gun, Bunfield nudged the cold steel into his ribs.

  ‘On your way, Rudkin,’ he muttered and the trio made their way outside into the filthy, mean alley behind the inn.

  ‘Now, Ted, lad,’ said Bunfield sarcastically. ‘We can either do this nicely or we can do it nastily. Which is it to be?’

  Rudkin began to shake. ‘I don’t know what you mean. As God’s my witness….’

  ‘Oh, He is. Be in no doubt about it, but so are we.’ Bunfield slammed him up against the wall and said brutally, ‘Some answers, if you please, Rudkin. First, who were the survivors of the Golden Maiden?’

  Rudkin’s pathetically few teeth were chattering now, but he was too nervous even to rub the lump on his head caused by its contact with the wall.

  ‘I … I told you, there was only me and Mr Charles Westbury.’

  Hugo stepped forward and pressed one of his hands to the wall on each side of Rudkin’s neck, trapping him in an iron cage from which there was no escape. ‘But this is not strictly true, is it, Ted?’ he said quietly menacing. ‘We know, do we not, that there was at least one other passenger who did not perish on the night of the storm?’

  ‘I … I … well, perhaps.’

  ‘Perhaps?’

  ‘There were a gen’leman walked free an’ all.’

  ‘His name?’

  Rudkin squirmed and Hugo’s hands tightened. ‘His name, I said.’

  ‘It … it were … the schoolmaster. Mr Todd.’

  Hugo let out a long breath. ‘And what happened to Mr Charles Westbury? Where did he go after he had survived the sinking of the Golden Maiden?’

  ‘I … he….‘

  ‘He what?’

  ‘He were given shelter in The Jolly Sailor. After that….’

  Hugo took hold of him by the scruffy collar of his jacket. ‘And after that?’ he said, between clenched teeth.

  Rudkin was silent for a few seconds, which seemed to stretch for eternity. His lips worked nervously, but no sound came. Then suddenly the words poured out of him as though in a torrent. He said in his whining voice, ‘It were nowt to do wi’ me. Mr Charles Westbury had lost his wife, see, and ’ad been injured wi�
�� a falling mast. Mr Todd reckoned as he knew Mr Westbury’s brother, George, and could get help for ’im. He sent word to Lunnon an’ a carriage came to fetch the three of us. We looked after Mr Westbury on the journey to Westbury Hall, him being very weak wi’ loss of blood an’ o’ course losing his young wife … I had naught to do wi’ owt. George Westbury met us at the ’all and paid me for me trouble an’ gave me a ticket for the stage back to Cromer … I never saw any of ’em after that….’

  Bunfield now stepped forward. ‘And this Tobias Todd you were in league with, did you know his real name was William Ingram?’

  ‘No…. I swear….’

  ‘What happened to him after the rescue?’

  ‘I don’t know, guv. I left ’im wi’ the two brothers. I swear I had nowt more to do wi’ ’em. I went back home and then I were taken on by Captain Mason on the Pride O’Wells. I ne’er set eyes on any of ’em agen.’

  Bunfield thrust him away in disgust. ‘Pah! You’re a worthless rogue, Rudkin. You must have known what was to be the fate of that hapless Charles Westbury when you left him with Ingram.’

  ‘I … no … I never….’

  ‘He was a murderer, Rudkin. After you had been paid off and was away on the Pride O’Wells, the law finally caught up with him and he was hanged.’

  ‘I knew naught, I tell you.’

  ‘Well, mark this, Rudkin. After he was dead, his body was hung on the gibbet at Norwich for twelve years, to warn other felons. Think yourself lucky you were rescued by Captain Mason.’

  ‘I’m just an old tar, sir. Never meant anyone harm, so ’elp me….’

  ‘Get out of my sight, you’re the scum of the earth. If it were not for your age, Rudkin, I would have you before the magistrate and hanged as an accessory to murder. Go, before I do you a mischief.’