A Particular Circumstance

by Shirley Smith

  Rudkin scuttled off and both men returned to their rooms at The Royal Oak and discreetly changed their appearance before meeting up once more in the parlour. They ordered brandies and Bunfield lit up a long, old-fashioned pipe. He caught Hugo looking at him questioningly and said, ‘Yes, Mr Westbury, Rudkin’s confession has given me cause for thought. During my enquiries, I searched the records in Norwich for any mention of Ingram and Rudkin. It is quite true that Ingram was a seemingly respectable schoolmaster at the Lynn Grammar School and he became popular with the boys. He went under the name of “Todd” and was a frequent visitor to the vicarage at Heacham. It was noticed that he was a man of loneliness and mystery, fond of taking solitary rambles along the cliffs, but all who knew him attributed this to his scholarly nature, no one suspecting that he had anything to hide. But William Ingram was a murderer, quite famous in his time as it happens. Some five years before the sinking of the Golden Maiden, he had murdered and robbed Daniel Theaker, a wealthy merchant, and had hidden his body in some caves near Heacham. The foul deed only came to light when the body was discovered by a sweep digging for stones to supply his lime kilns. Ingram’s young accomplice turned King’s evidence and his testimony was enough to condemn the schoolmaster to death. He was arraigned and executed. His body was indeed hanged in chains by the roadside at Norwich, where the gibbet remained for several years as a warning to other wrongdoers.’

  Hugo listened in horror to the tale and then said slowly, ‘But does that mean, then, that Rudkin and Ingram, or Todd as he called himself, were the last people to see my grandfather alive?’

  ‘And your Great-Uncle George perhaps,’ Bunfield said gently. ‘Rudkin did indeed go back to sea, but after his voyage with Captain Mason, he never managed another voyage. He’s a very old man now, and has not worked for years.’

  Hugo said nothing, thinking of Bunfield’s horrifying revelations. Until the macabre discovery behind the panelling at Westbury Hall, no one even suspected that his grandfather had not perished at sea. His own parents had died very young, in America, so would have heard nothing of William Ingram. His Great-Uncle George was dead and Sir Benjamin had lived most of his life in India.

  He sighed and said, ‘It was all so very long ago. Perhaps we will never know the truth of it.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps,’ Bunfield agreed and knocked out his pipe against the chimney breast Both of them were silent for a time, each thinking his own thoughts.

  Finally, Bunfield said quietly, ‘If you agree, sir, I feel we should leave Rudkin for the time being and return to Felbrook. He was never accused of anything when Ingram was arraigned for murder. My guess is that we will not get much more out of him than what he has already told us, unless he has to appear in a court of law, that is, but I think it unlikely. If you agree, Mr Westbury, I think I should continue with local enquiries, especially as regards to that Jim Butler, the man mentioned by Miss Grayson.’

  ‘Yes, very well. I agree,’ Hugo said. ‘And meanwhile, we should both be discreet but vigilant in gathering information from my cousin’s activities.’

  And so it was decided and, having settled the tally with the landlord of The Royal Oak, they journeyed home, both of them still deep in thought.

  The next day was Sunday and began pleasantly enough. Latimer had discreetly handed Hugo a note from Charlotte as soon as he was dressed and had tactfully disappeared while his master was reading it.

  Dear Mr Westbury

  I have a message from my small friend, Lucy Baker, who very politely requests another little ride on Gypsy. As Lucy is now completely restored to health, I have deemed it suitable to pass on her message to you, in the hope that you will grant her wish. We shall definitely be at church this Sunday, but if you are unable to oblige Lucy in this, I shall convey the bad news to her myself and think of an alternative little treat for her.

  Seeing Hugo’s mobile mouth curve into a most joyous smile, the normally taciturn Latimer ventured to ask, ‘Good news, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Latimer. Very good news.’ And Hugo went down to the dining-room, whistling.

  It being Sunday, there was no sign of his obnoxious cousin Alfred, but Sir Benjamin, despite his frailty, was immaculately turned out and was even partaking of a little breakfast.

  ‘Ah, Hugo,’ he said. ‘How went the journey to Cromer? Did Bunfield find any more clues to this ghastly business?’

  ‘Some,’ Hugo said cautiously. ‘We talked to one of the last people to have seen my grandfather alive. He is a very old man now, but was rescued along with Charles Westbury, when the Golden Maiden capsized.’

  In spite of his frailty, Sir Benjamin’s eyes were still keenly intelligent. ‘You said “one” of the last people, my boy. May one ask who the others were?’

  ‘Well, unfortunately, a notorious Norfolk murderer and …’ Seeing his great-uncle’s stricken look, Hugo lowered his voice and said gently, ‘And the other one may have been my Great-Uncle George.’

  There was a pause as the implication of what Hugo had said sank in, but then the old gentleman squared his shoulders and said firmly, ‘But you do not know for certain who was with Charles when he … when he met his end….’

  ‘That is true,’ Hugo said even more gently. ‘Ted Rudkin is very old himself and a proven liar. He may or may not have been there when my grandfather was killed. We do not know for certain, sir. Mr Bunfield is still pursuing his enquiries.’

  Sir Benjamin’s face was impassive. It was difficult to tell whether these latest revelations had any effect on him or not. Neither of them said any more because at that moment, Alfred Westbury walked into the room, smiling as though well pleased with himself, and Sir Benjamin signalled to the footman that he wished to return to his room and after the briefest exchange of civilities with his cousin, Hugo did the same.

  In spite of his great-uncle’s obvious unease about Bunfield’s findings, Hugo was unaffected by it and still retained his earlier mood of cheerful optimism as he ordered the groom to bring round Gypsy ready for his journey to church and a hoped-for meeting with Charlotte Grayson.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Charlotte’s day had begun innocuously enough. Although it was rather cold, the walk to the church was a pleasant one and she had been able to persuade Phoebe that as there were so few blooms, Mama might need some help with collecting suitable foliage for the flower arrangements in the church. She was thus able to travel to morning service alone and set off eagerly. She was full of hope and anticipation at the pleasure of meeting Hugo and perhaps an enjoyable outing with dear little Lucy. Her spirits were high as she stepped blithely along the path to the church, lost in a dream of love and romance with the handsome Hugo Westbury. What did it matter if her hopes were unrealistic? She smiled to herself as she thought of him and was full of the confidence and optimism of youth. At that moment, she felt that anything was possible. Remembering the way he had looked into her eyes at Aurelia’s party, she was certain that he returned her regard. They would walk the bridle path to the boundary with Wycliffe Manor and would have some chance to talk.

  The attack came suddenly and with no warning. A figure appeared from nowhere and a dark blanket was thrown over her head. Immensely strong arms held her fast and although she struggled, it was quite futile. Charlotte lifted her skirts above her ankles and attempted to break away and run along the path towards the church.

  It was to no avail. She was immediately caught up and swung off her feet. She attempted to scream, but a large, rough hand was instantly clapped over her mouth. There was no escape. She could feel the animal strength of his long arms, smell the vile stench of him and taste the filthy blanket next to her lips. The next moment, she felt herself being thrown unceremoniously into a closed carriage. The door slammed and she heard the ruffian leap into the driver’s seat and away they went. As they drove off at a cracking speed, the carriage rocked and Charlotte tore off the dark blanket which covered her head. She managed to look through the window and realized that they were just passing th
e large, imposing gates of Westbury Hall. She made one last desperate bid for freedom by flinging the door open, determined to jump out, but at that moment, the carriage stopped. There in front of her was a familiar face. Thank God, someone who could rescue her, be her salvation.

  She gathered up her skirts and prepared to jump, but before she could escape, just like the ruffian who had captured her, he grabbed her roughly and threw her back into the farthest corner of the carriage. Then he jumped in himself and sat beside her.

  ‘Drive on, Butler,’ he shouted and then he said softly, ‘Miss Grayson, please behave yourself or it will be the worse for you.’

  Charlotte was stunned. It was none other than Alfred Westbury – a man she would have expected to be her saviour, to rescue her from the likes of her attacker, not someone who would do her further injury.

  No! No! she screamed inside her head. No! Why should Alfred Westbury wish to harm her? Where was Hugo? And how would he be able to help her now?

  She forced herself to remain calm and looked out of the side window of the carriage to see where they were going, but immediately Alfred Westbury leaned over her and pulled down the blind.

  ‘Leave it alone,’ he growled menacingly, ‘or it will be the worse for you.’

  As pleasantly as she could, she asked, ‘But … but where are we going?’

  ‘That is something that you do not need to know, Miss Grayson,’ he answered suavely. ‘Suffice it to say, you are the proverbial sprat to catch a mackerel and, when I get to your sweetheart, my dear cousin Hugo, you will be disposed of, dear lady.’

  ‘He is not my sweetheart,’ she said indignantly.

  ‘Be quiet, or I shall have to silence you.’

  The threatening glare that accompanied his words frightened Charlotte so much that she shrank into the corner of the carriage, her mind racing. It was pointless to defy him. He was not only stronger but it was obvious he was a ruthless, nay desperate, character. She tried to think coolly. Which direction was the carriage coming from? In which direction had it been pointing? Was there anyone else involved, except Alfred Westbury and the thuggish Jim Butler, who had bundled her into the coach in the first place? Most importantly, where were they going? Where was Hugo? If she were unable to meet him at the church, would he know there was something wrong and try and find her? How on earth would she be able to escape from this situation?

  She clenched her hands in an agony of anxiety and terror, trying to compose her thoughts and failing miserably. She must try to think coherently. Knowing Alfred Westbury and his coarse overtures, she wondered if he’d decided to abduct her with a view to ruining her reputation sufficiently to force her to marry him. But what would happen now?

  The last question was answered almost immediately. She heard a muffled curse from the driver and immediately the loud crack of splintering wood as the coach came to a shuddering halt amid loud cries of distress from the horses. The vehicle was struck with such force that it left the narrow country road completely and mounted the bank before it was turned on to its side. Both Charlotte and her abductor were thrown on to the floor with the force of the impact. She heard the scream of one of the injured horses and then there followed a moment’s eerie silence. She felt a searing pain in her shoulder; smelled the faintly sickly smell of Alfred Westbury’s cologne. The blinds still covered the windows and she could see nothing. The silence was broken only by the faint jingling of a horse’s harness. The gentle snorting of a horse still on his feet; the continued harrowing scream of the horse who was mortally injured.

  Slowly and painfully, she got herself back on to her feet, gasping at the pain in her head, which had received a terrific bump. She could hardly stand, her legs were like jelly. Her whole body felt bruised and weak with shock. As for Alfred Westbury, she noticed in the dim light of the carriage that he appeared to be completely stunned. He lay on the floor of the coach, very still and with a gash on his head which was slowly oozing with thick red blood. Slowly and stiffly, she managed to raise one of the blinds, starting back in shocked surprise as a familiar face materialized on the other side of the glass.

  It was Squire Perkins, his homely red face ludicrously dismayed and contrite, gazing anxiously at the scene within. He was on his way to church in his substantial old country trap, pulled by a horse which was too spirited to be controlled by the fat old gentleman. Squire Perkins was still affected by his prodigious consumption of the brandy he’d taken to ward off the morning chill, and he’d been unable to prevent his ancient vehicle from charging into the side of Alfred Westbury’s carriage.

  ‘Anyone hurt in there?’ he shouted.

  ‘Yes, Mr Perkins. I am afraid Mr Westbury is injured,’ Charlotte replied with exemplary calmness.

  This was her opportunity to escape. Alfred Westbury was in need of help. It was clearly her Christian duty to aid a fellow human being who was badly injured, but with a silent prayer to her guardian angel, Charlotte decided to ignore her Christian duty. She was quite determined to run away. This was her chance.

  Aloud, she said, ‘If you can help me, Mr Perkins, I think I can get out of the coach and go for help.’

  ‘Surely, Miss Grayson, ma’am.’

  The door was jammed, but the sudden shock of the accident seemed to have sobered up the old gentleman farmer and he set about the door with his big hands and then used his stout feet to kick it open at last. Even this noise did not waken Alfred Westbury and Charlotte, relieved, allowed herself to be lifted from the carriage and set down gently by the stalwart Squire Perkins. The old gentleman seemed too stunned by what had happened to express surprise at Charlotte riding unchaperoned with Mr Westbury, and said shakily, ‘Here’s a sad coil, Miss Grayson. I trust you aren’t too badly hurt, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you, I am only shaken,’ she said, her voice trembling a little. She looked about her. As it happened, she was at Felbrook spinney and quite near to her home. The villainous driver, Butler, was lying on the ground a little way from the carriage and groaning horribly, but at least he seemed incapable of any further attacks on her. Alfred Westbury was still unconscious and the anxious Perkins, in spite of his own shock and distress, was intent on helping him out of the carriage. She was determined to slip away from the scene and escape to safety.

  ‘I shall go to get help for you, Mr Perkins,’ she promised, and before he could ask any questions, she sped off along the path which led to Felbrook Manor. She hoped she was not too dishevelled after her ordeal, and automatically put her hands up to her head and smoothed a few strands of hair under her prim Sunday bonnet as she ran.

  Hugo had also been on his way to church. After his conversation with Sir Benjamin and the distressing revelations of the last few days, he had deliberately turned his thoughts to more pleasant things. The morning was misty, but he knew that it held the promise of a fine early autumn day, with enough warm sunshine to raise even the lowest spirits. Not that he needed his spirits raising, he reflected, because today he was going to be in the company of two people who were becoming increasingly dear to him. He already loved Charlotte Grayson and as for Lucy Baker, in spite of his utter ignorance and total inexperience of small girls, she was the most charming little scrap of humanity he had ever met. Her bright energy and pretty little face were absolutely captivating and her natural intelligence and enthusiasm were equally appealing. What a dear little creature, to be sure. With a wife like Charlotte, he dared hope that Sir Benjamin’s desire for him to have a family of his own should surely result in a lovely child such as Lucy Baker….

  Lost in thought and smiling to himself rather foolishly in his pleasurable anticipation of meeting Charlotte, he completely forgot about his declared intention of being vigilant. He was not even aware of a group of rough types lurking in the trees which bordered the road to Felbrook village. This time, he’d had no sixth sense of danger, but as he afterwards admitted to himself, that was because his mind had been distracted and he well knew what that distraction was.

  ‘Rig
ht. Get him, lads!’

  Hugo’s daydreaming had not prepared him for this surprise and his fury at the threat caused him to react in a way that was foreign to his usual cool confidence in the avoidance of trouble. He dismounted from Gypsy and as the three ruffians approached, proudly met and held the eye of the man who had spoken.

  ‘Get him, I say!’

  The thug was brandishing a particularly evil-looking knife and his words were accompanied by a powerful lunge which carried him away from his tough friends and in close proximity to Hugo Westbury.

  ‘It’s time you was silenced, yer poke nose. You’ll soon see no one wants yer meddlin’ and muck rakin’.’

  This verbal assault took Hugo completely unawares. It was so unexpected, he didn’t at first connect it in any way to his enquiries into his grandfather’s death, and those few vital seconds of hesitation might have made a difference. As it was, the gang watched approvingly as their leader swung his long-bladed knife like an avenging axe and quick though he was, Hugo’s twisting evading action was too late. The razor-sharp weapon sliced into his left side.

  He felt the thump of the blow, but there was no pain and quickly summoning all his strength, he dealt a punch to the man’s chin with his clenched fist. He realized that although there was no immediate pain, he had been badly injured, and this was his one chance to hit back before his wound got the better of him.

  Hugo had always been a sportsman, practising boxing regularly and invariably choosing the strongest of sparring partners. The ruffian with the knife went down like a sack of potatoes and his friends didn’t even pause to help him up, let alone ‘get’ Hugo, but fled into the bushes. It was all over so quickly, he could hardly believe it had happened, until he tried to walk towards his horse.

  Hugo staggered weakly to Gypsy and stood leaning against the horse’s flanks with his head bowed. He wasn’t even out of breath, but he had to keep an elbow pressed tightly against the cut in his side and so was unable to prevent the man on the ground from gathering himself together and lumbering off after his companions. He wondered fleetingly why the rogue hadn’t paused long enough to finish him off, but no doubt he’d considered him as good as dead, he thought cynically.