Shadow of the Past

by Judith Cutler

  Mrs Hansard smiled meaningfully at his retreating back. She waited till he had closed the heavy door before she whispered, ‘Mrs Benn believes he needs feeding up. And if he had plenty of good food inside him, would he not prove a sturdy outdoors man? His wages would augment his church pittance, Tobias.’

  ‘My dear, you are incorrigible,’ Hansard said with a mixture of affection and asperity.

  ‘I do not propose to consign a good cook to the rigours of his cottage,’ she replied.

  ‘So this is the trunk,’ Vernon said, as one not involved with the villagers’ intimacies.

  ‘Who brought it in?’ I asked.

  ‘One of Matthew’s friends – another gamekeeper,’ Maria said. ‘He has had his guinea, although he demurred. All he had done was find it, he said, in a tangle of brambles, along with some rags which might once have been a coat.’

  ‘So our thief realised that the dog had torn his coat and disposed of the evidence. Confound him. And the contents?’ Vernon prompted.

  ‘I make no doubt that they will soon be keeping someone warm in a neighbouring village – I don’t think any of Tobias’s parishioners would be brazen enough to wear them, not to church, anyway.’

  Toone peered at it. ‘Hmm. ’Tis old-fashioned, but good enough. In fact, very good quality for a governess. I suppose one of her previous employers might have handed it down to her.’

  I had a sudden vision of some able-bodied man slinging it idly down from the top of a coach to a young woman scarce able to carry the burden.

  ‘Or her family might have fallen on hard times,’ Hansard said. ‘However it came into her possession, she was willing to abandon it.’

  ‘Not much room for a trunk this size in a curricle,’ Jem observed. ‘And full it would be mighty heavy.’

  ‘Full. But now it’s completely empty.’

  Maria had stooped, and was running her hands round the lining. It was still more or less intact, though the once brave scarlet cloth was now largely faded. Then she turned to the rim, giving particular attention to the protruding studs which slotted into holes in the lid to give a close fit. In turn she tried to press or lift them.

  ‘When I had just started in service, I was fascinated by one lady’s travelling chest. It was plain and serviceable – just like this – but in the bottom, operated by knobs – just like these – was a secret drawer for jewels, correspondence, anything her ladyship wished to keep safe.’

  ‘But if someone stole the trunk, they’d have stolen whatever was in the drawer, too,’ Vernon objected.

  ‘A highwayman is usually in a hurry. He’d tip everything out, grab what he wanted, and flee. That at least was the hope,’ she said, her voice slowing as she turned to the lid, subjecting it to similar pressure.

  ‘Why not let me take an axe to it, and be done?’ Jem asked.

  ‘Because that would ruin a perfectly good…when…’ Now her fingers were running over the exterior. She sat back on her heels. ‘Oh, you may have to. But it goes against the grain to destroy something needlessly. And possibly, I have to face it, in vain.’

  ‘Simon Clark is a skilled carpenter,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he—?’

  But even as I turned to summon him, Maria cried out in triumph, and one of the side panels slipped down a neat groove. ‘Yes, a secret compartment.’

  ‘And what does it contain?’ Toone demanded, like an excited boy. Where was the cool, superior man of the world now?

  ‘Whatever it is,’ Dr Hansard replied, ‘may I suggest that Mr Vernon removes it and carries it back to the library. It is too cold to linger in here. Mr Vernon, will you do the honours?’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  We were all in need of the wine and biscuits for which Mrs Hansard rang, but they went untouched while Vernon unfolded the papers he had so carefully carried.

  ‘Pah! ’Tis nothing but some old bills! From Mr John Knight, Fishmonger, Honey Lane, near Cheapside…fresh herrings, full of roes…a barrel of oysters… And here is another. From Mr Wilson, Purveyor of… Do we really want to know about the man’s tea and coffee?’ He threw them down in disgust.

  ‘Indeed we do not,’ Hansard said quietly. ‘But to whom were the bills sent? That might be of moment.’

  ‘As to that – why, to a Mr Chamberlain, of Hanstown. A respectable, but scarcely fashionable address.’ He waved the sheet of paper before our noses, and then set it down again.

  ‘Is there nothing else?’

  He leafed through them again. ‘Some milliner’s accounts, and here one from a haberdasher.’

  ‘So we may conclude Mr Chamberlain has a female living in his establishment,’ Hansard said.

  ‘All we may conclude is that Mr Chamberlain had a female living in his establishment,’ Vernon corrected him.

  I smothered an inappropriate laugh.

  ‘Are the bills dated?’ Mrs Hansard put in quickly.

  ‘All some six or seven years ago. 1803 is the earliest, 1806 the latest.’

  I spread my hands. ‘Why would someone wish to store old bills in such a private place? Are you sure, Mr Vernon, that you have missed nothing?’

  ‘What did you expect?’ he demanded, irascible in his disappointment.

  ‘Something that would have been important to the owner of the trunk. A private letter. A miniature. A ring. A ribbon.’ I smiled ruefully. ‘I fear I am incurably sentimental.’

  ‘You only voice all our hopes,’ Mrs Hansard said firmly, as if daring the others to disagree.

  None did, but there was a general reaching for biscuits and sipping of wine.

  ‘Conceivably the bills might serve the same purpose as a letter, inasmuch as they provide us with an address,’ Hansard mused. He gave first Vernon, then me, a rueful smile. ‘If we enquire at Mr Chamberlain’s, it is not impossible that we find Miss Southey once to have been living there.’

  ‘I’ll write immediately,’ Vernon declared. Before anyone could speak, he turned his attention to Mrs Hansard’s needlework table. ‘And these? What are these?’ He picked up a pile of sketches not dissimilar to those he and Hansard had brought over from the Hall.

  But it was not a young woman’s face upon them. It was a likeness of the young man whom I had had to bury. A likeness of the living man, not the worm-eaten corpse. I managed not to gasp – Mrs Hansard had breathed warm life into the cold features, and brought a sparkle to the lifeless orbs. Lest I betray her, I kept my eyes firmly away from the artist, but wanted to seize her hand in emphatic admiration.

  ‘Toone, I thought you said you had no talent for bringing to life the features of the dead,’ Vernon continued. ‘But these sketches – while not as good as the young ladies’ work – are excellent.’

  Toone modestly shook his head at the praise, but did not deflect it. Clearly he and Mrs Hansard had agreed that her part in the task was best not mentioned.

  ‘So we have someone who, while not African, has some of the features of an African,’ Vernon reflected, leafing through them. ‘Would he be the offspring of a slave, freed or escaped? Or of a sailor? By an English wench?’

  Toone nodded. ‘Probably. Which in my book means he hails from a port – Bristol, Liverpool, or some such.’

  ‘Furnival tells us he recently confined his advertisements to the London journals,’ I said, ‘which would of course be consistent with your theory. So to London we must go.’

  ‘But where in particular?’ Vernon demanded, adding disparagingly, ‘It is not some out-at-elbows hamlet like Moreton St Jude.’

  ‘Perhaps the face will be known to the Runners,’ I suggested. ‘And we can have enough handbills printed to slap one on every street corner of every area, rich and poor.’

  ‘But that will take time and money. While Lady Chase may have plenty of the latter, we certainly do not have unlimited quantities of the former,’ Hansard said, smiling at me.

  ‘As to that, I have already sent for young Rogers, who was my locum while we were in Bath,’ I confessed. ‘There were four of us then. But I h
ave been thinking that if I, with Jem, of course, went as what I am, a simple clergyman, I might do better.’

  ‘A poor clergymen might be even better – one without a servant,’ Jem said.

  I looked at him astounded. Surely he would not prefer to stay behind in the village?

  ‘I reckon I know enough of the church to be another parson,’ Jem said, a strange mixture of bashfulness and valour. ‘We could work together or singly, Toby – what do you think about that?’ he added eagerly.

  Good though it was to see his eyes so bright at last, I could not be so enthusiastic about his plan.

  But it was Mrs Hansard who asked, ‘Of what use would that be, Jem?’

  ‘The way I see it, if you want to go into the parts of London where we might see such folk as our poor late visitor, you need to be able to protect yourself. You’re a gentle soul, Toby. I’d be afraid for your safety. But there are other tasks you could fulfil better than I. For instance, with respect, Mr Vernon, rather than your writing to Mr Chamberlain, do you not think it better for the Reverend Tobias Campion to visit this Mr Chamberlain in person? It would be easy for him to fob off any enquiry by letter, no matter how distinguished his correspondent,’ he added, with a bow to Vernon, who looked as amazed as if the table itself had spoken.

  ‘Jem is absolutely right,’ Edmund said. ‘Tobias’s sudden and unexpected arrival would allow Mr Chamberlain less opportunity to prevaricate, indeed, to lie. So your plan would be to travel together for safety’s sake, then, once you had reached London, split up, you, Jem, adopting Tobias’s identity?’

  ‘Or some other. I cannot think that anyone will ask me to prove my identity, can you?’ His smile was dry, and that of an equal, not a servant.

  And as such Hansard clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You are in the right of it, of course.’

  ‘I could simply add the title Reverend to my own name,’ Jem mused.

  ‘The Reverend James Turbeville – it sounds very good.’ Mrs Hansard declared with a warm smile.

  ‘Or maybe…Yes, I quite like the idea of becoming James Yeomans. That sounds reliable, you might say. Unless you think anyone might object to my pretending to be a man of the cloth?’ Jem was suddenly anxious.

  ‘You will not be conducting services?’ Vernon said. ‘So I can see no difficulties.’

  Edmund agreed. ‘Nor I. Indeed, I would dearly love to come too, in some capacity, provided Toone here can look after my patients.’

  ‘And I, and Turner, and George, and no doubt Mr Vernon too,’ declared Mrs Hansard. ‘This is not a time for charades, my dear. If, as Dr Toone suspects, and this poor man –’ she touched her sketches ‘– was indeed murdered, we are dealing with dangerous people. We must do nothing to make anyone suspect that Jem is not who he says he is, or surely his and Tobias’s lives will be at risk. And furthermore, we must make no obvious exodus from the village. Perhaps it is best if Tobias sets it about that he has to attend a relative’s sickbed. Naturally people would expect Jem to accompany him.’

  ‘On the stage?’ Jem asked, with a malicious grin. ‘A country parson wouldn’t have his own smart equipage, Toby.’

  ‘The Mail?’ I countered. ‘Once we have arrived in London, we could then sink into our anonymity at ease.’

  ‘Hire a post-chaise and do the same,’ growled Vernon, clearly piqued at his subtle exclusion. ‘You want to arrive in one piece. And where will you stay? Grillon’s? Brown’s?’

  ‘We can decide on that when we arrive,’ I said, repressively. I was happy for Dr and Mrs Hansard to know that I proposed that our first stop would be at my family home, but I preferred him to think of me still as what I was – a simple parson. If he suspected my family connections he was likely to start toadying me, much as he expected to be toadied to himself. ‘I will of course ensure that Dr and Mrs Hansard are informed of our location – Ibbetson’s, in all likelihood.’

  My abruptness – I heartily wished that I could rid myself of my habit of unconsciously slipping into my father’s tones when I was irritated – was enough to make him raise his eyebrow. Soon we might have had a battle of the quizzing glasses, had I not long since abandoned my use of such things.

  ‘Well, Parson,’ he said, with just enough irony, ‘if you are minded to travel post, and to do so anonymously, may I offer you a seat in my carriage when I return to Leamington? I can complete the negotiations for you myself so that your identity is never known.’

  ‘I am sure we would be most grateful,’ I said with a bow. I wished to make it clear that groom though Jem might be, he was entitled to as much consideration as the respectable clergyman he was going to become.

  Jem bowed too, in absolute mimicry of me. As boys he had joined in schoolroom theatricals at my home, but I had never realised how well he could imitate others. He would easily pass for a man of the cloth. If there was a touch of the rustic about his accent, so there was about most of the country clergymen I knew. Better that than the affected drawl of what I could only describe as latter-day prince-bishops.

  He now raised a minatory finger. ‘It may well be that there is more in that chest. Simon is a skilled joiner and cabinetmaker. It was only when his wife sickened and needed his attention that he gave up the craft. Why not ask him to take one more look at it, before we do anything hasty?’

  ‘Or indeed,’ Vernon suggested, ‘while you make your preparations. There will be valises to pack, servants to warn – and no doubt some farewells to take. Some feminine hearts are about to break, no doubt.’

  ‘We should introduce him to Mrs Powell – they’d deal well together,’ Jem muttered as we rode home together, his need for protection from the cold forgotten.

  ‘They would indeed.’ I was in truth wondering what to say to Lady Dorothea. I did not like lying, especially face to face. But I felt I could not simply slip away without some sort of farewell.

  ‘You’re not happy about this journey, are you, Toby, or you’d have dashed off days ago,’ he said, slowing Ben to a walk. ‘Does something misgive you?’

  ‘Not in Hamlet’s sense – I don’t feel truly apprehensive about our safety in London. Perhaps I have grown lazy, here in this little backwater. Or perhaps I simply feel that there are still too many answers under our noses, if only we knew the right questions.’

  ‘Meanwhile you will say your farewells to Lady Dorothea?’

  ‘Don’t make of that more than there is. She looks for a better marriage than to a country parson, and though we take pleasure in each other’s company, despite my initial attraction to her, I feel I scarcely know her. Not as Hansard knew Maria before they declared their passion. I am allowed to look at her pretty face, at her figure in those fashionable gowns, but I know no more of her true self than I knew of Miss Southey’s. Less. I knew that there was something that Miss Southey wished to conceal. I cannot say the same of Lady Dorothea. She could be one of those wooden figures my grandparents had placed in their windows when they were away from home to make the house seem occupied.’

  ‘What did Miss Southey wish to conceal?’

  I slapped my forehead, irritating both horses. ‘Some bruises. Jem, one night she had bruises on her arms.’

  ‘What – who – caused them?’

  ‘As soon as she saw I had noticed them, she covered them. For the rest of the evening she made sure that I could not speak to her. At that point, to my shame I was more concerned with Lady Dorothea than poor Miss Southey.’

  He shot a glance almost as impenetrable at Miss Southey’s. ‘She was not an easy woman to speak to. Whenever I addressed her, she made it clear that I was naught but an outdoor servant.’

  Did this explain Jem’s recent gloom? An unrequited passion? Or a simple resentment that someone just as much as dependent on others as he should treat him as an inferior?

  ‘And now she has disappeared,’ I said lamely. ‘Driven by someone of importance. Why, Jem, when Gossip simply takes wing with trivial news, is it snail-like with vital information?’

 
; * * *

  Lady Dorothea was seated with the other ladies of the household. Lady Chase was nowhere to be seen. I knew she spent as long as she could in her private boudoir since she found all the other females irritating for a variety of reasons. Why she did not do the obvious thing and tell them all to return whence they had come I could not understand. My father would have held no truck with such unwanted guests. I once knew him instruct a set of other people’s servants to pack their masters’ baggage without deigning to mention their departure to the principals involved. My mother was more subtle: the supplies of coal and hot water steadily and inexorably dwindled in the rooms of those she wanted to be rid of. Perhaps the bad wine served at supper the other evening was Lady Chase’s version of the ploy.

  There was a general laying aside of embroidery and primping of lips. Neither Lady Dorothea nor her nieces was the slightest bit interested in me, but I was a male, and flirting with me was useful practice. I was spared the necessity of an embarrassing tête-à-tête conversation, into which far more than necessary could have been read.

  ‘I fear I have to leave the neighbourhood for a few days,’ I said, coming straight to the point as soon as the usual insipidities had been exchanged. ‘One of my family is unwell, and I must away to her sickbed.’ Had they been interested I could have supplied them with a great deal of invented detail about the good lady, whom Jem and I had decided was the respectable mistress of a select seminary for young ladies somewhere in Kent. But apart from a glib hope that her recovery would be speedy and that our journey would not be too onerous, there was no interest in the lady.

  I made my bows, and then sought out Lady Chase, to give her the same official story. Naturally she needed to know it, and in some depth, lest anyone show a belated interest in the reasons for my absence.

  ‘But in fact Jem and I will be in London. First of all we will stay at my parents’ house in Berkeley Square. Whether we remain there or move to more likely accommodation for two country parsons –’ I explained Jem’s plan ‘– will depend on our progress.’